Cities and their spaces: Concepts and their use in Europe 9783412221270, 3412221279

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¨ DTEFORSCHUNG STA Vero¨ffentlichungen des Instituts fu¨r vergleichende Sta¨dtegeschichte in Mu¨nster begru¨ndet von Heinz Stoob in Verbindung mit

U. Braasch-Schwersmann, M. Kintzinger, B. Krug-Richter, A. Lampen, E. Mu¨hle, J. Oberste, M. Scheutz, G. Schwerhoff und C. Zimmermann herausgegeben von

We r n e r F r e i t a g Reihe A: Darstellungen Band 88

CITIES AND THEIR SPACES CONCEPTS AND THEIR USE IN EUROPE

herausgegeben von M i c h e l P a u l y und M a r t i n S c h e u t z

2014 ¨ HLAU VERLAG KO ¨ LN WEIMAR WIEN BO

Die Drucklegung wurde ermo¨glicht mit freundlicher Unterstu¨tzung von

¨ sterreichische Geschichtsforschung in Wien Institut fu¨r O

Bibliografische Information der Deutschen Nationalbibliothek Die Deutsche Nationalbibliothek verzeichnet diese Publikation in der Deutschen Nationalbibliografie; detaillierte bibliografische Daten sind im Internet u¨ber http://dnb.d-nb.de abrufbar.

Umschlagabbildung: Der Altsta¨dter Ring in der ersten Ha¨lfte des 18. Jahrhunderts. Stadtplan von Wenzel Joseph Vesely´.

c 2014 by Bo¨hlau Verlag GmbH & Cie, Ko¨ln Weimar Wien  Ursulaplatz 1, D-50668 Ko¨ln, www.boehlau-verlag.com Alle Rechte vorbehalten. Dieses Werk ist urheberrechtlich geschu¨tzt. Jede Verwertung außerhalb der engen Grenzen des Urheberrechtsgesetzes ist unzula¨ssig. Redaktion: Institut fu¨r vergleichende Sta¨dtegeschichte, Mu¨nster http://www.uni-muenster.de/Staedtegeschichte Layout und Satz: Peter Kramer Buch & Satz, Mu¨nster Druck und Bindung: Strauss, Mo¨rlenbach Gesetzt aus der Linotype Stempel Garamond 10pt. Gedruckt auf chlor- und sa¨urefreiem Papier. Printed in the EU ISBN 978-3-412-22127-0

INHALT

Vorwort . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

VIII

Adressen der Autoren . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

IX

Michel Pauly und Martin Scheutz Der Raum und die Geschichte am Beispiel der Stadtgeschichtsforschung . .

1

Michel Pauly und Martin Scheutz Space and history as exemplified by urban history research . . . . . . . . .

15

Keith D. Lilley Conceptualising the City. Historical Mapping, Spatial Theory, and the Production of Urban Spaces . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

29

I.

Topographie – Funktionalita¨ten – ra¨umliche Entwicklung

Ferdinand Opll Topographische Benennungen in der mittelalterlichen Stadt als Spiegel von Raumvorstellungen . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

43

Paul Niedermaier Spatial Patterns of Transylvanian Medieval Urban Development . . . . . .

65

Lauren¸tiu Radvan ˘ Urban Space in the Romanian Principalities of the Middle Ages. Organized or Random Development? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

77

Maria Emilia Crıˆngaci Tiplic ¸ The Role of Trade Privileges in the Evolution of the Urban Space of the Saxon Towns in Transylvania (14th–15th Centuries) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

89

VI

Inhalt

Dan Dumitru Iacob From the medieval marketplace to the modern square. The modernisation of the markets of Ia¸si in the first half of the 19th century . . . . . . . . . . . . .

105

Roman Czaja Der Wandel des mittelalterlichen Zentrums in ostmitteleuropa¨ischen Sta¨dten zwischen dem 13. und dem 19. Jahrhundert . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

123

II.

Raum und Repra¨sentation

Karlheinz Blaschke Die Stadt als Element der Raumordnung – von der Kaufmannssiedlung zur Stadt . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

141

Anngret Simms The Reformation and the transformation of urban space in irish towns (based on the Irish Historic Towns Atlas) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

151

Robert Sˇimunek Town and its vicinity as spaces for sacral representation, Bohemia 1350–1600

167

Rosemary Sweet The historic built environment and the conceptualization of urban space in Britain and Italy c. 1700–1830 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

183

o

III. Die Stadt und ihr „Hinterland“ Howard B. Clarke Cities and their Spaces. The Hinterlands of Medieval Dublin . . . . . . . .

197

Ma´ximo Diago Hernando The territorial politics of the Spanish towns from the middle ages to the beginning of the nineteenth century . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

217

Jean-Pierre Poussou Towards a definition of towns’ areas of influence and domination. The large hinterlands of French ports, and their development from the middle of the 17th century to the end of the 18th century . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

235

Caroline Le Mao French arsenals and their hinterlands at the beginning of the War of the League of Augsburg (1688–1690) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

251

Inhalt

VII

IV. Stadtviertel und wandelnde Nutzungskonzepte Martin Musı´lek Stadtbevo¨lkerung und Raum. Die soziale und ra¨umliche Vera¨nderung der Prager Altstadt im 14. Jahrhundert . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

273

Lars Nilsson The spatial development of Stockholm, 1860–2010 . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

289

Peter Clark Green Space and the City . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

305

Index der Orts- und Personennamen . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

315

VORWORT

Nach einem ersten Vorstoß auf dem 9. Internationalen Historikerkongress 1950 in Paris wurde im Jahr 1955 die „Commission Internationale pour l’Histoire des Villes“ gegru¨ndet, deren Ziel es war und ist, nach den Ereignissen des Zweiten Weltkrieges die europa¨ische Stadtgeschichtsforschung zu koordinieren und gemeinsame stadtgeschichtliche Projekte zu entwickeln.1 Ein wesentliches Produkt der „Commission“ ist der 1965 ins Leben gerufene „Europa¨ische Sta¨dteatlas“, der eine vergleichende Stadtgeschichtsforschung ermo¨glichen soll und gegenwa¨rtig u¨ber 500 Sta¨dte im Kartenbild erfasst2 (siehe dazu den Band „Sta¨dteatlanten. Vier Jahrzehnte Atlasarbeit in Europa“, hg. v. Wilfried Ehbrecht, Sta¨dteforschung A 80, Mu¨nster 2013). Jedes Jahr veranstaltet die „Commission Internationale pour l’Histoire des Villes“ zudem in einer anderen Stadt Europas einen großen Kongress, der einerseits die nach La¨ndern aufgeteilten Mitglieder der Kommission regelma¨ßig zusammenfu¨hren soll, andererseits auch dem Betreiben gemeinsamer Projekte (wie etwa der Arbeit am Sta¨dteatlas) dient. Die Kommission verfolgt mehrja¨hrige Generalthemen, die aktuelle, interdisziplina¨re Fragestellungen der Stadtgeschichtsforschung aufgreifen und weiterentwickeln sollen. „Cities and their Spaces“ stellt seit 2011 das Generalthema der „Commission“ dar, dem die in diesem Band vorliegenden Beitra¨ge der Tagungen vom 7. bis 11. September 2011 in Sibiu/Hermannstadt (Organisator Paul Niedermaier) und vom 2. bis 6. September 2012 in Prag (Organisator Josef Zˇemliˇcka) gewidmet sind. Die Vero¨ffentlichungen der Tagungsbeitra¨ge von Lissabon (2013) und Clermont-Ferrand (2014) zum selben Generalthema sind in Planung. Unser Dank gilt den Organisatoren Paul Niedermaier und Josef Zˇemliˇcka fu¨r ihre hervorragende Organisationsarbeit, dem Institut fu¨r vergleichende Sta¨dtegeschichte in Mu¨nster fu¨r die Aufnahme der Tagungsba¨nde in seine Reihe „Sta¨dteforschung“ und Frau Mechthild Siekmann fu¨r die vorzu¨gliche Betreuung des Bandes bei Layout ¨ sterreiund Drucklegung sowie der Universita¨t Luxemburg und dem Institut fu¨r O chische Geschichtsforschung in Wien fu¨r ihre Druckkostenzuschu¨sse. Michel Pauly (Luxemburg), Martin Scheutz (Wien)

1 http://www.historiaurbium.org/english/statuto_en.html (Zugriff 1. Oktober 2013). 2 http://www.ria.ie/research/ihta/european-project.aspx (Zugriff 1. Oktober 2013).

ADRESSEN DER AUTOREN

Karlheinz Blaschke, Am Park 1, D-01468 Friedewald Peter Clark, University of Helsinki Department of History, Unioninkatu 38 A, FIN-00014 Helsinki; [email protected] Howard Brian Clarke, Royal Irish Academy, 19, Dawson Street, IR-Dublin 2; [email protected] ´ ul. Bojarskiego 1, Roman Czaja, Nicolaus-Copernicus-University, Torun, ´ [email protected] PL-87-100 Torun; Ma´ximo Diago Hernando, Instituto de Historia CSIC, Albasanz, 26–28, E-28037 Madrid; [email protected] Dan Dumitru Iacob, Institute for Studies in Social Sciences and Humanities from Sibiu, Bulevardul Victoriei 40, RO-550024 Sibiu; [email protected] Caroline Le Mao, CEMMC-Universite´ de Bordeaux 3, De´partement d’Histoire, F-33607 Pessac Cedex; [email protected] Keith Douglas Lilley, School of Geography, Archaeology & Palaeoecology, Queen’s University Belfast, Elmwood Avenue, Belfast BT7 1NN, Northern Ireland, UK; [email protected] ˇ a Univerzity KarMartin Musı´lek, Centrum medievisticky´ch studii, Akademie ved CR lovy, Jilska´ 1, CZ-110 00 Praha 1; [email protected] Paul Niedermaier, Institutul de Cercet˘ari Socio-Umane Sibiu, Bulevardul Victoriei 40, RO-550024 Sibiu; [email protected] Lars Nilsson, The Institute of Urban History, Dept. of History, Stockholm University, Universitetsva¨gen 10 D, S-10691 Stockholm; [email protected] Ferdinand Opll, Franz-Garnhaft-Gasse 3, A-2380 Perchtoldsdorf; [email protected]

X

Adressen der Autoren

Michel Pauly, Universite´ du Luxembourg, Institut d’Histoire, route de Diekirch/B. P. 2, L-7201 Walferdange; [email protected] Jean-Pierre Poussou, Re´sidence Rosiers Bellevue A4, 26, rue de Loustalot, F-33170 Gradignan; [email protected] ˘ Lauren¸tiu Radvan, Facultatea de Istorie, Universitatea Al. I. Cuza, Bulevardul Carol 11, 700506 Ia¸si, [email protected]; [email protected] ¨ sterreichische Geschichtsforschung/Institut fu¨r Geschichte, Martin Scheutz, Institut fu¨r O Universita¨tsring 1, A-1010 Wien; [email protected] Anngret Simms, Royal Irish Academy, 19, Dawson Street, IR-Dublin 2; [email protected] o ˇ Robert Sˇimunek, Historicky´ u´stav AV CR, v. v. i. Prosecka´ 76, Praha 9 CZ-190 00; [email protected]

Rosemary Helen Sweet, Centre for Urban History, School of History, University of Leicester, University Road, Leicester LE1 7RH; [email protected] Maria Crıˆngaci Tiplic, ¸ Institute for Research in Social Sciences and Humanities from Sibiu, Bulevardul Victoriei 40, RO-550024 Sibiu; [email protected]

DER RAUM UND DIE GESCHICHTE AM BEISPIEL DER STADTGESCHICHTSFORSCHUNG von Michel Pauly und Martin Scheutz

Das Rad der Geschichtswissenschaft beginnt sich in den letzten Jahren schneller zu drehen, die als Paradigmenwechsel und Modernisierung verstandenen Wenden (im deutsch-englischen Neologismus „turns“) lo¨sen sich in immer schnellerer Folge ab. Seit einigen Jahren la¨sst sich die Geschichtswissenschaft – und naturgema¨ß damit auch die Stadtgeschichtsforschung – einerseits deutlich inspirieren von diesen neuen Ansa¨tzen, andererseits erscheint die „Geschichte“ auch zunehmend gehetzt vom Bestreben, nichts zu verpassen. Linguistic, pictorial, emotional, iconic und neuerdings auch economic turns schufen neue Forschungsgebiete, ermo¨glichten an manchen Universita¨ten neue Forschungsstellen und ero¨ffneten vielfach neue Perspektiven oder beleuchteten alte Themen neu. Nach den Turbulenzen der linguistischen Wende ab den 1980er Jahren, wobei vor allem sprachliche Vermittlungsformen, deren Entstehungsbedingungen und Auswirkungen erforscht und dekonstruiert wurden, setzte im deutschen Sprachraum zumindest seit den 1990er Jahren (vor dem Hintergrund des Mauerfalls von 1989 und der Anschla¨ge von 2001) die ra¨umliche Wende ein. Im Jahr 1989, im Jahr des Falls des Eisernen Vorhanges, schuf der postmoderne Humangeograph Edward W. Soja (geb. 1940) den Begriff des sogenannten „spatial turn“. Soja reagierte damit auf die „Entra¨umlichung“ der Geschichte und versuchte die Frage zu ergru¨nden, warum die Geschichtswissenschaften die Fragen des Raumes zunehmend aus dem Gesellschafts- und Geschichtsdenken verdra¨ngt haben.1 Im Kontext der deutsch-o¨sterreichischen Geschichtswissenschaft la¨sst sich diese Verdra¨ngung der Geographie auch forschungsgeschichtlich erkla¨ren. Nach Zeiten der „Volksgeographie“, des postulierten Zusammenhangs von „Volk“ und „Boden“ und der intensiven Erforschung des Ostraums bzw. der Westforschung in den 1930er und 1940er Jahren wirkte die Bescha¨ftigung der Geschichte mit dem Raum im Sinne eines nationalsozialistischen Vokabulars lange als eine u¨ble Form des Revisionismus.2 Erst

1 Doris Bachmann-Medick, Spatial Turn, in: Dies., Cultural Turns. Neuorientierungen in den Kul-

turwissenschaften, Reinbeck 32011, S. 284–328, hier S. 284: „Der spatial turn ist ein Kind der Postmoderne. Gegen Ende der 1980er Jahre ist der amerikanische Kulturtheoretiker Fredric Jameson, ein exponierter Vertreter der Postmoderne, mit dem Slogan aufgetreten: ‚Always spatialise!‘“. 2 Karl Schlo ¨ ber Zivilisationsgeschichte und Geopolitik, Mu¨nchen/ ¨ gel, Im Raume lesen wir die Zeit. U Wien 2003, S. 52–59.

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in den spa¨ten 1990er Jahren und den Folgejahren intensivierte sich der Blick auf die Geschichte des Raums. Die Anthropologie, die Semiotik, die Literaturwissenschaften, naturgema¨ß die Geographie mit ihren vielen Teilgebieten und die Medienwissen¨ berlegungen und o¨ffneten der Forschaften ru¨ckten den Raum ins Zentrum ihrer U schung Tu¨ren. Der Osteuropahistoriker und Schrittmacher des „spatial turn“ Karl Schlo¨gel (geb. 1948), dessen essayistische Werke viel zur Popularisierung dieses neuen Raumversta¨ndnisses beitrugen, formuliert am Beginn des 21. Jahrhunderts: „Einer der Aspekte der Entfaltung der Ra¨umlichkeit menschlichen Daseins oder menschlicher Geschichte ist die Entdeckung von den vielen Ra¨umen, von der Pluralita¨t der Ra¨ume. Dies kann auch nicht anders sein. Wenn Ra¨ume nicht nur ‚da sind‘ als tote, passive Bu¨hne und Beha¨ltnisse, wenn sie vielmehr geschichtlich konstituiert sind, eine Genese, eine Verfaßtheit, eine Verfallszeit, auch ein Ende haben ko¨nnen, dann ergibt sich daraus auch, daß es viele Ra¨ume gibt.“3 Die postmoderne „Dynamisie¨ berlappungen, Grenzu¨berschreitungen und fließenden rung des Raums mit ihren U ¨ berga¨ngen“4 erschien typisch. Pointiert und polemisch ko¨nnte man sagen, dass U die Geschichtswissenschaft als eine „immaterielle Zeitwissenschaft“, wo der Raum eine unausgeleuchtete (Neben-)Rolle spielt, und die Geographie als eine „zeit- und geschichtsferne Disziplin“ im interdisziplina¨ren Rahmen des „spatial turn“ versta¨rkt zusammengefu¨hrt werden5 – keineswegs der erste Versuch einer Engfu¨hrung dieser beiden verwandten, doch nicht sonderlich kooperierenden Disziplinen. Der sich als interdisziplina¨rer Zugang verstehende „spatial turn“ erfuhr vor allem durch (aus historischer Perspektive verstanden) Nachbarwissenschaften wichtige Anregungen. So brachte der Soziologe Georg Simmel (1858–1918) schon eine fu¨r das neuere Versta¨ndnis von Raum wichtige Feststellung ein, indem er den Raum nicht als unwandelbare Gro¨ße, sondern als durch Vergesellschaftung, und infolge von Sozialbeziehungen konstruiert, auffasste. Simmel maß dem Raum verschiedene Grundqualita¨ten wie „Ausschließlichkeit, Zerlegbarkeit, Fixierung, Nachbarschaft bzw. Na¨heDistanz-Relationen“6 bei und lehnte damit eine Art absolutistische Annahme, dass es Raum ohne menschliche Empfindung ga¨be, ab. Raum besteht damit innerhalb menschlicher Empfindungen und als Folge von menschlichen Interaktionen und Relationen. Paradigmatisch erscheint auch die Anna¨herung der deutschen Soziologin Martina Lo¨w (geb. 1965)7 an eine Soziologie des Raumes. Lo¨w formulierte im Kern, dass physisch existente Ra¨ume erst durch Handlungen und Wahrnehmungen

3 Schlo ¨ gel, Im Raume lesen wir die Zeit (wie Anm. 2), S. 68. 4 Bachmann-Medik, Spatial Turn (wie Anm. 1), S. 293. 5 Axel Gotthard, Wohin fu¨hrt uns der „Spatial turn“? U ¨ ber mo¨gliche Gru¨nde, Chancen und Gren-

zen einer neuerdings diskutierten historiographischen Wende, in: Mikro – Meso – Makro. Regionenforschung im Aufbruch, hg. v. Wolfgang Wu¨st/Werner K. Blessing/David Petry, Erlangen 2005, S. 15–49, hier S. 16f. 6 Zitiert nach Christian Hochmuth/Susanne Rau, Stadt – Macht – Ra¨ume. Eine Einfu¨hrung, in: Machtra¨ume in der fru¨hneuzeitlichen Stadt, hg. v. Dens. (Konflikte und Kultur. Historische Perspektiven 13), Konstanz 2006, S. 13–40, hier S. 27. 7 Martina Lo ¨ w, Raumsoziologie (stw 1506), Frankfurt a. M. 2001.

Der Raum und die Geschichte am Beispiel der Stadtgeschichtsforschung

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in den Ko¨pfen der Betrachter und der Raumbenutzer konstituiert werden. Die Nutzung, die Aneignung und die Wahrnehmung von Raum und die Raumrepra¨sentation durch Karten, Zeichen, verschiedene Codes ließen den Raum zu einer relationalen Gro¨ße werden. Nicht die Anordnung im Raum sei nach Lo¨w von entscheidender Bedeutung, sondern die „Anordnung zu Ra¨umen“.8 Zwei wichtige Prozesse schaffen diese Ra¨ume mit: Einerseits das „spacing“ und zum anderen die menschliche Syntheseleistung („mapping“). Mit „spacing“ meint Lo¨w den „physischen“ Raum, das aktive Positionieren von sozialen Gu¨tern wie Menschen im Raum und die symbolische Markierung von Raum (etwa durch Denkma¨ler, Geba¨ude, bauliche Raumgestaltung). Aber erst die simultan zum „spacing“ ablaufende Syntheseleistung der Menschen („Mapping“) bringt soziale Gu¨ter und Ra¨ume zusammen und ermo¨glicht eine sinnstiftende Organisation des Wissens. Die Bescha¨ftigung mit dem Raum verfu¨gt u¨ber eine lange Tradition, ohne hier etwa explizit auf Herodot oder Thukydides und deren u¨ber den Raum entwickelte Beschreibung der Geschichte im Detail zu verweisen. Schon der (post-)marxistische, franzo¨sische Soziologe Henri Lefebvre (1901–1991) wies 1974 mit seinem Buch „Die Produktion von Raum“ auf den Raum als wichtigen, aber unterscha¨tzten Faktor in der Geisteswissenschaft hin.9 Der Raum sei ein „soziales Produkt“10 und keine leere Schachtel fu¨r Dinge und Praktiken. Auch der franzo¨sische Soziologe Pierre Bourdieu (1930–2002) reflektierte intensiv u¨ber den Zusammenhang von Raum, Macht und sozialen Verha¨ltnissen. „Physischer Raum“ und „sozialer Raum“ steht dabei nach Bourdieu in einem Spannungsverha¨ltnis. Der soziale, u¨ber Menschen und deren soziale Relationen und Hierarchien bestimmte Raum (der „angeeignete physische Raum“) findet innerhalb eines durch bauliche Maßnahmen bestimmten Stadtraumes statt.11 „Der in bestimmter Weise von uns bewohnte und uns bekannte Raum ist sozial konstruiert und markiert“.12 Sozialer und physischer Raum sind aber vor allem durch Relationen, also Beziehungen, gepra¨gt. Sozialer Rang innerhalb einer Gesellschaft dru¨ckt sich unmittelbar im physischen Raum aus. Die Verfu¨gbarkeit von o¨konomischem, sozialem und kulturellem Kapital bestimmt die ra¨umliche Position einer

8 Martina Lo ¨ ffentliche Ra¨ume in Spa¨tmittelalter ¨ w, Epilog, in: Zwischen Gotteshaus und Taverne. O

und Fru¨her Neuzeit, hg. v. Susanne Rau/Gerd Schwerhoff (Norm und Struktur 21), Ko¨ln 2004, S. 463–468. 9 Henri Lefebvre, La production de l’espace, Paris 1974 [engl. Ausgabe: The Production of Space, trans. by Donald Nicholson-Smith, Oxford 1991]; ders., Die Produktion des sta¨dtischen Raums, u¨bers. v. Franz Hiss/Hans-Ulrich Wegener, in: ARCH+ 34 (1977); vgl. Peter Arnade/Martha C. Howell/ Walter Simons, Fertile Spaces: The Productivity of Urban Space in Northern Europe, in: Journal of Interdisciplinary History 32/4 (2002), S. 515–548; Jo¨rg Do¨ring/Tristan Thielmann, Was lesen wir im Raum. Der „Spatial Turn“ und das geheime Wissen der Geographen, in: Spatial Turn. Das Raumparadigma in den Kultur- und Sozialwissenschaften, hg. v. Dens., Bielefeld 22009, S. 7–45, hier S. 7. 10 Jo¨rg Do ¨ ring, Spatial Turn, in: Raum. Ein interdisziplina¨res Handbuch, hg. v. Stephan Gu¨nzel, Stuttgart 2010, S. 90–99, hier S. 91 (zu Lefebvre S. 91–93). 11 Pierre Bourdieu, Espace social et gene`se des „classes“, in: Actes de la recherche en sciences sociales 52–53 (1984), S. 3–14. 12 Pierre Bourdieu, Sozialer Raum [1989], in: Raumtheorie. Grundlagentexte aus Philosophie und Kulturwissenschaften, hg. v. Jo¨rg Du¨nne/Stephan Gu¨nzel, Frankfurt a. M. 2006, S. 354–370.

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Person im sozialen Feld entscheidend mit.13 Soziale und physische Welt verschra¨nken sich unentwirrbar, damit ist der Raum bzw. die Raumnutzung auch eine Analysekategorie, weil sich die konkrete Raumnutzung innerhalb von Gesellschaften als eine Art Wagenstandsanzeiger sozialer Positionen darstellt. Im Gefolge der Forschungen von Michel Foucault oder Edward Said entstanden auch entgrenzte Ra¨ume („third space“), die man als „Unorte“ (Heterotopien, Foucault) oder als „global ethno-scapes“ bezeichnet hat.14 Diese Ra¨ume sind nicht mehr real oder physisch oder nur symbolisch, sondern beides zugleich. Als hilfreich hat sich auch eine strukturalistische Anna¨herung an den Raum rund um den Schlu¨sselbegriff der „Grenze“ erwiesen, etwa die Differenz von Raum und Ort, von „sakral“ und „profan“, von „o¨ffentlich“ und „privat“. So schlug der Dresdener Soziologe Karl-Siegbert Rehberg geb. 1943) eine Unterscheidung von Orten und Ra¨umen vor. Wa¨hrend er Orte als „ra¨umliche Verdichtung von Handlungsvollzu¨gen“ sowie als „Bu¨hne fu¨r Handlungswiederholungen“15 (etwa Rituale) interpretierte, wo konkretes Handeln stattfand, ist der Raum dagegen ein von Menschen jeweils selbst zu bestimmendes Feld der Mo¨glichkeit (Feld der Latenz). Im Zuge des „spatial turn“ wurde der Raum nicht mehr als fixe Gro¨ße, sondern als Prozess gedacht, bei dem die Wahrnehmung, die Sicht der Akteure und Raumnutzer sowie die Inszenierung der Orte und des Raumes von entscheidender Bedeutung sind. Versucht man mit ma¨ßigem Erfolg eine lange, gegenwa¨rtig nicht abgeschlossene Debatte zusammenzufassen, so kommt man zum Ergebnis, dass der Raum von Menschen gemacht wird und keineswegs unvera¨nderlich ist. Entscheidend bei der Interpretation des Raumes erweist sich die Sicht der Akteure – das Pendel schlug hier mitunter in die Gegenrichtung aus. Standen davor Untersuchung von Ra¨umen stark unter dem Einfluss von kunstgeschichtlichen Exegesen, die minutio¨s die Baulichkeit des Raumes entschlu¨sselten, ru¨ckt das „bauliche Substrat“ dagegen vor dem Hintergrund des „spatial turn“ fast an den Rand, die Bewertung des Raumes durch die nach Alter, Ethnie und Geschlecht unterschiedenen Benutzer avancierte in den Focus der Forschung. Jeder der Turns hat fast reflexartig die Historisierung des jeweiligen Turns zur Folge, Wissenschaftler verschiedenster Fachdisziplinen bemu¨hen sich, die intellektuellen Vorla¨ufer der jeweiligen Wende ausfindig zu machen und in der Forschungsgeschichte zu verankern. Im Fall des „spatial turn“ kommt etwa der interdisziplina¨r angelegten Historikerschule der „Annales“ um Marc Bloch und Lucien Febvre große Bedeutung zu, weil sich schon die Gru¨ndergeneration der „Annales“ stark fu¨r die Geographie als ra¨umliche Geschichtswissenschaft interessiert hat. So spielte etwa der Geograph und Historiker Paul Vidal de la Blache (1845–1918) hierbei eine gro¨ßere Rolle.16 Marc Bloch musste als angehender Historiker im Rahmen seiner Ausbil-

13 Pierre Bourdieu, Physischer, sozialer und angeeigneter physischer Raum, in: Stadt-Ra¨ume, hg. v. Mar-

tin Wentz, Frankfurt a. M. 1991, S. 25–35.

14 Bachmann-Medik, Spatial Turn (wie Anm. 1), S. 297f. 15 Karl-Siegbert Rehberg, Macht-Ra¨ume als Objektivationen sozialer Beziehungen. Institutionenanaly-

tische Perspektiven, in: Machtra¨ume in der fru¨hneuzeitlichen Stadt (wie Anm. 6), S. 41–58, hier S. 47. 16 Peter Burke, Offene Geschichte: Die Schule der „Annales“, Berlin 1991, S. 26–35.

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dung ein vollsta¨ndiges Geographiestudium absolvieren.17 Die Geographie spielte im Sinne von Neugier und Offenheit fu¨r neue Einflu¨sse auf die Geschichte immer eine große Rolle in Blochs Werk. Einflussreiche Meistererza¨hlungen wie Fernand Braudels (1902–1985) dreiba¨ndiges Buch „Das Mittelmeer und die mediterrane Welt in der Epoche Philipps II.“18 wa¨ren ohne die Verschra¨nkung von Raum- und Zeitebenen nicht denkbar. Braudel kontrastiert darin im Sinne der „longue dure´e“ die langsame, von Naturereignissen und vom schwerfa¨lligen Raum beeinflusste Zeit („ge´ohistoire“) mit der schnelleren, von Menschen beeinflussten und mitbestimmten politischen Zeit. Die Zeithorizonte und die ra¨umliche Dimension von Politik, Wirtschaft und Sozialgeschichte erschienen Braudel unentwirrbar verknu¨pft. Braudel fu¨hrte Kulturgeographie und politische Geschichte zusammen, aber anders als die Historiker des 19. Jahrhunderts sah er nicht mehr in den großen Gestalten die Lenker, sondern ru¨ckte im Sinne einer „histoire totale“ auch geographische Sachzwa¨nge versta¨rkt in den Vordergrund, die er fu¨r konjunkturelle Auf- und Abschwu¨nge neben der Politik ursa¨chlich verantwortlich machte.19 Die politischen Figuren des 16. Jahrhunderts waren in der im deutschen Gefangenenlager begonnenen Konzeption Braudels nur fu¨r die kurzfristige Ereignisgeschichte zusta¨ndig, die Naturra¨ume lieferten dagegen den nur geringfu¨gig vera¨nderbaren Bu¨hnenaufbau fu¨r die Politik Philipps II. Die Historisierung des „spatial turn“ fo¨rderte aus dem Bergwerk der Kulturwissenschaften auch andere Textzeugen fu¨r die Verra¨umlichung der Geschichte zu Tage. Neben Braudels und Bourdieus Konzeptionen waren vor allem ethnologische ¨ bergangsForschungsansa¨tze des franzo¨sischen Ethnologen und Spezialisten fu¨r „U riten“ Arnold van Gennep (1873–1957) sowie des symbolischen Anthropologen Victor Turner (1920–1983)20 zu Ritual, Prozession, Grenze und Liminalita¨t entscheidend. Performative Akte und deren Verankerung im Raum wurden im Gefolge dieser Forschungen mit Nachdruck in den letzten beiden Jahrzehnten erforscht: etwa der Raum der Ratswahlen in Kirche und Rathaus,21 die multifunktionalen religio¨sen 17 Peter Scho ¨ ttler, Marc Bloch (1886–1944), in: Klassiker der Geschichtswissenschaft. Bd. 1: Von

Edward Gibbon bis Marc Bloch, hg. v. Lutz Raphael, Mu¨nchen 2006, S. 232–250, hier S. 235. 18 Fernand Braudel, La Me´diterrane´e et le monde me´diterrane´en a` l’e´poque de Philippe II, Paris 1949, 21966 [dt. Ausgabe: Das Mittelmeer und die mediterrane Welt in der Epoche Philipps II., 3 Bde., Frankfurt a. M. 1990]; zum Gebrauch der Geographie bei Braudel (eher im Sinne von klassischer Geographie) Eric Piltz, „Tra¨gheit des Raums“. Fernand Braudel und die Spatial Stories der Geschichtswissenschaften, in: Spatial Turn. Das Raumparadigma in den Kultur- und Sozialwissenschaften (wie Anm. 9), S. 75–102, hier S. 75–96. 19 Lutz Raphael, Fernand Braudel (1902–1985), in: Klassiker der Geschichtswissenschaft, Bd. 2: Von Fernand Braudel bis Natalie Z. Davies, hg. v. Lutz Raphael, Mu¨nchen 2006, S. 45–62, hier S. 49–62. 20 Arnold van Gennep, Les rites de passage, Paris 1909 [dt. Ausgabe: U ¨ bergangsriten, Frankfurt a. M./ New York 1986]; Victor Turner, The Ritual Process: Structure and Antistructure, New York 1969 [dt. Ausgabe: Das Ritual. Struktur und Anti-Struktur, Frankfurt a. M./New York 1989]. 21 Dietrich Poeck, Rituale der Ratswahl. Zeichen und Zeremoniell der Ratssetzung in Europa (12. – 18. Jahrhundert) (Sta¨dteforschung A 60), Ko¨ln/Wien 2003; Stephan Albrecht, Ratha¨user in Deutschland. Architektur und Funktion, Darmstadt 2004; Ratha¨user als multifunktionale Ra¨ume der Repra¨sentation, der Parteiungen und des Geheimnisses, hg. v. Susanne Cl. Pils/Martin Scheutz/ Christoph Sonnlechner/Stefan Spevak (Forschungen und Beitra¨ge zur Wiener Stadtgeschichte 55), Wien 2012; Gerhard Ammerer/Thomas Weidenholzer, Stadtraum zwischen stadtherrlicher, ¨ ffentliche Ra¨ume in geistlicher, kommunaler und privater Nutzung, in: Rathaus. Kirche. Wirt. O

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Ra¨ume,22 die Alpen,23 die Stadt als Bu¨hne fu¨r Prozessionen, die Wirtsha¨user24 und der Markt25 als Aushandlungsraum von Konflikten und als Bu¨hne fu¨r die Austragung von sozialen, wirtschaftlichen und kulturellen Konflikten, der Raum der Revolten26 bzw. die „Machtra¨ume“27 der Vormoderne generell. Die ra¨umliche Wende kann auch auf konzeptionelle Großva¨ter wie die von der Sozial- und Stadtgeographie entworfene Konzeption der „mental maps“ zuru¨ckblicken. Die Frage nach der Raumkognition, nach ra¨umlichem Vorstellungsvermo¨gen, nach Richtungs- und Orientierungsverhalten war schon Mitte des 20. Jahrhunderts Gegenstand von Forschungen so unterschiedlicher Disziplinen wie der Anthropologie, der Philosophie, der Psychologie und der Physiologie,28 wobei man an a¨ltere, aus dem 19. Jahrhundert stammende und an Vermessung wie Kartierung von Raum

der Stadt Salzburg, hg. v. Dens. (Schriftenreihe des Archivs der Stadt Salzburg 26), Salzburg 2009, S. 225–236; Gerd Schwerhoff, Verortete Macht. Mittelalterliche und fru¨hneuzeitliche Ratha¨user als institutionelle Eigenra¨ume sta¨dtischer Politik, in: Institution und Charisma. Festschrift fu¨r Gert Melville zum 65. Geburtstag, hg. v. Franz J. Felten/Annette Kehnel/Stefan Weinfurter, Ko¨ln/ Weimar/Wien 2009, S. 215–228. 22 Sacred Space in Early Modern Europe, hg. v. Will Coster/Andrew Spicer, Cambridge u. a. 2005; Political space in pre-industrial Europe, hg. v. Beat Ku¨min, Farnham/Burlington 2009; Gerd Schwerhoff, Sakralita¨tsmanagement. Zur Analyse religio¨ser Ra¨ume im spa¨ten Mittelalter und in der Fru¨hen Neuzeit, in: Topographien des Sakralen. Religion und Raumordnung in der Vormoderne, hg. v. Susanne Rau/Dems. Hamburg 2008, S. 38–69. 23 Marcus Sandl, Geschichtswissenschaft, in: Raumwissenschaften, hg. v. Stephan Gu¨nzel, Frankfurt a. M. 2009, S. 159–174, hier S. 168–170. 24 Dagmar Freist, Wirtsha¨user als Zentren fru¨hneuzeitlicher O ¨ ffentlichkeit: London im 17. Jahrhundert, in: Kommunikation und Medien der Fru¨hen Neuzeit, hg. v. Johannes Burkhardt (Historische Zeitschrift, Beih. 41), Mu¨nchen 2005, S. 201–224; Susanne Rau, Orte der Gastlichkeit – Orte der Kommunikation. Aspekte der Raumkonstruktion von Herbergen in einer fru¨hneuzeitlichen Stadt, in: Kirchen, Ma¨rkte und Tavernen. Erfahrungs- und Handlungsra¨ume in der Fru¨hen Neuzeit, hg. v. Renate Du¨rr/ Gerd Schwerhoff (Zeitspru¨nge. Forschungen zur Fru¨hen Neuzeit 9, Heft 3/4), Frankfurt a. M. 2005, S. 394–417; Beat Ku¨min, Drinking Matters. Public Houses and Social Exchange in Early Modern Central Europe (Early modern history: Society and culture), Houndsmills 2007. 25 Michaela Fenske, Marktkultur in der Fru¨hen Neuzeit. Wirtschaft, Macht und Unterhaltung auf einem sta¨dtischen Jahr- und Viehmarkt, Ko¨ln/Weimar/Wien 2006. 26 Marc Boone, Urban Space and Political Conflict in Late Medieval Flanders, in: Journal of Interdisciplinary History 32/4 (2002), S. 621–640; Alexander Schunka, Revolten und Raum – Aufruhr und Bestrafung im Licht des Spatial Turn, in: Die Stimme der ewigen Verlierer? Aufsta¨nde, Revolten und Revolutionen in den o¨sterreichischen La¨ndern (ca. 1450–1815), hg. v. Peter Rauscher/Martin ¨ sterreichische Geschichtsforschung 61), Wien 2013, Scheutz (Vero¨ffentlichungen des Instituts fu¨r O S. 369–385. 27 Hochmuth/Rau, Stadt – Macht – Ra¨ume (wie Anm. 6), S. 13–40; Jo¨rg Rogge, Politische Ra¨ume und ¨ berlegungen zu Raumkonzepten und deren heuristischen Nutzen fu¨r die StadtgeschichtsWissen. U forschung (mit Beispielen aus Mainz und Erfurt im spa¨ten Mittelalter), in: Tradieren – Vermitteln – Anwenden. Zum Umgang mit Wissensbesta¨nden in spa¨tmittelalterlichen und fru¨hneuzeitlichen Sta¨dten, hg. v. dems. (Beitra¨ge zu den Historischen Kulturwissenschaften 6), Berlin 2008, S. 115–154; D’une ville a` l’autre: structures mate´rielles et organisation de l’espace dans les villes europe´ennes (XIIIe–XVIe sie`cles), hg. v. Jean-Claude Maire Vigueur, Rome 1989. 28 Kirsten Wagner, Kognitiver Raum. Orientierung – Mental Maps – Datenverwaltung, in: Raum. Ein interdisziplina¨res Handbuch, hg. v. Stephan Gu¨nzel, Stuttgart 2010, S. 234–249, hier S. 234; am Beispiel fru¨hneuzeitlicher Bettler Martin Scheutz, „Mental Maps“ von Vagierenden in der Fru¨hen Neuzeit. Mobilita¨t und deren textliche Repra¨sentation im niedero¨sterreichischen Voralpengebiet aus der Perspektive von Verho¨rten, in: Volkskunde in Sachsen 24 (2012), S. 111–140, hier S. 114–118.

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orientierte Forschungen zum „inneren Kompass“ und zur „Karte im Kopf“ anschließen konnte. Grundlegend fu¨r das Konzept der „mental maps“ sind die Arbeiten des amerikanischen Psychologen Edward C. Tolman (1886–1959),29 der auf der empirischen Grundlage des ra¨umlichen Verhaltens von Ratten in Labyrinthen den Begriff der „cognitive maps“ schuf. Nach seinen Untersuchungen gru¨ndet deren ra¨umliches Verhalten nicht auf einer Reiz-Reaktions-Kette, sondern auf einer internen Repra¨sentation der Umwelt. Die Frage, wie sich Lebewesen in ihrer ra¨umlichen Umwelt zurechtfinden, bescha¨ftigte auch den Stadtplaner Kevin Lynch (1918–1984) in seiner Konzeption des Umweltbildes von (autofahrenden) Stadtbewohnern, als er eine empirische Studie u¨ber die Wahrnehmung von Stadt am Beispiel der Sta¨dte Boston, Jersey City und Los Angeles vornahm30 und empirisch darlegte, wie eine kognitive Karte auf der Grundlage von partiellen Wahrnehmungen funktionieren kann. Die Verknu¨pfung von ra¨umlichem Geda¨chtnis und ra¨umlicher Vorstellung u¨ber „die Welt in unseren Ko¨pfen“ wurde von einem Autorenduo, dem Geographen Roger M. Downs und dem Psychologen David Stea,31 1974 in einer Monographie wesentlich vorangetrieben. „Kognitives Kartieren ist ein abstrakter Begriff, welcher jene kognitiven Fa¨higkeiten umfaßt, die es uns ermo¨glichen, Informationen u¨ber die ra¨umliche Umwelt zu sammeln, zu ordnen, zu speichern, abzurufen und zu verarbeiten“.32 Kevin Lynchs Untersuchung u¨ber die mental-ra¨umliche Vergegenwa¨rtigung bzw. die visuelle Strategie der Straßen und Wege von Sta¨dten fo¨rderte im 20. Jahrhundert fu¨nf Unterscheidungsmerkmale als pra¨gende Elemente des Umweltbildes von Stadtbewohnern zu Tage:33 (1) Wege, (2) Grenzlinien, (3) Bereiche, (4) Brenn- oder Knotenpunkte, (5) Merk- oder Wahrzeichen. Die keinesfalls nur als Karten, sondern vielfach als Bilder oder sprachliche Aussagen zu verstehenden „mental maps“ sind von verschiedenen Faktoren individueller, schematischer, symbolischer, verzerrter und unvollsta¨ndiger Repra¨sentationen der uns umgebenden Umwelt abha¨ngig. „Mental maps“ als Orientierungsschema haben vielfa¨ltige Funktionen im Sinne eines ra¨umlichen Geda¨chtnisses zur Navigation, etwa beim Auffinden von allta¨glichen Wegen und Straßen.34 Das Grundproblem der „mental maps“, das tendenziell in Konkurrenz stehende Verha¨ltnis von physischem Raum und mentaler Repra¨sentation sinnvoll zu lo¨sen, bleibt eine Aporie. Folgt man summierend dem Pla¨doyer von Karl Schlo¨gel fu¨r eine Verra¨umlichung der Geschichte, so unterscheidet Schlo¨gel den Naturraum von den Geschichtsra¨umen, die aufgrund von politischen und staatlichen Strukturen entstehen, vom 29 Edward C. Tolman, Cognitive Maps in Rats and Men, in: Psychological Review 55/4 (1948),

S. 189–208.

30 Kevin Lynch, Das Bild der Stadt, Braunschweig/Wiesbaden 21989 [englische Erstauflage 1960]. 31 Roger M. Downs/David Stea, Maps in Minds. Reflections on Cognitive Mapping, New York 1977

[Deutsche Ausgabe: Kognitive Karten. Die Welt in unseren Ko¨pfen, New York 1982].

32 Downs/Stea, Kognitive Karten (wie Anm. 31), S. 23. Der Begriff der „Mental Maps“ geht auf die

gleichlautende Vero¨ffentlichung der Geographen Peter Gould und Rodney White zuru¨ck: Peter Gould/Rodney White, Mental Maps, Harmondsworth 1974, London 22002. 33 Lynch, Das Bild (wie Anm. 30), S. 60–109. 34 Anton Hartl, Kognitive Karten und kognitives Kartieren, in: Repra¨sentation und Verarbeitung ra¨umlichen Wissens, hg. v. Christian Freska/C. Habel (Informatik-Fachberichte 245), Berlin 1990, S. 34–46.

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Lebensraum, den ein Individuum sich schafft. Der Osteuropahistoriker geht von einer Pluralita¨t von Ra¨umen aus, wobei alle Ra¨ume nicht nur als tote Ra¨ume erscheinen, sondern geschichtlich und durch die Akteure konstituiert sind.35 Der Raum ist auf jeden Fall kein stabiler Referenzgegenstand, sondern deutlich durch Diskurse gepra¨gt (im Sinne von „Erinnerungsra¨umen“, Geda¨chtnisorten etc).36 Die Geschichte sollte sich also versta¨rkt von einer Zeit- zu einer Raumwissenschaft entwickeln – das scheint der Hintergrund der Bemu¨hungen des „spatial turn“ zu sein. Umgekehrt gibt es gerade in der Gegenwart durch die neuen Mo¨glichkeiten der Kommunikation das gleichzeitige Pha¨nomen der globalen Entra¨umlichung und Entortung – Synchronie und Diachronie stehen sich gegenu¨ber. Mit gleichem Recht kann man also mit Vile´m Flusser (1992) vom „Ende der Geographie“ und mit Michel Foucault vom „Zeitalter des Raumes“ (2005) sprechen.37 Das Spannungsverha¨ltnis einer Auflo¨sung und einer Wiederkehr des Raumes wird die Geschichtswissenschaften weiter bescha¨ftigen,38 ¨ ber bleibend sollte aber das kritische Reflektieren des Raumversta¨ndnisses bleiben. U den Metapherncharakter hinaus sollten ra¨umliche Kategorien wie Zentrum, Peripherie, Rand, Mittelpunkt, aber auch Randlage ernst genommen und in ihrer Komplexita¨t erforscht werden.39 Immer wieder finden sich allerdings auch Warnungen aus dem Bereich unterschiedlicher Wissenschaftsdisziplinen, nicht in die „Raumfalle“ zu tap¨ berstrapazieren des Raumbegriffes, andere Analysekategorien pen und durch ein U (soziale Praktiken) vo¨llig aus den Augen zu verlieren. Gerade Historiker werden auch vor der Gefahr warnen, dass der Raum Synchronie vorta¨uscht, wo aber prozesshafte Entwicklung vorherrscht.

Die Stadtgeschichte und der verpasste „spatial turn“?

Der „Gru¨ndervater“ des „spatial turn“ Edward Soja sah die Stadt und die umbaute urbane Welt als „eingebettet in die ruhelose geographische Landschaft des Kapitals, und ausgepra¨gt als Teil einer komplexen und widerspruchsvollen gesellschaftlichen Verra¨umlichung, die zugleich befo¨rdert und hemmt, die zugleich neuen Raum schafft und fesselt, Lo¨sungen anbietet und schon kurz darauf sie widerruft“.40 Die Stadt als verdichtete Bauform wurde immer schon auch als Raum wahrgenommen. Die Sta¨dte 35 Schlo ¨ gel, Im Raume lesen wir die Zeit (wie Anm. 2), S. 68f. 36 Sandl, Geschichtswissenschaft (wie Anm. 23), S. 166f. 37 Frederic Jameson (1986), zitiert nach Markus Schroer, Spatial turn, in: Lexikon der Raumphiloso-

phie, hg. v. Stephan Gu¨nzel/Franziska Ku¨mmerling, Darmstadt 2012, S. 380. 38 Bachmann-Medik, Spatial Turn (wie Anm. 1), S. 288f. 39 Ebd., S. 315; Franz Irsigler, Zentrum, Grenze und Achse als Elemente einer historischen Raumtypo-

logie, in: Zwischen Maas und Rhein. Beziehungen, Begegnungen und Konflikte in einem europa¨ischen Kernraum von der Spa¨tantike bis zum 19. Jahrhundert. Versuch einer Bilanz, hg. v. dems. (Trierer Historische Forschungen 61), Trier 2006, S. 11–26. 40 Edward Soja, Postmodern Geographies. The Reassertion of Space in Critical Social Theory, London 1989, S. 108, zitiert nach Schlo¨gel, Im Raume lesen wir die Zeit (wie Anm. 2), S. 67.

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werden seit vielen Jahrhunderten u¨ber Stadtpla¨ne, also u¨ber die Verzeichnung der sta¨dtischen Topographie und der Wahrzeichen, Verkehrswege und sta¨dtische Grundfiguren, wahrgenommen. Schon Wilhelm Heinrich Riehl (1823–1897) sah den „Stadtplan als Grundriß der Gesellschaft“,41 weil das a¨ußere Erscheinungsbild der Stadt als sozialgeographischer und topographisch-landschaftlicher Raum aufgenommen wurde. Eliten, Mittel- und Unterschichten siedelten sich sozialgeographisch in Sta¨dten an und machten ihre Wohnra¨ume innerhalb der Stadt durch Geba¨ude sichtbar. Der Stadtplan als das Geda¨chtnis der Stadt liest sich deshalb als eine „Summe komplementa¨rer Orte [...], die nebeneinander existieren, sich u¨berlagern oder andere miteinander verketten. [...] Die Stadt kann daher als Collage gelesen werden, in der sich sta¨dtebauliche Haltungen, gesellschaftliche Kritik und der Umgang mit Geschichte baulich manifestiert haben.“42 Raum als eine „relationale Anordnung sozialer Gu¨ter und Lebewesen an Orten“43 zu interpretieren, hat sich fu¨r die Stadtgeschichtsforschung als vielversprechender Ansatz erwiesen. Die Bescha¨ftigung der Stadtgeschichtsforschung mit dem Raum ist jedoch wesentlich a¨lter,44 wie einige Beispiele im Folgenden belegen sollen. Schon die mittelalterliche Gru¨ndung von Sta¨dten bedurfte einer genauen, exakt organisierten Einbeziehung des geplanten Stadtraumes, einer geostrategischen Interpretation des Raumes und einer u¨ber den Raum geplanten Organisation des Stadtbaues.45 Viele materielle Zeugnisse belegen die Bedeutung des Raumes fu¨r die Stadt – so wurden etwa Stadtmodelle schon in der Antike, meist fu¨r fortifikatorische Zwecke, angefertigt. Diese Tradition nahmen die neuzeitlichen Stadtmodelle auf, etwa das nicht erhaltene, aus 1529 stammende dreidimensionale Stadtportra¨t von Florenz, das 1540 von Hans Sebald Beheim geschaffene Stadtmodell von Nu¨rnberg oder das aus den

41 Schlo ¨ gel, Im Raume lesen wir die Zeit (wie Anm. 2), S. 304. 42 Hans Stimmann, Die Textur der Stadt, in: Foyer. Journal fu¨r Stadtentwicklung 3 (2000), S. 22–23,

zitiert nach Schlo¨gel, Im Raume lesen wir die Zeit (wie Anm. 2), S. 308.

43 Am Beispiel von Stadttypologien (Rankings der Sta¨dte, Wirtschaftsentwicklung usw.) Martina Lo ¨ w,

Soziologie der Sta¨dte, Frankfurt a. M. 2008, S. 238.

44 Als U ¨ berblick dazu Peter Johanek, Stadtgeschichtsforschung – ein halbes Jahrhundert nach Ennen

und Planitz, in: Europa¨ische Stadtgeschichte. Ausgewa¨hlte Beitra¨ge, hg. v. Werner Freitag/Mechthild Siekmann (Sta¨dteforschung A 86), Wien/Ko¨ln/Weimar 2012, S. 47–94, hier S. 59f., sowie erga¨nzend: Franz Irsigler, Raumkonzepte in der historischen Forschung, in: Zwischen Gallia und Germania, Frankreich und Deutschland. Konstanz und Wandel raumbestimmender Kra¨fte. Vortra¨ge auf dem 36. Deutschen Historikertag, Trier 8. – 12. Oktober 1986, hg. v. Alfred Heit (Trierer Historische Forschungen 12), Trier 1987, S. 11–27. 45 Mit mehreren Beispielen fu¨r gegru¨ndete Sta¨dte: Stadtgru¨ndung und Stadtwerdung. Beitra¨ge von Archa¨ologie und Stadtgeschichtsforschung, hg. v. Ferdinand Opll (Beitra¨ge zur Geschichte der Sta¨dte Mitteleuropas 22), Linz 2011. Mit kritischer Diskussion der Gru¨ndungsstadt: Martina Stercken, Gebaute Ordnung, Stadtvorstellungen und Planung im Mittelalter, in: Sta¨dteplanung – Planungssta¨dte, hg. v. Bruno Fritzsche/Hans-Jo¨rg Gilomen/Ders., Zu¨rich 2006, S. 15–37. Als Paradebeispiel fu¨r die konkreten Vorga¨nge bei einer Stadtgru¨ndung ‚auf der gru¨nen Wiese‘ und ihre Einschreibung in ¨ ber Stadtentwicklung: Beobachtungen am Beispiel von Ardres, in: Zeitden Raum: Franz Irsigler, U schrift fu¨r Archa¨ologie des Mittelalters 11 (1983), S. 7–19, neu erschienen in: Miscellanea Franz Irsigler. Festgabe zum 65. Geburtstag, hg. v. Volker Henn/Rudolf Holbach/Michel Pauly/Wolfgang Schmid, Trier 2006, S. 169–185.

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1560er Jahren stammende Stadtmodell von Augsburg von Hans Rogel.46 Auf tausenden Stadtansichten wurde seit dem Mittelalter das Gesicht der europa¨ischen Stadt aufgefangen. Tausende Stadtpla¨ne modellieren „Bild und Wahrnehmung der Stadt“47 und mit unterschiedlichen Schwerpunkten die sta¨dtische Entwicklung im Kartenbild bzw. in der Stadtansicht heraus. Vorstellungen von idealen und realen Stadtpla¨nen gibt es seit der Antike (etwa Platons „Politeı´a“ oder Vitruvs Architekturtraktate) bzw. seit den Stadtplanungen von Bologna (1221) und Brescia (in der ersten Ha¨lfte des 13. Jahrhunderts). Die Neuzeit sah vor allem die Entwicklung von neuen sta¨dtischen Funktionstypen wie die Festungsstadt, die Bergstadt, die Garnisons-, die Gewerbestadt, die außereuropa¨ischen, zum Teil nach Gestaltungsvorschriften errichteten Kolonial- und die fu¨r die fru¨hmoderne Staatsbildung typische Residenzstadt. Neben der Umgestaltung der Innensta¨dte durch Straßenbegradigungen, Schaffung von Sichtachsen und der Anlage von Pla¨tzen wird die Stadtplanung der Neuzeit durch zunehmende Segregation (etwa Verlegung der Hospita¨ler/Krankenha¨user aus dem Stadtkern an den Stadtrand) gepra¨gt.48 Einer Phase der mittelalterlichen und fru¨hneuzeitlichen Befestigung folgte eine Phase der vom Landesfu¨rst angeordneten Entfestigung, beginnend mit dem 18. Jahrhundert. Schon die Neubegru¨nder der deutschen Stadtgeschichtsforschung nach dem zweiten Weltkrieg – der Rechtshistoriker Hans Planitz (1882–1954)49 und die Historikerin Edith Ennen (1907–1999)50 – verwiesen auf die Bedeutung der Kartographie und die Bedeutung der Stadtgrundrisse fu¨r die Stadtgeschichtsforschung. In Anknu¨pfung an Forschungen aus den 1930er Jahren erschienen fu¨r die Stadtgeschichtsschreibung nach 1945 die Benutzung von kartographischem Material und die Stadtplanforschung von essentieller Bedeutung. Die Genese, das Wachstum und die Schrumpfung der Sta¨dte ließen sich auf der Grundlage dieses Materials erarbeiten. Neben der Kartographie der Einzelstadt sollte eine vergleichende Interpretation der Stadtpla¨ne auf der Grundlage der parzellengenau vermessenen Katasterpla¨ne nach den Vorgaben von Hans Planitz fu¨r die „Deutsche Stadt“ bereitgestellt werden. Die 1955 gegru¨ndete „Commission Internationale pour l’Histoire des Villes“ beschloss denn auch auf ihrer ja¨hrlichen Sitzung 1965 in Wien Grundregeln fu¨r die Herstellung von Sta¨dteatlanten.51 Mit der Arbeit am europa¨ischen Sta¨dteatlas, der von einer Forschergruppe des jeweiligen Landes betreut wird, sollte der Raum der Stadt vergleichend untersucht werden. Deutliche Schu¨be der Bearbeitung lassen sich in den 1970er und den 1990er Jahren bei der Erstellung der europa¨ischen Sta¨dteatlanten erkennen. In sieb-

46 Andrew John Martin, Stadtmodelle, in: Das Bild der Stadt in der Neuzeit 1400–1800, hg. v. Wolfgang

Behringer/Bernd Roeck, Mu¨nchen 1999, S. 66–72.

47 Bild und Wahrnehmung der Stadt, hg. v. Peter Johanek (Sta¨dteforschung A 63), Wien/Ko¨ln 2012. 48 Susanne Rau, Stadtplanung, in: Enzyklopa¨die der Neuzeit 12 (2010), Sp. 782–785. 49 Hans Planitz, Die deutsche Stadt im Mittelalter von der Ro¨merzeit bis zu den Zunftka¨mpfen, Wien

1954.

50 Edith Ennen, Die europa¨ische Stadt des Mittelalters, Go¨ttingen 41987. 51 Ferdinand Opll, Europa¨ische Sta¨dteatlanten. Ein Beitrag zu vier Jahrzehnten Stadtgeschichtswissen-

schaft in Europa, in: Arhivistika – zgodovina – pravo: Vilfanov spominski zbornik/Archivkunde – Geschichte – Recht. Gedenkschrift fu¨r Sergij Vilfan (Zgodovinski Arhiv Ljubljana 30), Ljubljana 2007, S. 71–86.

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zehn La¨ndern konnten bis 2010 rund 500 Sta¨dte und deren Stadtgrundrisse (Stadtentwicklungskarten) erarbeitet werden.52 Die Erforschung der Stadtgrundrisse auf der Grundlage von historischen Grundlagen (Kataster, Einquartierungsbu¨cher etc.) brachte hervorragende Aufschlu¨sse u¨ber die Entwicklung der Sta¨dte (als Stichworte ¨ bergang von etwa Adel in der Stadt, Kirchen in der Stadt, Beamte in der Stadt). Der U Residenzsta¨dten zur City, die Standortverlagerungen von der Altstadt zu den Vorsta¨dten, der soziale Wandel, die Dezentralisierung des Gescha¨ftslebens usw. ließen sich etwa fu¨r Wien eindrucksvoll auf der Grundlage historischer Karten belegen.53 Essentiell fu¨r die Stadtgeschichtsforschung – aber auch fu¨r die „Commission Internationale pour l’Histoire des Villes“ – sind die Karten, die eine komplexe Verbindung zum sta¨dtischen Raum und insgesamt eine ebenso faszinierende wie auch problematische Repra¨sentation des Stadtraumes herstellen.54 Die kritische Reflexion, was eine Karte ist, was sie leisten soll und welche Rolle Kartographie in der Repra¨sentation von Raum spielt und ob Stadtraum nur als Text wahrnehmbar ist55, wird die Diskussion von Stadthistorikern, Geographen, Kartographen und Stadtforschung weiter intensiv bescha¨ftigen mu¨ssen, der Einfluss von Geoinformationssystemen in den letzten 20 Jahren hat die interdisziplina¨re Diskussion stark bereichert. Karten als eine „maßstabsgerechte, graphische Veranschaulichung raumbezogener Daten“56 ermo¨glichen eine Bereitstellung von Informationen u¨ber die Erdoberfla¨che, u¨ber thematische Fragestellungen und u¨ber eine spatiale Ordnung. Der Raumbezug der auf Karten dargestellten Objekte ergibt sich einerseits durch die relative Lage der eingezeichneten Merkmale untereinander und andererseits durch den Bezug auf ein absolutes Koordinatensystem von waagrechten und senkrechten Achsen. Jede Karte muss daher als ein Modell und eben nicht als Repra¨sentation (Abbild) der Wirklichkeit verstanden werden. Karten sind daher wie jedes historisches Dokument der Quellenkritik als Denkmal, Landnahme und Wissensspeicher unterworfen, weil jede Karte „gliedernd und ordnend in den Raum des gesellschaftlichen Zusammenlebens eingreift“.57 Raum wird auf den komplexen Karten als „Bezugsrahmen fu¨r die Anordnung und Abbildungen materieller und geistiger Gegensta¨nde mithilfe von Positionen, Distanzen, Nachbarschaften und Verbindungen“58 hergestellt. Die Raumkonstitution von Karten erweist sich daher vor dem Hintergrund einer interdisziplina¨ren Diskussion als fragwu¨rdig und als epistemologisches Problemfeld. 52 http://www.ria.ie/getmedia/68e4e609-8662-494a-8885-72b2e7c5c4e0/European-towns-atlases-

updated-November-2012.pdf.aspx [Zugriff: 10. Mai 2013].

53 Elisabeth Lichtenberger, Die Wiener Altstadt. Von der mittelalterlichen Bu¨rgerstadt zur City, Wien

1977.

54 Siehe den Beitrag von Keith D. Lilley in diesem Band. Siehe als U ¨ berblick Uta Lindgren, Kartogra-

phie, in: Enzyklopa¨die der Neuzeit 6 (2007), Sp. 407–421.

55 Martha C. Howell, The Spaces of Late Medieval Urbanity, in: Shaping Urban Identity in Late Medie-

val Europe. L’apparition d’une identite´ urbaine dans l’Europe du bas moyen aˆge, ed. by Marc Boone/ Peter Stabel, Leuven/Apeldoorn 2000, S. 3–23. 56 Matthias Bauer, Karte, in: Lexikon der Raumphilosophie (wie Anm. 37), S. 198–200, hier S. 198. 57 Bauer, Karte (wie Anm. 56), S. 199. 58 Ju¨rgen Bollmann zitiert nach Gyula Pa´pay, Kartographie, in: Raumwissenschaften, hg. v. Stephan Gu¨nzel, Frankfurt a. M. 2009, S. 175–190, hier S. 180. Siehe auch ebd. die Modellkarte der Darstellung kartographischer Ra¨ume S. 186.

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Die Stadtgeschichte setzt sich seit langem mit der Frage der sta¨dtischen Topographie, dem Siedlungskern, der Vorstadt und der Befestigung explizit auseinander. Die Stadtmauer, lange u¨bertreibend als ein konstitutives Element der Sta¨dte angesehen, trennt die „innere“ Stadt von den Vorsta¨dten. Am Beispiel der Benennung von Stadttoren werden nicht nur topographische Eigenheiten und Raumvorstellungen der Sta¨dte sichtbar, sondern auch Funktionalita¨ten geraten u¨ber die Namen von Ortsbezeichnungen in den Blick. Die Namen der Ausla¨sse aus der Stadtmauer spiegeln auch konfessionelle (etwa Frauentor), topographische (etwa Spitaltor), soziale („Judentu¨rl“) oder o¨konomische (etwa Tuchmachertor) Gegebenheiten.59 Die genaue Untersuchung von Stadtpla¨nen bzw. die Rekonstruktion von Stadtanlagen zeigt bei vielen europa¨ischen Sta¨dten den hohen Planungsgrad, aber auch deren Abha¨ngigkeit beispielsweise von der Bevo¨lkerungs-, Handels- und Wirtschaftsentwicklung.60 Die Stadtgrundrisse vieler Sta¨dte wurden durch kirchliche Elemente, durch „feudale“ Strukturen (Stadtherr/Ministerialen, Burg) und zunehmend durch das bu¨rgerliche Element von Markt, Rat- und Zunftha¨usern etc. gepra¨gt.61 Fu¨r die Ausgestaltung der Sta¨dte kam den Marktrechten und den Handelsprivilegien große Bedeutung zu, die Phase der Entfestigung der Sta¨dte seit dem 18. Jahrhundert begann manche Stadtkerne radikal zu vera¨ndern, der Marktplatz erfuhr dadurch einen grundlegenden Wandel.62 Die Frage der Stadt-Land-Beziehungen bescha¨ftigt die Stadtgeschichtsforschung seit langem. Neben der Abgrenzung der Stadt vom Dorf, der Abgrenzung des sta¨dtischen Rechtsbezirkes vom Umland steht vor allem im Gefolge der Ansa¨tze von Walter Christaller (1893–1969)63 die Zentralita¨t der Stadt im Vordergrund. Der sta¨dtische Markt (etwa landwirtschaftliche Produkte, Fleischherstellung) bestimmte wirtschaftlich die nach Zonen gegliederten, aber auch von territorialen Herrschaftsverha¨ltnissen abha¨ngigen Austauschverha¨ltnisse von Produkten des Umlandes mit der Stadt mit. Daneben waren die gewerbliche Produktion, die demographischen Faktoren (etwa Zuzug und Abzug von Stadtbevo¨lkerung, Neubu¨rger), aber auch kulturelle 59 Siehe den Beitrag von Ferdinand Opll in diesem Band, der o¨sterreichische und irische Sta¨dte unter

dieser Fragestellung untersucht. 60 Am Beispiel von siebenbu¨rgischen Sta¨dten untersucht Paul Niedermaier die Stadtgrundrisse (auch

im Verha¨ltnis von offenen Pla¨tzen und verbautem Stadtraum). Die Planma¨ßigkeit der Stadtgrundrisse ˘ betont auch Lauren¸tiu Radvan. 61 Als U ¨ berblick etwa Eberhard Isenmann, Die deutsche Stadt im Mittelalter 1150–1550. Stadtgestalt, Recht, Verfassung, Stadtregiment, Kirche, Gesellschaft, Wirtschaft, Wien 2012. Siehe in diesem Band die Bedeutung von wirtschaftlichen Fragestellungen fu¨r den Stadtgrundriss in den Fallbeispielen von Maria Crıˆngaci Tiplic ¸ fu¨r sa¨chsische Sta¨dte in Siebenbu¨rgen fu¨r das Spa¨tmittelalter bzw. im Beitrag von Dan Dumitru Iacob fu¨r die Marktpla¨tze von Ia¸si (Ruma¨nien) im La¨ngsschnitt. 62 Siehe den Beitrag von Roman Czaja am Beispiel von Elbing u¨ber den Wandel des Zentrums in diesem Band. 63 Walter Christaller, Die zentralen Orte in Su¨ddeutschland. Eine o¨konomisch-geographische Untersuchung u¨ber die Gesetzma¨ßigkeit der Verbreitung und Entwicklung der Siedlungen mit sta¨dtischen Funktionen, Diss. Erlangen 1933. Zum ideologischen Hintergrund von Christaller siehe Mechthild Ro¨ssler, Die Geographie an der Universita¨t Freiburg 1933–1945. Ein Beitrag zur Wissenschaftsgeschichte des Faches im Dritten Reich, in: Geographie und Nationalsozialismus. 3 Fallstudien zur Institution Geographie im Deutschen Reich und der Schweiz, hg. v. Michael Fahlbusch/Ders./Dominik Siegrist (Urbs et regio 51), Kassel 1989, S. 77–152, hier S. 123–127.

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Aspekte (Schulen, Universita¨ten, Zeitvorstellungen, Kleidung usw.) wichtig.64 Nach dem Vorbild der Humangeographen versucht man die Stadt-Land-Beziehungen mit Begriffen wie „Umland“ und „Hinterland“ zu fassen, um so eine Art modellhaften Bauplan einer sta¨dtischen Kulturlandschaft zu erzeugen. Das „Umland“, das durch Besitz und Herrschaftsrechte eng und dauernd mit der jeweiligen zentralo¨rtlichen Stadt verbunden ist, wird vom „Hinterland“, das durch subzentrale Orte gepra¨gt ist und mit der Stadt in mittlerer funktionaler Verbindung (Austausch von Gu¨tern, Diensten) steht, unterschieden. Am Rande der zentralo¨rtlichen Pra¨gung der jeweiligen Stadt steht das „Einzugsgebiet“, das mit ihr in einem labilen, durch unregelma¨ßige Kontakte gepra¨gten Abha¨ngigkeitsverha¨ltnis steht.65 Stadt-Umlandbeziehungen lassen sich nicht nur in wirtschaftlicher Hinsicht fassen, sondern auch was etwa Einbu¨rgerung, Grundbesitz (bu¨rgerlicher Landbesitz in der Umgebung), Bildungspolitik, Prozessionen und Wallfahrten, die Herkunft von Verurteilten oder Hospitalinsassen usw. betrifft.66 Der aus der Humangeographie, aber auch der Rechtswissenschaft in mehrere Sprachen diffundierte „Hinterland“-Begriff67 – von Konzepten wie dem „Sta¨dte-Netzwerk“ zumindest hinterfragt – la¨sst sich fu¨r die „Messung“ des religio¨sen, wirtschaftlichen, sozialen, demographischen und wirtschaftlichen Einzugsgebietes von Hafenorten,68 fu¨r die Territorialpolitik mancher europa¨ischer Sta¨dte69 und etwa fu¨r Schiffarsenale (etwa was den Bedarf an Holz, Seilen, Teer usw. angeht) verwenden.70 Das insgesamt noch viel zu wenig erforschte „Hinterland“-Konzept fu¨r Sta¨dte ist dabei ein janusko¨pfiges Modell, weil es einerseits die Landbewohner und andererseits die sta¨dtischen Bewohner in den Blick nimmt. Versucht man das hoch komplexe „Hinterland“ einer Stadt vor wechselnden politischen Hintergru¨nden zu erforschen, so erkennt man die Abha¨ngigkeit des jeweiligen „Hinterlandes“ einer Stadt von wirtschaftlichen, politischen und sozialen Faktoren.71

64 Rolf Kiessling, Stadt-Land-Beziehungen, in: Enzyklopa¨die der Neuzeit 12 (2010), Sp. 703–711; Isen-

mann, Die deutsche Stadt (wie Anm. 61), S. 669–689. 65 Zur Terminologie zusammenfassend Rolf Kiessling, Die Stadt und ihr Land. Umlandpolitik, Bu¨rger-

besitz und Wirtschaftsgefu¨ge in Ostschwaben vom 14. bis ins 16. Jahrhundert (Sta¨dteforschung A 29), Ko¨ln 1989, S. 1–9 und bes. S. 712f. Siehe die immer noch anregende Aufstellung bei Peter Scho¨ller, Aufgaben und Probleme der Stadtgeographie, in: Erdkunde VII/3 (1953), S. 161–184, hier S. 172–176. 66 Sta¨dtisches Um- und Hinterland in vorindustrieller Zeit, hg. v. Hans K. Schulze (Sta¨dteforschung A 22), Ko¨ln/Wien 1985. 67 Als Beleg siehe die „Sammlung“ von Hinterland-Belegen (etwa aus dem Kolonialrecht) bei Hermann Du¨ringer, Eine Hommage an das Hinterland. Die Heimat Werner Schneider-Quindeaus, in: Religion und Urbanita¨t. Herausforderungen fu¨r Kirche und Gesellschaft, hg. v. Carsten Burfeind/Hans-Gu¨nter Heimbrock/Anke Spory, Mu¨nster 2009, S. 205–212. 68 Siehe am Beispiel franzo¨sischer Hafenorte (wie Bordeaux, Nantes, Rouen/Le Havre, Marseille) den Beitrag von Jean-Pierre Poussou in diesem Band. Siehe zur Hinterland-Diskussion und deren Bedeutung fu¨r die Stadtentwicklung Tom Scott, The city-state in Europe, 1000–1600. Hinterland, Territory, Region, Oxford 2012. 69 Siehe den Beitrag zu neuzeitlichen spanischen Sta¨dten und deren Territorialpolitik von Ma´ximo Diago Hernando in diesem Band, der auch die Unterschiede in der Stadt-Umland-Politik der spanischen Sta¨dte erla¨utert. 70 Siehe den Beitrag von Caroline Le Mao in diesem Band. 71 Siehe den auch methodisch anregenden Beitrag von Howard B. Clarke fu¨r das mittelalterliche Dublin in diesem Band.

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Die historische Stadt wird in den Augen der neueren Stadtgeschichtsforschung vielfach als eine soziale Theaterbu¨hne und als verdichteter Kommunikationsraum, der durch vielfa¨ltige sprachliche, bauliche, performative Ta¨tigkeiten bestimmt wird, gedeutet. Machtbeziehungen strukturieren einerseits den Stadtraum und der Stadtraum visualisiert andererseits Machtbeziehungen, die im sozialen Raum sta¨ndig pra¨sent sein mu¨ssen, damit hohe Wirksamkeit erzielt wird. Die herrschenden Machtverha¨ltnisse erscheinen dabei dauerhaft eingebettet in die Raumkonstruktion.72 Die ra¨umliche Stadtentwicklung spiegelt deshalb diese Machtzonen wider, etwa die Bedeutung der Kaufmannssiedlungen fu¨r die Stadtwerdung,73 die Vera¨nderungen im konfessionellen Rahmen74, die Raumnutzung im Kontext von Prozessionen wie Umzu¨gen75 oder die antikisierende Betrachtungsweise von Sta¨dten, die den „historischen sta¨dtischen“ Raum in den Ko¨pfen der vielfach an italienischen Vorbildern geschulten Betrachter erst mitbegru¨ndet.76 Der Stadtraum und die sich wandelnden Nutzungskonzepte von Stadtraum werden auch an den Stadtvierteln77 deutlich. Die Stadtviertel, deren Ursprung sich aus milita¨rischen, verwaltungs- und steuertechnischen Ursachen herleitet, erlebten bedingt durch politische, wirtschaftliche und soziale Rahmenbedingungen neue Besiedlung, wie sich an Ha¨userverzeichnissen und Gerichtsbu¨chern78, an gewandelten, durch Migration und soziale Segregation bedingten sta¨dteplanerischen Konzepten79 und letztlich auch an den Mo¨glichkeiten von freiem „gru¨nen“ Raum80 zeigt. Die Beitra¨ge des vorliegenden Bandes besta¨tigen81, dass fu¨r Historiker der Raum sowohl materiell als auch diskursiv produziert wurde, dass die Raumkategorie sowohl eine physische als auch eine symbolische ist, dass der Raum aber auf sehr unterschiedlichen Ebenen und mit sehr differenzierten Begriffen untersucht werden kann: vom Stadthaus oder dem umbauten Stadtplatz u¨ber die Stadtmauer mit ihren Toren bis zu der sta¨dtischen Zentralita¨t, vom Raum als Container u¨ber den Raum als Schutz, den Raum als Bu¨hne, den umka¨mpften Raum, den kontrollierten Raum bis zum privaten oder o¨ffentlichen Raum. Das unterscheidet die Herangehensweise der Historiker mo¨glicherweise von jener der Soziologen.

72 Lo ¨ w, Epilog (wie Anm. 8), S. 463; Boone, Urban Space and Political Conflict (wie Anm. 26). 73 Siehe den Beitrag von Karlheinz Blaschke in diesem Band, wo er die Bedeutung der „Nikolaus-Bewe-

gung“ fu¨r die Stadtentwicklung hervorstreicht. Siehe auch ders./Uwe Ulrich Ja¨schke, Nikolaikirchen und Stadtentstehung in Europa. Von der Kaufmannssiedlung zur Stadt, Berlin 2013. 74 Siehe den Beitrag von Anngret Simms fu¨r irische Sta¨dte in der Reformation. o 75 Am Beispiel von bo¨hmischen Sta¨dten im Spa¨tmittelalter siehe den Beitrag von Robert Sˇimu nek. 76 Am Beispiel italienischer und englischer Sta¨dte Rosemary Sweet. 77 Siehe als U ¨ berblick Robert Ju¨tte, Das Stadtviertel als Problem und Gegenstand der fru¨hneuzeitlichen Stadtgeschichtsforschung, in: Bla¨tter fu¨r Deutsche Landesgeschichte 127 (1991), S. 235–270; Bram Vannieuwenhuyze, Buren, straten en aanknopingspunten. Plaatsbepaling in het laatmiddeleeuwse Brussel (dertiende-zestiende eeuw), in: Stadsgeschiedenis 4 (2009), S. 97–114. 78 Am Beispiel der neuen Ratssetzung von 1350 fu¨r die Prager Altstadt siehe den Beitrag von Martin Musı´lek. 79 Siehe den Beitrag von Lars Nilsson fu¨r Stockholm. 80 Siehe den breiten U ¨ berblick von Peter Clark zu Gru¨nfla¨chen in diesem Band. 81 Arnade/Howell/Simons, Fertile Spaces (wie Anm. 9), S. 541f.

SPACE AND HISTORY AS EXEMPLIFIED BY URBAN HISTORY RESEARCH von Michel Pauly und Martin Scheutz

In recent years the wheel of historiology has begun turning more quickly, the paradigm shifts and modernisations that we understand by the Anglo-German neologism to be its ‚turns‘ following each other in increasingly rapid succession. On the one hand, these new approaches have clearly been inspiring historiology – and consequently urban history research – these last few years, on the other hand, ‚history‘ seems increasingly preoccupied by an anxiety not to miss out on new developments. As such linguistic, pictorial, emotional, iconic and recently also economic turns have created new research areas, made possible new research positions at a number of universities and frequently opened up new perspectives or shed new light on old topics. After the turbulences of the linguistic revolution since the 1980s, which chiefly researched and deconstructed linguistic means of communication, the conditions of their origins and their consequences, the 1990s and onwards, against the backdrop of the Fall of the Berlin Wall in 1989 and the attacks of September 11, 2001, have seen the arrival of the spatial revolution, at least in German-speaking areas. In 1989, the year of the fall of the Iron Curtain, the postmodern human geographer Edward W. Soja (born 1940) created the concept of the so-called ‚spatial turn‘. Soja thereby reacted to the ‚despatialisation‘ of history, and tried to fathom the reasons for historiology’s gradual expulsion of questions of space from sociological and historiological thinking.1 In the context of Austrio-German history, research history can explain this repression of geography. After the era of ‚Volksgeographie‘, the postulated relationship between ‚the people‘ and ‚the land‘ and the intensive exploration of the ‚Ostraum‘ (the putatively empty living space in the East) or the ‚Westforschung‘ (the investigation of the history and culture of western border territories in view of annexation) of the 1930s and 1940s, history’s concern with space, understood using National Socialist vocabulary, was for a long time suspect as it seemed to imply an ugly form of revisionism.2 1 Doris Bachmann-Medick, Spatial Turn, in: Idem, Cultural Turns. Neuorientierungen in den Kultur-

wissenschaften, Reinbeck 32011, pp. 284–328, here p. 284: „The spatial turn is a child of postmodernity. Toward the end of the 1980s, the American cultural theoretician Fredric Jameson, a confirmed representative of postmodernism, used the slogan ‚Always spatialise!‘“ [transl.]. 2 Karl Schlo ¨ ber Zivilisationsgeschichte und Geopolitik, Munich/ ¨ gel, Im Raume lesen wir die Zeit. U

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Only in the late 1990s and after was there a progressively intensive focus on the history of space. Anthropology, semiotics, literary theory, naturally also geography with its many branches and media studies centered and concentrated on space in their thinking and opened up new avenues of research. At the beginning of the 21st century, the Eastern Europe historian and pacemaker of the ‚spatial turn‘ Karl Schlo¨gel (born 1948), whose essayist works contributed significantly to this new understanding of space, stated thus: ‚One aspect of the development of the spatiality of human existence or human history is the discovery of the many spaces, the plurality of spaces. Nor can this be any other way. If spaces cease to only ‚be there‘ as dead, passive backdrops and repositories, if they are rather historically constituted and can have a genesis, a constitution, a decay and also an end, then it follows that there are many spaces.‘3 The postmodern ‚dynamisation of space with its overlaps, transgressions and fluent transitions‘4 seemed typical. Pointedly and polemically one might say that historiography, as an ‚immaterial temporal science‘ wherein space plays an obscure (subordinate) role, and geography, as a ‚discipline aloof from time and history‘, are being brought together to a greater extent in the interdisciplinary framework of the ‚spatial turn‘5 – by no means the first attempt at convergence of these related but not very cooperative disciplines. Conceived as an interdisciplinary approach, the ‚spatial turn‘ experienced important impulses from (what a historical perspective understands to be) adjoining sciences. Thus the sociologist Georg Simmel (1858–1918) already contributed an important determination for the more recent understanding of space when he conceptualised space not as an unchanging constant but as constructed through collectivisation as a consequence of social relationships. Simmel attributed various fundamental qualities to space, such as ‚exclusivity, deconstructibility, fixation, vicinity or proximity-distance-relations‘6 and thus rejected a kind of absolutist assumption of the existence of space outside of human perception. Space thus exists inside human sentience and as a consequence of human interactions and relationships. Equally paradigmatic appears the approximation to a sociology of space by German sociologist Martina Lo¨w (born 1965).7 In essence, Lo¨w stated that physically existing spaces only begin to be constituted by actions and perceptions in the minds of the observers and users of space. Utilisation, appropriation and perception of space, as well as the spatial representation through maps, signs and different codes made space become a relational

Vienna 2003, pp. 52–59. [English version: Schlo¨gel, Reading time through space – On the History of Civilisation and Geo-Politics]. 3 Schlo ¨ gel, Im Raume lesen wir die Zeit (see footnote 2), p. 68. [transl.]. 4 Bachmann-Medik, Spatial Turn (see footnote 1), p. 293. [transl.]. 5 Axel Gotthard, Wohin fu¨hrt uns der „Spatial turn“? U ¨ ber mo¨gliche Gru¨nde, Chancen und Grenzen einer neuerdings diskutierten historiographischen Wende, in: Mikro – Meso – Makro. Regionenforschung im Aufbruch, ed. by Wolfgang Wu¨st/Werner K. Blessing/David Petry, Erlangen 2005, pp. 15–49, here p. 16f. 6 Referenced from Christian Hochmuth/Susanne Rau, Stadt – Macht – Ra¨ume. Eine Einfu¨hrung, in: Machtra¨ume in der fru¨hneuzeitlichen Stadt, ed. by Idem (Konflikte und Kultur. Historische Perspektiven 13), Konstanz 2006, pp. 13–40, here p. 27. [transl.]. 7 Martina Lo ¨ w, Raumsoziologie (stw 1506), Frankfurt a. M. 2001.

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dimension. According to Lo¨w, the decisive importance lies not in the composition in space (‚Anordnung im Raum‘) but the ‚disposition towards spaces‘ (‚Anordnung zu Ra¨umen‘).8 Two important processes help create these spaces: ‚spacing‘ and the human synthesis activity (‚mapping‘). Lo¨w’s ‚spacing‘ refers to ‚physical‘ space, the active positioning of social commodities like people in space and the symbolic marking of space (as through monuments, buildings, structural design). But it is only the simultaneous synthesis activity by humans (‚mapping‘ occurring simultaneously with ‚spacing‘) that joins together social assets and spaces and thus allows for a meaningful organisation of knowledge. The preoccupation with space looks back on a long tradition, without us having to refer here explicitly or in detail to Herodotus or Thukydides and their description of history developed through space. In his 1974 book La production de l’espace (‚The production of space‘), the (post-) marxist French sociologist Henri Lefebvre (1901–1991) already indicated space as an important but underestimated factor in social sciences.9 He declared space to be a ‚social product‘10 and not an empty container for objects and practices. The French sociologist Pierre Bourdieu (1930–2002) also reflected intensely on the connections between space, power and social relations. According to Bourdieu, the relationship between ‚physical space‘ and ‚social space‘ is one of tension. Social space, determined by humans and their social relations and hierarchies (the ‚appropriated physical space‘) takes place within an urban space determined by construction.11 ‚The space that is in certain ways inhabited by and known to us is socially constructed and marked.‘12 Social and physical space are however chiefly shaped by relations, i. e. relationships. Social standing in a society is directly expressed in physical space. The availability of economic, social and cultural capital contributes decisively to determining the spatial position of a person in the social field.13 Social and physical reality are inextricably intertwined, and thus space, or use of space, becomes a category for analysis, since concrete use of space within societies represents a kind of indicator of social position within societies. Following research 8 Martina Lo ¨ ffentliche Ra¨ume in Spa¨tmittelalter ¨ w, Epilog, in: Zwischen Gotteshaus und Taverne. O

und Fru¨her Neuzeit, ed. by Susanne Rau/Gerd Schwerhoff (Norm und Struktur 21), Cologne 2004, pp. 463–468. [transl.]. 9 Henri Lefebvre, La production de l’espace, Paris 1974 [English version: The Production of Space, transl. by Donald Nicholson-Smith, Oxford 1991]; Idem, Die Produktion des sta¨dtischen Raums, transl. by Franz Hiss/Hans-Ulrich Wegener, in: ARCH+ 34 (1977); cf. Peter Arnade/Martha C. Howell/Walter Simons, Fertile Spaces: The Productivity of Urban Space in Northern Europe, in: Journal of Interdisciplinary History 32/4 (2002), pp. 515–548; Jo¨rg Do¨ring/Tristan Thielmann, Was lesen wir im Raum. Der „Spatial Turn“ und das geheime Wissen der Geographen, in: Spatial Turn. Das Raumparadigma in den Kultur- und Sozialwissenschaften, ed. by Idem, Bielefeld 22009, pp. 7–45, here p. 7. 10 Jo¨rg Do ¨ ring, Spatial Turn, in: Raum. Ein interdisziplina¨res Handbuch, ed. by Stephan Gu¨nzel, Stuttgart 2010, pp. 90–99, here p. 91 (referencing Lefebvre pp. 91–93). 11 Pierre Bourdieu, Espace social et gene`se des „classes“, in: Actes de la recherche en sciences sociales 52–53 (1984), pp. 3–14. 12 Pierre Bourdieu, Sozialer Raum [1989], in: Raumtheorie. Grundlagentexte aus Philosophie und Kulturwissenschaften, ed. by Jo¨rg Du¨nne/Stephan Gu¨nzel, Frankfurt a. M. 2006, pp. 354–370. [transl.]. 13 Pierre Bourdieu, Physischer, sozialer und angeeigneter physischer Raum, in: Stadt-Ra¨ume, ed. by Martin Wentz, Frankfurt a. M. 1991, pp. 25–35.

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by Michel Foucault or Edward Said, there emerged disjoined spaces (‚third space‘), that have been designated as ‚non-place‘ (Heterotopias, Foucault) or ‚global ethnoscapes‘.14 These spaces are no longer real or physical or merely symbolic, but both at the same time. A structuralist approach to space centered on the key concept of the ‚boundary‘ has proven equally helpful, as in its differentiation of space and location, of ‚sacred‘ and ‚profane‘, of ‚public‘ and ‚private‘. Thus the sociologist Karl-Siegbert Rehberg born 1943) proposed a distinction between locations and spaces. While he interpreted locations as ‚spatial condensation of actions‘ as well as ‚a setting for activities‘ (such as rituals) [‚„ra¨umliche Verdichtung von Handlungsvollzu¨gen“ sowie als „Bu¨hne fu¨r Handlungswiederholungen“‘]15, where concrete action takes place, he conceived of space as a field of possibility (field of latency) determined by each human being. In the course of the ‚spatial turn‘, space was no longer thought of as a fixed dimension, but as a process, in which perception, the perspective of the protagonists and space users as well as the staging of locations and space are of crucial importance. Were one to try to sum up with moderate success a presently unconcluded debate, one might surmise that space is created by human beings and is in no way inalterable. Crucial for the interpretation of space is the perspective of the protagonists – the opposite has at times held sway here. Where previously the investigation of spaces was strongly influenced by art historical exegeses that meticulously deciphered the construct of space, so now, against the backdrop of the ‚spatial turn‘, the ‚constructional substrate‘ shifts towards the outer edge while the evaluation of space by users differentiated by age, ethnicity and gender has become the focus of research. Each ‚turn‘ almost automatically leads to the historiography of the respective turn. Scientists from very different disciplines strive to locate the intellectual precursors of their respective movement and thus anchor them in research history. In the case of the ‚spatial turn‘, chief importance is attributed to the interdisciplinary school of historians of the ‚Annales‘ around Marc Bloch and Lucien Febvre, as its founders already demonstrated a pronounced interest for geography as spatial historiography. Thus the geographer and historian Paul Vidal de la Blache (1845–1918) already played a major role here.16 As a prospective historian, Marc Bloch’s education included a complete course of compulsory geographical studie.17 Geography always played an important role in Bloch’s work in terms of curiosity and openness to new influences on history. Influential masterworks like Fernand Braudel’s (1902–1985) three-volume book La Me´diterrane´e et le monde me´diterrane´en a` l’e´poque de Philippe II (The Mediterranean sea and the Mediterranean world in the era of Philip II)18 would not

14 Bachmann-Medik, Spatial Turn (see note 1), p. 297f. 15 Karl-Siegbert Rehberg, Macht-Ra¨ume als Objektivationen sozialer Beziehungen. Institutionenana-

lytische Perspektiven, in: Machtra¨ume in der fru¨hneuzeitlichen Stadt (see note 6), pp. 41–58, here p. 47. 16 Peter Burke, Offene Geschichte: Die Schule der „Annales“, Berlin 1991, pp. 26–35. 17 Peter Scho ¨ ttler, Marc Bloch (1886–1944), in: Klassiker der Geschichtswissenschaft. Bd. 1: Von Ed-

ward Gibbon bis Marc Bloch, ed. by Lutz Raphael, Munich 2006, pp. 232–250, here p. 235. 18 Fernand Braudel, La Me´diterrane´e et le monde me´diterrane´en a` l’e´poque de Philippe II, Paris 1949, 21966

[German version: Das Mittelmeer und die mediterrane Welt in der Epoche Philipps II., Frank-

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have been conceivable without the intertwining of spatial and temporal dimensions. In this work, Braudel contrasts in terms of ‚longue dure´e‘, the slow time that is influenced by natural events and ponderous space (‚ge´ohistoire‘) with the more rapid political time that is influenced and co-determined by human beings. The time horizons and the spatial dimension of politics, economics and social history seemed to Braudel to be inextricably intertwined. Braudel connected cultural geography and political history, unlike the historians of the 19th century however he did not see pivotal movers and shakers in the great figures, but in the sense of a ‚histoire totale‘ he increasingly focused on geographical constraints, which besides politics he made causally responsible for economic ups and downs.19 In Braudel’s conception, begun in German prison camps, the political figures of the 16th century were only responsible for the short-term history of events, while the natural spaces supplied the barely alterable stage for the politics of Philip II. From the mine shaft of the social sciences, the historiography of the ‚spatial turn‘ has yielded additional textual witnesses for the spatialisation of history. In addition to Braudel and Bourdieu’s conceptions, there were important, chiefly ethnological, research approaches by the French ethnologist and specialist for ‚rites of passage‘ Arnold van Gennep (1873–1957) as well as the symbolic anthropologist Victor Turner (1920–1983)20 about ritual, procession, boundaries and liminality. Following this research, there have in the last two decades been pronounced studies into performative acts and their anchoring in space: such as the space of council elections in church and city hall,21 the multifunctional religious spaces,22 the Alps,23 the city as a stage

furt a. M. 1990]; see Eric Piltz, „Tra¨gheit des Raums“. Fernand Braudel und die Spatial Stories der Geschichtswissenschaften, in: Spatial Turn (see note 9), pp. 75–102, here pp. 75–96. 19 Lutz Raphael, Fernand Braudel (1902–1985), in: Klassiker der Geschichtswissenschaft, Bd. 2: Von Fernand Braudel bis Natalie Z. Davies, ed. by Lutz Raphael, Munich 2006, pp. 45–62, here pp. 49–62. 20 Arnold van Gennep, Les rites de passage, Paris 1909 [German version: U ¨ bergangsriten, Frankfurt a. M./New York 1986]; Victor Turner, The Ritual Process: Structure and Antistructure, New York 1969 [German version: Das Ritual. Struktur und Anti-Struktur, Frankfurt a. M./New York 1989]. 21 Dietrich Poeck, Rituale der Ratswahl. Zeichen und Zeremoniell der Ratssetzung in Europa (12. – 18. Jahrhundert) (Sta¨dteforschung A 60), Cologne/Vienna 2003; Stephan Albrecht, Ratha¨user in Deutschland. Architektur und Funktion, Darmstadt 2004; Ratha¨user als multifunktionale Ra¨ume der Repra¨sentation, der Parteiungen und des Geheimnisses, ed. by Susanne Cl. Pils/Martin Scheutz/ Christoph Sonnlechner/Stefan Spevak (Forschungen und Beitra¨ge zur Wiener Stadtgeschichte 55), Vienna 2012; Gerhard Ammerer/Thomas Weidenholzer, Rathaus, Kirche, Wirt. Stadtraum zwi¨ fschen stadtherrlicher, geistlicher, kommunaler und privater Nutzung, in: Rathaus. Kirche. Wirt. O fentliche Ra¨ume in der Stadt Salzburg, ed. by Idem (Schriftenreihe des Archivs der Stadt Salzburg 26), Salzburg 2009, pp. 225–236; Gerd Schwerhoff, Verortete Macht. Mittelalterliche und fru¨hneuzeitliche Ratha¨user als institutionelle Eigenra¨ume sta¨dtischer Politik, in: Institution und Charisma. Festschrift fu¨r Gert Melville zum 65. Geburtstag, ed. by Franz J. Felten/Annette Kehnel/Stefan Weinfurter, Cologne/Weimar/Vienna 2009, pp. 215–228. 22 Sacred Space in Early Modern Europe, ed. by Will Coster/Andrew Spicer, Cambridge et al. 2005; Political space in pre-industrial Europe, ed. by Beat Ku¨min, Farnham/Burlington 2009; Gerd Schwerhoff, Sakralita¨tsmanagement. Zur Analyse religio¨ser Ra¨ume im spa¨ten Mittelalter und in der Fru¨hen Neuzeit, in: Topographien des Sakralen. Religion und Raumordnung in der Vormoderne, ed. by Susanne Rau/idem, Hamburg 2008, pp. 38–69. 23 Marcus Sandl, Geschichtswissenschaft, in: Raumwissenschaften, ed. Stephan Gu ¨ nzel, Frankfurt a. M. 2009, pp. 159–174, here pp. 168–170.

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for processions, inns and public houses24 as a space to negotiate conflicts in, and the marketplace25 as a stage to settle social, economic and cultural conflicts, the space for insurrections26 or ‚the space of power‘27 of the Pre-Modern era in general. The spatial turn can also look back on conceptual ancestors like the notion of ‚mental maps‘ designed by social and urban geography. In the middle of the 20th century, the question of spatial cognition, spatial imagination and behaviours of direction and orientation was already a object of research for such varied disciplines as anthropology, philosophy, psychology and physiology,28 which followed up on older 19th century research into the ‚inner compass‘ and ‚the map in the mind‘, oriented towards measurement and cartography. Fundamental for the concept of ‚mental maps‘ was the work of the American psychologist Edward C. Tolman (1886–1959),29 who created the notion of ‚cognitive maps‘ on the empirical basis of the spatial behaviour of rats in a maze. According to his research, their spatial behaviour is not based on chain of stimulus and reaction, but on an internal representation of their surroundings. The question of how living beings orient themselves in their spatial surroundings also occupied urban planner Kevin Lynch (1918–1984) in his conception of the environmental image of (car-owning) city dwellers, when he undertook an empirical study of the perception of the city, using as examples Boston, Jersey City and Los Angeles,30 and

24 Dagmar Freist, Wirtsha¨user als Zentren fru¨hneuzeitlicher O ¨ ffentlichkeit: London im 17. Jahrhun-

dert, in: Kommunikation und Medien der Fru¨hen Neuzeit, ed. by Johannes Burkhardt (Historische Zeitschrift, Beih. 41), Munich 2005, pp. 201–224; Susanne Rau, Orte der Gastlichkeit – Orte der Kommunikation. Aspekte der Raumkonstruktion von Herbergen in einer fru¨hneuzeitlichen Stadt, in: Kirchen, Ma¨rkte und Tavernen. Erfahrungs- und Handlungsra¨ume in der Fru¨hen Neuzeit, ed. by Renate Du¨rr/Gerd Schwerhoff (Zeitspru¨nge. Forschungen zur Fru¨hen Neuzeit 9, Heft 3/4), Frankfurt a. M. 2005, pp. 394–417; Beat Ku¨min, Drinking Matters. Public Houses and Social Exchange in Early Modern Central Europe (Early modern history: Society and culture), Houndsmills 2007. 25 Michaela Fenske, Marktkultur in der Fru¨hen Neuzeit. Wirtschaft, Macht und Unterhaltung auf einem sta¨dtischen Jahr- und Viehmarkt, Cologne/Weimar/Vienna 2006. 26 Marc Boone, Urban Space and Political Conflict in Late Medieval Flanders, in: Journal of Interdisciplinary History 32/4 (2002), pp. 621–640; Alexander Schunka, Revolten und Raum – Aufruhr und Bestrafung im Licht des Spatial Turn, in: Die Stimme der ewigen Verlierer? Aufsta¨nde, Revolten und Revolutionen in den o¨sterreichischen La¨ndern (ca. 1450–1815), ed. by Peter Rauscher/Martin ¨ sterreichische Geschichtsforschung 61), Vienna 2013, Scheutz (Vero¨ffentlichungen des Instituts fu¨r O pp. 369–385. 27 Hochmuth/Rau, Stadt – Macht – Ra¨ume (see note 6), pp. 13–40; Jo¨rg Rogge, Politische Ra¨ume und ¨ berlegungen zu Raumkonzepten und deren heuristischen Nutzen fu¨r die StadtgeschichtsWissen. U forschung (mit Beispielen aus Mainz und Erfurt im spa¨ten Mittelalter) in: Tradieren – Vermitteln – Anwenden. Zum Umgang mit Wissensbesta¨nden in spa¨tmittelalterlichen und fru¨hneuzeitlichen Sta¨dten, ed. by Idem (Beitra¨ge zu den Historischen Kulturwissenschaften 6), Berlin 2008, pp. 115–154; D’une ville a` l’autre: structures mate´rielles et organisation de l’espace dans les villes europe´ennes (XIIIe-XVIe sie`cles), ed. by Jean-Claude Maire Vigueur, Rome 1989. 28 Kirsten Wagner, Kognitiver Raum. Orientierung – Mental Maps – Datenverwaltung, in: Raum. Ein interdisziplina¨res Handbuch, ed. by Stephan Gu¨nzel, Stuttgart 2010, pp. 234–249, here p. 234; see the example of early modern beggars Martin Scheutz, „Mental Maps“ von Vagierenden in der Fru¨hen Neuzeit. Mobilita¨t und deren textliche Repra¨sentation im niedero¨sterreichischen Voralpengebiet aus der Perspektive von Verho¨rten, in: Volkskunde in Sachsen 24 (2012), pp. 111–140, here pp. 114–118. 29 Edward C. Tolman, Cognitive Maps in Rats and Men, in: Psychological Review 55/4 (1948), pp. 189–208. 30 Kevin Lynch, Das Bild der Stadt, Braunschweig/Wiesbaden 21989 [English edition 1960].

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empirically demonstrated how a cognitive map can function on the basis of partial perceptions. The connection between spatial memory and spatial imagination about ‚the world in our minds‘ has been advanced significantly in a 1974 monograph by a pair of authors, the geographer Roger M. Downs and the psychologist David Stea.31 ‚Cognitive cartography‘ is an abstract term regrouping those cognitive faculties that allow us to gather, order, store, retrieve and process information about our spatial surroundings.32 Kevin Lynch’s investigation into the mental-spatial visualization, or the visual strategy of city streets and paths has yielded five differentiators as distinguishing features for the environmental image of city dwellers in the 20th century:33 ‚(1) Paths, (2) edges, (3) districts, (4) nodes, (5) landmarks‘. By no means to be understood only as maps, but rather as images or verbal statements, these ‚mental maps‘ depend on various factors of individual, schematic, symbolic, distorted or incomplete representation of our surroundings. As orientation schemata, ‚mental maps‘ have variegated functions in the sense of spatial memory for navigation, as in daily routing and path finding.34 The fundamental problem of ‚mental maps‘, resolving the tendentially competitive relationship of physical space and mental representation, remains an aporia. To sum up Karl Schlo¨gel’s plea for the spatialisation of history, Schlo¨gel differentiates between physical space and historical spaces, which originate because of political and governmental structures, and living space, which individuals create for themselves. The Eastern Europe historian acts on the assumption of a plurality of spaces, wherein all spaces appear not only as dead spaces, but are historically constituted and determined by the protagonists.35 Space is by no means a solid object of reference, but conspicuously shaped by discourses (in the sense of ‚commemoration spaces‘, memorials, etc).36 The motive for the efforts of the ‚spatial turn‘ seems to be an intention for history to evolve to a greater extent from a temporal to a spatial science. Conversely, there exists in the present the simultaneous phenomenon, driven by the new means of communication, of global despatialisation and delocalisation – synchrony and diachrony facing each other. Thus it is with equal justification that one may speak with Vile´m Flusser (1992) of ‚the end of geography‘ and with Michel Foucault of ‚the age of space‘ (2005).37 The tension between dissolution and return of space

31 Roger M. Downs/David Stea, Maps in Minds. Reflections on Cognitive Mapping, New York 1977

[German edition: Kognitive Karten. Die Welt in unseren Ko¨pfen, New York 1982].

32 Downs/Stea, Kognitive Karten (see note 31), p. 23. The term ‚Mental Maps‘ originates in the epony-

mous publication by geographers Peter Gould and Rodney White: Peter Gould/Rodney White, Mental Maps, Harmondsworth 1974, London 22002. 33 Lynch, Das Bild (see note 30), pp. 60–109. 34 Anton Hartl, Kognitive Karten und kognitives Kartieren, in: Repra¨sentation und Verarbeitung ra¨umlichen Wissens, ed. by Christian Freska/C. Habel (Informatik-Fachberichte 245), Berlin 1990, pp. 34–46, here pp. 34–46. 35 Schlo ¨ gel, Im Raume lesen wir die Zeit (see note 2), p. 68f. 36 Sandl, Geschichtswissenschaft (see note 23), p. 166f. 37 Frederic Jameson (1986), cited following Markus Schroer, Spatial turn, in: Lexikon der Raumphilosophie, ed. by Stephan Gu¨nzel/Franziska Ku¨mmerling, Darmstadt 2012, p. 380.

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is likely to occupy historiography further,38 but the critical reflection on the understanding of space ought to remain. Above and beyond their metaphorical character, spatial categories like center, periphery, edge, hub, or outskirts should be taken seriously and studied in their complexity.39 Repeatedly, however, there are also warnings from the fields of various scientific disciplines not to fall into the ‚spatial trap‘, that is to completely lose sight of other analytical categories (social practices) through sheer overuse of the concept of space. Historians especially will warn of the inherent danger of space suggesting synchrony where in actuality there is development and process.

Urban history and the missed ‚spatial turn‘?

The ‚founding father‘ of the ‚spatial turn‘, Edward Soja, saw the city and the ‚urban built environment‘ as ‚embedded in the restless geographical landscape of capital, and specified as part of a complex and contradiction-filled societal spatialization that simultaneously enhances and inhibits, provides new room and imprisons, offers solutions but soon revokes them‘.40 The city as concentrated constructive form has always also been recognised as a space. For many centuries, cities have been perceived through city maps, that is by means of charts of urban topography and landmarks, traffic infrastructure and urban outlines. Wilhelm Heinrich Riehl (1823–1897) already saw ‚the city map as blueprint for society‘,41 since the outward appearance of the city was perceived as socio-geographic and topographic space. Elites, middle classes and lower classes settled socio-geographically in cities, and made their living spaces in the city identifiable by their buildings. The city map as the memory of the city can therefore be read as a ‚sum of complementary locations [...] that exist side by side, overlap or intertwine each other. [...] The city can thus be read as a collage, in which urban development attitudes, social criticism and the handling of history have become structurally manifest.‘42 To interpret space as a ‚relational organisation of social assets and living things in a location‘43 has proven itself to be a highly promising approach for urban history research.

38 Bachmann-Medik, Spatial Turn (see note 1), p. 288f. 39 Ibid., p. 315; Franz Irsigler, Zentrum, Grenze und Achse als Elemente einer historischen Raumtypo-

logie, in: Zwischen Maas und Rhein. Beziehungen, Begegnungen und Konflikte in einem europa¨ischen Kernraum von der Spa¨tantike bis zum 19. Jahrhundert. Versuch einer Bilanz, ed. by Idem (Trierer Historische Forschungen 61), Trier 2006, pp. 11–26. 40 Edward Soja, Postmodern Geographies. The Reassertion of Space in Critical Social Theory, London 1989, p. 108, quoted in Schlo¨gel, Im Raume lesen wir die Zeit (see note 2), p. 67. [transl.] 41 Schlo ¨ gel, Im Raume lesen wir die Zeit (see note 2), p. 304. [transl.] 42 Hans Stimmann, Die Textur der Stadt, in: Foyer. Journal fu¨r Stadtentwicklung 3 (2000), pp. 22–23, quoted in Schlo¨gel, Im Raume lesen wir die Zeit (see note 2), p. 308. [transl.] 43 See the example of urban typologies (city rankings, economic developments etc.) cf Martina Lo ¨ w, Soziologie der Sta¨dte, Frankfurt a. M. 2008, p. 238. [transl.]

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Urban history research’s preoccupation with space, however, is substantially older,44 as some following examples are meant to document. The medieval foundation of cities already necessitated a precisely and accurately organised inclusion of planned city space, a geo-strategical interpretation of space and an organisation of urban layout planned in terms of space.45 Many material witnesses document the significance of space for the city – thus in antiquity already, scaled models were crafted, usually for purposes of fortification. Modern city models took up this tradition, such as the unfortunately non-existent three-dimensional city portrait of Florence from 1529, the scale model of Nuremberg created by Hans Sebald Beheim in 1540 or the model Hans Rogel crafted of Augsburg in the 1560s.46 In thousands of ‚view of the city/town‘ portraits, the face of the European city has been caught and preserved since the Middle Ages. Thousands of city maps have modeled the ‚image and perception of the city‘47 and worked out urban development in map images or cityscapes. There have been notions of ideal and real city blueprints since antiquity (such as Plato’s Politeı´a or Vitruv’s architectural treatises), or since the urban planning endeavours of Bologna (1221) and Brescia (first half of the 13th century). Modernity saw chief developments in new urban function types such as new citadels, mountain or mining towns, garrison or trade towns, colonial cities built outside Europe in part according to design regulations, and the residence or capital typical for early modern nation building. In addition to the reorganisation of city centres via street straightening, the creation of long vistas and the construction of town squares, urban planning of the modern era has been shaped by increasing segregation (such as the relocation of hospitals from the centre to the outskirts).48 To a phase of medieval and early modern fortification there followed a phase of defortification commanded by the sovereign, beginning in the 18th century.

44 As an overview, cf. Peter Johanek, Stadtgeschichtsforschung – ein halbes Jahrhundert nach En-

nen und Planitz, in: Europa¨ische Stadtgeschichte. Ausgewa¨hlte Beitra¨ge, ed. by Werner Freitag/ Mechthild Siekmann (Sta¨dteforschung A 86), Vienna/Cologne/Weimar 2012, pp. 47–94, here p. 59f., and: Franz Irsigler, Raumkonzepte in der historischen Forschung, in: Zwischen Gallia und Germania, Frankreich und Deutschland. Konstanz und Wandel raumbestimmender Kra¨fte. Vortra¨ge auf dem 36. Deutschen Historikertag, Trier 8. – 12. Oktober 1986, ed. by Alfred Heit (Trierer Historische Forschungen 12), Trier 1987, pp. 11–27. 45 Including multiple examples of city foundations: Stadtgru¨ndung und Stadtwerdung. Beitra¨ge von Archa¨ologie und Stadtgeschichtsforschung, ed. by Ferdinand Opll (Beitra¨ge zur Geschichte der Sta¨dte Mitteleuropas 22), Linz 2011. Including a critical discussion of the foundation city: Martina Stercken, Gebaute Ordnung, Stadtvorstellungen und Planung im Mittelalter, in: Sta¨dteplanung – Planungssta¨dte, ed. by Bruno Fritzsche/Hans-Jo¨rg Gilomen/Idem, Zurich 2006, pp. 15–37. As a prime example for the concrete processes of city foundation ‚on a green meadow‘ and its inscription ¨ ber Stadtentwicklung: Beobachtungen am Beispiel von Ardres, in: in space, see: Franz Irsigler, U Zeitschrift fu¨r Archa¨ologie des Mittelalters 11 (1983) pp. 7–19, newly published in: Miscellanea Franz Irsigler. Festgabe zum 65. Geburtstag, ed. by Volker Henn/Rudolf Holbach/Michel Pauly/Wolfgang Schmid, Trier 2006, pp. 169–185. 46 Andrew John Martin, Stadtmodelle, in: Das Bild der Stadt in der Neuzeit 1400–1800, ed. by Wolfgang Behringer/Bernd Roeck, Munich 1999, pp. 66–72. 47 Bild und Wahrnehmung der Stadt, ed. by Peter Johanek (Sta¨dteforschung A 63), Vienna/Cologne 2012. 48 Susanne Rau, Stadtplanung, in: Enzyklopa¨die der Neuzeit 12 (2010), pp. 782–785.

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The founders of the new German urban history research after World War II – legal historian Hans Planitz (1882–1954)49 and historian Edith Ennen (1907–1999)50 – already indicated the significance of cartography and the importance of city layouts for urban history research. Reconnecting with research from the 1930s, urban historiography after 1945 saw the use of cartographical material and urban planning research as essential. This material allowed for the working out of genesis, growth and diminution of cities. In addition to the cartography of individual cities, there was to be for ‚the German city‘ a comparative interpretation of urban planning based on cadastral maps accurate to the level of small plots according to Hans Planitz’s specifications. Founded in 1955, the ‚Commission Internationale pour l’Histoire des Villes‘ determined during its annual conference in Vienna in 1965 the fundamental rules for the creation of city atlases.51 Through the work on the European city atlas, overseen by a group of researchers from each country, the urban space was to be studied comparatively. Significant impulses of development can be made out in the creation of the European city atlases in the 1970s and 1990s. Until 2010, around 500 cities and their urban layouts (urban development maps) have been worked out in seventeen countries.52 The study of city blueprints on the basis of historical foundations (cadastral maps, billeting and inhabitation records, etc.) has yielded outstanding insights into the development of cities (keywords including nobility in the city, churches in the city, civil servants in the city). The transition from residential towns to the modern City, the relocation from the historic center to the suburbs, social change, the decentralisation of commerce and so forth were impressively well documented for Vienna for instance on the basis of historical maps.53 Crucial for urban history research – but also for the ‚Commission Internationale pour l’Histoire des Villes‘ – are maps that establish a complex connection to urban space and overall an equally fascinating as problematic representation of urban space.54 Critical reflection on the nature of a map, what it should achieve, what role cartography plays in the representation of space and whether urban space is only perceivable as text55, will have to continue to intensely occupy the discussions of urban historians, geographers, cartographers and urban research. The influence of geo-information systems of the last 20 years has significantly impacted and enriched the in49 Hans Planitz, Die deutsche Stadt im Mittelalter von der Ro¨merzeit bis zu den Zunftka¨mpfen, Vienna

1954.

50 Edith Ennen, Die europa¨ische Stadt des Mittelalters, Go¨ttingen 41987. 51 Ferdinand Opll, Europa¨ische Sta¨dteatlanten. Ein Beitrag zu vier Jahrzehnten Stadtgeschichtswis-

senschaft in Europa, in: Arhivistika – zgodovina – pravo: Vilfanov spominski zbornik/Archivkunde – Geschichte – Recht. Gedenkschrift fu¨r Sergij Vilfan (Zgodovinski Arhiv Ljubljana 30), Ljubljana 2007, pp. 71–86. 52 http://www.ria.ie/getmedia/68e4e609-8662-494a-8885-72b2e7c5c4e0/European-towns-atlasesupdated-November-2012.pdf.aspx [accessed: 10th May 2013]. 53 Elisabeth Lichtenberg, Die Wiener Altstadt. Von der mittelalterlichen Bu¨rgerstadt zur City, Vienna 1977. 54 See Keith D. Lilley’s contribution in this volume. As an overview, see Uta Lindgren, Kartographie, in: Enzyklopa¨die der Neuzeit 6 (2007), pp. 407–421. 55 Martha C. Howell, The Spaces of Late Medieval Urbanity, in: Shaping Urban Identity in Late Medieval Europe. L’apparition d’une identite´ urbaine dans l’Europe du bas moyen aˆge, ed. by Marc Boone/Peter Stabel, Leuven/Apeldoorn 2000, pp. 3–23.

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terdisciplinary discussion. Maps as ‚accurate graphical illustrations of space-related data‘56 enable the placing at our disposal of information on the Earth’s surface, on topical questions and on a spatial order. The relation to space of objects depicted in maps results on the one hand from the relative position of marked features, and on the other hand from the reference to an absolute coordinate system of horizontal and vertical axes. Every map thus has to be understood as a model, and precisely not as a representation, a pictorial reproduction of reality. Like any historical document, maps are thus subjected to source criticism as memorial, land appropriation and knowledge repository, since each map ‚intervenes in a dividing and structuring way in the space of social coexistence‘.57 Space is being created in complex maps as ‚a frame of reference for the organisation and reproduction of material and mental objects through use of positions, distances, proximities and connections‘58. Against the backdrop of an interdisciplinary discussion, the spatial constitution of maps thus proves to be questionable and an epistemological problem area. For a long time now, urban history has been explicitly looking into the question of urban topography, the urban core, the suburb and fortification. The city wall, long considered – with some exaggeration – to be a constitutive element of cities, separates the ‚inner‘ city from its suburbs. The example of the denomination of city gates illustrates not only topographical features and spatial perceptions of cities, but other functionalities also become visible through the names of city gates. These names frequently also mirror confessional (e. g. ‚Frauentor‘ – ‚women’s gate‘), topographical (e. g. ‚Spitaltor‘ – ‚hospital gate‘), social (e. g. ‚Judentu¨rl‘ – ‚Jews’ door‘) or economic (e. g. ‚Tuchmachertor‘ – ‚weavers’ gate‘) conditions.59 The specific investigation of city maps or the reconstruction of city layouts in many European cities shows a high degree of urban planning, but also the city layouts’ dependence on factors such as population development or developments in trade and commerce.60 Many city plans have been shaped by ecclesiastical architecture, ‚feudal‘ structures (alderman/ministries, castle) and increasingly by medieval bourgeois elements of marketplace, town hall and guild houses etc.61 Market rights and trade privileges had significant importance for the organisation of cities, during the phase of defortification in the 18th cen-

56 Matthias Bauer, Karte, in: Lexikon der Raumphilosophie (see note 37), pp. 198–200, here p. 198.

[transl.]

57 Bauer, Karte (see note 56), p. 199. [transl.] 58 Ju¨rgen Bollmann quoted in Gyula Pa´pay, Kartographie, in: Raumwissenschaften, ed. by Stephan

Gu¨nzel, Frankfurt a. M. 2009, pp. 175–190, here p. 180. See also ibid. the model map of the representation of cartographical spaces p. 186. [transl.] 59 See Ferdinand Opll’s contribution in this volume, which investigates Austrian and Irish cities from this perspective. 60 Paul Niedermaier investigates city layouts using the example of cities in Siebenbu¨rgen (also in relation ˘ to open squares and urban spatial markings). Lauren¸tiu Radvan highlights the orderliness(/planning fidelity) of city layouts. 61 As an overview, compare Eberhard Isenmann, Die deutsche Stadt im Mittelalter 1150–1550. Stadtgestalt, Recht, Verfassung, Stadtregiment, Kirche, Gesellschaft, Wirtschaft, Vienna 2012. See also in this volume the significance of economic questions for city layouts in the case studies by Maria Crıˆngaci Tiplic ¸ for Saxonian cities in Siebenbu¨rgen for the Late Middle Ages or in the contribution of Dan Dumitru Iacob for a cross section of the marketplaces of Ia¸si (Romania).

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tury some city centers experienced radical changes, which led to fundamental change for the marketplace.62 The question of the relationship between urban and rural areas has long been a sustained concern of urban history research. Besides the differentiation between city/town and village and the separation between urban district and hinterland, approaches following the work of Walter Christaller (1893–1969)63 have focused on the centrality of the city. The urban market (such as the one for agricultural products and meat production) economically co-determined the terms of trade for products of the surrounding rural areas with the city, terms of trade that were divided according to zones, but also dependent on territorial power relations. Further importance was given to artisanal/commercial production, demographic factors (such as influx and departure of urban population, new citizens), but also cultural aspects (schools, universities, schedules, fashion and so forth).64 Following the example of practitioners of human geography, one attempts to grasp urban-rural relationships with terms like ‚umland‘ (environs) and ‚hinterland‘ in order to create a kind of model blueprint for an urban cultural landscape. The ‚umland‘, tightly and permanently connected to the respective central city via ownership and property laws, is distinguished from the ‚hinterland‘, which is marked by subcentral locations and stands in medium functional connection (exchange of goods and services) with the city. At the edge of the central domain of each city lies its ‚urban catchment‘, a tributary area bound in an unstable relationship of dependence marked by irregular contacts.65 City-umland-relations can not only be conceived of in economic regards, but also in terms of immigration, landholding (adjacent property owned by city dwellers), education policy, processions and pilgrimages, origin of convicts and hospital patients, and so forth.66 Propagated into multiple languages from human geography and law, the notion of the ‚hinterland‘67 – although 62 See Roman Czaja’s contribution in this volume which uses the example of Elbing regarding the evo-

lution of the centre. 63 Walter Christaller, Die zentralen Orte in Su¨ddeutschland. Eine o¨konomisch-geographische Unter-

suchung u¨ber die Gesetzma¨ßigkeit der Verbreitung und Entwicklung der Siedlungen mit sta¨dtischen Funktionen, PhD thesis Erlangen 1933. For the ideological background of Christaller see Mechthild Ro¨ssler, Die Geographie an der Universita¨t Freiburg 1933–1945. Ein Beitrag zur Wissenschaftsgeschichte des Faches im Dritten Reich, in: Geographie und Nationalsozialismus. 3 Fallstudien zur Institution Geographie im Deutschen Reich und der Schweiz, ed. by Michael Fahlbusch/Idem/Dominik Siegrist (Urbs et regio 51), Kassel 1989, pp. 77–152, here p. 123–127. 64 Rolf Kiessling, Stadt-Land-Beziehungen, in: Enzyklopa¨die der Neuzeit 12 (2010), pp. 703–711; Isenmann, Die deutsche Stadt (see note 61), pp. 669–689. 65 For a glossary of terminology see Rolf Kiessling, Die Stadt und ihr Land. Umlandpolitik, Bu¨rgerbesitz und Wirtschaftsgefu¨ge in Ostschwaben vom 14. bis ins 16. Jahrhundert (Sta¨dteforschung A 29), Cologne 1989, pp. 1–9 and particularly p. 712f. See also the still inspiring compilation in Peter Scho¨ller, Aufgaben und Probleme der Stadtgeographie, in: Erdkunde VII/3 (1953), pp. 161–184, here pp. 172–176. 66 Sta¨dtisches Um- und Hinterland in vorindustrieller Zeit, ed. by Hans K. Schulze (Sta¨dteforschung A 22), Cologne/Vienna 1985. 67 For a demonstration, see the ‚collection‘ of hinterland-documents (e. g. from colonial law) in Hermann Du¨ringer, Eine Hommage an das Hinterland. Die Heimat Werner Schneider-Quindeaus, in: Religion und Urbanita¨t. Herausforderungen fu¨r Kirche und Gesellschaft, ed. by Carsten Burfeind/ Hans-Gu¨nter Heimbrock/Anke Spory, Mu¨nster 2009, pp. 205–212.

Space and history as exemplified by urban history research

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challenged somewhat by concepts like the ‚urban network‘ – lends itself to use for the ‚measuring‘ of religious, economic, social and demographic urban catchment of port cities,68 the territorial politics of certain European cities69 and for instance for marine arsenals (regarding requirements of such materials as wood, rope, tar etc.).70 The overall still very insufficiently studied concept of the ‚hinterland‘ is a Janus-faced model here, since it targets rural and urban population alike. When attempting to investigate the highly complex ‚hinterland‘ of a city against changing political backgrounds, one thus realises the dependence of the respective ‚hinterland‘ of a city on economic, political and social factors.71 In the eyes of more recent urban history research, the historic city is frequently interpreted as a social stage and a concentrated space for communication, which is determined by manifold linguistic, constructional and performative activities. Power relationships on the one hand structure urban space, while urban space on the other hand visualises power relationships, which have to be constantly present in social space in order to achieve high effectiveness. The dominant power structures thereby appear to be permanently embedded in spatial construction.72 The spatial urban development therefore reflects these zones of power, such as the importance of merchant residential areas for urbanisation,73 changes in confessional conditions,74 space utilisation in the context of processions like carnival processions75 or the antiquating point of view of cities, which initially co-founds the ‚historic urban‘ space in the minds of observers in many cases instructed using Italian examples.76 Urban space and the changing utilisation concepts for urban space also become manifest in urban districts.77 Originating from military, administrational and taxation-oriented causes, urban districts experienced new settlement based on political, economic and social conditions, as evidenced by property registers and tribunal

68 For the example of French port cities (such as Bordeaux, Nantes, Rouen/Le Havre, Marseille) see the

contribution in this volume by Jean-Pierre Poussou. For the hinterland debate and its significance for urban development, see Tom Scott, The city-state in Europe, 1000–1600. Hinterland, Territory, Region, Oxford 2012. 69 See Ma´ximo Diago Hernando’s contribution in this volume about modern Spanish cities and their territorial politics, which also illustrates differences in city-umland-politics of Spanish cities. 70 See Caroline Le Mao’s contribution in this volume. 71 See the also methodologically inspiring contribution in this volume by Howard B. Clarke regarding medieval Dublin. 72 Lo ¨ w, Epilog (see note 8), p. 463; Boone, Urban Space and Political Conflict (see note 26). 73 See Karlheinz Blaschke’s contribution in this volume, wherein he underlines the significance of the ‚Nikolaus-movement‘ for urban development. See also Idem/Uwe Ulrich Ja¨schke, Nikolaikirchen und Stadtentstehung in Europa. Von der Kaufmannssiedlung zur Stadt, Berlin 2013. 74 See Anngret Simms’s contribution in this volume regarding Irish cities during the Reformation. o 75 See Robert Sˇimu nek’s contribution in this volume for the example of Bohemian cities in the Late Middle Ages. 76 See Rosemary Sweet for the example of Italian and English cities. 77 For an overview, see Robert Ju ¨ tte, Das Stadtviertel als Problem und Gegenstand der fru¨hneuzeitlichen Stadtgeschichtsforschung, in: Bla¨tter fu¨r Deutsche Landesgeschichte 127 (1991) pp. 235–270; Bram Vannieuwenhuyze, Buren, straten en aanknopingspunten. Plaatsbepaling in het laatmiddeleeuwse Brussel (dertiende-zestiende eeuw), in: Stadsgeschiedenis 4 (2009), pp. 97–114.

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records78, urban planning concepts altered by migration and social segregation,79 and finally also by the possibilities for open ‚green‘ space.80 The contributions to this present volume confirm81 that, for historians, space has been created both materially and discursively, that the spatial category is both physical and symbolic, that space however can be studied on very different levels using highly differentiated terms: from the city hall or the enclosed city square via the city wall with its gates all the way to urban centrality, from space as container via space as protection, space as a stage, contested space or controlled space all the way to private or public space. This may well be what distinguishes the approach of historians from that of sociologists.82

78 See Martin Musı´lek’s contribution regarding the example of the new council meeting of 1350 for the

historic centre of Prague.

79 See Lars Nilsson’s contribution for Stockholm. 80 See the broad overview of Peter Clark concerning green spaces in this volume. 81 Arnade/Howell/Simon s, Fertile Spaces (see note 9), p. 541f. 82 We thank Christian Steinmetz (Luxembourg) for his translation.

CONCEPTUALISING THE CITY Historical Mapping, Spatial Theory, and the Production of Urban Spaces by Keith D. Lilley

„How many maps, in the descriptive or geographical sense, might be needed to deal exhaustively with a given space, to code and decode all its meanings and contents?“ The question Henri Lefebvre1 poses in his book, „The Production of Space“, is relevant to any discussion among those concerned with understanding cities and their spaces. This paper aims to build upon a developing theoretical critique within urban morphology, some of which has addressed the wider philosophical underpinnings of the study of urban form, particularly in the context of conceptual debates on ‘urban space’.2 However, while cartography has always been central to urban morphology, maps and mapping have so far escaped critical debate by urban morphologists and others concerned with historical urban mapping, yet as will be seen, cartography is key to the (re)production of urban spaces and forms. This paper aims to demonstrate this point, using ideas and debates drawn from contemporary spatial theory to examine how urban spaces and forms are culturally-constructed and mediated through multiple spatial representations, maps included. To do so the paper focuses on the cartography of British Historic Towns Atlases, a series that not only contributes to historical urban morphology but also has before gained the attention of urban morphologists.3 The aim here, then, is to reflect upon the theoretical concerns important and relevant to those involved in making new maps of historic towns and cities, as well as studying how past urban forms and spaces are represented on historic maps. To this end, Lefebvre’s response to his own rhetorical question is instructive. He says: „It is doubtful whether a finite number can ever be given in answer to this sort of question. 1 Henri Lefebvre, The production of space, Oxford 1991, p. 85. 2 See Michael R. G. Conzen, Apropos a sounder philosophical basis for urban morphology, in: Urban

Morphology 2 (1998), pp. 113–114; Damien Mugavin, A philosophical basis for urban morphology, in: Urban Morphology 3 (1999), pp. 95–99; Karl Kropf, Aspects of urban form, in: Urban Morphology 13 (2009), pp. 105–120. 3 Michael R. G. Conzen, A note on the Historic Towns Atlas, in: Journal of Historical Geography 2 (1976), pp. 361–362; Terry R. Slater, The European Historic Towns Atlas, in: Journal of Urban History 22 (1996), pp. 739–749; Michael R. G. Conzen, Retrieving the pre-industrial built environments of Europe: The Historic Towns Atlas programme and comparative morphological study, in: Urban Morphology 12 (2008), pp. 143–156.

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What we are most likely confronted with here is a sort of instant infinity, a situation reminiscent of a Mondrian painting. It is not only the codes – the map’s legend, the conventional signs of map-making and map-reading – that are liable to change, but also the objects represented, the lens through which they are viewed, and the scale used. The idea that a small number of maps or even a single (and singular) map might be sufficient can only apply in a specialised area of study whose own self-affirmation depends on isolation from its context [...]. We are confronted not by one social space but by many – indeed, by an unlimited multiplicity of unaccountable set of social spaces“.4 Not only then is cartography complicit in the construction of (urban) spaces, according to Lefebvre, but neither the map nor space are stable concepts themselves, hence the need for some sort of theoretical consideration. This position is by no means now a new one, and in the Anglophone world has been well and truly appropriated into the work of human geographers and historians of cartography, but what has yet to be undertaken is a reflection and critical examination of these ideas and debates in the context of urban morphology in general, and for the production of historic towns atlases in particular. What follows, then, is an attempt to connect spatial theory with the practices of urban morphologists to inform debates on mapping cities and their spaces. The map, after all, is perhaps the device turned to most commonly to take in a whole city, or town, in one view. Filtering its spatial, historical and morphological complexity through cartography, the map becomes synonymous with the city, as Hubbard5 describes, „Urban mappings [...] fulfil a deeper purpose than simply helping people orient themselves in physical space: they encourage us to conceive of the city in particular ways. Indeed, given that such maps emphasise certain places, people, and flows, but suppress others, they encapsulate a particular ‘way of seeing’“. The map, then, as a spatial representation, helps us to make sense of the city, and is itself a configuration of urban space, a ‘lens’ as Lefebvre put it, through which we encounter and negotiate other urban spaces. This paper explores this theme further, looking first in more detail at spatial theory and its application to cartography in general, and historic maps and historical mapping in particular; then secondly, seeing how this ‘critical cartography’ may be useful in conceptualising urban spaces, particularly through the construction of historical urban mapping.

Critical cartographies Of course, maps have long been used by scholars to make sense of cities and their spaces. What has changed is how such maps are viewed and understood. When Gideon Sjoberg6 attempted to conceptualise – or model – the preindustrial city he 4 Lefebvre, The production (see note 1), p. 85. 5 Phil Hubbard, City, London 2006, p. 77. 6 Gideon Sjoberg, The preindustrial city. Past and present, Glencoe, Ill. 1960.

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used a map to show the relationship between the city’s spatial organisation and its social organisation. Such abstraction has since been questioned both empirically and theoretically, for it presents a disembodied view of the city and the spatial experiences of its inhabitants. The city is not neatly bounded into discrete rings of particular social function, for example, but rather everyday lives cross over such boundaries, interweaving the city rather than separating it out. For those who have tried to map such everyday experiences, like Allan Pred7 (1990) in his work on dock-workers in 19th-century Stockholm, the cartographic approach is not only very different to Sjoberg’s but the kind of city we see as a result is also very different. In Pred’s Stockholm, the time-space geography of the dockworker is mapped out not in two or even three dimensions but four, taking into account the temporal and spatial passage of the docker’s everyday urban encounters. This shift in how urban spaces have been mapped by historians and geographers is a reflection of a broader change in the conceptualisation of space and cartography, a move towards a more ‘critical cartography’ that owes much to the work of geographers and historians of cartography who, in the 1980s and 1990s, engaged with an increasingly spatialised social theory. In rethinking maps and cartography, it was Brian Harley, an historical geographer as well as a renowned historian of cartography, who took the lead when he began to use the theoretical work of French post-structuralist thinkers such as Michel Foucault and Jacques Derrida to look at maps differently.8 Foucault’s work on power, surveillance and technology helped Harley to understand the ‘hidden’ secrets of historic maps in particular, and in so doing recognised that a map’s authority as a ‘truthful’ representation of the material world derived from the use of normative conventions, which are now taken for granted, such as scale, orientation, and symbology. The finished map, Harley9 argued, did its best to conceal the subjectivities and choices that went into its making, and it was this that gave maps (and map-makers) their power and esteem throughout the early-modern period throughout Europe. The power of maps was demonstrated by Harley for particular genres of cartography, such as estate maps, cadastral plans, and state-produced cartography, such as the Ordnance Survey maps of Britain and Ireland – all important cartographic sources used by historical urban morphologists as well as in the production of Historic Towns Atlases.10 Opening

7 Allan Richard Pred, Lost words and lost worlds: modernity and the language of everyday life in late

nineteenth-century Stockholm, Cambridge 1990. 8 J. Brian Harley, The new nature of maps: essays in the history of cartography, Baltimore 2001. 9 J. Brian Harley, Maps, knowledge, and power, in: The iconography of landscape, ed. by Denis Cos-

grove/Stephen Daniels, Cambridge 1988, pp. 277–312; J. Brian Harley, Silences and secrecy: the hidden agenda of cartography in Early Modern Europe, in: Imago Mundi 40 (1988), pp. 57–76. 10 Michael R. G. Conzen, The use of town plans in the study of urban history, in: The study of urban history, ed. by H. J. Dyos, London 1968, pp. 113–130; Keith D. Lilley, Mapping the medieval city: plan analysis and urban history, in: Urban History 27 (2000), pp. 5–30; Heinz Stoob, The historic town atlas: problems and working methods, in: The comparative history of urban origins in non-Roman Europe: Ireland, Wales, Denmark, Germany, Poland and Russia from the 9th to the 13th century, ed. by Howard B. Clarke/Anngret Simms, vol. 2 (British Archaeological reports, International Series 255), Oxford 1985, pp. 583–615.

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up the hidden authorship of historic maps in the ways Harley describes is thus relevant to us in historical mapping, in questioning the authority of the sources themselves and exploring the changing cartographic representation of towns and cities over time. Doing so, Harley would contend, would offer us insights not only into the relationships between historic maps and their (urban) spaces but also between the city and its cartographers at different points in the past. In challenging the map’s authority as a visual depiction – in ‘deconstructing the map’ – Harley turned to the work of Derrida, another critical thinker who has had great influence on geographers’ current conceptualisations of space.11 ‘Deconstruction’ for Harley meant looking for the map’s internal contradictions, exploring its slippages and weaknesses, but not to say that the map is ‘wrong’ (in a positivistic sense) but to use these to help us understand how maps work, and how cartographers in the past practiced their craft. It was a way for Harley to demonstrate how despite its technical and scientific language cartography was (and is) an artistic and creative enterprise, an interpretation and re-presentation of space(s). Deconstructing the map was an historical exercise for Harley, but his comments and insights into the production of maps provides a useful basis for looking at the ways maps are used in historical mapping, particularly with their aim of somehow portraying what is meant to be a faithful, true representation of an historic town or city. This ‘science of cartography’ is no less diminished in the practices of cartographers today, reliant on computerbased and digitally-derived spatial data, yet according to Harley we should remain cautious in what claims are being made about these modern maps, and as historians and geographers interested in mapping past urban spaces there are clearly implications of this in what our maps can achieve, and thinking about how they might be viewed by others as truthful representations of historic towns and cities. Harley’s ‘critical cartographies’ are now embedded in Anglophone scholarship in the fields of geography and cartography. His work has not gone uncriticised by any means, however, particularly his use of critical theory, which some have argued was rather too simplistic.12 Even so, where Harley left off – he died in 1991 – others have since taken up his approach, opening up not just maps but ‘mapping’ more generally. For example, John Pickles13 specifically looks „to the ways in which our lives have been and are being shaped and constituted through myriads of intersecting and overlapping mappings in use every day“. His thesis, following Harley, is that maps and cartography are continually shaping how we see the world and engage with it daily, such that the lives we lead are inseparable from these cartographic experiences. At 11 See J. Brian Harley, Deconstructing the map, in: Writing worlds: discourse, text, and metaphor in

the representation of landscape, ed. by Trevor J. Barnes/James S. Duncan, Oxford 1991, pp. 231–247; Deborah Dixon/John Paul Jones, Derridean geographies, in: Antipode 37 (2005), pp. 242–245; Marcus A. Doel, Deconstruction and geography: settling the account, in: Antipode 37 (2005), pp. 246–249. 12 J. H. Andrews, Introduction: meaning, knowledge and power in the map philosophy of J. B. Harley, in: J. Brian Harley, The new nature of maps: essays in the history of cartography, ed. by Paul Laxton, Baltimore 2001, pp. 1–32; Matthew Edney, The Origins and Development of J. Brian Harley’s Cartographic Theories (Cartographica 40/1–2), Toronto 2005. 13 John Pickles, A history of spaces. Cartographic reason, mapping and the geo-coded world, New York 2004, pp. xi–xii.

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the same time, cartographers and cartographies are also shaping the material world, Pickles argues, through the work that maps do, for example in the service of the state or some city government. While Pickles aims to ‘map out’ these past uses of cartography chronologically, so furthering the themes examined by Harley on maps and statecraft for example, his work is perhaps more important in engaging on a theoretical level with the work of Henri Lefebvre, something that Harley himself had not undertaken. Unlike Foucault and Derrida, Lefebvre – as a spatial theorist – is much more explicit in the connections forged between mapping and space, as revealed in Lefebvre’s quotation opening this paper. Pickles uses Lefebvre’s14 conceptualisation of space as a means to explore how maps are implicated in a ‘history of spaces’, that is both in shaping material worlds spatially – on the ground as it were – as well as in shaping past and present cultural encounters with these worlds – mediating our knowledge of what’s out there. Here Lefebvre’s well-known ‘spatial triad’ in the „Production of Space“ provides a useful conceptualisation of how maps and space work together: the production of space, Lefebvre argues, is a continual process forged through ‘spatial practice’, ‘representations of space’, and ‘representational spaces’. What Pickles15 seeks to do in „A History of Spaces“ is show how for each of these cartography plays a formative role; thus conceptualising cartography as well as the spaces it (re)produces. Through the acts of surveying and draughting map-making is, therefore, a ‘spatial practice’ itself, while by depicting and visualising in graphic form a representation of the world maps are also clearly ‘representations of space’. In both of these Pickles’ use of Lefebvre’s conceptual ‘triad’ maps onto Harley’s critical use of Foucault and Derrida to (re)interpret historic maps and map-making. In thinking about maps as ‘representational spaces’ – or ‘spaces of representation’ as some put it – Pickles goes a stage further, however, in that he also recognises that the map actively generates (reproduces) social spaces, so that the map „itself conjures a space“. Here again current ‘critical cartography’ offers us some insights into understanding the complex relationship between historical mapping and the production of urban spaces.

Urban mappings

This part of the paper takes in turn each of the three cartographic dimensions of the ‘production of space’ outlined above in order to offer some (re)conceptualisation of the historical mapping that forms such an essential part of historic towns atlases. The comments, however, relate more broadly to all those, urban morphologists included, who make use of maps in historical mapping. Such a critique is not only expected by many scholars interested in cartographic and spatial matters generally, those with

14 Lefebvre, The production (see note 1). 15 Pickles, A history (see note 13).

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whom we engage intellectually, but also instructive in our own work as a group concerned with mapping past urban spaces for wider public interest and instruction. As far as the Historic Towns Atlases (HTAs) are concerned, this is by no means uncharted territory, for Black16 pointed out in a Harley-ian way the political and cultural embedded-ness of the historic towns atlases, noting the role of sponsorship and commercial links of some European atlases, and suggesting „it is necessary approaching the contents [of the atlases] to bear the general financial context and the generally shadowy details of financial exigencies and pressures in mind“.17 In other words, the production of the atlases and their maps are not divorced from their institutional and commercial settings – there is, then, a politics in map-making, as Harley18 discussed in examining the ‘silences and secrecies’ of maps in early modern Europe, for example. Black’s criticism aside, however, there is scope for further critical conceptualisation of the European historic towns atlases – and the urban spaces their maps represent – drawing upon the ideas of Harley and Pickles, and thus indirectly the work of ‘spatial theorists’ such as Lefebvre. In so doing, the relationships between historical mapping, spatial theory, and the production of urban spaces can begin to be explored. Starting first with the idea that cartography is a ‘spatial practice’ that reflects as much the ideas and ideals of cartographers as it does the material world which the map-makers seeks to represent. The use of historic maps in the production of historical mapping is an important yet rarely discussed element of the historic towns atlases of Europe, yet as Harley makes clear maps of the past and the present similarly reflect the choices and practices of their cartographers. This has two implications for urban morphologists, one being the importance of first contextualising the historic maps used regularly as sources in historical urban mapping, the other being the need for a critical and reflexive methodology in this on-going process of mapping. In the context of the British Historic Towns Atlases, for example, both are issues that would benefit further study. In her introduction to the first British HTA volume of 1969, Mary Lobel offered a short statement on the methodological basis of the atlas maps, writing „we have for the first time a unique record of towns from earliest times to about 1800, constructed on sound survey principles“.19 These ‘sound survey principles’ derived from the work of the then cartographer-in-chief, Colonel W. H. Johns, whose approach she briefly summarised, stating that to create a map to modern cartographic standards required using historic maps of different scales and projections, as well as archaeological material such as excavation reports and ground-plans. Thus, for Coventry in the second HTA volume of 1975, the principal map used was Samuel Bradford’s plan of 1750, with elements taken also from plans by John Speed (1610) and the Ordnance Survey 1 : 500 plan of 1888/89.20 Leaving aside for a moment the

16 Jeremy Black, Maps and history. Constructing images of the past, London 1997. 17 Black , Maps and history (see note 16), p. 148. 18 Harley, Silences and secrecy (see note 9). 19 Historic towns. Maps and plans of towns and cities in the British Isles, with Historical Commentaries,

from the Earliest Times to 1800, ed. by Mary D. Lobel, Vol. 1, Oxford 1969, np.

20 The Atlas of Historic Towns, Vol. 2, ed. by Mary D. Lobel, London 1975.

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need for a critical evaluation of these historic source maps – not in terms of their planimetric accuracy but their cultural and political contexts – the resulting HTA maps of Coventry in effect hide the spatial practices that produced them, that is the cartographic techniques of selection and also the sources from which they were derived.21

Fig. 1: Extract of Coventry, c. 1750, in the Atlas of Historic Towns, Volume 2, ed. by Mary Lobel Original map 1 : 2500 scale c The Historic Towns Trust, 1975 Source: Map first published in the Historic Towns Atlas, Volume 2, 

Following Harley’s philosophy of cartography the British HTA maps make secret their origins, just as do the historic map sources from which they are derived. Perhaps, some might argue, this does not matter. For the final aim of the HTAs is surely to produce an accurate a representation of an historic urban landscape as possible, and will always be subject to some criticism. But such criticism, when it comes, usually focuses on the atlas maps empirical basis, rather than their conceptual basis.22 What ‘critical cartographies’ offer is a further dimension of interpretation of our historic towns atlases, including querying the historic cartographic sources used to create them, as well as the cartographic techniques (and underlying philosophies) of the atlases’ authors. Applying this critical understanding to both historic and historical maps and mapping will not only help with these broader conceptual discussions on the history of cartography (among urban morphologists, for example), but also make for a more transparent map-making process, something which is not only desirable

21 See Stoob, Town Atlas (as note 10). 22 Conzen, A note (see note 3); Slater, The European Historic Towns Atlas (see note 3).

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but made eminently possible through using digital technologies, such as Geographical Information Systems, in historical cartography.23 In making such a move away from a positivist rationale for cartography „the obvious alternative“, Harley wrote, „is a greater pluralism of cartographic expression“.24 Adopting these principles thus requires a change in thinking about what maps are, accepting as Harley suggests that all maps, whatever their origins, reflect the ideas and ideals of their makers. Having considered so far the implications of Lefebvre’s conceptualisation of ‘spatial practices’ in historical mapping, what about seeing maps as ‘representations of spaces’? For Harley this meant querying the truth claims of maps, particularly through studying their internal content and language, ‘deconstructing the map’ as he put it. Maps represent space not in a neutral or value-free way, but with a particular purpose in mind, to convince the map’s reader(s). This means of course that the spaces represented by the map are always contingent, that there is not one space shown by them but many spaces. This makes the task of aiming to represent urban spaces on maps all the more challenging – how can the multiplicity of spaces be accommodated on a single map – or a series of maps? The answer Lefebvre offers on this in „The Production of Space“ is to recognise the impossibility of even trying but rather accept that no map can ever truly represent space, since neither the map nor space are fixed or fixable entities. Take for example the case of Bristol, a city that appeared in the second British HTA volume.25 The atlas’s ‘Map 3, Bristol circa 1820, with major features in later medieval times’, initially appears to freeze time and space, locking them together on a sheet of paper; yet look again and the map in fact shows instead a multiplicity of different times and spaces, an accumulation or bricolage of different ‘urban mappings’, some literally cartographic – such as the historic source maps that went into the atlas map – others mappings in a more figurative, or experiential sense, deriving from the many readings of its internal spaces that they map makes possible to those who make and use it. Such alternative mappings embrace more than just the conventional view of the map as a graphic representation of space(s), as is suggested by the cultural geographer Denis Cosgrove26 who in his book, „Mappings“, wrote: „Mapping is not restricted to the mathematical; it may equally be spiritual, political or moral. By the same token, the mapping’s record is not confined to the archival; it includes the remembered, the imagined, the contemplated. The world figured through mapping may thus be material or immaterial, actual or desired, whole or part, in various ways experienced, remembered or projected.“ The map on the printed page, therefore, represents a wide range of ‘mappings’, and through them the city’s spaces are experienced by the map’s creators and viewers. The map’s users will not necessarily see the map in the way its creators anticipated,

23 Keith D. Lilley, Urban mappings: visualizing late-medieval Chester in cartographic and textual form,

in: Mapping the medieval city. Space, place and identity in Chester c. 1200–1600, ed. by Catherine A. M. Clarke, Cardiff 2011, pp. 19–41. 24 Harley, Silences and secrecy (see note 9), p. 87. 25 Lobel, The Atlas of historic towns (see note 20). 26 Denis Cosgrove, Introduction: mapping meaning, in: Mappings, London 1999, pp. 1–23, here p. 2.

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Fig. 2: Extract of Bristol, c. 1820, in the Atlas of Historic Towns, Volume 2, ed. by Mary Lobel Original map 1 : 2500 scale c The Historic Towns Trust, 1975 Source: Map first published in the Historic Towns Atlas Volume 2, 

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but for Cosgrove this is the value and excitement of the map, its creative opportunities in representing spaces. A map is not instrumental then, but as a ‘representation of space’ is polysemic, taking the viewer (and cartographer) in lots of potentially interesting directions, both temporally and spatially, in and through the mapped city. For Bristol, the HTA map captures – intentionally or not – this landscape of opportunity, of thinking about the city and its spaces at different moments in time, both in the past and in the present. For example, the Bristol HTA map is a representation of political space, being derived from city surveys such as George Ashmead’s sectional maps of 1828, whose cartographic work was integral to the city council’s improvement schemes.27 The political spaces of Ashmead’s maps of Bristol are thus embedded into the HTA maps of Bristol, yet fleetingly mentioned only in those sources listed by Colonel Johns and his team.28 The map of Bristol’s political spaces are further overlaid by the politics of HTA map-production that Jeremy Black identifies in „Maps and History“ in his brief assessment of the historic towns atlas project, mentioned earlier. There are, then, in the HTA map of Bristol myriad political spaces inscribed in into its various internal details. Such a critical reading of HTA maps as representations of space is not in line perhaps with how these maps were originally conceived and envisaged, but that is the point Cosgrove is addressing, that mapping is more than about maps. Finally, turning to Lefebvre’s idea of ‘representational spaces’, or maps as ‘spaces of representation’ as Cosgrove puts it, the map (again) is seen not in an instrumental sense, but as an expression of human creativity and imagination. The map itself is thus a space in which something can be experienced, a city for example, irrespective of its actuality or materiality. A map in this sense is as much a map of what might be, of becoming, as it is an image of what exists on the ground. For the historic towns atlas maps this has potential for helping map viewers to see the atlas maps not as a finished product, scientifically produced, objective and disembodied, but rather a contested and contestable space, through which debates and discussions about a city’s history can be challenged and examined. To do so means losing truth claims about cartography, as Harley and Cosgrove and others have urged us to do, and seeing the map instead as a space through which other spaces are made and interpreted. This is quite an exciting possibility for the historic towns atlases project as a whole, in engaging a broader public interest in the atlas maps and fostering a broader conception of historical mapping that touches the lives of individuals within and beyond the towns and cities that are mapped.29 Rather than trying to create a map to show an urban space, or spaces, the map itself becomes a ‘space of representation’ connecting a city to the wider world.

27 Records of the Bristol Local Board of Health 1851–1972, ed. by David Large, in: A Bristol miscel-

lany, ed. by Patrick McGrath (Bristol Records Society Publication 37), Bristol 1985, pp. 123–199, here p. 135. 28 Lobel, Historic towns (see note 19). 29 Suzanne Keene, City histories revealed, in: Literary and Linguistic Computing 19 (2004), pp. 351–371.

Conceptualising the City

39

How might this work in practice? Assuming first that cartographers are willing and able to let go of their work, and lift the veil of cartography’s longstanding scientific claims, the map becomes something that can be widely inscribed and re-inscribed by its users such that its users and makers blur into one. This is not so very far away, for digital multimedia already offer this kind of level of interactivity, and online resources, such as the Hypercities project at UCLA, and the „Walking Through Time“ project at the University of Edinburgh, are already overlaying historic maps and allowing users to tailor these to personal preferences and experiences.30 This includes adding and personalising the map-information onscreen, as well as including options to relate the historic map layers online to the viewer’s location in a particular city, a street-corner or building for example.31 The potential for empowering the users (and creators) of historical mapping is thus great, and yet at the same time this also opens up new experiences of urban spaces, of course, both through the map interface, as well as in the field, connecting past and present, perceived and material, urban forms. Such information technologies may be the future for some, but even working in an analogue, non-digital printed map medium, it is not hard to see the same potential of imaginatively creating new spaces through maps, where users are encouraged to see an atlas’ maps, for example, as a forum for exchange, or providing copies of the maps for local visitors and inhabitants to allow them to relate the historic to the presentday. This is really what Harley meant in giving ‘a greater pluralism of cartographic expression’ – the advantage of this in the academic community lies in promoting wider public interest and engagement with historic towns and cities, surely a good thing, as well as in fostering greater discussion amongst ourselves – urban morphologists included – into the processes of map-making and the implications this has for mapping historic urban spaces and forms.

Conclusion

In conclusion, questioning what it is to map is core to the critical debates within urban morphology on urban spaces and forms. Following the ideas of spatial theorists we cannot begin to think about urban spaces until we think about mapping – for maps and spaces are connected in complex ways – as Lefebvre makes clear. In conceptualising connections between maps and spaces, spatial theorists, and those such as Harley, Cosgrove and Pickles who have adopted their work, provide an important context for our own studies of historic maps and urban forms. Those past urban spaces that we seek to map are, fundamentally, un-mapable, unless maps and mapping are looked upon differently, recognising the multiplicity of mappings and spaces that are always

30 See http://hypercities.com/ and http://www.walkingthroughtime.co.uk/ [19. 9. 2012]. 31 Including map-based online resources adapted for GPS-enabled mobile devices, such as: http://dis-

cover.medievalchester.ac.uk/maps-and-tours/map/ [8. 10. 2013].

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possible. If this is all sounds rather ‘post-modern’, it’s because it is. To this end two pertinent questions are identified by Michael Dear and Steven Flusty, two geographers, in their book „Spaces of Postmodernity“. In the introduction to the section on „The Representation of Space“, they ask: „Firstly, how do different ways of seeing and knowing the world give rise to different concepts of constructs of spaces? And secondly, how have geographers and others gone about representing the world, and in what ways might assumptions about the truthfulness of these representations be both presumptuous and oppressive to other ways of seeing?“32 From the preceding discussion addressing such fundamental questions as these is surely core to the continuing theoretical debates among urban morphologists, in conceptualising the city, but as has been suggested here, to do so requires also critical consideration by urban morphologists of what it is to map, and the role maps and cartography play in the study of historical urban forms. Exploring the relationships between historical mapping, spatial theory, and the production of urban spaces, will help towards this goal, having advantages for urban morphologists in general as well as those in particular who are involved with on-going historic towns atlas projects, a good number of which involve and concern urban morphologists.

32 The spaces of postmodernity: readings in human geography, ed. by Michael J. Dear/Steven Flusty,

Oxford 2002, p. 255.

TOPOGRAPHISCHE BENENNUNGEN IN DER MITTELALTERLICHEN STADT ALS SPIEGEL VON RAUMVORSTELLUNGEN von Ferdinand Opll

Bezeichnungen, Benennungen von Dingen oder Wesen – anders gesagt die Namengebung – stellt den Weg dar, auf dem der Mensch sich Dinge und Wesen aneignet, sie fu¨r sich erkennbar macht, identifiziert und individualisiert wie zugleich differenziert, voneinander unterscheidbar macht. Die Onomastik befasst sich mit der wissenschaftlichen Erforschung von Namen, von Personennamen ebenso wie von geographischen Benennungen, darunter vor allem von Ortsnamen, wobei im letzteren Fall die Rede von Toponomastik ist. Diese Disziplinen stehen ihrerseits mit einer Reihe anderer Wissenschaftszweige in Zusammenhang, darunter etwa der Etymologie oder auch der Sprachgeographie, und sie sind auch fu¨r die Stadtgeschichtsforschung und die Siedlungsgeschichte von ho¨chster Bedeutung.1 Sta¨dte mit ihrer im Regelfall nicht nur ¨ berlieferungslage weisen fru¨h einsetzenden, sondern ha¨ufig auch sehr gu¨nstigen U nun fu¨r toponomastische Analysen den Vorteil auf, ein großes Reservoir an zu untersuchenden Materialien darzubieten, Material, das noch dazu das Element des historischen Wandels, der Vera¨nderung und Um- bzw. Neubenennung topographischer Objekte mit einschließt. Hochinteressante wie weiterfu¨hrende Anregungen verdankt der Historiker immer wieder dem Blick auf und dem Versuch der Auseinandersetzung mit Nachbardisziplinen. Dass Interdisziplinarita¨t2 nicht bloß trendiges Schlagwort ist, sondern sinnvolle Forschungsstrategie meint, ist insbesondere Stadthistorikerinnen und Stadthistorikern eine Selbstversta¨ndlichkeit. Nicht zuletzt die stadtgeschichtswissenschaftlichen Reaktionen auf die vielfa¨ltigen turns der aktuellen Forschungslandschaft, Reaktionen, denen sich gerade auch das Programm der „Commission internationale pour

1 Dies gilt nicht zuletzt fu¨r die Interpretation der Siedlungsnamen selbst, und damit durfte ich mich

bereits vor drei Jahrzehnten im Kontext der Wiener Siedlungsentwicklung auseinandersetzen, vgl. Ferdinand Opll, Erstnennung von Siedlungsnamen im Wiener Raum (Kommentare zum Historischen Atlas von Wien 2), Wien/Mu¨nchen 1981. 2 Als Einstieg in eine intensivere Auseinandersetzung mit „Interdisziplinarita¨t“ ist der entsprechende Artikel in der wikipedia mit den dort gebotenen Literaturhinweisen durchaus zu empfehlen, vgl. http://de.wikipedia.org/wiki/Interdisziplinarita¨t [Zugriff: 19. 2. 2014].

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l’histoire des villes“3 verpflichtet fu¨hlt, haben dies klar vor Augen gefu¨hrt. Im Kontext raumbezogener Forschungsfragen zur Stadtentwicklung, und ganz konkret im Zusammenhang mit der Auseinandersetzung mit topographischen Benennungen in Sta¨dten erha¨lt man etwa wichtige Inputs von Seiten der linguistischen wie sprachgeschichtlichen Forschung. Dabei ist etwa mit großem Respekt die vor einem halben Jahrhundert im Druck erschienene Marburger Habilitationsschrift von Peter von Polenz zu nennen. Bereits im Untertitel dieser Studie zu „Landschafts- und Bezirksnamen im fru¨hmittelalterlichen Deutschland“, na¨mlich „Untersuchungen zur sprachlichen Raumerschließung“ gibt uns der Autor klar die Richtung seiner Fragestellungen zu erkennen. Und wenn er dann mit dem ersten Satz seiner Ausfu¨hrungen darauf aufmerksam macht, dass die „... fru¨hesten Zeugnisse deutscher Sprache des Alltagslebens ... die Frage nach dem ‚woher?‘“ enthalten oder auch ganz dezidiert vom „Raumbewußtsein der Landschaftsbewohner“ spricht, dann la¨sst sich solches vo¨llig nahtlos auch der eigenen Motivation, sich mit dem vorliegenden Thema zu bescha¨ftigen, zuschreiben.4 Topographische Bezeichnungen geben eben nicht zum Wenigsten Zeugnis davon, in welcher Art und Weise sich der Mensch den fu¨r sein Leben zentralen Raum mittels der Benennung, der Namengebung aneignete. Gerade die Stadtmappen der nunmehr bereits fu¨r 18 La¨nder Europas vorliegenden historischen Sta¨dteatlanten5 – eines der Kernprojekte der „Commission internationale pour l’histoire des villes“ – breiten vor den Forschenden das Namenmaterial eines tatsa¨chlich beachtlichen Teils der europa¨ischen Stadtentwicklung aus. Dabei sei durchaus einbekannt, dass die fu¨r die einzelnen Projekte verantwortlichen Kolleginnen und Kollegen den Zugang nicht immer gleich einfach gestaltet haben, wenn etwa die Eintragungen der Namen auf den in den

3 Siehe www.historiaurbium.org [Zugriff: 13. 9. 2012]. 4 Peter von Polenz, Landschafts- und Bezirksnamen im fru¨hmittelalterlichen Deutschland. Untersu-

chungen zur sprachlichen Raumerschließung, Bd. 1: Namentypen und Grundwortschatz, Marburg 1961, S. 1, 73. 5 Deren Zahl hat bereits die runde Zahl von 500 u¨berschritten. Vgl. zu den Projekten Ferdinand Opll/Anngret Simms, Historische Sta¨dteatlanten: Stadtgeschichte in Karten, in: Siedlungsforschung. Archa¨ologie – Geschichte – Geographie 15 (1997), S. 303–325; Ferdinand Opll, Europa¨ische Sta¨dteatlanten. Ein Beitrag zu vier Jahrzehnten Stadtgeschichtswissenschaft in Europa, in: Arhivistika – Zgodovina – Pravo. Vilfanov spominski zbornik/Archivkunde – Geschichte – Recht. Gedenkschrift fu¨r Sergij Vilfan/Archives – History – Law. Vilfan’s Memorial Volume (Zgodovinski arhiv Ljubljana, Gradivo in razprave 30), Ljubljana 2007, S. 71–86; Ders., Der Europa¨ische Historische Sta¨dteatlas. Projekt – Ziele – Leistungen, in: Pro civitate Austriae NF 15 (2010), S. 9–20, und zuletzt Ders., The European Atlas of Historic Towns. Project, Vision, Achievements, in: Ler histo´ria 60 ([Lisboa] 2011), S. 169–182. An dieser Stelle ist mit Bedauern zu vermerken, dass mir meine Nachfolgerin als Leiterin dieses Wiener Stadt- und Landesarchivs, Frau Dr. Brigitte Rigele, am 14. September 2012 mitgeteilt hat, dass die von mir seit 1996 betreute „Liste der europa¨ischen Sta¨dteatlanten“ (siehe: http://www.wien.gv.at/kultur/archiv/kooperationen/lbi/staedteatlas/bibliographie/ index.html; Zugriff: 17. 9. 2012), ein international hoch gescha¨tztes bibliographisches Hilfsmittel, aus Gru¨nden anderer Schwerpunktsetzungen des Archivs ihrer Anordnung gema¨ß aus der Web-Pra¨sentation des Wiener Stadt- und Landesarchivs entfernt werden mu¨sse. Die Atlas-Bibliographie ist daher in Zukunft auf der Homepage der Royal Irish Academy in Dublin (siehe: http://ria.ie/research/ihta/ list-of-european-historic-towns-atlases.aspx; Zugriff: 15. 9. 2012) einzusehen.

Topographische Benennungen in der mittelalterlichen Stadt

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Atlanten enthaltenen Karten, insbesondere den Wachstumsphasen- oder Siedlungsentwicklungskarten, eben nicht das Datum der Erstnennung bestimmter Namen enthalten oder auch die allermeisten Atlanten eben keine umfassenden Verzeichnisse zu den topographischen Elementen der betreffenden Stadt6 bieten. Dazu kommt die traditionell beklagte Unhandlichkeit solcher Atlanten, kommen die „a¨ußeren Schwierigkeiten“, die sich beim Umgang mit den großformatigen Werken nun einmal stellen – Schwierigkeiten, denen erst mit der Entwicklung der letzten Jahre mit der Publikation von CD-/DVD-Ausgaben einzelner Sta¨dteatlanten7 erfolgreich begegnet werden konnte. Bei dem hier vorgelegten Versuch, anhand sta¨dtisch-topographischen Namenmaterials auf Raumvorstellungen der Einwohner, in Sonderheit der maßgeblichen Kreise derselben, der Bu¨rger zu schließen,8 war zuna¨chst vorgesehen, das Namenmaterial a¨ußerst breit heranzuziehen, d. h. die Namen der Stadt selbst, die Benennungen der Stadttore wie der Tu¨rme der Stadtmauern, die Bezeichnungen von Stadtteilen (Stadtvierteln) und die Straßen- bzw. Platznamen zu erfassen. Schon die Arbeit am vertrauten Material der o¨sterreichischen Sta¨dte hat jedoch sehr bald gezeigt, dass dieser weit gesteckte Anspruch von einer Einzelperson nicht zu erfu¨llen ist und zu seiner Umsetzung wahrscheinlich ein großes, international zusammengesetztes Projektteam erforderlich wa¨re. Aus diesem Grund werden hier Beobachtungen vor allem zu den Tornamen und den Bezeichnungen der Stadtviertel vorgelegt, wa¨hrend auf die Namen der Sta¨dte selbst generell nicht, auf die der Straßen bzw. Pla¨tze nur in Ausnahmen eingegangen wird. Dabei bleibt in jedem Fall die methodische Schwierigkeit zu bedenken, dass die jeweiligen Bezeichnungen aus unterschiedlichen Epochen u¨berliefert sind, wobei nicht immer klar wird, ob ein ju¨nger bzw. spa¨ter belegter Name nicht sogar urspru¨nglicher ist als fru¨her belegte Bezeichnungen. Was dagegen weniger ins Gewicht fallen du¨rfte, das ist das Entstehen sta¨dtischer Befestigungen erst in spa¨teren Epochen, denn auch in diesen Fa¨llen erfolgen die Benennungen von Stadttoren nicht anders als dies im Mittelalter der Fall ist.9 Der geographische Rahmen und der daraus 6 Geradezu vorbildhaft tut dies der Irische Sta¨dteatlas mit seinen „gazeteers“, siehe dazu die bibliogra-

phischen Hinweise auf http://ria.ie/research/ihta.aspx [Zugriff: 19. 2. 2014].

7 In Zusammenarbeit mit der ungarischen Firma ARCANUM haben das irische und das o¨sterreichische

Atlasunternehmen eine CD bzw. DVD herausgebracht: Irish Historic Towns Atlas, Vol. 1–16: Kildare, Carrickfergus, Bandon, Kells, Mullingar, Athlone, Maynooth, Downpatrick, Bray, Kilkenny, Dublin Part I, Belfast Part I, Fethard, Trim, Derry-Londonderry, Dundalk, Budapest 2007 (CD, Arcanum), ¨ sterreichischer Sta¨dteatlas Lieferungen 1–10 (1982–2008), in Zusammenarbeit mit Arcasowie DVD O ¨ denburg erschienene Unganum Budapest, Budapest [2009]. Der 2010 mit der Stadtmappe Sopron/O rische Sta¨dteatlas hat dem Druckwerk eine gleichfalls in Kooperation mit ARCANUM angefertigte CD beigegeben, siehe dazu: Ferenc Janko´/Jo´zsef Ku¨csa´n/Katalin Szende [mit Beitra¨gen von Ferenc Da´vid/Ka´roly Hoda/Melinda Kiss], Sopron (Magyar Va´rosto¨rte´neti Atlasz/Hungarian Atlas of Historic Towns, ed. Andra´s Kubinyi [†]/Katalin Szende/Istva´n Tringli), Sopron 2010. 8 Wiewohl fu¨r die Fru¨hzeit im Regelfall keine Belege fu¨r den Prozess der Namengebung vorliegen, wird man – neben der Mo¨glichkeit, dass man sich an o¨rtlich bereits vorhandenen Namen orientierte – mit hoher Wahrscheinlichkeit davon auszugehen haben, dass nicht „alle“ an der Namenauswahl, der Namengebung Anteil hatten, sondern die tonangebenden Kreise im Rahmen des Stadtentwicklungsprozesses, d. h. die Bu¨rger und wahrscheinlich auch die Stadtherren. 9 Beispiele fu¨r die Errichtung von Stadtbefestigungen erst in der fru¨hen Neuzeit liegen mehrfach aus Irland vor, vgl. dazu etwa die Sta¨dte Kildare (ab 1515), Mullingar (ab 1583) oder Derry/Londonderry

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¨ sterresultierende Sta¨dtevergleich wird aus pragmatischen Gru¨nden im Kern auf O reich und Irland – zu beiden Sta¨dteatlasunternehmungen liegen CD-/DVD-Ausgaben vor – sowie auf einzelne Vergleichsbeispiele aus Deutschland, Tschechien, Polen, Ungarn und Italien beschra¨nkt. Dennoch wird das Ergebnis zeigen, dass hiermit ein Weg aufgetan wird, den es sich weiterzugehen durchaus lohnte. Bevor jedoch mit der Untersuchung begonnen wird, sei doch kurz erla¨utert, warum das ohne Zweifel ganz besonders aussagekra¨ftige Material der Straßen- und Platzbezeichnungen im Großen und Ganzen hier außer Betracht bleibt: Zum einen liegt dies an der Schwierigkeit der Erfassung solcher Benennungen,10 und dabei ko¨nnen auch die allermeisten der vorliegenden europa¨ischen Sta¨dteatlanten nicht wirklich Abhilfe schaffen. Im Regelfall sind den Atlanten ja keine Verzeichnisse beigegeben, in denen sich Angaben zu derartigen Namen und deren im Lauf der Zeit erfolgenden Vera¨nderungen finden, und auch im Fall, dass solche Namen in den Karten der Sta¨dteatlanten aufscheinen, fehlen in der Regel die Hinweise auf die ersten Nennungen. Dazu kommt noch, dass eine außerordentlich wichtige Studie zu einer einzigen Stadt und deren Straßennamenmaterial11 vor einigen Jahren gezeigt hat, dass die Voraussetzungen hierfu¨r eben ein ungeheuer großes Maß an Vorarbeiten erfordern. Die hier angesprochene Studie zu Ko¨ln12 hat in jedem Fall unterstrichen, dass durchaus von der These auszugehen ist, dass mittelalterliche Straßennamen die Raumwahrnehmung widerspiegeln und vielfach „ein ungescho¨nt plastisches Kaleidoskop mittelalterlichen Alltags(er)lebens“13 bieten. Zugleich macht sie klar, dass im Gegensatz (1613–1618).; im Fall der Renaissancebefestigung der Ka¨rntner Landeshauptstadt Klagenfurt tragen die neuen Stadttore die Namen ihrer mittelalterlichen Vorga¨nger. 10 Wie uneinheitlich etwa die Straßennamen der o¨sterreichischen Landeshauptsta¨dte und der Bundeshauptstadt Wien erfasst sind, la¨sst sich an den vorhandenen Hilfsmitteln gut aufzeigen: Bregenz: Andreas Ulmer, Geschichtliche Straßennamen in Bregenz, Dornbirn [1937]; Eisenstadt: Norbert Frank, Die Straßennamen von Eisenstadt, in: Eisenstadt. Bausteine zur Geschichte, hg. v. Harald Prickler/Johann Seedoch, Eisenstadt 1998, S. 87–142; Graz: Karl A. Kubinzky/Astrid M. Wentner, Grazer Straßennamen. Herkunft und Bedeutung, Graz 32009; Innsbruck: http://de.wikipedia.org/ wiki/Liste_der_Straßen_in_Innsbruck sowie https://www.innsbruck.gv.at/page.cfm?vpath=verwaltung/statistiken--zahlen/publikationen (Zugriff: 19. 2. 2014); Klagenfurt: Hermann Th. Schneider, Die Straßen und Pla¨tze von Klagenfurt am Wo¨rthersee. Eine Erkla¨rung der Klagenfurter Straßennamen, Klagenfurt 42009; Linz: Peter Simbrunner, Linzer Straßennamen von A bis Z, Wien 1988, sowie http://www.linz.at/strassennamen/ (vorzu¨gliches Hilfsmittel des Archivs der Stadt Linz; Zugriff: 13. 9. 2011); Salzburg: Franz Martin/Willa Leitner-Martin(†)/Andreas Martin/Guido Mu¨ller, Salzburger Straßennamen. Verzeichnis der Straßen, Gassen, Pla¨tze, Wege, Tore, Bru¨cken und Parks mit Erkla¨rung ihrer Namen (Mitteilungen der Gesellschaft fu¨r Salzburger Landeskunde 25/Erga¨nzungsband), Salzburg 52006 (ohne Hinweise auf Stadttornamen.); St. Po¨lten: Manfred Wieninger, St. Po¨ltner Straßennamen erza¨hlen, Innsbruck 2002; Wien: Peter Simbrunner, Wiener Straßennamen von A bis Z, Wien 31987. In einem gro¨ßeren Kontext Felix Czeike, Historisches Lexikon Wien, Bd. 1–6, Wien 1992–2004, im Hinblick auf die Wiener Innenstadt allein Richard Perger, Straßen, Tu¨rme und Basteien. Das Straßennetz der Wiener City in seiner Entwicklung und seinen Namen. Ein Handbuch (Forschungen und Beitra¨ge zur Wiener Stadtgeschichte 22), Wien 1991. 11 Hier sei darauf hingewiesen, dass auch fu¨r Wien mit der Studie von Perger (wie vorige Anm.) zumindest partiell eine Grundlage fu¨r entsprechende Untersuchungen vorliegt, diese sich allerdings auf die bloße Erfassung beschra¨nkt und auch in der Einleitung sehr allgemein bleibt. 12 Peter Glasner, Die Lesbarkeit der Stadt, Bd. 1: Kulturgeschichte der mittelalterlichen Straßennamen Ko¨lns, Bd. 2: Lexikon der mittelalterlichen Straßennamen Ko¨lns, Ko¨ln 2002. 13 Ebd., S. 31f.

Topographische Benennungen in der mittelalterlichen Stadt

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dazu die spa¨teren, vor allem die modernen Straßennamen vielfach eine ganz andere Bedeutung haben, indem sie zu „Medien kultureller Erinnerung“14 werden. Jedem, der in sta¨dtischen Archiven ta¨tig ist oder war, ist dieses Pha¨nomen nur allzu vertraut, stellen doch politische Streitigkeiten u¨ber Straßenbenennungen, vor allem -umbenennungen, wie die in diesem Kontext anzufertigenden Gutachten zu den besonders regelma¨ßig wiederkehrenden Aufgaben fu¨r Archivarinnen und Archivare.

I. Stadttore und deren Benennungen

Doch nun zu unserem eigentlichen Thema, der Frage, ob topographische Bezeichnungen und Namen in Sta¨dten die Vorstellungen von Raum, wie sie unter Sta¨dterinnen und Sta¨dtern herrschten, widerspiegeln. Aus Gru¨nden, die bereits erla¨utert wurden, haben wir aus dem reichen vorliegenden Namenmaterial die Bezeichnungen von Stadttoren und Stadtvierteln als Basis fu¨r die vorliegende Analyse ausgewa¨hlt. Von entscheidender Bedeutung ist – und dabei folgen wir dem Beispiel von vergleichbaren Forschungen des sprachwissenschaftlich-namenkundlichen Bereichs wie zugleich auch der Kulturgeschichte – zuna¨chst eine mo¨glichst klare Kategorisierung der unterschiedlichen Benennungsgru¨nde. Diese Vorgangsweise hat etwa bei der Untersuchung der Ko¨lner Straßennamen unter der Fragestellung, in welcher Weise diese die „Lesbarkeit der Stadt“ ermo¨glichen, gute Ergebnisse gezeitigt. Und im Kontext dieser Studie konnte auch eine Reihe von Feststellungen getroffen werden, welche die Sinnhaftigkeit der auch unseren eigenen Ausfu¨hrungen zugrunde liegenden Fragestellung eindeutig erwiesen haben. So trifft es zweifellos nicht nur auf Straßennamen zu, wenn unterstrichen wird, dass der Stadtbewohner – bewusst oder unbewusst – im sta¨dtischen Raum als dessen Beobachter agiert, „indem er sich durch ihn hindurch bewegt, ihn seinen Bedu¨rfnissen entsprechend wahrnimmt, gliedert und sich in ihm orientiert.“15 Und in Paraphrasierung der Ausfu¨hrungen Michel Foucaults, der ja den Raum in seinem klassischen Essay aus dem Jahre 1967 als fu¨r unsere eigene Zeit pra¨gendes Element der Obsession des 19. Jahrhunderts fu¨r die Geschichte gegenu¨bergestellt hat,16 weist Peter Glasner, der Autor der Studie zu den Straßennamen Ko¨lns, darauf hin, dass die „Rekonstruktion von Namenbildung und Gebrauch immer auch ein Beitrag zur ‚Geschichte des Raumes‘ ist“.17

14 Ebd., S. 23. 15 Ebd., S. 46. 16 Michel Foucault, Von anderen Ra¨umen [1967], in: Ders., Schriften in vier Ba¨nden – Dits et E ´ crits,

Bd. 4: 1980–1988, hg. v. Daniel Defer/Franc¸ois Ewald/Jacques Lagrange, Frankfurt/Main 2005, S. 931–942; vgl. auch Ders., Die Heterotopien – les he´te´rotopies. Der utopische Ko¨rper – le corps utopique. Zwei Radiovortra¨ge [1966], Frankfurt/Main 2005. 17 Glasner, Lesbarkeit (wie Anm. 12), S. 142.

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Gerade in der Rheinmetropole des hohen Mittelalters zeigt sich ja eine besonders hohe „Artenvielfalt“ mittelalterlicher Straßennamen, eine Vielfalt, die von Benennungen nach Flurnamen, nach der Beschaffenheit der Straßen, nach Natur- und Tiernamen, nach Verortungen o¨ffentlicher Geba¨ude, nach Produktionssta¨tten, nach Handwerken und Gewerben, nach Handelsprodukten, Rohstoffen, nach Ethnonymen, nach gesellschaftlichen bzw. sozialen Gruppen bis zu der nach politischen Funktionen und kirchlichen Bezu¨gen reicht. Schon aus dieser Feststellung leitet sich eindeutig das Erfordernis einer Kategorisierung ab, und diesen Weg wa¨hlte auch schon die klassische Arbeit zur Ko¨lner Topographie, die der Archivar dieser Stadt Hermann Keussen18 vor einem Jahrhundert vorgelegt hat. Da Peter Glasner das Ko¨lner Material in ho¨chst eindrucksvoller Weise gesamthaft erfasst, ergeben sich auch Mo¨glichkeiten zu einer Statistik der Benennungsarten. Derartige Ergebnisse werden im vorliegenden Beitrag nur mit großer Vorsicht formuliert werden ko¨nnen, da der Umfang des Grundlagenmaterials trotz allen Bemu¨hens zu gering bleibt und auch seiner Qualita¨t nach mit dem aufbereiteten Material am Beispiel einer einzelnen Stadt nicht konkurrieren kann. Und dennoch: Eine Reihe von Beobachtungen werden aufzeigen, dass offenbar u¨ber Sprach- und Herrschaftsra¨ume des Mittelalters ¨ hnlichkeiten, ja regelrechte Parallelen bei topographischen Namengebunhinweg A gen in Sta¨dten zu konstatieren sind. Wenden wir uns zuna¨chst den Bezeichnungen der Stadttore zu, so ist vorweg mit Nachdruck darauf hinzuweisen, dass diese Stellen in der sta¨dtischen Topographie schon durch ihre Funktion, gelegen an der Verbindungsnaht zwischen Stadtinnerem und sta¨dtischer Umgebung, eine ganz maßgebliche Rolle fu¨r die Kommunikation spielen, ihre Bezeichnungen daher unser besonderes Interesse verdienen. Dies gilt im ¨ brigen nicht fu¨r die gleichfalls hoch interessanten Tu¨rme von Stadtmauern, deren U Bezeichnungen im Rahmen eines Sta¨dtevergleichs aber ohnehin noch viel schwieriger zu erfassen sind, als dies bei Stadttoren der Fall ist. Nach der Sichtung umfassenden Materials auf der Grundlage vorliegender Stadtmappen der historischen Sta¨dteatlanten in Europa lassen sich fu¨nf Kategorien unterschiedlicher Beweggru¨nde fu¨r die Benennung von Stadttoren bilden:19 (A) Benennungen nach topographischen Pha¨nomenen; (B) Benennungen nach sozialen und/ 18 Hermann Keussen, Topographie der Stadt Ko¨ln im Mittelalter 1–3 (Preis-Schriften der Mevissen-Stif-

tung 2), Ko¨ln 1910.

19 Zu den Einzelbelegen siehe fu¨r O ¨ sterreich (ausgewa¨hlte Beispiele Baden, Bruck an der Mur, Eggen-

burg, Enns, Freistadt, Friesach, Graz, Hainburg, Hall in Tirol, Horn, Innsbruck, Judenburg, Klagenfurt, Klosterneuburg, Korneuburg, Krems-Stein, Laa an der Thaya, Leoben, Linz, Marchegg, Radstadt, Retz, Rottenmann, Salzburg, St. Po¨lten, St. Veit an der Glan, Steyr, Tulln, Villach, Waidhofen an der Thaya, Waidhofen an der Ybbs, Weitra, Wels, Wien, Wiener Neustadt, Ybbs an der Donau, Zwettl); fu¨r Irland (ausgewa¨hlte Beispiele Athlone, Carrickfergus, Downpatrick, Dublin, Dundalk, Kells, Kildare, Kilkenny, Limerick, Mullingar, Trim oben Anm. 3 und 4. Herangezogen wurden des Weiteren der Deutsche, der Polnische, der Tschechische und der Ungarische Sta¨dteatlas, wa¨hrend fu¨r Italien auf Bologna sowie eigene Studien zur Stadt Lodi rekurriert wird, vgl. somit: Deutschland: Deutscher Sta¨dteatlas, Bd. 1–6, Dortmund/Altenbeken 1973–2000, sowie Deutscher Historischer Sta¨dteatlas mit den Sta¨dten Quedlinburg, Schwerin und Herrnhut, Mu¨nster 2006–2009; nicht herangezogen wurden die weiteren Sta¨dteatlanten aus dem deutschen Bereich, wie der Hessische, der Westfa¨lische und der Rheinische Sta¨dteatlas (siehe dazu die Bibliographie auf: http://www.wien.gv.at/ kultur/archiv/kooperationen/lbi/staedteatlas/bibliographie/deutschland.html; Zugriff: 13. 9. 2012). –

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oder wirtschaftlichen Pha¨nomenen; (C) Benennungen nach der Entstehungszeit des Tores; (D) Benennungen nach lokalen Besonderheiten oder dem Aussehen des Tores; (E) Unerkla¨rliche Benennungen.

A Benennungen nach topographischen Pha¨nomenen A1: Benennungen nach der Himmelsrichtung bzw. nach der Lage innerhalb der umgebenden Landschaft und der Stadt selbst Beispiele bieten Benennungen wie Osttor oder Nordtor, die interessanterweise mehrfach in Irland, kaum aber in den hier untersuchten Sta¨dtelandschaften des Kontinents zu fassen sind,20 natu¨rlich aber auch die Bezeichnungen als Oberes, Niederes, Vorderes, Unteres oder Hinteres Tor.21 Dabei ist bei Letzteren vielfach das gegebene Gela¨nde maßgeblich, wie dies bei Sta¨dten an Flu¨ssen, wie im salzburgischen Radstadt oder im steirischen Rottenmann, gut zu erkennen ist. Es kommt jedoch auch vor, dass die Obere Vorstadt nicht vor dem Oberen Tor liegt, wie dies in Klagenfurt der Fall ist, und dass solche Tore im Lauf der Zeit andere Namen erhalten. Im Fall ¨ denburg wird man aus den Namen der beiden Stadtdes westungarischen Sopron/O tore, dem Vorderen und dem Hinteren Tor, angesichts der Ausrichtung des Ersteren an der Straße nach Wien wohl erschließen du¨rfen, dass die Benennung Vorderes Tor

Polen: Atlas Historyczny Miast Polskich/Historischer Atlas polnischer Sta¨dte, Bd. I (Prusy Kro´lewskie i Warmia – Ko¨nigliches Preußen und Hochstift Ermland), Bd. II (Kujawy – Kujawien), Bd. III (Mazury – Masuren), Bd. IV (Slask – Schlesien) und Bd. V (Maloposka – Lesser Poland/Kleinpolen), ´ Krakow bzw. Wrocław 1993–2008, siehe dazu die Bibliographie auf: http://www.wien.gv.at/ Torun, kultur/archiv/kooperationen/lbi/staedteatlas/bibliographie/polen.html; Zugriff: 13. 9. 2012). – Tschechien: Historicky´ atlas mest Ceske´ republiky/Czech Atlas of Historic Towns, ed. Frantisˇek Smahel u. a., Bd. 1–18, Praha 1995–2008), siehe dazu die Bibliographie auf: http://www.wien.gv.at/kultur/ archiv/kooperationen/lbi/staedteatlas/bibliographie/tschechien.html; Zugriff: 13. 9. 2012. – Ungarn: siehe oben Anm. 7 und die Hinweise auf: http://www.wien.gv.at/kultur/archiv/kooperationen/lbi/staedteatlas/bibliographie/ungarn.html; Zugriff: 13. 9. 2012 (als zweite Stadt des ungarischen Unternehmens ist 2011 Sa´toraljau´jhely erschienen). – Italien: zu Bologna vgl. Guiseppe Sassatelli/Cristina Morigi Govi/Jacopo Ortalli/Francesca Bocchi, Bologna I. Da Felsina a Bononia. Dalle origini al XII secolo (Atlante storico delle citta` italiane [Italia settentrionale e Sardegna], Emilia-Romagna 2), Bologna 1996; zu den Mappen des italienischen Sta¨dteatlasses: http://www.wien.gv.at/kultur/archiv/ kooperationen/lbi/staedteatlas/bibliographie/italien.html (Zugriff: 13. 9. 2012); zur italienischen Stadt Lodi, die besonders gut untersucht ist, fu¨r die allerdings kein Sta¨dteatlas existiert, vgl. Ferdinand Opll, Friedrich Barbarossa als Gru¨nder von italienischen Sta¨dten. Lodi – Alessandria/Caesarea – Crema, in: Mitteilungen des Instituts fu¨r o¨sterreichische Geschichtsforschung 118 (2010), S. 27–60, sowie Ders., ¨ berlegungen anhand der lombardischen Stadt Lodi, in: Sta¨dtegru¨ndungen des hohen Mittelalters – U Stadtgru¨ndung und Stadtwerdung. Beitra¨ge von Archa¨ologie und Stadtgeschichtsforschung, hg. v. Dems./Susanne Cl. Pils/Christoph Sonnlechner (Beitra¨ge zur Geschichte der Sta¨dte Mitteleuropas 22), Linz 2011, S. 269–321. 20 In Regensburg gab es ein im Osten gelegenes Ostentor. Von Polenz, Landschafts- und Bezirksnamen (wie Anm. 4), S. 83–87, macht auf die Gruppe der aus Richtungsbezeichnungen gebildeten ¨ sterreichs als Landschaftsnamen aufmerksam, zu denen nicht zuletzt auch die a¨lteste Bezeichnung O ¯ *Ostarrichi (aus dem Jahr 996) geho¨rt. 21 Beispiele bieten aus O ¨ sterreich Horn, Judenburg, Klagenfurt, Linz, Rottenmann, St. Po¨lten, Villach; aus Irland Dundalk, aus Ungarn Sopron.

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auch die ho¨here Bedeutung dieses Tores hervorstreichen sollte. Und zu dieser Kategorie geho¨ren natu¨rlich auch die Stadttorbezeichnungen, die auf den Fluss, an dem die Stadt selbst liegt, oder ganz einfach nur auf das hier vorhandene „Wasser“ hinweisen. Als Beispiele genannt werden ko¨nnen das Trauntor im obero¨sterreichischen Wels, das Ennstor in Steyr oder auch die Wassertore (Water Gates) in irischen Sta¨dten, wie in Carrickfergus nordo¨stlich Belfast am Meer, in Kilkenny im Su¨dwesten von Dublin, in Trim am Fluss Boyne im Westen von Dublin oder in Limerick. A2: Benennungen nach einem Ort bzw. einem landschaftlichen Pha¨nomen, der/das in Richtung der beim Stadttor nach außen fu¨hrenden Verkehrsverbindung in der nahen oder na¨heren Umgebung der Stadt liegt: Bei Namengebungen nach nahe gelegenen Orten stechen Fa¨lle hervor, bei denen die unmittelbar vor der Stadt gelegene Vorstadt bzw. eine hier gelegene Siedlung, die a¨lter als die Stadt selbst ist, den Benennungsgrund abgibt. Beispiele dafu¨r bilden etwa das Werdertor der Wiener Stadtmauer mit seinem Hinweis auf das hier außerhalb der Mauern gelegene Inselgebiet, das Mungret Gate im irischen Limerick, das auf das wenig außerhalb gelegene, vom hl. Nessan im 6. Jahrhundert gegru¨ndete gleichnamige Kloster bzw. diese Siedlung verweist, oder das Seatown Gate in Dundalk, wo die Vorstadt Seatown 1372 erstmals als villa Maryna erwa¨hnt wird. Dem Beispiel aus Limerick la¨sst sich aus dem polnischen Raum die Fischerpforte (Furta Rybacka) an der Nordmauer von Kulm/Chełmo zur Seite stellen, die auf eine fru¨h bestandene Siedlung no¨rdlich außerhalb namens Rybacka/Rybaki („Fischerdorf“) weist, bei der es sich um eine zum Jahr 1239 bezeugte Vorga¨ngersiedlung (Altstadt/Stare Miasto) handelt. In solchen Fa¨llen folgt die Namengebung dem Vorbild eines bereits vorhandenen Ortsnamens, in Fa¨llen von Namengleichheiten mit vor dem Tor sich ausbil¨ hnlich steht es mit Benendenden Vorstadtzonen verha¨lt sich dies eher umgekehrt. A nungen nach der Stadt selbst benachbarten Orten bzw. Orten, die in einer fußla¨ufig bzw. per Pferd gut erreichbaren Entfernung von derselben liegen. Exemplarisch angefu¨hrt seien hier die Su¨dtore der niedero¨sterreichischen Sta¨dte Marchegg und Retz, die als Groißenbrunner bzw. Nalber Tor auf die jeweiligen Nachbarorte verweisen, das Steiner Tor von Krems an der Donau mit seinem Hinweis auf die benachbarte Stadt Stein wie umgekehrt das in Stein liegende Kremser Tor, das nach dem benachbarten Burtscheid benannte Burtscheider Tor der ersten Stadtmauer Aachens aus den 1170er Jahren, das Nord- und Osttor im irischen Trim, die als Navan Gate bzw. Athboy Gate auf die gleichnamigen Orte in Richtung der Ausfallstraßen deuten, das Ost- und Su¨dtor von Budweis, das Schweinitzer bzw. Wittingauer Tor (benannt nach Schweinitz/ heute Trhove´ Sviny su¨do¨stlich Budweis bzw. Wittingau/heute Tˇrebonˇ o¨stlich Budˇ weis) sowie das Krumauer Tor (benannt nach Krumau/heute Cesky ´ Krumlov su¨dlich Budweis auf dem Weg nach Linz), oder auch das Ost- und Nordtor von Hall in Tirol, die als Milser und Absamer Tor die in diese Richtungen gelegenen Orte im Namen fu¨hren.

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A3: Benennungen nach einem Ort, der in Richtung der beim Stadttor nach außen fu¨hrenden Verkehrsverbindung in gro¨ßerer Entfernung von der Stadt liegt: Mit einiger Vorsicht darf bei diesen Benennungen davon ausgegangen werden, dass die Heranziehung von Orten in der weiteren Umgebung nicht zuletzt auch einen Reflex auf die Bedeutung dieser Orte fu¨r die eigene Stadt, insbesondere deren Wirtschaftsbeziehungen darstellt. Diese in gro¨ßerer Entfernung gelegenen, namenbildenden Orte sind dann auch nicht mehr als Nachbarorte anzusehen. Unser besonderes Interesse verdienen hier nicht zuletzt die Namena¨nderungen, wenn etwa in Korneuburg nordwestlich von Wien das Wiener Tor auch Bisamberger Tor (nach dem ¨ brigen auch noch su¨dwestlich von Korneuburg gelegenen gleichnamigen Ort), im U Hafnertor heißt, oder in St. Po¨lten das Obere Tor auch unter Wilhelmsburger sowie Linzer Tor figuriert. Dass man in solchen Fa¨llen regelrechte Auffa¨lligkeiten konstatieren kann, sei ebenfalls an einigen Beispielen erla¨utert: So ist es durchaus einleuchtend, dass fru¨h entwickelte Zentralorte hoher und ho¨chster Funktion fu¨r ihr Umland – aber eben auch weit daru¨ber hinaus – die Namengebung bei Stadttoren ¨ berlieferung eher spa¨t, im Regelkleinerer Sta¨dte bestimmten. Wenn auch in der U fall aus dem 17./18. Jahrhundert, ho¨ren wir bei irischen Sta¨dte mehrfach vom Bestand eines Dublin Gate, so in Kells, in Athlone oder in Trim. Die Bezeichnung Wiener Tor in zahlreichen o¨sterreichischen Sta¨dten, darunter in Baden, Bruck/Mur, Enns, Hainburg, Horn, Klosterneuburg, Korneuburg, Krems, Marchegg, St. Po¨lten, Tulln, Wiener Neustadt und Ybbs, kann als markanter Fingerzeig dafu¨r gelten, wie weit der Ausstrahlungsradius der o¨sterreichischen Hauptstadt in alle Himmelsrichtungen, ja bis in die Steiermark hinein, reichte. Doch sind auch Ausnahmen zu registrieren, wenn etwa im Gegensatz zu Horn in Retz im no¨rdlichen Niedero¨sterreich das Su¨dtor den Namen Nalber Tor (nach dem Nachbarort), und nicht Wiener Tor tra¨gt, obwohl die bei diesem Tor hinaus fu¨hrende Straße Wiener Gasse heißt. In Parallele zu dem Beispiel der Wiener Tore seien hier auch die Kremser Tore angefu¨hrt, wie sie fu¨r Eggenburg, Stein, St. Po¨lten und Zwettl belegt sind und damit einen markant enger gezogenen „Aktionsradius“ der Stadt am Ausgang der Wachau an der Donau zeigen. Um hier auch einen Blick auf die Verha¨ltnisse in der fru¨h entwickelten italienischen Sta¨dtelandschaft zu werfen, sei auf das so u¨beraus interessante Beispiel der 1158 durch Kaiser Friedrich Barbarossa gegru¨ndeten Stadt Lodi22 su¨do¨stlich von Mailand verwiesen. Die im markanten Gegensatz zur Maila¨nder Hegemonialpolitik, ja als regelrechte Kampfansage gegenu¨ber der Lombardenmetropole, errichtete Neugru¨ndung am Fluss Adda wies schon vor dem Beginn der Errichtung einer Stadtmauer drei Stadttore auf, von denen zwei mit ihren Namen Porta Cremonensis und Porta Papiensis die maßgeblichen Nachbarkommunen Cremona und Pavia apostrophierten. Dass die dritte der bedeutenden Kommunen in der Umgebung Lodis, das am Po gelegene Piacenza, dagegen nicht als Namentra¨ger fungierte, wird man wohl auch als Ausdruck der zumeist gegen das staufische Imperium gerichteten Politik dieser Stadt zu verstehen haben. Die Porta Ravegnana der fru¨hmittelalterlichen Befestigungslinie der Cerchia di Selenite von Bologna bietet einen hoch interessanten Beleg

22 Siehe dazu die Literaturhinweise oben Anm. 19.

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dafu¨r, dass die Entscheidung fu¨r einen bestimmten Stadttornamen erkennen la¨sst, welche der in Richtung der hier aus der Stadt fu¨hrenden Straße gelegenen Sta¨dte von den namengebenden Kreisen als maßgeblich bzw. wichtiger als eben andere erachtet wurde. A4: Benennungen nach einem Objekt oder einer Institution, das/die innerhalb der Stadtmauern liegt: Diese Art der Namengebung von Stadttoren geho¨rt gleichfalls zu den an topographischen Gegebenheiten orientierten Benennungsarten, weist allerdings auch eine Interdependenz mit den an den jeweiligen Objekten angebundenen Institutionen auf. Beispiele fu¨r diese Kategorie gibt es sonder Zahl, und sie du¨rften sich der Quantita¨t nach wohl anna¨hernd die Waage mit den Bezeichnungen von Stadttoren nach außerhalb der Stadt gelegenen Orten halten. Dabei la¨sst sich eindeutig feststellen, dass Namengebungen nach profanen Institutionen, Objekten und gegebenenfalls auch Herrschaftstra¨gern gegenu¨ber denen nach geistlichen eindeutig in der Minderheit bleiben. Zu Ersteren ko¨nnen etwa das Herzogstor in Baden bei Wien wie auch diverse Burgtore, darunter diejenigen in Graz, Rottenmann, Wien, Hainburg, Judenburg, Leoben und Ybbs an der Donau, aber auch die im Osten des thu¨ringischen Altenburg gelegene Toranlage mit ihrem Hinweis auf die unmittelbar außerhalb gelegene slawische Burg, die dann Sitz des Burggrafen und Ko¨nigspfalz war, geza¨hlt werden. Ungleich ha¨ufiger, und auch in Sta¨dtelandschaften quer durch Europa verbreitet, sind die Bezeichnungen von Stadttoren nach in der Stadt liegenden geistlichen Institutionen, nach Kirchen oder auch nach deren Patrozinien. Um dies genauer zu belegen, ¨ sterreich, Irland, Tschechien und Polen verwiesen: sei hier auf einige Beispiele aus O So gab etwa das 1285 gestiftete Augustinereremitenkloster in Baden mit seiner Marienkirche dem nach 1480 errichteten Frauentor den Namen. Auch in Enns und Tulln sind Frauentore nachweisbar, deren Namen sich freilich eigenartigerweise von Klosterkirchen herleiten, die nicht bei diesen Toren, sondern an der diametral gegenu¨berliegenden Stadtseite liegen.23 In dem an der Grenze nach Bo¨hmen zu gelegenen Laa an der Thaya geben die Mo¨nche des hiesigen, um 1237 gegru¨ndeten Minoritenklosters dem Bru¨dertor den Namen, das 1261 als Porta Scotorum belegte Wiener Schottentor liegt unweit des a¨ltesten Wiener Klosters St. Maria zu den Schotten, das die babenbergischen Landesfu¨rsten in den 1150er Jahren gru¨ndeten und mit irischen Mo¨nchen besiedelten, und in Steyr fu¨hrt das St. Gilgentor das Patrozinium der Stadtpfarrkirche ¨ gid und Koloman in seinem Namen. Aus dem Bereich des deutschen Sta¨dteweSt. A sens ist hier unter anderem auf das auf das Dompatrozinium weisende Peterstor bzw. das auf das gleichnamige Kloster weisende Emmeramtor in Regensburg, das Petriwie das Klaustor in Ho¨xter mit ihren Herleitungen von der um 1000 entstandenen Peters- sowie der im 11./12. Jahrhundert errichteten Nikolaikirche oder auch Ko¨lner Stadttore sowohl der zweiten wie auch der dritten Stadterweiterung (1106 bzw. 23 Im Fall von Enns geht es um das Nordtor, das nach dem im Su¨den der Stadt gelegenen Minoritenkloster

Maria Schnee den Namen tra¨gt; in Tulln du¨rfte es gleichfalls das in der gegenu¨berliegenden Stadtecke gelegene Minoritenkloster mit dem urspru¨nglichen Patrozinium Maria¨ Verku¨ndigung gewesen sein, welches den Namen des Tores gepra¨gt hat.

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1180), darunter die Lyskirchenpforte (nach St. Maria in Lyskirchen, erw. 948) oder das Severinstor (nach St. Severin, 4. Jh.), hinzuweisen. Irische Sta¨dte kennen Stadttorbezeichnungen sowohl nach Patrozinien als auch nach den betreffenden Orden bzw. der Art der jeweiligen Institution. Dies la¨sst sich mit Namengebungen wie dem White Gate in Kildare,24 dem Nun’s Gate von Downpatrick, dem nach der um 1121 bezeugten Kirche St. Mary del Dam benannten Dam’s Gate oder auch dem seinen Namen von der vor 1190 entstandenen Kirche St. Audoen herleitenden St. Audoen’s Arch, beide in Dublin, gut belegen. Die u¨beraus gru¨ndliche Aufarbeitung der ein¨ berlieferung in den „gazeteers“ des Irischen Sta¨dteatlasses lassen die an schla¨gigen U mehreren Beispielen belegbare Vermutung zu, dass Benennungen nach Kirchen bzw. Patrozinien offenbar einer etwas ju¨ngeren Schicht angeho¨ren. Darauf weisen insbesondere zwei Stadttorbezeichnungen in Dublin hin, die zuna¨chst nach einheimischen Ko¨nigen bzw. lokalen Stammesfu¨rsten25 benannt waren, bei denen sich aber dann schon bald der Name nach einer Kirche durchsetzen sollte. In jedem Fall musste die ¨ brigen namengebende Kirche generell a¨lter sein als das danach benannte Tor.26 Im U ´ weist auch die Zweitbenennung des Brama Torunska, des Thorner Tores, im polnischen Kulm/Chełmo als Heiligengeisttor darauf hin, dass die um 1280 entstandene Heiligengeistkirche des hiesigen Spitals sich zumindest gleichberechtigt neben die wohl a¨ltere Bezeichnung nach dem na¨chsten bedeutenden Orientierungsort fu¨r Kulm setzte. Aus dem tschechischen Iglau/Jihlava schließlich lassen sich in diesem Zusammenhang die an der West- und Nordseite gelegenen Stadttore Frauen-, Spital- und Kreuztor anfu¨hren, die auf das Minoritenkloster Maria¨ Himmelfahrt, das Spital und das Dominikanerkloster zum hl. Kreuz verweisen. Von Interesse ist hier der Fall des Aldegundis- oder auch Adalbertstors der staufischen Stadtmauer von Aachen, leitet sich dieser Name doch von Objekten her, die zum einen innerhalb der Stadt (die 1006 fassbare Aldegundiskapelle), zum anderen außerhalb derselben (das 997/1005 belegte St. Adalbert) gelegen sind. A5: Benennungen nach einem Objekt/einer Institution, das/die außerhalb der Stadtmauern liegt:27 Vor allem der Bestand einer Bru¨cke direkt vor dem betreffenden Stadttor, einer Bru¨cke, die allerdings u¨ber einen natu¨rlichen Wasserlauf und nicht u¨ber den sta¨dtischen Wassergraben fu¨hrte, hatte vielfach Implikationen auf die Namengebung fu¨r das jeweilige Tor. Tatsa¨chlich liegt ja hier geradezu ein Musterbeispiel dafu¨r vor, wie ein Name zur Individualisierung wie auch zur Unterscheidung von anderem beitra¨gt. Anfu¨hren lassen sich hier das Brucktor in Baden su¨dlich von Wien, das Schlagbru¨cken- oder Wassertor in Klosterneuburg, das Wiener Tor oder Brucktor in Krems,

24 Interessanterweise liegt das namengebende Karmeliterkloster (Whitefriars) hier nicht beim Tor, son-

¨ sterreich in der vorigen Anm.). dern am gegenu¨berliegenden Stadtende (siehe dazu die Beispiele aus O

25 Zu dieser Art von Namengebungen siehe auch weiter unten bei Kategorie „B3“, unter Asculf’s Gate

etc., S. 56. 26 Aus diesem Grund muss auch das im 17. Jahrhundert fassbare (St) John’s Gate in Limerick nach einer

Vorga¨ngerkirche der hiesigen, erst 1709 errichteten St John’s Church benannt worden sein.

27 Siehe dazu schon die einleitenden Bemerkungen zu Kategorie „A4“, oben S. 52.

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das u¨ber die 1277 fassbare Wienertorbru¨cke u¨ber den Kremsfluss fu¨hrt, oder das nach der schon 1115 genannten Bru¨cke u¨ber die Weser benannte Brucktor in Ho¨xter. In Dublin gab die 1001 von Ko¨nig Ma´el Sechnaill II. errichtete Bru¨cke u¨ber den Liffey, die zu Ende des 12. Jahrhunderts als „Great Bridge“ bezeichnet wurde, dem dort gelegenen Bridge Gate den Namen, aus Trim wissen wir von einem der Lage nach unbekannten Bridge Gate, aber auch von dem der Benennung nach durchaus vergleichbaren Water Gate am Fluss Boyne. In Dundalk heißt das North Gate im 17. Jahrhundert einmal Lower Water Gate und dann Bridge Gate, und auch das Bridge Gate am Ende der Thomond Bridge in Limerick wa¨re hier anzufu¨hren. Infolge der ha¨ufigen Situierung bu¨rgerlicher Spitalgru¨ndungen unmittelbar außerhalb der Stadt sind auch Spitaltore zu dieser Kategorie von Stadttornamen zu rechnen, darunter etwa die Anlagen in Baden bei Wien, in Freistadt und Rottenmann oder das 1615 fertiggestellte Spittal Gate in Carrickfergus. Kirchen wie Ordensniederlassungen außerhalb der Stadt konnten ebenso wie deren innerhalb der Mauern gelegenen Pendants namenpra¨gende Wirkung fu¨r Stadttore entfalten, allerdings sind Beispiele dafu¨r deutlich seltener, und bisweilen ist es auch nicht ganz sicher, ob die namenbestimmende Kirche bzw. Ordensniederlassung tatsa¨chlich anfangs außerhalb der Stadt lag und dann erst spa¨ter in die Befestigung einbezogen wurde: Anzufu¨hren wa¨re etwa die Bezeichnung Heiligkreuztor fu¨r das nach Westen fu¨hrende, zuna¨chst als nach dem Nachbarort als Unteres Thaurer Tor benannte Westtor von Hall in Tirol oder der Jakobsturm mit Jakobstor an der Su¨dseite des steirischen Leoben, von wo man die außerhalb der Stadt gelegene, 1288 erwa¨hnte Pfarrkirche St. Jakob erreicht. In Breslau/Wrocław geho¨ren hierher das auf das Augustinerchorherrenstift St. Maria auf der Sandinsel weisende Marientor im Norden wie das nach Westen fu¨hrende Nikolaitor, das nach der Kirche der dort gelegenen, vor allem von Fischern bewohnten Nikolaivorstadt des 13. Jahrhunderts benannt ist. Das irische Kilkenny wiederum bietet mit dem Black Freren Gate, dem St John’s Gate, dem St James’s Gate und dem St Patrick’s Gate gleich vier Beispiele dieses Typs. B Benennungen nach sozialen und/oder wirtschaftlichen Pha¨nomenen B1: Benennungen nach Herrschaftsgebieten in der na¨heren, ha¨ufiger der weiteren Umgebung der betreffenden Stadt: Auch diese Kategorie geho¨rt zu den Bezeichnungen von Stadttoren nach topographischen Gesichtspunkten, wie sie sich sowohl in Kontinentaleuropa als auch in Irland finden: Aus dem o¨sterreichischen Raum sind fu¨r das no¨rdliche Nieder- und Obero¨sterreich die Bo¨hmertore in Freistadt, Laa an der Thaya und Waidhofen an der Thaya wie auch die Ungartore in Marchegg, Hainburg, Wiener Neustadt und im Zug der a¨ltesten, noch vorbabenbergischen Stadtmauer von Wien anzufu¨hren. In der bedeutenden norddeutschen Hansestadt Lu¨beck leitet sich die Namengebung des bis heute erhaltenen Holstentores wie auch der hier gelegenen Bru¨cke von Holstein bzw. dem sa¨chsischen Stamm der „Holsten“ ab. Fu¨r den irischen Raum darf auf das Thomond Gate in Limerick mit seinem Hinweis auf das gleichnamige Ko¨nigreich, das vom fru¨hen 12. bis zur Mitte des 16. Jahrhunderts hier bestand, und vielleicht auch das dem

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Namen nach auf eine Region etwa 60 km westlich der Stadt weisende Connaught Gate von Athlone hingewiesen werden. Nicht mit absoluter Sicherheit zu kla¨ren ist die Frage, ob ein Name wie Porta Carinthianorum bzw. Cherner Purgertor (so das in der zweiten Ha¨lfte des 13. Jahrhunderts belegte Ka¨rntner Tor in Wien) tatsa¨chlich auf das bis ins fru¨he 14. Jahrhundert eigensta¨ndige Herzogtum Ka¨rnten hinweist, oder ob nicht doch die genetivische Formulierung als „Tor der Ka¨rntner“ sogar (auch) auf eine – freilich quellenma¨ßig nicht belegbare – Pra¨senz von aus Ka¨rnten stammenden Personen in der Stadt deutet. B2: Benennungen nach sozialen Gruppen, insbesondere von Angeho¨rigen bestimmter Handwerkszweige oder nach ethnisch definierten Gruppen: Diese auf dem Kontinent durchaus gro¨ßere Gruppe von Stadttorbezeichnungen kann entweder auf den Umstand verweisen, dass genau diese Leute fu¨r die Erhaltung und Hut des betreffenden Tores verantwortlich sind, sie kann aber auch von der Massierung einer speziellen Handwerkergruppe in unmittelbarer Umgebung des jeweiligen Stadttores Zeugnis ablegen. Die Entscheidung, ob dieses oder jenes zutrifft, ist nicht immer leicht zu fa¨llen: Fu¨r die zuletzt genannte Erkla¨rung du¨rften Beispiele wie die Fischertore in Baden su¨dlich von Wien, in Hainburg, Klosterneuburg oder auch im polnischen Kulm/Chełmo sprechen, die ihre Namen von unmittelbar außerhalb gelegenen Fischeransiedlungen bzw. vom direkten Zugang zum Wasser tragen. Ebenso verha¨lt es sich mit dem fu¨r das 14. Jahrhundert bezeugten Schmiedtor in Enns, finden sich doch vor diesem Nordtor der Stadt massiert Schmiedebetriebe, und dieser Bereich wird um 1400 als Schmiedberg bezeichnet. Viel weniger klar sehen wir dagegen bei Namengebungen wie den Lederertoren im niedero¨sterreichischen Eggenburg und im obero¨sterreichischen Wels, der Bezeichnung Hafnertor fu¨r das Korneuburger Wiener Tor oder auch dem Osttor von Kulm/Chełmo, der Brama Sukiennicza, dem Tuchmacher- oder Wollwebertor. Fa¨lle von nach ethnisch definierten Personengruppen benannten Stadttoren sind alles andere als ha¨ufig, ihre Interpretation ist durchaus schwierig. Auch dafu¨r einige Beispiele: Im Regelfall wird man Namen wie Ka¨rntner Tor, Bo¨hmertor oder Ungartor zu den Stadttornamen zu za¨hlen haben, die auf benachbarte Herrschaftsgebiete weisen und die hier schon unter Kategorie „B1“ Behandlung fanden. Auf eine tatsa¨chliche Ansiedlung von Personen aus diesen Gebieten in der betreffenden Stadt weist dezidiert nur das 1244 erwa¨hnte Friesentor (porta Frisea) in Ko¨ln, das seinen Namen wohl von der seit karolingischer Zeit fassbaren Niederlassung friesischer Ha¨ndler in der Stadt tra¨gt. Im Fall des Ka¨rntner Tores in Wien wa¨re solches28 vielleicht gleichfalls denkbar. Am ha¨ufigsten bei dieser Kategorie finden sich jedoch Stadttornamen, die auf die Ansiedlung von Juden, auf Juden¨ sterreich mit Abstand viertel in Sta¨dten verweisen. Dabei ragen die Beispiele aus O hervor – ein Pha¨nomen, das der in diesem Raum großen Zahl ju¨discher Ansiedlungen ebenso geschuldet ist wie wohl auch dem Umstand der guten Erfassbarkeit im Rahmen der Sta¨dteatlanten. Zwar wird vermehrt bei der Benennung von Straßenzu¨gen in Sta¨dten der Hinweis auf ein dort gelegenes ju¨disches Viertel gegeben, aber auch 28 Siehe dazu schon oben (am Ende des Abschnitts B1).

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Tore tragen deren Namen. Beispiele sind aus Graz mit dem Judentu¨rl an der su¨dlichen Stadtmauer und aus Judenburg mit dem Judentu¨rlein an der Nordseite anzufu¨hren. In beiden Fa¨llen gehen sie auf die Epoche der jeweiligen Judenansiedlungen vom 13. bis zum 15. Jahrhundert zuru¨ck, in beiden Fa¨llen handelt es sich um eher weniger bedeutende Ausla¨sse. B3: Benennungen nach dem Financier bzw. Initiator des betreffenden Stadttores: Im Vergleich mit den anderen Stadttorbezeichnungen des lombardischen Lodi etwa, wird man das dort schon vor dem Beginn des Stadtmauerbaus bezeugte Su¨dwesttor, das Kaisertor (porta imperialis), entweder als Hommage an den kaiserlichen Stadt¨ bernahme der gru¨nder Friedrich Barbarossa oder sogar direkt als Hinweis auf die U Kosten fu¨r diesen Bau durch den Herrscher selbst auffassen du¨rfen. Ganz außerordentlich interessante Fa¨lle liegen mit mehreren, nach den fru¨heren einheimischen Ko¨nigen bzw. den lokalen Herrschern benannten Stadttoren in Dublin vor. Dort heißt das zu Anfang des 13. Jahrhunderts als St Patrick’s Gate, (spa¨ter als St Nicholas Gate) im Su¨den gelegene Tor um 1190 Asculf’s Gate, was an Asculf Mac Torcaill, den letzten einheimischen Ko¨nig von Dublin (bis 1170), erinnert, und das Nordtor, das ab 1202 als St Michael’s Gate nach der im 11. Jahrhundert vom Bischof bei der Kathedrale errichteten Michaelskirche heißt, wurde bei seiner zwei Jahre a¨lteren Nennung als Gillemeholmoc Gate bezeichnet, was auf den lokalen Stammesfu¨hrer Mac Gilla ¨ brigen Mo-Cholmo´c’s verweist. Die urspru¨nglichen Torbezeichnungen werden im U auch spa¨ter noch verwendet, im Fall des Asculf’s Gate sogar noch im 16. Jahrhundert (Hasculf’s Gate). Weniger klar ist die Interpretation der spa¨tmittelalterlich bezeugten Nechelskaulenpforte in der zweiten Stadterweiterung von Ko¨ln (1106), die nur mit einiger Gewissheit auf einen Grundbesitzer namens Neckel zuru¨ckgefu¨hrt werden kann und mit den im gleichen Stadtmauerzug befindlichen Toren der Hahnenpforte und der Walmansgassenpforte, die beide von Personennamen (Hageno von Anshelm und Waldeman/Wantemann) abgeleitet sind, parallele Namengebungen aufweist. In Wien sind in diesem Kontext fu¨r die mittelalterliche Epoche der Name des Su¨dtores des alten Ro¨merlagers, Peilertor, und der des Nordosttores – eigentlich eher ein Auslass als ein regelrechtes Tor – der babenbergischen Stadtmauer, das Pyberstor, anzufu¨hren. Beide in der zweiten Ha¨lfte des 13. Jahrhunderts bezeugt, tragen sie ihre Namen mit großer Wahrscheinlichkeit nach den Wiener Ritterbu¨rgerfamilien Peu¨ brigen, dass sich hinter solchen Bezeichrer und Piber. Gut denkbar wa¨re es im U nungen, insbesondere den zuletzt genannten Beispielen aus Wien, auch der Hinweis auf die milita¨rische Verantwortung einer bestimmten Familie fu¨r die Bewachung, die Hut des Tores verbirgt. Hinzuweisen ist zuletzt auf die Mo¨glichkeit, dass derartige Benennungen nach Personen, insbesondere Einzelpersonen, auch auf den Beweggrund einer Ehrung derselben bzw. einer Sicherung der „memoria“ fu¨r denselben zu tun haben ko¨nnten, die Tornamen damit – vergleichbar dem, was bei modernen Straßennamen festgestellt werden kann – gleichsam zu „Medien kulturellen Erinnerns“29 wu¨rden. Fu¨r Bezeichnungen von Toren der neuzeitlichen Befestigungsanlagen ist dies 29 So bei Glasner, Lesbarkeit (wie Anm. 12).

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gut zu fassen,30 gegebenenfalls ko¨nnte dies auch schon auf die genannten Dubliner Namengebungen des hohen Mittelalters nach zum Zeitpunkt der Namennennung nicht mehr tonangebenden, fru¨heren Herrscherperso¨nlichkeiten zutreffen. B4: Benennungen nach Pha¨nomenen des Handelslebens: ¨ berschneidungen mit NamengebunWiewohl sich bei dieser Kategorie bisweilen U gen nach Handwerken bzw. dem Gewerbeleben oder auch topographisch bedingten Benennungen ergeben ko¨nnen, ist doch auf einige Besonderheiten hinzuweisen: So wird der Hintergrund der Benennung des noch in vorhabsburgischer Zeit erstmals bezeugten Wiener Widmertores erst dann versta¨ndlich, wenn man auf die a¨ltesten Namenformen, Witmarkttor (1275) bzw. porta lignorum (1390) zuru¨ckgeht; in Verbindung mit dem von diesem Tor in das Stadtinnere fu¨hrenden Kohlmarkt, der eben 1255 erstmals als Witmarkt erwa¨hnt wird, zeigt sich klar, dass wir es hier mit einem Gebiet des Handels mit Holz und Ko¨hlerware zu tun haben. Auf vergleichbare Benennungen nach Ma¨rkten stoßen wir auch in Ko¨ln, wo das im 10. Jahrhundert als porta fori erwa¨hnte Markttor die Verbindung zwischen der Ro¨merstadt und der Erweiterung in Richtung Rheinvorstadt bildete, deren zum Rhein, also nach Osten zur spa¨tantiken Rheinbru¨cke hin, gerichtetes Tor wohl spa¨testens im 12. Jahrhundert als Salzgassenpforte erwa¨hnt wird. Salz war eines der ganz besonders wichtigen Handelsgu¨ter, und so lassen sich Hinweise auf Salz auch bei anderen Stadttorbezeichnungen erkennen, etwa dem Hell- oder Halltor in Krems oder dem spa¨tmittelalterlichen Salztu¨rl an der Donaufront Wiens. Auffa¨llig und mit Nachdruck zu betonen bleibt in jedem Fall, dass es aus dem irischen Bereich keinerlei Stadttorbezeichnungen nach Pha¨nomenen des Gewerbelebens oder auch des Handels gibt.

C Benennungen nach der Entstehungszeit des Tores Hier geht es um die gar nicht so seltenen Fa¨lle der Benennung als Neues Tor oder auch als Neutor, wohinter sich im Regelfall der Hinweis auf eine im Vergleich mit den u¨brigen Stadttoren spa¨tere Entstehung verbirgt. Beispiele lassen sich insbesondere im Zusammenhang mit Um- und Neubauten der Stadtbefestigungen in einer spa¨teren Phase beibringen, wie etwa das im Nordwesten der Renaissancemauern Wiens gelegene, 1558 an Stelle eines fru¨heren Versta¨rkungsturms errichtete Neutor, die im 16. Jahrhundert in der Neutorbastion im Su¨den von Steyr erbaute Toranlage oder auch das im 15. Jahrhundert umgestaltete Neutor in Wiener Neustadt, das zuvor als Fleischhacker-, Vischacher oder Fischauer Tor bezeichnet wurde. In Breslau dagegen, wo ebenfalls, und zwar auf der Ostseite, ein Neutor (Brama Nowa) begegnet, du¨rfte sich die Benennung danach richten, dass genau hier außerhalb Breslaus die ab 1263 bezeugte nova civitas als eine neue Vorstadt entstand. Neutore, New Gates, sind auch

30 Aus Wien ist hier auf das Franzens- und das Carolinentor zu verweisen, die erst im fru¨hen 19. Jahr-

hundert angelegt und nach Kaiser Franz II. (I.) und seiner vierten Gemahlin Carolina Auguste benannt wurden.

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fu¨r Irland zu belegen, und dabei wird das New Gate des nach Su¨dwesten zu gelegenen Mauerabschnitts in Dublin wohl deshalb so benannt, weil es nach 1177 neu erbaut wurde, und auch in Limerick, wo die Befestigungen bereits zum Jahr 1175 erwa¨hnt werden, deutet das ab etwa 1276 fassbare New Gate auf ein neu errichtetes Tor, das ¨ brigen in der fru¨hen Neuzeit nach dem 1267 gegru¨ndeten Franziskanerkloster im U außerhalb der Mauern als Abbey Gate bezeichnet wurde.

D Benennungen nach lokalen Besonderheiten oder der Beschaffenheit/dem Aussehen des Tores Beispiele dafu¨r sind zwar rar, im Einzelfall verdienen sie aber unsere Beachtung. So weisen die Namen des Rotenturmtores in Wien wie wahrscheinlich auch die Zweitbezeichnung des Wassertores an der no¨rdlichen Stadtmauer des polnischen Kulm/ Chełmo als Gemaltes Tor auf Auffa¨lligkeiten der baulich-dekorativen Gestaltung dieser Bauwerke hin. Bezeichnungen wie das um 1300 belegte Weitgassentor in Klosterneuburg bei Wien deuten auf Besonderheiten der unmittelbaren topographischen Lage hin, hier auf die schon um 1239 genannte, durch dieses Tor fu¨hrende ampla strata.31

E Unklare Benennungen In diese Kategorie geho¨ren Benennungen, fu¨r die es zwar bisher an Erkla¨rungen mangelt, die aber andererseits ein Feld fu¨r ku¨nftige Forschungen darstellen. Zu nennen wa¨re etwa die a¨lteste Bezeichnung des Su¨dtores der obero¨sterreichischen Stadt Freistadt als Gunczentor (spa¨ter: Linzer Tor), das Troy’s Gate32 im irischen Kilkenny/ Irishtown oder das an der Westseite (!) von Breslau/Wrocław gelegene Russische Tor (valva Ruthenica bzw. Brama Ruska).

2. Die Benennung der Stadtviertel ¨ berlegungen den Namen fu¨r StadtvierBevor wir uns in einem zweiten Teil unserer U tel zuwenden, sei hier doch kurz auf das so herausragende Einzelbeispiel Ko¨ln etwas detaillierter eingegangen. Das Interessante besteht na¨mlich darin, dass es nirgendwo 31 Man ko¨nnte diesen Namen somit auch ohne weiteres zu Kategorie „A1“ (oben S. 49f.) za¨hlen. 32 Vo¨llig außergewo¨hnlich und daher auch in den hier gebildeten Kategorien nicht zu beru¨cksichtigen,

ist diese Bezeichnung, die sich vielleicht vom antiken Troia herleiten du¨rfte. Sowohl die Befestigung des von der Kathedrale St Canice’s beherrschten, bis 1843 vom benachbarten Kilkenny unabha¨ngigen Irishtown als auch der Name dieses Tores sind vor dem 16. Jahrhundert nicht bezeugt, so dass u¨ber deren Alter schwer etwas zu sagen ist. Sollte hinter dem Namen ein Hinweis auf Gelehrsamkeit und/ oder Bescha¨ftigung mit der griechischen Mythologie stehen?

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sonst in den hier untersuchten Gebieten eine derart hohe Zahl von Stadttornamen gibt, welche das antike Erbe widerspiegeln. Zuna¨chst haben sich hier schon infolge der Siedlungskontinuita¨t die Tore der Ro¨merstadt bis ins Mittelalter und daru¨ber hinaus erhalten, und deren Su¨dtor (Hochtor; porta alta, genannt 1152/56) und Westtor (extra veterem eream portam, genannt 1170/83 = Alte Ehrenpforte) erinnern dezidiert an die Antike. Um einen ganz außerordentlichen Fall handelt es sich schließlich beim Eigelsteintor im Nordabschnitt der zweiten und dritten Stadterweiterung. Um 1172/80 wird hier erstmals der Eigelstein (in Monticulo, illa pars que respicit ad lapidem, que dicitur Eygelstein) erwa¨hnt, wobei der Name von lateinisch aquila (wohl Legionsadler) abgeleitet wird und auf eine mit solch einem Adler gezierte antike Sa¨ule weisen du¨rfte. Diese Beobachtungen geho¨ren zwar nicht zum Thema unserer eigenen Ausfu¨hrungen, sie machen aber dennoch deutlich, welch breite Vielfalt und wie viele Facetten die Auswertung von Stadttornamen erkennen la¨sst. Nun zu den Bezeichnungen von innersta¨dtischen Stadtvierteln, in einzelnen Fa¨llen auch von Vorstadtbildungen: Gleich zu Beginn sei unterstrichen, dass es hier nicht um den diffusen Begriff des „Stadtviertels“ geht, das fu¨r einen topographisch nicht exakt begrenzten Stadtteil steht, sondern um die seit dem Mittelalter nachweisbare Viertelgliederung von Sta¨dten, wie sie lange Zeit insbesondere fu¨r milita¨rische Zwecke, im Wesentlichen fu¨r die Gliederung des bu¨rgerlichen Aufgebots zur Verteidigung der Stadt, diente.33 Zu unterstreichen ist daru¨ber hinaus, dass sich derartige Stadtviertel – soweit zu erkennen ist – nur auf dem Kontinent, nicht aber etwa in irischen Sta¨dten nachweisen lassen. Wa¨hrend fu¨r die außerhalb der Stadttore gelegenen Vorsta¨dte wie fu¨r die der Stadttore selbst parallele Namengebungen zu konstatieren sind, etwa bei den Iglauer Vorsta¨dten Piernitzer Vorstadt/Tor und Spitalvorstadt/Spitaltor, fa¨llt fu¨r die Namen der Stadtviertel auf, dass sie ihre Namen in der u¨berwiegenden Zahl der Fa¨lle nach innersta¨dtischen Objekten oder Pha¨nomenen des Gewerbelebens bzw. auch nach fu¨r sie charakteristischen Eigenschaften tragen: So treffen wir in Kulm/Chełmo auf ein Groß- und ein Kleinviertel, bei denen die Namen die tatsa¨chlichen Gro¨ßenverha¨ltnisse angeben, des Weiteren das Barfu¨ßer- und das Dominikanerviertel, benannt nach dem in ihnen gelegenen, nach 1258 gegru¨ndeten Franziskanerkloster bzw. dem vor 1244 errichteten Dominikanerkloster. Insbesondere aus o¨sterreichischen Sta¨d¨ berlieferungen im Hinblick auf Stadtviertel vor. Dabei steten liegen zahlreiche U hen einander Beispiele fu¨r Benennungen nach den Stadttoren und solche nach innerhalb der jeweiligen Viertel gelegenen Objekten, im Regelfall geistlichen Einrichtungen, gegenu¨ber, doch kommen auch, freilich ungleich weniger ha¨ufig, Namengebungen im Zusammenhang mit dem Gewerbeleben vor. Das steirische Bruck an der Mur etwa kennt – belegt zu 1541 – sogar fu¨nf Viertel: ein Leobner, ein Grazer und ein

33 Vgl. dazu grundlegend bis heute: Ernst von der Nahmer, Die Wehrverfassungen der deutschen Sta¨dte

in der zweiten Ha¨lfte des XIV. Jahrhunderts, Diss., Marburg 1888, und Johannes Schultze, Die Stadtviertel. Ein sta¨dtegeschichtliches Problem, in: Bla¨tter fu¨r deutsche Landesgeschichte 92 (1956), S. 18–39; zu Wien vgl. Ferdinand Opll, Alte Grenzen im Wiener Raum (Kommentare zum Historischen Atlas von Wien 4), Wien – Mu¨nchen 1986, S. 91–106.

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Wiener Viertel, daru¨ber hinaus ein Schiff- und ein Mitterviertel; die Ka¨rntner Landeshauptstadt Klagenfurt im 16. Jahrhundert ein Villacher, ein St. Veiter, ein Krainer und ein Vo¨lkermarkter Viertel – Viertel, die dann zwei Jahrhunderte spa¨ter allesamt nach dort gelegenen geistlichen Einrichtungen als Stadtpfarr-, Kapuziner-, Franziskaner- und Jesuitenviertel benannt werden. Das niedero¨sterreichische St. Po¨lten wieder weist mit dem Kloster-, dem Holz-, dem Lederer- und dem Marktviertel eine deutlich andere Namengebung auf, wa¨hrend in der alten Ka¨rntner Herzogsstadt St. Veit an der Glan mit den 1754 u¨berlieferten Viertelbezeichnungen, dem VierzehnNothelfer-Viertel, dem Burgviertel, Zwo¨lf-Boten-Viertel und dem Pfarrviertel wiederum Namengebungen nach Objekten innerhalb der Viertel selbst vorherrschen. In der viele Jahrhunderte lang Bamberg unterta¨nigen Ka¨rntner Stadt Villach werden 1578 das St. Jakobsviertel, das Kunigundenviertel, das Kaiser-Heinrichs-Viertel und das St. Margaretenviertel genannt, bei denen die namengebenden Bezugspunkte zum Teil freilich in anderen Vierteln liegen und es sich durchaus um eher generelle Bezugnahmen auf den Stadtherrn, das Bistum Bamberg mit seinen Patronen Heinrich und Kunigunde handeln ko¨nnte. Stadttornamen wie Objekte bestimmten die Bezeichnungen des Ka¨rntner-, des Widmer-, des Schotten- und des Stubenviertels in Wien, von denen das seiner Gro¨ße nach eindeutig a¨lteste Stadtviertel des Stubenviertels im Nordosten der Stadt den Namen wohl kaum von den dort massiert auftretenden Badstuben herleitet, sondern vielleicht eher von einer fru¨h gegebenen hohen Ausstattungsdichte der hier gelegenen Bu¨rgerha¨user mit Beheizungsanlagen. In der babenbergischen Gru¨ndungsstadt Wiener Neustadt wiederum sind dann sa¨mtliche vier Stadtviertel, das nach der Stadtpfarrkirche Maria¨ Himmelfahrt benannte Liebfrauenviertel, das Deutschherrenviertel, das auf das Patrozinium des vor 1250 gegru¨ndeten Dominikanerklosters beim Ungartor weisende Dreifaltigkeitsviertel und das Minderbru¨derviertel (Minoritenkloster), nach geistlichen Einrichtung innerhalb von deren Grenzen benannt.

Resu¨mee

Wir fassen zusammen: Ausgehend von den u¨ber die Mappen der europa¨ischen Sta¨dteatlanten gut erfassbaren Bezeichnungen von Stadttoren und Stadtvierteln versuchten wir aufzuzeigen, dass sich dieses Material gut eignet, um ein Bild mo¨glicher Raumvorstellungen der die Namengebung steuernden Schichten34 zu erhalten. Die Wahl fiel aus mehreren Gru¨nden gerade auf dieses Namenmaterial, wobei dem Umstand der Lage von Stadttoren an einer fu¨r die jeweilige Stadt durchaus neuralgischen 34 Diese etwas holprige Formulierung verdankt sich dem Umstand, dass es nicht angehen kann, allein von

„bu¨rgerlichen“ Raumvorstellungen, die sich in diesem Namenmaterial spiegeln, zu sprechen. Wiewohl den cives sicherlich der meiste Einfluss auf die Benennungen zuzusprechen ist, wird man doch auch das Einwirken des Stadtherrn wie der geistlichen Einrichtungen in der betreffenden Stadt in Rechnung stellen mu¨ssen.

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Zone, na¨mlich genau an der Trenn- wie zugleich auch Kommunikationslinie zwischen Innen und Außen, zwischen Stadt und na¨herem, aber auch weiterem Umland, eine besonders hohe Bedeutung zugemessen wurde. Das zweifellos in diesem Kontext mit ebenso hohem Gewinn heranzuziehende Material der Bezeichnungen sta¨dtischer Straßen und Pla¨tze35 wurde dagegen aus Gru¨nden der bislang viel zu geringen wissenschaftlichen Aufarbeitung und Auseinandersetzung mit ihnen hier ausgeschlossen. Im Bemu¨hen um Bildung eines Kategorienrasters konnte gut herausgearbeitet werden, dass es im Wesentlichen topographische oder soziale Pha¨nomene sind, an denen sich die Namengebung von Stadttoren orientiert. (1) Bei Ersteren sind vor allem Orte der na¨heren und weiteren Umgebung der Stadt anzufu¨hren, die fu¨r Stadttornamen von maßgeblicher Bedeutung sind, und bei den an Objekten innerwie außerhalb der Stadt ausgerichteten Stadttornamen kommt zum topographischen Bezugssystem ein gleichsam mentales, etwa an Kirchenpatrozinien oder dem Bestand bestimmter geistlicher Institutionen generell ausgerichtetes hinzu. (2) Bei Zweiteren stechen die an Personen oder Personengruppen orientierten Benennungen hervor, die freilich gleichfalls – zumindest indirekt – ra¨umliche Implikationen36 haben ko¨nnen. Ohne es wirklich wagen zu ko¨nnen, aus dem ausgebreiteten Material allzu scharfe Schlu¨sse zu ziehen, bleiben einzelne Beobachtungen doch ho¨chst beachtenswert. Warum, so fragt man sich, gibt es etwa im niedero¨sterreichischen Retz, einer Grenzstadt gegen Bo¨hmen, ein nach dem direkten Nachbarort Nalb benanntes Tor im Su¨den, durch das freilich die Wiener Gasse fu¨hrt, wa¨hrend das Nordtor nach der na¨chsten wichtigen Handelsstadt in dieser Richtung, nach Znaim/Znojmo, benannt ist? Warum finden sich im steirischen Bruck an der Mur ein Wiener und ein Grazer Tor, wa¨hrend im benachbarten Leoben zwar ein Brucker Tor (Bruggertor), aber kein Stadttor, das Wien oder Graz im Namen fu¨hrt, existiert? Warum gibt es unter den Stadttoren des lombardischen Lodi ein Paveser und ein Cremoneser, aber kein Piacentiner Tor? Oder – wird man davon ausgehen du¨rfen, dass Stadttore im Regelfall zuerst nach Himmelsrichtungen oder Orten benannt wurden, in die man auf dem Weg durch sie aus der Stadt hinaus gelangte? Wird man Benennungen nach einer geistlichen Einrichtung nur dann als urspru¨nglich ansehen du¨rfen, wenn diese Institutionen a¨lter waren als das Tor oder sogar als die Stadt selbst? Und – sind dann

35 Im Zuge unserer Recherchen hat es sich natu¨rlich ergeben, dass auch ha¨ufig die Benennungen von

Straßen erfasst worden sind. Daraus vielleicht nur ein Beispiel, das einer eingehenderen Untersuchung wu¨rdig wa¨re: Die slawische Bezeichnung fu¨r den Platz, im Regelfall den Haupt- oder Marktplatz, lautet bekannter Weise Ring (polnisch: „Rynek“; Beispiel des „Altsta¨dter Rings“ in Prag); fu¨r den o¨sterreichischen Bereich la¨sst sich diese Benennung als Ring fu¨r Stadtpla¨tze in den Sta¨dten Bruck an der Mur (1392 fu¨r den heutigen Hauptplatz), in Enns (1415 fu¨r den Stadtplatz), und fu¨r den nordwestlichen Teil des Marktplatzes von Korneuburg nachweisen, ein Pha¨nomen, das weiterer Kla¨rung bedu¨rfte: Fu¨r Bruck an der Mur ko¨nnte in der Gru¨ndungsinitiative durch Ko¨nig Ottokar II. Pˇremysl eine Erkla¨rung liegen, fu¨r Korneuburg ko¨nnte an die Straßenverbindung, die nach Bo¨hmen fu¨hrte, als Erkla¨rung zu denken sein, fu¨r Enns muss ich eine Erkla¨rung oder auch nur den Versuch einer solchen schuldig bleiben. 36 Etwa im Fall des Friesentors in Ko¨ln oder auch bei den Beispielen fu¨r nach Juden benannten Tore die jeweiligen Ansiedlungen solcher sozialer Gruppen in der Stadt.

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Benennungen wie die nach Personen bzw. Personengruppen, nach Angeho¨rigen eines bestimmten Handwerks, eines Gewerbes oder auch nach Pha¨nomenen des Handelslebens generell erst spa¨ter entstanden? Fragen u¨ber Fragen – und dennoch: Gerade Fragen sind es, die Wissenschaftler mit Fug und Recht an ihr Material stellen sollen, und dies durchaus in dem Bewusstsein, dass es nicht immer schlu¨ssige Antworten auf sie geben kann. Was zuletzt trotz so mancher Entta¨uschung u¨ber eine Vielzahl offen bleibender Fragestellungen auf der Habenseite zu verbuchen ist, das bleibt der sich verfestigende Eindruck einer nicht nur bewussten Namengebung, sondern auch die Einsicht in deren Bedeutung fu¨r ein eingehenderes Versta¨ndnis ra¨umlichen Denkens und Empfindens in der Fru¨hzeit wie auch dann der weiteren Entwicklung von Sta¨dten. Gerade der Vergleich von Namen¨ rtlichkeiten mit solchen nach weiter entgebungen nach nahe einer Stadt gelegenen O fernt liegenden Orten weist darauf hin, in welcher Weise sich Sta¨dte in bestehende Siedlungsstrukturen einfu¨gten, wie man mittels der Benennung von Toren die Bedeutung einer entfernt gelegenen anderen Stadt fu¨r das eigene Sein reflektierte, wie sich damit nicht zuletzt eine Hierarchie und eine gegenseitige Relationalita¨t von Sta¨dten zeigt. Der Vergleich mit den Benennungen fu¨r Stadtviertel mit den vorwiegenden Bezugnahmen auf in ihnen gelegene, meist geistliche Objekte oder auf dortige Stadttore macht zuletzt klar, dass hier ein markant in der Stadt selbst verwurzeltes Beziehungssystem der Namengebung vorherrscht. Die Interpretation dieses Systems wu¨rde es freilich erforderlich machen, den bloßen Vergleich durch eine intensivere Bescha¨ftigung mit den Verha¨ltnissen in den einzelnen Sta¨dten selbst auszuweiten – etwas, was hier nicht geleistet werden kann.

English Abstract

Based on designations of city gates and districts which could easily be discovered through the maps of European Town Atlases, it is possible to provide a good picture of spatial visualizations in the pre-modern period. There were many reasons for choosing this specific collection of names, because the location of the city gates also allows to draw a dividing and communication line between inside and outside, between city and the immediate, but also the wider environment. In an effort to establish a category grid, it could be identified that the naming of city gates is basically oriented on topographic or social phenomena. (1) The former particularly include places in the immediate and wider environment of a city that are of fundamental importance to the names of city gates. Moreover, the city gate names which are oriented to objects within or beyond the city boundaries also entail a mental reference system which is generally oriented towards e. g. patrons of the church or the inventory of certain institutions, in addition to the topographic reference system. (2) What stands out about the latter are the namings that include individuals or a group of people which – at least indirectly – can likewise also have spatial implications. Without daring to draw any sharp conclusions from the available material, there

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are individual observations which remain highly notable. Why, for instance, is there a gate in the Wiener Gasse in the south of the Lower Austrian city of Retz, a border city to Bohemia, which is named after the directly neighboring village of Nalb, while the north gate is named after the nearest, important trading city in this direction, which is Znaim/Znojmo? Why are a Wiener and a Grazer Tor to be found in the Styrian city of Bruck an der Mur, while the neighboring town of Leoben features a Brucker Tor (Bruggertor), but not a city gate that carries Vienna or Graz in its name? Why do the city gates of the Lombard city of Lodi include a Pavese and a Cremonese, but not a Piacentine gate? Despite some disappointments about the multitude of questions that remain unanswered, what can be entered on the credit side is the solidifying impression not only of a deliberate naming, but also the insight into its significance for a more thorough understanding of spatial thinking and awareness in the early days as well as for the further development of cities. It is the comparison of nominations influenced by localities near a city with others that are oriented towards places that are further away that reveals how cities integrated themselves in existing settlement structures.

SPATIAL PATTERNS OF TRANSYLVANIAN MEDIEVAL URBAN DEVELOPMENT by Paul Niedermaier

The open intraurban space is predominantly a constructed one. As such, it represents the framework of urban life. Its forms are largely determined by the genesis of the space and of its parts, as well as by the countless changes that followed in time. However, even if you ignore the aforementioned circumstances, the intraurban spatial patterns turn out to be very complex. The ground-plan itself is often extremely complicated, it is rarely a simple rectangle or triangle, but rather displays curved fronts, with bulges and embayments,1 which substantially influence the overall effect, as is the case of Cincu, in the mid-12th century (Fig. 1).

Fig. 1: Cincu, middle of the 12th century

Sometimes, several adjacent spaces complement each other, like the central squares in Sibiu (Fig. 2), or separate squares or streets, which can be divided into distinct segments. In addition, the surrounding buildings are not equally high: their roofs instead 1 Paul Niedermaier, Sta¨dte, Do¨rfer, Baudenkma¨ler, Ko¨ln/Weimar/Wien 2008, pp. 85–122. See also:

idem, Der mittelalterliche Sta¨dtebau in Siebenbu¨rgen, im Banat und im Kreischgebiet. Entwicklung vom Anbeginn bis 1241, Heidelberg 1996; idem, Sta¨dtebau im Mittelalter. Siebenbu¨rgen, Banat und Kreischgebiet (1242–1347), Ko¨ln/Weimar/Wien 2002; idem, Sta¨dtebau im Spa¨tmittelalter. Siebenbu¨rgen, Banat und Kreischgebiet (1348–1541), Ko¨ln/Weimar/Wien 2004.

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display different pitches. It could be said that real boundaries are complemented by unmeasurable, yet perceptible virtual boundaries.

Fig. 2: Sibiu, evolution of the Small Square

In addition, the structure of the entire town exerts an essential influence on the perception of its distinct spaces. The evaluation and the specific characteristics of the adjacent buildings generate a well-defined ranking of the distinct spaces within the overall urban space structure. A decisive role can be assigned to the architectural focal points (Bra¸sov, Fig. 3).

Fig. 3: Bra¸sov, dominant architectural features of the central space, around 1275

Although these are not directly space-limiting (such as the square or the street fronts), they nevertheless affect the perceived importance of the space, as spatial tensions oc-

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cur between the focal points and the other sections of the building, which essentially determine the characteristics of the structure. The attitude towards life played a crucial role in the shaping of the spaces. Not only the relation between community and individual was important, but also the selfimage of the individual, who saw himself either as a provisional part of his world or as its very centre. According to Christian values, the quest for the journey through life could lead to the acceptance of given circumstances and, therefore, to integration into the latter, or to the tendency of imposing one’s own demands upon the space. Hence, there was an incongruity between the stages of urban development, i. e. the paradigms and the models of spatial patterns changed in time. Unquestionably, there was, in general, a certain desire for regularity, but the shape could also be very irregular. This depended largely on the size of the settlement. As such, for example, it did matter whether there was already a large settlement, where an open space was supposed to be delimited, or whether certain areas had been kept empty right from the very formation stage of the settlement. Considering these extremely complicated circumstances, the concrete appreciation of the space is only limitedly measurable and cognisant; the subconscious plays an important role. However, in order to grasp the complex issues, the phenomena must be looked into separately. The genesis of closed spaces can be clearly traced back with numerous Transylvanian towns, such as Bistri¸ta, Cluj, Sebe¸s, Sighi¸soara or Bra¸sov. Therefore, we are fully justified to focus our investigation on them. Owing to their relative isolation, which allows for a good overview, their development is paradigmatic for the creation of space in many European towns. Virtual Space. The specific character of the urban space results from the ratio of open space to its delimitation. In particular, the boundary delimitation is linked to the economic potential and the needs of the communities. The larger and, implicitly, the more powerful the community, the more accurate was the boundary delimitation, which could be preponderantly real or virtual. An exceptional case is the absence of any material borders, for example, when a fair was held in an open field. However, the concentration of the population in a given area established certain social ties, which led to a virtual and very inaccurate delimitation that was characterised by permanent changes. Nevertheless, in the case of scattered settlements, these changes were less noticeable, because of the legal boundaries established between the properties, which were not always visibly marked in the field. Real boundary delimitation began with row-settlements that were an incipient model of organisation for many future towns. Before this row of households, there usually stood an open area used as common grassland for small animals during the day and for large animals during the night. This village green inside the built-up area was bounded on the other sides by solid fences, possibly hedges, in addition to gates and barriers, which were sometimes accompanied by a ditch. In comparison with the prominent row of households, the opposite delimitation was much less obvious, and, as a result, definitely virtual (Fig. 4).

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Fig. 4: Toarcla, plotting of the nucleus

Fig. 5: Sebe¸s, the first stages of urban development

The terrain played an important role in this context, i. e. a hill or high vegetation before the open space could also be perceived as an element of delimitation. The character could be influenced by the route plan of the row-settlement. If the latter’s shape was concave, the fronts of the households were oriented more towards that space, thus highlighting it. On the other hand, if the route was convex, the households were to a larger extent oriented towards the landscape and the open space partly lost its relevance as community space. In this case, the community space enjoyed a minor importance, the virtual delimitation decreasing in significance. The concrete solution was determined not only by the terrain features, but also by the mentality of the inhabitants, which could incline towards strengthening or dissolution of social considerations. Three early phases in the evolution of Sebe¸s (Fig. 5) are a paradigmatic example in this sense. The core of the settlement was formed of a single block with a rectangular front straight before it. It appeared in about 1175 and in front of it there was a town green, which included the cemetery and a chapel. Over the next twenty years, the initial row

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was extended lengthwise to a distance twice as long as the initial parcelling-out. Subsequently, the construction of a new row was initiated beyond the elongated green and facing the former row. Real Space. The population growth and the construction of a new row of households beyond the open space and facing the former row changed the situation fundamentally. The town green, which essentially tended to be longer than it was wide, was clearly bordered by the two fronts, while the hedge-like entanglement usually surrounded the entire settlement. Only the sides of the central open space were represented by those initial delineations. They were less prominent and, implicitly, moreor-less virtual. The possible existence of a cemetery with a church in the middle structured the community space. However, the strengthening of social ties at the same time exerted a centralising effect. Therefore, the partially virtual element of space delimitation further lost in importance. The next step, i. e. the change of virtual space features into real delineations, was once again linked to the population growth. Side streets appeared or, following a denser parcelling-out, the built-up fronts started to play a dominant role. A curvature of the street or offsets in the line of adjacent fronts represented elements of lengthwise structuring and delimitation.

Fig. 6: Cincu, around 1200. Drawing by Hermann Phleps Source: Siebenbu¨rgen und seine Wehrbauten. Mit einer Darstellung der Baugeschichte von Hermann Phleps, hg. v. Heinrich Zillich, Ko¨nigsstein/Leipzig 1941, S. 105

However, it was the changes made to the central space that were decisive for the future configuration of the urban space. The increase of the price of land inside the fortifications did not allow the preservation of a large central space. What followed was,

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as a rule, its parcelling-out, starting from the extremity of the settlement to its centre (Fig. 6). In such cases, the new properties were constructed in the adjacent streets, which had appeared along with the parcelling-out of the town green. Considering that the town green itself was to be parcelled-out, no other possible solution was apparent. However, in the case of Bistri¸ta and Sebe¸s, the last parcelling-outs on the initially open area still triggered the orientation of the new fronts towards the adjacent streets and not towards the open space, which, from that moment on, would be used as a market-

Fig. 7: Bistri¸ta, stages of parcelling out the meadow

place. The adjacent plots on the old town green had their side fences facing the empty space, a less relevant fact from an architectural point of view (Fig. 7). The empty space was perceived from the point of view of its functional value. In certain cases, clearly depending on the terrain features, an entire front was lacking (Fig. 8).

Fig. 8: Sighi¸soara, evolution of the square

Still referring to the town of Sebe¸s, between 1250 and 1275, a large portion of the town green was parcelled-out and the entire urban structure thus became more organised.

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Only one section of the old green remained free, on both sides of the graveyard and of the church, as was attested in a document by the parish priest in 1245.2 The names of the structural features are significant, i. e. Large Square and Small Square. The increased importance in the urban structure grew, and in the 13th century a church surrounded by a wall was constructed3 (Fig. 9).

Fig. 9: Sebe¸s, the Larger and the Small Square around 1275

Towns like Cluj and Bistri¸ta show very clearly that parcelling-out was carried out in accordance with a very precise concept of urban planning. The width of the side 2 Franz Zimmermann/Carl Werner, Urkundenbuch zur Geschichte der Deutschen in Siebenbu¨rgen,

I, Hermannstadt 1892, p. 71.

3 Marian Angelescu/Gustav Gu¨ndisch/Albert Klein/Harald Krasser/Theobald Streitfeld,

Restaurarea unui monument de arhitectur˘a din epocile romanic˘a s¸ i gotic˘a ˆın cadrul ansamblului de monumente feudale de la Sebe¸s Alba, in: Monumente istorice. Studii s¸ i lucr˘ari de restaurare II (1967), p. 114.

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streets, which remained forever the principal roads of the city, was set with a great deal of care, with the aim of either achieving a very organic connection with the central ensemble or a certain separation from it (Fig. 10). The thoroughfares of Sebes, Bistri¸ta

Fig. 10: Cluj, the central streets around 1290

and Cluj, formed of „market streets“, broaden out towards the central square, contributing to a particularly organic connection. On the other hand, the parallel roads of slightly less importance taper slightly towards the square, suggesting isolation of the spaces.

Fig. 11: Bistri¸ta, the Central Square after J. Tro¨ster, 1666 Source: Johannes Tro¨ster, Das Alt- und Neu-Teutsche Dacia, Nu¨rnberg 1666, S. 440

The aesthetic value of this central space, i. e. its architectonic and urban significance, was recognised during the reconstruction stage of the centre. The construction of built-up fronts facing the centre improved the urban structure, which was often oriented towards a central edifice – the church with the burial ground and, at a later time, the fortified church (Fig. 11).

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As the issue of spatial perception was raised, the existence of a clearly defined shape became important. To obtain such a form, a small additional block was built in Bra¸sov, which turned the triangular space into a denser, trapezoidal one. A similar evolution can be noticed in the case in Cluj, where the outlet of certain adjacent streets was tapered in the central square, while that of a by-street was incorporated within a building (Fig. 12). However, the factual nature of these squares was mainly

Fig. 12: Cluj, confluence of the main streets with the square

governed by the relationship between their space and the supportive architectural focal points. These were generally the parish churches and, sometimes, the gate towers, as is the case with the Marketplace Square in Sighi¸soara (Fig. 13).

Fig. 13: Sighi¸soara, the School Street with the Church on the Hill. Watercolour painting by B. Schuller

Spatial Structures. Town growth and the emergence of additional streets was closely followed by the town ranking and the role the town played in economic and social life

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and, implicitly, in the overall urban composition of the settlements. Ranking ensured a sense of order, unity and easy orientation within the town.

Fig. 14: Bistri¸ta, street-hierarchy in the fortified area of the town

Several components competed in this respect. The more important streets, which are almost always the older ones, are at the same time straighter and wider. Being inhabited by wealthier people who could afford to build larger houses, these streets are also relevant in the architectural context. Less important streets, which are generally newer ones, can be found either as an extension of the main thoroughfares outside the walls, or behind the main streets. When it comes to the streets in the suburbs, including the main ones, the existence there of larger properties with a lower density of buildings of lower value is noticeable. Secondary streets inside fortified centres had to adapt their route to the rear of properties opposite the main streets and, as a result, they were often less linear. Due to social considerations, such streets were narrower, and until the increase in density of the network of plots, mainly in the 14th–16th centuries, they displayed only one built-up front. The smaller size of the houses, their reduced height and the open building system must be added to all of this. The case of Bistri¸ta (Fig. 14) is paradigmatic for such a hierarchy. The central square with the church in the middle represents both the unifying and the dominant element of the entire urban structure. Facing it are the largest houses, and those built right before a front display archways. A much smaller square located laterally has a functional, yet not an urban importance. The main streets and, in particular, a mar-

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ket street, were more important for the general structure; they are marked by onestorey buildings. Laterally, there are narrow side streets with ground-level houses. The connecting streets, which link the side streets to the principal ones, are also only to a small extent narrow and built-up. Finally, there are passages for pedestrians only, which are approximately 1m wide and not built-up.

Fig. 15: Sighi¸soara, gravitational lines of the urban composition

Taken as a whole, these structures form the urban composition, in which the urban spaces are adjoined and often arranged into a single ensemble. Inside this whole, the visitor is guided due to the shape of the spaces and of the structures from the periphery towards the centre. The best example in this respect is Sighi¸soara, especially in terms of how the town looked until the 19th century (Fig. 15). In the Lower Town, one can reach the main streets from the side streets, the former being partly wider towards the Marketplace Square. The square itself was surrounded by fortifications supported by gate towers in the direction of the main streets. Implicitly, the towers, representing small architectural focal points, emphasised the extremity towards the square and were, at the same time, an aesthetic guiding element for the visitors. The marketplace square in the centre of the Lower Town is dominated by a gate tower belonging to the adjoining district, which also accommodated the Town Hall. The gate tower provided access into the citadel, and this short but relatively wide street led to the Fortress Square. The main route again changes direction in the square, and by following the widest street in the citadel it is possible to access the Church on the Hill, which is the principal focus of attention of the

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entire town. It is the best example for symbiosis between the open space and the adjacent buildings. They both form the spatial structure, while its components highlight the gravitational lines of the structure. They all lead to the marketplace, to the main square of the citadel and to the church. Particularly masterful solutions even solve the inconveniences caused by the changes of direction. Studies on the Space of Urban Development. The issues of space have always preoccupied researchers of the history of urban development. Even as far back as Pierre Lavedan,4 they have insisted on these aspects. By harmonising the representation of the planimetric structure with the related architecture in Karl Gruber’s drawings,5 the overall spatial texture of towns can be much better perceived. However, the accurate understanding of the specific features of the solutions for urban development, along with the corresponding spatial relations, was mainly analysed by Wolfgang Rauda.6 In his book, Raumprobleme im europa¨ischen Sta¨dtebau,7 the German scholar even manages to establish systems of composition by distinguishing between the free forms, which are rhythmically related and characteristic of the Middle Ages, and the rigid forms of the Modern Age, which are designed metrically and symmetrically. The problem with such studies on the criticism of art and architecture is that they often ignore the process of genesis, as Karl Gruber8 suggests. However, the potential importance of such criticism is shown, for example, by Vile´m Lorenc in his book on the New City of Prague.9 In particular, thorough knowledge of the incipient phases in the development of built-up areas is in many cases very conclusive. These phases can be very well identified and studied in Transylvanian towns, which are relatively isolated within the perimeter of Central Europe. From this perspective, it can well be said that, for every settlement, space has always been an essential element of urban development. It formed and still forms the framework of our daily life.

4 Pierre Lavedan, Histoire de l’Urbanisme. Antiquite´ – Moyen A ˆ ge, Paris 1926. 5 Karl Gruber, Die Gestalt der deutschen Stadt, Mu¨nchen 1952. 6 Wolfgang Rauda, Sta¨dtebauliche Raumbildung. Asymmetrie und Rhythmus in der deutschen Stadt,

Berlin 1957.

7 Wolfgang Rauda, Raumprobleme im europa¨ischen Sta¨dtebau, Mu¨nchen 1956. 8 Gruber, Die Gestalt (see note 5), pp. 161–176. 9 Vile´m Lorenc, Das Prag Karls IV. Die Prager Neustadt, Stuttgart 1982.

URBAN SPACE IN THE ROMANIAN PRINCIPALITIES OF THE MIDDLE AGES Organized or Random Development?* by Lauren¸tiu R˘advan

Those interested in urban space research in the Romanian principalities are faced with several difficulties. There are scarcely any valuable, in-depth contributions in this field, and good monographs are hard to find. Only a series of articles in history journals partly make up for these shortcomings. Urban history, in general, was not a topic of interest before the Second World War. Even after 1947, research into the past history of towns was not a priority, since their origin and urban evolution were rapidly subsumed to the paradigm of materialist-scientific views of the time. A change becomes noticeable after 1989, but it is by no means drastic. This paper will review the rather limited perception of Romanian historians of the urban area, as well as the more recent views on this matter, along with a few relevant case studies. Conflicting information in sources on towns south and east of the Carpathians has divided the opinions of scholars along two major lines of interpretation with respect to the emergence and the organization of urban centers: 1) Towns created as predominantly commercial centers thanks to the contribution of social elements of foreign origin; 2) towns arising as the medieval Romanian society reached a new stage in its development, the „division of labor“, namely the separation of crafts and agriculture. Advocates of the former point of view were particularly vocal before the Second World War, when the vast majority of scholars claimed that towns in the Romanian medieval principalities were simply the result of economic and political influences from Central Europe. The emergence of towns would have occurred before or at the same time as the rise of the Romanian principalities. With the support of the king of Hungary or that of the local rulers, foreign colonists arrived in the regions south and east of the Carpathian Mountains, laying the foundations for some of the oldest towns in the country, where they introduced their own elements of administrative, legal, and economic organization.1 * This work was supported by a grant of the Romanian National Authority for Scientific Research,

CNCS – UEFISCDI, project number PN-II-ID-PCE-2011-3-0562.

1 See Neculai Iorga, Nego¸tul s¸ i me¸ste¸sugurile ıˆn trecutul romaˆnesc [Trade and crafts in Romania’s

past], 2nd ed. by Georgeta Penelea, Bucharest 1982, pp. 83–84; Neculai Iorga, Istoria romaˆnilor [The

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After the Second World War, Marxist interpretations were introduced into the debate under the new political circumstances of the Soviet occupation and the dawn of a political regime approved and controlled by the Soviet Union. The idea that medieval towns had a foreign origin was apparently unacceptable to the Romanian Communists; therefore, some historians embraced the new theory of a specifically Romanian social evolution. They shifted the emphasis to the social division of labor, stressing the importance of crafts in towns and the class struggle, with the urban process being seen as something native, subject to only minor influences from abroad. As a consequence, the research of urban space had a similar fate, the topic being completely neglected. Those who believed that towns developed by means of local emergence supported the idea that they developed gradually and randomly, with no specific, planned layout.2 Historical sources are partly at fault for this situation, because the dawn of the principalities is scarcely documented. For the 14th–15th centuries, when the principalities were urbanized, we have no more than several tens of documents to shed some light on this vast process.3 The 17th–18th centuries are more generous in this respect, but urban archives were badly damaged, not only by earthquakes, floods, or fires, but also by the endless wars between challengers to the throne or powers in the area (the Ottoman Empire, Austria, and Russia). Even so, town outlines survived, and streets generally kept their original routes in the Middle Ages, since inhabitants preferred to rebuild each time on the old plot. Unfortunately, no research on the size of plots for various owners has been undertaken.4 The maps of the principalities and the town plans drafted by the Austrians or the Russians during their temporary occupation of these areas are a very useful source for research into the topography of towns. For towns, the 1769, 1770, 1789, and 1790 plans of Ia¸si and Bucharest are the first known of their kind, and they were followed by others, which became increasingly detailed.5

History of the Romanians], vol. III, 2nd ed. by Victor Spinei, Bucharest 1993, pp. 137–139; Petre P. Panaitescu, Comunele medievale ıˆn Principatele Romaˆne [Medieval communes in Romanian Principalities], in: Interpret˘ari romaˆne¸sti [Romanian interpretations], ed. by S¸ tefan S. Gorovei/Maria-Magdalena Szekely, Bucharest 1994, pp. 119–159, here pp. 141–149. 2 See Istoria Romaˆniei [History of Romania], ed. by Andrei Otetea, ¸ vol. II, Bucharest 1962, p. 289. After the war, Panaitescu, an important historian, displayed a dramatic change in his views on towns. Initially a supporter of the role played in the Romanian principalities by the foreign colonists, he came up in the late 60’s with new concepts, such as the Romanian „ora¸se-ob¸stii“ (literally, towns-communities), which supposedly predated the emergence of the principalities. He considered these ora¸seob¸stii as being „a specific Romanian creation, a Romanian solution in the development of urban life in medieval Europe“; Petre P. Panaitescu, Introducere la istoria culturii romaˆne¸sti. Problemele istoriografiei romaˆne [Introduction to the History of Romanian culture. Issues of Romanian historiography], 2nd ed. by Dan Horia Mazilu, Bucharest 2000, pp. 263–275. 3 All the documents issued by the local princes until the middle of the 17th century, found today in the national archives, are published in the national collection of documents: Documenta Romaniae Historica, 3 series (A – Moldova, B – Tara ¸ Romaˆneasc˘a, C – Transilvania), multiple volumes, Bucharest 1965-present day. 4 Only a few considerations are available, made by archaeologists; see, for example: Mircea D. Matei/ Emil I. Emandi, Cetatea de scaun s¸ i curtea domneasc˘a din Suceava [The stronghold and the princely residence of Suceava], Bucharest 1988. 5 Most of these maps are now in the archives of Moscow, see Documente privitoare la istoria economic˘a a Romaˆniei. Ora¸se s¸ i Taˆrguri [Documents on the Economic History of Romania. Towns and

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Although the other towns did not enjoy the same thorough treatment, the situation improved from the next century on (the 1818 plan for Roman, 1853 for Suceava, 1855 for Siret etc.).6 Archaeological excavations could provide valuable information for the past, as they did for many Western towns, but Wallachia and Moldavia had few systematic archaeological initiatives. Excavations were performed mostly in large towns, where the old residences of the ruler and the churches within them were studied: Bucharest, Taˆrgovi¸ste, Caˆmpulung, Arge¸s, Floci (for Wallachia), Ia¸si, Suceava, Baia, Siret, Bac˘au, Trotu¸s, and Adjud (for Moldavia).7 Historical centers in towns were the secondary focus of archaeologists, and were researched only during restoration work or, as was more often the case, during the massive demolitions of the Communist regime in the 1980s. This is why most archaeological data on old towns comes from the so-called „salvation excavations“. Various factors led to many of their discoveries remaining unpublished to this day or being transmitted to the public long after they were undertaken.8 * The first solid research into the topography of Wallachian and Moldavian towns in the Middle Ages began in the 1970s–1980s and involved architects, rather than historians. The true breakthroughs in the field are owed to Eugenia Greceanu, who dealt marketplaces], series A, Moldova, vol. II, ed. by Gheorghe Ungureanu, Bucharest 1960; C˘al˘atori str˘aini despre t¸a˘ rile romaˆne [The accounts of foreign travelers in the Romanian Principalities] (10 vols.), vol. VIII, ed. by Maria Holban et al., Bucharest 1983, p. 343; I. Iona cu, Planul cartografic inedit al ora¸sului Bucure¸sti din anul 1770 [An unknown plan of Bucharest from 1770], in: Studii. Revista de Iistorie XII (1959) no. 5, pp. 113–131. 6 Eugenia Greceanu, La structure urbaine me´die´vale de la ville de Roman, in: Revue Roumaine d’Histoire XV (1976) no. 1, pp. 39–56; Atlas istoric al ora¸selor din Romaˆnia [Historical Atlas of towns in Romania], series A, Moldova, fasc. 1, Suceava, ed. by Mircea D. Matei, Bucharest 2005, maps VI– VII; Atlas istoric al ora¸selor din Romaˆnia [Historical Atlas of towns in Romania], series A, Moldova, fasc. 2, Siret, ed. by Dan Dumitru Iacob, Bucharest 2010, map V. 7 Among other, see Neculai Constantinescu, Curtea de Arge¸s (1200–1400). Asupra ıˆnceputurilor T˘ ¸ arii Romaˆne¸sti [Curtea de Arge¸s (1200–1400). On the beginnings of Wallachia], Bucharest 1984; Vasile Neamtu/Eugenia ¸ Neamtu/Stela ¸ Cheptea, Ora¸sul medieval Baia ıˆn secolele XIV–XVII [The medieval town of Baia in the 14th–17th centuries], vol. I–II, Ia¸si 1980–1984; Vasile Neamtu, ¸ Istoria ora¸sului medieval Baia („Civitas Moldaviensis“) [The History of the medieval town of Baia (Civitas Moldaviensis)], Ia¸si 1997; Al. Andronic, Ia¸sii paˆn˘a la mijlocul secolului al XVII-lea: Genez˘a s¸ i evolu¸tie [Ia¸si until mid 17th century. Emergence and evolution], Ia¸si 1986; Mircea D. Matei, Contribu¸tii arheologice la istoria ora¸sului Suceava [Archaeological contributions to the History of Suceava], Bucharest 1963; Mircea D. Matei, Civiliza¸tie urban˘a medieval˘a romaˆneasc˘a. Contribu¸tii (Suceava paˆn˘a la mijlocul secolului al XVI-lea) [Medieval Romanian urban civilization. Contributions (Suceava until mid 16th century)], Bucharest 1989; Alexandru Artimon, Civiliza¸tia medieval˘a urban˘a din secolele XIV– XVII (Bac˘au, Tg. Trotu¸s, Adjud) [Medieval urban civilization, 14th–16thcentury (Bac˘au, Tg. Trotu¸s, Adjud)], Ia¸si 1998; Alexandru Artimon, Ora¸sul medieval Trotu¸s ıˆn secolele XIV–XVII. Genez˘a s¸ i evolu¸tie [The medieval town of Trotu¸s, 14th–17th century. Emergence and evolution], Bac˘au 2003; Stela Cheptea, Un ora¸s medieval Haˆrl˘au [A medieval town: Haˆrl˘au], Ia¸si 2000. 8 For example, the archaeological excavations carried out close to Baˆrlad in the 50’s were finally published in full after 2000: Mircea D. Matei/Lucian Chitescu, ¸ Cetatea de p˘amaˆnt de la Baˆrlad. Monografie arheologic˘a [The earth stronghold of Baˆrlad. Archaeological monograph], Taˆrgovi¸ste 2002.

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with three towns that were to be affected by the „modernization“ work undertaken by Communist authorities: Pite¸sti in Wallachia, and Roman and Boto¸sani in Moldavia.9 Teodor Octavian Gheorghiu joined her in her efforts, and was interested in towns such as Buz˘au, Caˆmpulung or Suceava.10 Ultimately, it was Emil Ioan Emandi who analyzed in detail the outlines and the development of Suceava. The efforts of these researchers have shown that, to a certain extent, town outlines in Moldavia and Wallachia follow principles encountered in settlements created by German colonists throughout Europe.11 Their theories were at that point disregarded. More recent interpretations, including our own,12 oppose the widespread opinion that urban space in this area was distributed randomly. Several case studies are particularly revealing in this respect. Baia is one of the few medieval local towns where ample archaeological research was undertaken, which not only focused on the old churches, but also ancient dwellings and their inventories. Unfortunately, the excavations did not cover the entire surface of the old town. An analysis of the discovered dwellings led researchers to claim that we might argue for a systematic topographic outline of inhabited space. The parcelation of land here is rigorous, but archaeologists struggled to identify the date when this process took place.13 What we know is that a group of German settlers took up residence here after an older pre-urban settlement was set on fire and after this territory came into the hands of the troops dispatched by the Hungarian king in the mid-14th century.14 The settlers received the new land to set themselves up, while a possible locator, someone who brought them there, was charged with measuring and distributing the land.15 In Baia, it is possible that they received land previously used by the locals and devastated after the conquest. Since the locals were not accustomed to a rigorous parcelation, the newcomers were the ones who reshaped the plots. The 9 Greceanu, La structure urbaine (see note 6), pp. 39–56; ead., Ansamblul urban medieval Boto¸sani

[The medieval urban site of Boto¸sani], Bucharest 1981 and Ansamblul urban medieval Pite¸sti [The medieval urban site of Pite¸sti], Bucharest 1982. 10 Teodor Octavian Radu Radoslav, Spa¸tiul central al ora¸sului medieval romaˆnesc extracarpatic din secolele XIV–XVI, spa¸tiu al coeziunii sociale. Elemente pentru un studiu comparatist european [The central area of the Romanian medieval town outside the Carpathian Area in the 14th–16th century, an area of social cohesion. Essentials in a European comparative study], in: Historia Urbana I-2 (1993), pp. 153–174, here pp. 154–173; Teodor Octavian Gheorghiu, Suceava medieval˘a – genez˘a s¸ i evolu¸tie paˆn˘a ıˆn prima parte a secolului al XVI-lea. Elemente morfo-structurale [Medieval Suceava – emergence and evolution until the former half of the 16th century. Structural elements], in: Historia Urbana XII-1+2 (2004), pp. 67–93, here pp. 81–82. 11 Emil Ioan Emandi, Habitatul urban s¸ i cultura spa¸tiului. Studiu de geografie istoric˘a. Suceava ˆın secolele XIV–XX [The urban habitat and the culture of space. A study in historical geography. Suceava in the 14th–20th centuries], Ia¸si 1996, pp. 263–268, 294–301. 12 The most recent: Lauren¸tiu Radvan, ˘ At Europe’s Borders: Medieval Towns in the Romanian Principalities, transl. by Valentin Cıˆrdei, Leiden/Boston 2010, and the Romanian revised version: Ora¸sele din t¸a˘ rile romaˆne ıˆn evul mediu (sfaˆr¸situl sec. al XIII-lea – ıˆnceputul sec. al XVI-lea) [Medieval towns from the Romanian Principalities (late 13th century – beginning 16th century)], Ia¸si 2011. 13 Neamtu/Neam ¸ tu/Cheptea, ¸ Ora¸sul medieval Baia (see note 7), vol. 2, pp. 40–42, 46–47. 14 Ibid., vol. 1, p. 22; vol. 2, p. 16. 15 A process seen throughout Central Europe; a detailed analysis in Adrienne Ko ¨ rmendy, Melioratio terrae: Vergleichende Untersuchungen u¨ber die Siedlungsbewegung im o¨stlichen Mitteleuropa im 13. – 14. Jahrhundert, Poznan´ 1995.

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fact that they did apply the new layout is suggested by another detail specific to town outlines in the rest of Europe: the existence of a central marketplace. On its sides, dwellings are more frequent than on secondary streets, indicating that the new inhabitants sought to make the most of what little space they had, since trading was most successful here.16 Baia is different than other towns in the Romanian-inhabited area, where traditional local markets were open and did not follow any specific outline. Along with the marketplace, there were traces of stone-paved roads and houses with tiled stoves.17 Dating back to the 15th–16th centuries, these demonstrate a high level of urbanization for the town. In Siret, the first capital of Moldavia, excavations indicate a pre-urban settlement in the mid-14th century, where craftsmen’s workshops were already active; ovens for the purpose of firing iron ore were discovered. Most of the ceramic items found here are attributed to a group of German settlers, who probably came from Poland shortly before the principality of Moldavia emerged.18 It was claimed that Siret developed from two cores, a Catholic-German one, and an Orthodox-Romanian one.19 Archaeological excavations, which focused especially on the surroundings of the main Orthodox church in town (we do not know for sure that there were only Romanians there at the end of the 14th century), indicate that the area was not as densely inhabited; the density of the dwellings and the archaeological material are no match to the ones discovered in the colonist-inhabited region.20 Our conclusions are that the Orthodox area was likely the settlement that existed before the arrival of the settlers, which has remained on the town’s outskirts until today. One indication regarding the urbanization of the colonists’ settlement is the fact that mendicant monks settled here, both Franciscan and Dominican. The Franciscans were the first, and their church (Holy Virgin) in 1371 became the seat of a Catholic bishopric.21 The Dominicans arrived somewhat later, before 1378,22 and gained the support of Petru I’s mother, Margaret, who helped them to build the church of St John the Baptist.23 This 16 Neamtu/Neam ¸ tu/Cheptea, ¸ Ora¸sul medieval Baia (see note 7), vol. 1, p. 156; vol. 2, p. 42; Neamtu, ¸

Istoria ora¸sului (see note 7), pp. 118–119, 153–154.

17 Neamtu/Neam ¸ tu/Cheptea, ¸ Ora¸sul medieval Baia (see note 7), vol. 1, pp. 36–37; 128–139; vol. 2,

pp. 45–46. 18 Mircea D. Matei, Caˆteva considera¸tii pe marginea ıˆnceputurilor ora¸sului Siret, ıˆn lumina celor mai re-

cente descoperiri arheologice [Several considerations on the emergence of the town of Siret, in light of the most recent archaeological findings], in: Revista Muzeelor s¸ i monumentelor. Monumente istorice s¸ i de artˇa XVII (1986) no. 2, pp. 19–25, here pp. 21–23; Victor Spinei/Elena Gherman, Santierul ¸ arheologic Siret (1993) [Archaeological excavations in Siret (1993)], in: Arheologia Moldovei XVIII (1995), pp. 229–250, here p. 232. 19 Matei, Caˆteva considera¸tii (see note 18), pp. 22–24. 20 Spinei/Gherman, Santierul ¸ arheologic Siret (see note 18), pp. 229–250; Lucian Chitescu, ¸ Cercet˘arile arheologice din ora¸sul Siret [Archeological research in Siret], in: Revista Muzeelor s¸ i monumentelor XII (1975) no. 3, pp. 48–53. 21 Documente privitoare la istoria romaˆnilor culese de Eudoxiu de Hurmuzaki [Documents on Romanians History as collected by Eudoxiu de Hurmuzaki], vol. I, part 2, ed. by Nicolae Densu¸sianu, Bucharest 1890, p. 160, doc. 124; p. 168, doc. 131. 22 Ioan C. Filitti, Din arhivele Vaticanului [From the archives of Vatican], vol. I, Bucharest 1913, p. 9, doc. IV. 23 Atlas istoric. Siret (see note 6), map V.

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saint became the patron saint of the town, and his image was made a part of the seal emblem, suggesting that it was this church, and not that of the bishopric, that became the main spiritual and spatial landmark in the community. Evidence for this was the fact that it was placed in the central market, the core of the town. In Suceava, another important town, the excavations indicate a substantial growth of the inhabited space for the end of the 14th century, which is apparently owed to the arrival of a group of foreigners. Their arrival coincides with this town becoming the capital of the principality under Petru I, who also built two strongholds here. Modern outlines confirm the existence of a central marketplace in Suceava, close to the palace of the prince. The initial outline and surface of this marketplace consisted of around 20 hectares, while the town had around 100 hectares in the Middle Ages.24 The marketplace also relied on the Saxons and Hungarians settling there at the end of the 14th century, on the north-east side, and the Armenians on the north-west. The relatively regulated features of the area, as well as the two parallel streets that developed at the end of it indicate a certain parcelation of the land. Later outlines confirm a high density in plots, which were rectangular in shape. As in other towns, the narrow side of the plot, facing the street, had the houses aligned continuously,25 this judicious land use being backed up by archaeological research, which located the cellars beneath the medieval houses.26 In this case, we can say that the reasons for the town’s emergence involved two separate groups, the Saxons and the Armenians, who were able to settle close to the marketplace and near the ruler’s palace with his consent and support. We can suppose that the newcomers planned their settlement, in order to better occupy the land and also for economic reasons. The town of Roman makes for another interesting case study, because the old chronicles of Moldavia tells us that Prince Roman I, who followed Petru I, built the taˆrg in his own name, Roman.27 Some historians accept that a link existed between Roman and this town, while others deny it, but no one has been able to explain how Roman was able to influence the town’s emergence. The emergence of a town by plantatio, bringing settlers and introducing a new legal status, did not necessarily require a settlement to be built from scratch, but rather to be relocated based on a different outline and other legal principles.28 The place of emergence for Roman, close to where the Moldova river joined the Siret river, favored not only habitation, but

24 Emandi, Habitatul urban (see note 11), pp. 299–300. 25 Ibid., pp. 263–268; Atlas istoric. Suceava (see note 6), maps V–VII. 26 Gheorghe Diaconu, Observa¸tii cu privire la urmele vechiului taˆrg al Sucevei ıˆn vremea marilor asedii

otomane s¸ i polone din veacul al XV-lea [Observations on the traces of the ancient taˆrg of Suceava during the great Ottoman and Polish sieges of the 15th century], in: Studii s¸ i materiale de istorie medie I (1956), pp. 267–283, here pp. 267–274; Matei/ Emandi, Cetatea de scaun (see note 4), pp. 158–162. 27 Grigore Ureche, Letopise¸tul T˘ ¸ arii Moldovei [The Chronicle of Moldavia], ed. by Petre P. Panaitescu, Bucharest 1958, p. 66; Miron Costin, Poema polon˘a [The Polish Poem], ed. by Petre P. Panaitescu, Bucharest 1958, p. 235. 28 As in many cases in Poland, see Benedykt Zientara, Socio-Economic and Spatial Transformation of Polish Towns During the Period of Location, in: Acta Poloniae Historica XXXIV (1976), pp. 57–83, here pp. 62–66.

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also exchanges, so an older settlement probably existed here as well. The town outline for Roman has no less than three parallel streets stemming from the main marketplace which separated the settlement and the stronghold.29 The road entering the town from south-west also stopped in the marketplace and the area that these streets delimited is set apart by a dense parcelation.30 The parallel outline of streets and the existence of a regular marketplace in the center contradict the widespread assumption of Romanian historians, who believe that most towns grew spontaneously by themselves. They claim that towns grew over time without a deliberate outline or any specific order along the roads that entered the settlement and converged into one central point, where both the marketplace and the seat of local authority existed (the ruler’s residence). In contrast, it is now assumed that parallel streets developed as part of a planned evolution, since this type of development only partly relied on the course of older roads. These streets were located in a straight line, indicating that they did not evolve by themselves, but followed a precise course of the plots that bordered them. A group of German colonists also came to Ia¸si, which would later become the most important town of Moldavia (the third capital, in an evolution that spanned from the late 14th century to the 16th century). They settled not far from the residence of the prince, on one side of the Main Street (Uli¸ta Mare), where they built their own church.31 The Armenian group took up residence on one side of the Old Street (Uli¸ta Veche), and also had their own church.32 The Germans and the Armenians were situated in the central area, on the lands that were free or had been released around 1400.33 The town marketplace was closed to the ruler’s residence: The area in front of the palace walls was a public display for the ruler’s power. It was here that he sometimes held trials, and it was also here that felons were hung;34 the commercial marketplace developed to the east of the palace (the Lower Market).35 Here we also have the Russian Street,36 so we can conclude that the Ruthenians, Germans, and Armenians settled as near to the palace as possible, suggesting a conscious outline. The fact that three of the streets here (the Russian Street, St Friday, and the Old Street) are parallel also indicates a rigorous plan being put into practice from the time

29 C˘al˘atori str˘aini (see note 5), vol. II, p. 139. 30 Greceanu, La structure urbaine (see note 6), pp. 41–53. 31 Documente privind istoria Romaˆniei, series A, Moldova – XVIIth century [Documents on Romanian

History], vol. IV, Bucharest 1956, p. 434, doc. 563; C˘al˘atori str˘aini (see note 5), vol. II, p. 524; vol. III, p. 639; vol. V, p. 178; Marco Bandini, Codex. Vizitarea general˘a a tuturor bisericilor catolice de rit roman din Provincia Moldova, 1646–1648 [Codex. A visit to all Roman Catholic churches in the province of Moldavia, 1646–1648], Ia¸si 2006, p. 256. 32 Documente privind (see note 31), series A, Moldova – XVIIth century, vol. II, p. 339, doc. 452; C˘al˘a˘ ar ˘ au/Ioan ˘ tori str˘aini (see note 5), vol. II, pp. 523–524; vol. V, pp. 178–179; Dan Bad Capro¸su, Ia¸sii vechilor zidiri paˆn˘a la 1821 [The Ia¸si of ancient edifice until 1821], Ia¸si 2007, pp. 45–48. 33 Stela Cheptea, Din nou despre ıˆnceputurile Ia¸silor [A new study on the emergence of Ia¸si], in: Historia Urbana V-2 (1997), pp. 160–162. 34 C˘al˘atori str˘aini (see note 5), vol. II, p. 131–132, 352; vol. III, p. 182. 35 Documente privind (see note 31), series A, Moldova – XVIIth century, vol. IV, p. 419, doc. 541; ˘ ar ˘ au/Capro¸ ˘ Bad su, Ia¸sii (see note 32), pp. 37–39. 36 Documente privitoare la istoria ora¸sului Ia¸si [Documents about the history of Ia¸si], vol. I, ed. by Ioan Capro¸su/Petronel Zahariuc, Ia¸si 1999, p. 244, doc. 179.

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that the colonists arrived. This parallel positioning was doubtlessly accompanied by an orderly distribution of plots, which we can only assume (we do not have enough proofs in the written sources or in the archaeological excavations). Future redistributions and the purchases made by the grand boyars and the monasteries changed the status of these plots between the 17th and the 18th centuries. Similar situations also feature in Wallachia, but on a significantly lower scale. The second capital of the principality, Taˆrgovi¸ste, completed the road-to-town transformation in the 14th century. Close to a local stronghold, the medieval town grew out of two settlements: 1) An older one, south-west of the stronghold; 2) a more recent colonist settlement in the north-west, with the church of St Mary as its main church.37 The privileged town grew out of the second settlement, since it was here that the outside group settled, receiving a more distinct status. A locatio probably regulated the arrival of the Saxons. Unfortunately, this theory has little topographical evidence to support it, since the town changed drastically: The central marketplace was displaced several times, the population declined, the structure of the older Catholic neighborhood changed, and the Communist era also brought about its own transformations. In the area around the Catholic church, fragments of a frequent, rigorous parcelation have survived until modern times; they may have been related to the older marketplace present here.38 No systematic archaeological research was undertaken in this part of the town during Communism, and the published works are not entirely revealing. The few surveys performed indicate the outline of the Catholic church, which in the 15th century covered a sizable area: 36.20 m × 9.50 m, with walls that were 1.10 m – 1.25 m thick.39 The transfer of a previously locally-inhabited piece of land to the Saxons suggests distribution, coordinated by both the ruler and the leader of the newcomers. To settle into the new territory, colonizers had to outline new parcels of land, since they brought different, more efficient patterns for organizing the land from Transylvania. Without other sources to support our theories, this is all that we can say about the situation in the town. As a conclusion to this part of the paper, we may note that in most of the cases we are dealing with older, pre-urban settlements, which advanced to the urban phase in their development in the 14th century after colonists settled there. They benefitted from the support of local princes, who granted them land and privileges. Even if sources offer limited information in this respect, there are hints that the land granted to the colonists was restructured. Starting with parallel streets, they parceled out plots of land and outlined a central marketplace, then erected churches. The urban area 37 Petru Diaconescu, Cercet˘ari arheologice la curtea domneasc˘a din Taˆrgovi¸ste [Archeological research

in the princely residence of Taˆrgovi¸ste], in: Valachica (Studii s¸ i cercet˘ari de istoria Culterii) XV, Taˆrgovi¸ste 1997, pp. 53–70, here p. 69; Atlas istoric al ora¸selor din Romaˆnia [Historical Atlas of towns in Romania], series B, Tara ¸ Romaˆneasc˘a, fasc. 1, Taˆrgovi¸ste, ed. by Gheorghe I. Cantacuzino Bucharest 2006, p. II, VII, map V. 38 Atlas istoric. Taˆrgovi¸ste (see note 37), map V; Cristian Moisescu, Originea s¸ i structura urban˘a a ora¸sului Taˆrgovi¸ste [The origin and urban structure of the town of Taˆrgovi¸ste], in: Revista Muzeelor s¸ i monumentelor. Monumente istorice s¸ i de artˇa XLII (1973), pp. 12–14, here p. 14. 39 Petru Virgil Diaconescu, Arheologia habitatului urban taˆrgovi¸stean, secolele XIV–XVIII [The archaeology of urban habitat in Taˆrgovi¸ste, 14th–18th centuries], Taˆrgovi¸ste 2009, pp. 49–51.

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therefore had the same landmarks as towns in the rest of Europe: the plot, as its basic unit; the street, as a means to communicate and to facilitate exchanges; the marketplace, as the main location for trade, but also for various events, and the church, as a spiritual hub, with each community having its own church. Most towns additionally included a seat for the prince, the true symbol of his rule over the town. We should also list the town hall here, which most Romanian historians claim never even existed. While it is true that sources provide no information to support the existence of a mayor’s seat in Wallachia, one appears to have existed in Moldavia. Several 17th century documents mention „the seat of the mayor (¸soltuz)“, where people gathered for trials or to decide matters of importance for the community (in Scheia, ¸ Trotu¸s, Baia, Roman, Cotnari or Vaslui, to name only a few).40 Even though its main meaning is that of a „seat where trials are held“, it could also stand for the mayor’s house or a separate building, which served as town hall.41 The urban area in these towns was laid out in such a way as would create a more manageable and efficient unit, and which would facilitate the main pursuit of the townspeople: Trading. We find a different case in newer towns, which emerged in the 16th and the 17th centuries, and where the colonists played a less significant part. New towns emerged particularly in Wallachia, in the lowlands, and in Bucharest, Craiova or Ploie¸sti. Foreigners did not avoid these towns, but they did not settle there in an organized fashion, like in the older towns. These were no longer colonists arriving from Central Europe, but from the Levant area, especially Greeks, Serbians, Jews and Vlachs, who were accustomed to other urban models and to other ways of organizing urban space. This is why the term bazar, used to designate the main marketplace in Bucharest from the mid-16th century on, is especially significant.42 Where another new town, Taˆrgul Jiului, is concerned, a 1604 source supports the role played by Prince Mircea Ciobanul in the emergence of the town: „turned their village into a bazar, which is today called Taˆrgul Jiului“.43 Moreover, in the 18th century, the century in which Eastern influence in the principalities was at its peak, the central trading areas in an evergrowing number of towns tended to resemble the Eastern bazaar. In new towns, the main landmarks remained the same as far as urban topography is concerned: The prince’s seat, on the one hand, and the marketplace, on the other. The difference lay in the fact that there was no longer a regular pattern, and the central marketplace was spread over a wide area, covering several streets. The outline of these towns developed over time, being „organic“, and typical to settlements which

40 Documente privitoare la istoria romaˆnilor (see note 21), vol. XV, part 1, p. 293, doc. 535; Documente

privind (see note 31), series A, Moldova-XVIth century, vol. III, p. 378, doc. 469; IV, p. 238, doc. 292; ˘ XVIIth century, vol. V, p. 64, doc. 80; Alexandru Baleanu, Documente s¸ i regeste moldovene¸sti [Moldavian documents and summaries], in: Cercetˇari istorice VIII/IX (1932/1933), no. 2, p. 147, doc. 52; D. Constantinescu, Documente moldovene¸sti din secolele XV–XVII [Moldavian documents, 15th–17th century], in: Anuarul Institutului de Istorie s¸ i Arheologie Ia¸si VII (1970), p. 338, doc. 3. 41 Stefan ¸ S. Gorovei, La ıˆnceputurile ora¸sului Bac˘au [On the beginnings of Bac˘au], in: Carpica 18/19 (1986/1987), p. 267. 42 Documenta Romaniae (see note 3), series B, vol. V, p. 291, doc. 266. 43 Documente privind (see note 31), series B, Tara ¸ Romaˆneasc˘a – XVIIth century, vol. I, p. 132, doc. 137.

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grow gradually, without any specific order. This outline made allowance for the local landscape and the main roads, which converged to a central point. Therefore, a regular organization of urban space in all towns cannot be accounted for. Where no colonists were present (especially those arriving from Central Europe), this type of organization seems to be lacking. We might also note that, as towns evolved, urban space no longer received the same attention. The outskirts do not display the same features as the center, even in towns with settlers, one reason for this being the fact that they settled specifically in the center, while the locals or other groups (the Ruthenians, the Gypsies) were relegated to the edges of town.44 In the outskirts, this development was random, and was determined predominantly by the limits of the land, rather than by the specifics of the property or the identity of its owner, etc. It was only in the 16th century that sources indicate a certain polarization in towns. For instance, it was in this period that the number of boyars increased, and the first few Orthodox monasteries emerged in towns. The boyars tended to stay on the central streets, taking over more and more plots, which they united to create a single, larger plot for their houses.45 This did not altogether push away the poor from the area, who had smaller plots, which they often only rented. The emerging Orthodox monasteries were another factor that modified urban space. Until then, these had been erected away from towns, but, once they started to come nearer and then obtained a solid foothold within the towns, monasteries proved to be elements that altered the urban makeup. First of all, they required more space, not only for the church, but also for the cells, gardens, and so on.46 Secondly, the monks needed sources of income. In the countryside, they used to work the land or collect the tithes from the peasants; however, in towns, the land was used for commercial purposes, by establishing trading booths, renting, etc.47 In towns, the monasteries were interested in gaining a more regular income, which would allow them or the monasteries at Mount Athos or Jerusalem (who administered many of them) to function. This is why they tended to gather their booths in one place (even if these booths were rented), closer to the monastery, which led to the gradual development of secondary markets, not necessarily specialized in any particular goods, but which would provide the competition for the main marketplace. The towns of Ia¸si and Bucharest, the capitals of the principalities, are illustrative in this respect, due to the large number of monasteries erected there in the 17th and the 18th centuries. A secondary marketplace would develop near almost each one of these monasteries. In Ia¸si, four such monasteries populated the central area, along with their small markets;48 in addition, a fair was organized on

44 Documenta Romaniae (see note 3), series B, vol. I, p. 98, doc. 49; vol. VII, p. 32, doc. 22; Documente

privind (see note 31), series B, Tara ¸ Romaˆneasc˘a – XVIth century, vol. V, p. 178, doc. 190; XVIIth century, vol. II, p. 426, doc. 367. 45 Bad ˘ ar ˘ au/Capro¸ ˘ su, Ia¸sii (see note 32), p. 90–91. 46 In addition, the monasteries received land from the domain of the town (Documente privitoare la istoria ora¸sului (see note 36), vol. II, p. 24, doc. 26). 47 Ibid., vol. I, p. 384, doc. 302; p. 433, doc. 364; vol. II, p. 166, doc. 187 and many more. 48 Markets shown on the maps of Ia¸si, from the second half of the 18th century (Documente privitoare la istoria economic˘a (see note 5), vol. II).

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the outskirts of the town, on the land owned by two monasteries.49 Some merchants (especially Greeks) actually stayed in the monasteries, doing business directly from there.50 In Bucharest, many monasteries kept inns on their land, which drew in foreign merchants who sometimes stayed for months to sell their goods.51 In a way, these inns also resembled the market. Unfortunately, without any relevant statistical data, we are unable to measure the economic impact that these marketplaces had. Thirdly, once monasteries began to appear in towns, they started to have a say in community matters. Whereas parish priests were, by the nature of their office, more tied to the parish, priests and monks in the monasteries were well-connected and influential, they benefitted from tax exemptions, and they had to account for their actions to the founders or their patrons, rather than to the locals.52 Indirectly, and in the long run, the presence and the increasing role of Orthodox monasteries were to contribute to reducing urban autonomy, which was to receive a decisive blow from the prince in the latter half of the 17th and in the 18th century. Urban space was to gradually enter another phase in its development in the 18th century. The princes oversaw the first tentative attempts at bringing order to the towns that had developed in a more or less chaotic manner. But the topographic modernization entered a new phase only after 1834, when the Organic Statute (the first constitution) was adopted in the principalities.53 Even so, until the advent of the Communist regime, during the years 1945–1947, towns largely kept their original medieval layout. Unfortunately, research in this area has largely fallen behind, and it is often overlooked. We hope that future research will discard the biases of the past few decades and take a bold step towards a comparative approach to urban topography. Since written sources provide us with only a limited perspective on the subject, we have to resort to archaeological research. One chance was already lost during the Communist regime, since the vast demolitions in historical centers were not always accompanied by adequate excavations. The boom in real estate in the past few years, partially stopped by the current economic crisis, provides a new opportunity. However, this is not adequately capitalized upon, for reasons relating to the bureaucracy (of the authorities), the negligence (of investors), the corruption (of both), but sometimes even the lack of diligence of some archaeologists. Under these circumstances, we could lose our last chance to better understand the way in which space in medieval towns was distributed in the Romanian principalities.

49 Documente privitoare la istoria ora¸sului (see note 36), vol. IV, p. 281, doc. 385; vol. V, p. 117, doc. 208. 50 Condica lui Mavrocordat [The register of Mavrocordat], vol. III, ed. by Corneliu Istrati, Ia¸si 2008,

p. 142, doc. 1962; p. 174, doc. 2075.

51 Details in Constantin C. Giurescu, Istoria Bucure¸stilor din cele mai vechi timpuri paˆn˘a ˆın zilele noas-

tre [The History of Bucharest from ancient times to our days], Bucharest 1966, pp. 308–311.

52 All the priests from Ia¸si were exempt from taxes at the end of the 16th century (Documente privitoare

la istoria ora¸sului (see note 36), vol. I, p. 42, doc. 27.

53 The Organic Statute was recently published: Regulamentul organic al Moldovei [The Organic Statute

˘ ar ˘ au, ˘ Ia¸si 2004 (the version used in Moldavia). of Moldavia], ed. by Dumitru Vitcu/Gabriel Bad

THE ROLE OF TRADE PRIVILEGES IN THE EVOLUTION OF THE URBAN SPACE OF THE SAXON TOWNS IN TRANSYLVANIA (14 TH –15 TH CENTURIES) * by Maria Emilia Crıˆngaci Tiplic ¸

The urban settlements in medieval Transylvania which displayed the highest degree of development were the Saxon towns, the most important and the largest ones being Bistri¸ta, Bra¸sov, Cluj, and Sibiu.1 With the exception of Cluj, they were at the same time seats of the Saxon districts or Chairs. In this study, we intend to examine the Saxon towns in the Seven Chairs (the Province of Sibiu) of Transylvania, with special reference to Sibiu, Sebe¸s, and Sighi¸soara, and with partial reference to Or˘as¸ tie, Cisn˘adie, and Media¸s. I will not examine the other administrative centers of the Seven Chairs (Miercurea Sibiului, Nocrich, Cincu/Agnita, and Rupea), as they obtained their urban status in a later period, which is not the focus of our investigation. In terms of public law, the Saxon towns in Transylvania fall within the category of royal free cities of the medieval Kingdom of Hungary.2 From the very beginning, we have to admit that the subject under discussion is supported by a rich historiography, which, unfortunately, has been treated unilaterally. In other words, scholars have either dealt exclusively with the trade privileges of the main Transylvanian cities,3 or referred strictly to the urban

* This work was possible with the financial support of the Operational Sector Programme for Human

Resources Development 2007–2013, co-financed by the European Social Fund, under the project number POSDRU 89/1. 5/S/61104. Translation by Dan Sava. 1 For the latest publications on this topic, see Paul Niedermaier, Sta¨dtebau im Mittelalter. Siebenbu¨rgen, Banat und Kreischgebiet (1242–1347), Ko¨ln/Weimar/Wien 2002; Idem, Sta¨dtebau im Spa¨tmittelalter. Siebenbu¨rgen, Banat und Kreischgebiet (1348–1541), Ko¨ln/Weimar/Wien 2004; Eniko˝ Ru¨sz-Fogarasi, Privilegiile s¸ i ˆındatoririle ora¸selor din Transilvania voievodal˘a [The Privilegies and the Duties of the Towns in Medieaval Transylvania], Cluj-Napoca 2003, pp. 38–40; Konrad Gu¨ndisch, Sistemul urban medieval din Transilvania. Genez˘a s¸ i dezvoltare [The Mediaeval Urban System in Transylvania. Genesis and Development], in: Ora¸se s¸ i or˘as¸ eni = Va´rosok e´s va´roslako´k [Towns and Townspeople], coord. Ionu¸t Costea/Carmen Florea/Judit Pa´l/Eniko˝ Ru¨sz-Fogarasi, Cluj-Napoca 2006, pp. 49–61. 2 Andra´s Kubinyi, „Ora¸s regal liber“ – „Ora¸s liber regal“? [Free Royal Town – Royal Free Town?], in: Ora¸se s¸ i or˘as¸ eni, coord. Costea/Florea/Pa´l/Ru¨sz-Fogarasi (see note 1), pp. 25–40, here p. 38. 3 For general information about this topic, see Maria-Emilia Crıˆngaci Tiplic/Paul Niedermaier, Privilegiile comerciale ale ora¸selor din Transilvania paˆn˘a la sfaˆr¸situl secolului al XV-lea [The Trade Priv-

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space.4 No separate study has yet been written that combines information from the two above-mentioned areas of research.5 The essential materials on which the present study is based are collections of printed documents on the history of Transylvania,6 the two installments of Atlasul istoric al ora¸selor din Romaˆnia and the two volumes of Denkmaltopographie Siebenbu¨rgen, treating Sibiu and Sighi¸soara.7 Thus, by analyzing printed documents and city plans by means of the comparative method, I have tried to obtain new information about the degree of influence of trade privileges on the urban, the commercial and the domestic space. Located in southern Transylvania, the three towns of Sighi¸soara, Sebe¸s, and Sibiu belonged to the territory that German settlers colonized in the early 12th and 13th centuries, and which is referred to in documents as fundus regius. Until 1224, the territory delimited by the Diploma Andreanum (fundus regius)8 was structured into several counties. In 1224, they were dissolved and reunited into a single administrative unit, i. e. the County/Shire of Sibiu, which spread from Or˘as¸ tie to Baraolt. We do not know which were the county seats mentioned in the Andreanum; they can only be intuited from the current state of research. Thus, Or˘as¸ tie, Sebe¸s, Sibiu, and Sighi¸soara may well initially have been county seats until 1224, if we take into account that there

ilegies of the Towns in Transylvania until the End of the 15th Century], in: Ora¸se s¸ i or˘as¸ eni, coord. Costea/Florea/Pa´l/Ru¨sz-Fogarasi (see note 1), pp. 116–139. 4 Atlas istoric al ora¸selor din Romaˆnia. Seria C. Transilvania. Fascicula 1. Sighi¸soara = Sta¨dtegeschichteatlas Ruma¨niens. Reihe C. Transsylvanien. 2. Lieferung. Scha¨ßburg, coord./hg. v. Paul Niedermaier, Bucure¸sti 2000; Atlas istoric al ora¸selor din Romaˆnia. Seria C. Transilvania. Fascicula 2. Sebe¸s = Sta¨dtegeschichteatlas Ruma¨niens. Reihe C. Transsylvanien. 2. Lieferung. Mu¨hlbach (Sza´szebes, Sebus), coord./hg. v. Dan Dumitru Iacob, Bucure¸sti 2004; Denkmaltopographie Siebenbu¨rgen, 5.1.1: Stadt Hermannstadt. Die Altstadt = Topografia monumentelor din Transilvania. 5.1.1: Municipiul Sibiu. Centrul istoric, bearb. v./elaborat de Alexandru Avram/Ioan Bucur, hg. v./ed. by Christoph Machat, Ko¨ln 1999; Denkmaltopographie Siebenbu¨rgen. 4.1: Stadt Scha¨ßburg = Topografia monumentelor din Transilvania. 4.1: Municipiul Sighi¸soara, bearb. v./elaborat de Corina Popa, hg. v./ed. by Christoph Machat, Ko¨ln 2002. 5 The issue is discussed indirectly by Hermann Fabini, Sibiul gotic, Bucure¸sti 1982, p. 55, and by Paul Niedermaier, Dezvoltarea comer¸tului s¸ i geneza ora¸selor transilv˘anene ıˆn secolele XII–XIV [The Development of the Trade and the Genesis of the Transylvanian Towns in 12th–14th Centuries], in: Analele Br˘ailei 1 (1993), pp. 161–169, here p. 164. 6 Fr. Zimmermann/C. Werner/G. Mu ¨ ller/G. Gu¨ndisch/H. Gu¨ndisch/K. G. Gu¨ndisch/G. Nussba¨cher (ed.), Urkundenbuch zur Geschichte der Deutschen in Siebenbu¨rgen, vol. I–VII, Hermannstadt 1892–1937, Bucure¸sti 1975–1991 (subsequently Ub. I–VII); Documente privind istoria Romaˆniei. C. Transilvania, veacul XI, XII s¸ i XIII, vol. I, Bucure¸sti 1951 (subsequently DIR C XI); Documente privind istoria Romaˆniei. C. Transilvania, veacul XIII, vol. II, Bucure¸sti 1952 (subsequently DIR C XIII); Documente privind istoria Romaˆniei. C. Transilvania, veacul XIV, vol. I–IV, Bucure¸sti 1953–1955 (subsequently DIR C XIV); Documenta Romaniae Historica. C. Transilvania, vol. X–XV, Bucure¸sti 1977–2006 (subsequently DRH C); Documenta Romaniae Historica. D. Rela¸tii ıˆntre T˘ ¸ arile Romaˆne, vol. I, Bucure¸sti 1977 (subsequently DRH D); Erde´lyi Okma´nyta´r. Oklevelek, levelek e´s ma´s ı´ra´sos emle´kek Erde´ly to¨rte´nete´hez. I. (1023–1300), ed. Zs. Jako´, Budapest 1997 (subsequently EO I), Erde´lyi Okma´nyta´r. Oklevelek, levelek e´s ma´s ı´ra´sos emle´kek Erde´ly to¨rte´nete´hez. II. (1301–1339), ed. Zs. Jako´, Budapest 2004 (subsequently EO II). 7 See note 4. 8 Ub. I (see note 6), nr. 43, pp. 32–35; DIR C XI (see note 6), nr. 157, pp. 208–210, 383–384; EO I (see note 6), nr. 132, pp. 161–162.

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were fortifications in Sibiu and in Or˘as¸ tie dating from before 1224, while those in Sebe¸s and in Sighi¸soara have only been presumed to have existed and not confirmed archaeologically. The County of Sibiu lasted until the early 14th century (1325–1328), when an administrative reform took place. The Chairs (sedes) were formed in this period. They were legal and administrative entities typical of privileged groups, and enjoyed the right to autonomy. Sibiu, Or˘as¸ tie, Sighi¸soara, Sebe¸s, Miercurea Sibiului, Nocrich, Cincu, and Rupea became the administrative centers of homonymous chairs, and it is very likely that the territorial area of the Seven Chairs coincided with that of the earlier counties mentioned in 1224. It is believed that the county seats had hosted fairs even before the Crown granted them this right, thus conceding an already existing reality.9 In 1317, at the beginning of the reign of King Charles Robert when the above-mentioned administrative reform took place, the Saxons managed for the first time to obtain the reconfirmation of the Diploma Andreanum.10 The 1224 document granted them several privileges, among which the freedom of trade for the Saxon merchants from the Province of Sibiu and from the Seven Chairs in the Kingdom of Hungary as well as the right to hold fairs exempt from all customs dues are worth mentioning. This privilege was later reconfirmed by Louis I (1366), Mary, Queen of Hungary (1383), Sigismund of Luxembourg (1387, 1406), Matthias Corvinus (1480, 1486), etc.11 The time of the Angevins and that of Sigismund of Luxembourg played a decisive role in Hungary’s economic development, and, in particular, in the spread of urban settlements and their rapid consolidation.12 Many settlements in Transylvania were attested as towns during the reign of the Angevins: Sibiu (first mention as civitas in [1324]/1326),13 Vin¸tu de Jos (1309),14 Cluj (1316),15 Cisn˘adie (1323),16 Or˘as¸ tie (1324),17 Baia de Arie¸s (1325),18 Sebe¸s (1341),19 9 Ru ¨ sz-Fogarasi, Privilegiile (see note 1), p. 53. 10 Ub. I (see note 6), nr. 350, pp. 322–323; DIR C XIV (see note 6), vol. I, nr. 264, pp. 274–275; EO II (see

note 6), nr. 273, p. 121.

11 Comer¸t s¸ i me¸ste¸suguri ˆın Sibiu s¸ i ıˆn cele Sapte ¸ Scaune 1224–1579 = Handel und Gewerbe in Her-

mannstadt und in den Sieben Stu¨hlen 1224–1579 (Documente privind istoria ora¸sului Sibiu = Quellen zur Geschichte der Stadt Hermannstadt, 2), ed. by Monica Vlaicu, Sibiu, Heidelberg 2003, pp. 43–46. 12 Pa´l Engel, Regatul Sfaˆntului Stefan. ¸ Istoria Ungariei medievale (895–1526) [The Realm of St. Stephen. A History of Medieval Hungary, 895–1526], translation by Aurora Moga, Romanian version ed. by ˘ Adrian A. Rusu s¸ i Ioan Dragan, Cluj-Napoca 2006, pp. 269–271 (English version, Pa´l Engel, The Realm of St. Stephen. A History of Medieval Hungary, 895–1526, translation by T. Pa´losfalvi, english edition ed. by A. Ayton/I. B. Tauris, London/New-York 2001). 13 DIR C XIV (see note 6), vol. II, nr. 402, p. 192; EO II (see note 6), nr. 568, p. 211. 14 Ub. I (see note 6), nr. 314, p. 241; DIR C XIV (see note 6), vol. I, nr. 103, pp. 95–96; EO II (see note 6), nr. 102, p. 66. 15 Ub. I (see note 6), nr. 346, pp. 319–320; DIR C XIV (see note 6), vol. I, nr. 242, pp. 251–253; EO II (see note 6), nr. 263, p. 119. 16 Ub. I (see note 6), nr. 400, p. 371; DIR C XIV (see note 6), vol. II, nr. 141, pp. 63–64; EO II (see note 6), nr. 447, p. 174–175. 17 Ub. I (see note 6), nr. 423, p. 387; DIR C XIV (see note 6), vol. I, nr. 287, pp. 132–133; EO II (see note 6), nr. 499, p. 189. 18 Ub. I (see note 6), nr. 437, pp. 395–396; DIR C XIV (see note 6), vol. II, nr. 324, p. 150; EO II (see note 6), nr. 522, p. 197. 19 Ub. I, nr. 564–565, pp. 514–516; DIR C XIV (see note 6), vol. IV, nr. 12, 24, pp. 9–10, 20–21.

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Bra¸sov (1344),20 Cric˘au and Ighiu (1347),21 Bistri¸ta (1349),22 Media¸s (1359),23 A¸tel (1365),24 Sighi¸soara (1367),25 Aiud (1378),26 etc. This spectacular development, which took place in the context of the agrarian crisis of the 14th and the 15th centuries,27 resulted mainly from the long-distance trade which decisively influenced social life, the system and the aspect of the towns, as well as their political role.28 King Louis I was well known to have been most generous in granting privileges to cities during the reforms of the 1370s.29 For example, unlike other Transylvanian towns, Sibiu enjoyed the largest number of trade privileges, the first of these having been stipulated by the above-mentioned Diploma Andreanum of 1224 (freedom of trade with exemption from the payment of customs dues). The second dated from 1370 and referred to the exemption of the Sibiu merchants from paying any customs dues on the trade road from Buda to Zadar, other than the Tricesima at Buda.30 After this date, Sibiu was granted a series of privileges with regard to exemption from the payment of customs dues. During the reign of King Louis I, Sibiu was also granted the institutionalization of the annual fair31 and the staple and storage right (ius depositorii/ius stapule/ius emporia).32 By comparison with the other Transylvanian towns (Bra¸sov, Bistri¸ta, Cluj, Aiud) and in agreement with the trade privileges, Sibiu, along with the Seven Chairs, played an overwhelming role in the long-distance trade with Central Europe via the Kingdom of Hungary. A second important trade route of the Sibiu merchants was southbound, to Wallachia; a third trade route was also attested, eastbound to Moldavia, but the traffic was of low intensity when compared with Bra¸sov.33 Thus, for the second 20 Ub. II (see note 6), nr. 600, p. 18; DIR C XIV (see note 6), vol. IV, nr. 245, p. 195. 21 Ub. II (see note 6), nr. 623, pp. 41–42; DIR C XIV (see note 6), vol. IV, nr. 528, pp. 359–360. 22 Ub. II (see note 6), nr. 643, p. 63; DIR C XIV (see note 6), vol. IV, nr. 738, p. 506. 23 Ub. II (see note 6), nr. 751, p. 166; DRH C (see note 6), vol. XI, nr. 390, pp. 394–395. 24 Ub. II (see note 6), nr. 833, pp. 229–230; DRH C (see note 6), vol. XII, nr. 425, pp. 443–444. 25 Ub. II (see note 6), nr. 887, pp. 283–284; DRH C (see note 6), vol. XIII, nr. 190, pp. 308–310. 26 Ub. II (see note 6), nr. 1095, p. 492; DRH C (see note 6), vol. XV, nr. 267, pp. 447–448. 27 Paul Niedermaier, Raportul ˆıntre sat s¸ i ora¸s ˆın lumina crizei agrare medievale [The Town-Village Re-

lationship in the Light of the Mediaeval Agrarian Crisis], in: Anuarul Institutului de Istorie Cluj XXXI (1992), pp. 151–155. 28 Engel, Regatul Sfaˆntului (see note 12), p. 270. 29 Ibidem, p. 277. 30 Ub. II (see note 6), nr. 939, pp. 337–339. We would like to mention here that before 1370 the town of Sibiu was granted another privilege: to trade in exchange for payment of customs dues within the territory of the Kingdom of Hungary, which dates from 1351(Ub. II (see note 6), nr. 667, p. 84; DRH. C (see note 6), vol. X, nr. 87, pp. 99–100). 31 Although the attestation of an annual fair in Sibiu occurred rather late, dating from 1378, the privilege to hold annual fairs must have been obtained prior to that date, considering that the staple and storage right was granted in 1378. The town of Bra¸sov was granted the staple and storage right in 1369 and the right to hold annual fairs in 1364. The first attestation of the right to hold annual fairs in Baia Mare dates from 1347 and in Bistri¸ta from 1353 – Niedermaier, Dezvoltarea (see note 5), p. 166. 32 In 1378, Sibiu was granted the staple and storage right to trade cloth that merchants brought from the Hungarian cities (Ub. II (see note 6), nr. 1095, pp. 491–492); in 1382, it obtained the same right to trade pepper, saffron, and other spices to Wallachia (Ub. II (see note 6), nr. 1157, p. 555); as of 1384, Sibiu was granted the staple and storage right for the goods brought by foreign merchants in transit to Wallachia (Ub. II (see note 6), nr. 1190, p. 590). 33 Crıˆngaci Tiplic/Niedermaier, ¸ Privilegiile (see note 3), p. 119.

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half of the 14th century, the merchants of Sibiu obtained a series of important trade privileges, such as the right of free movement in the entire Kingdom of Hungary in exchange for the payment of appropriate customs dues (1351),34 to Vienna (136535, 136736), and to Prague, Zadar and Venice (1367)37. Furthermore, similar to the merchants in Krakow, Kosˇice, and Levoˇca (1371),38 they obtained the same rights for the trade with Poland, along with the right of free passage to the Holy Roman Empire with partial exemption of customs dues (1393).39 This favorable situation also continued during the early 15th century, when the merchants of Sibiu obtained another privilege from William, Duke of Austria, who granted them free passage through his territories (1401).40 At the same time, they also obtained a reconfirmation of the previously granted privileges, which enabled them to trade throughout the kingdom and beyond its borders.41 During the 15th century, the Saxon merchants of the Seven Chairs engaged in relatively intensive commercial activities within the borders of the Kingdom of Hungary, which is attested by numerous documents about the exemption from customs dues. As to regional trade, the citizens of Sibiu and the Saxons in the Seven Chairs were among the merchants who dominated the Transylvanian markets, mainly due to the customs privileges that had been granted inside Transylvania.42 Of paramount importance was the staple and storage right (ius stapuli), which in the 14th and 15th centuries was held only by Bra¸sov and Sibiu.43 During the period when the above-mentioned privileges were granted, there was an unexpected growth of the urban space in the city of Sibiu (for example, Sibiu extended over an area of 46 ha in the mid-14th century, and then over 72 ha a century later; the area remained unchanged for the next three hundred years44). This growth was marked by the emergence of new architectural programs45 (which caused the alteration of the fronts and of the fac¸ades delimiting the commercial space) and by the construction of very strong fortifications. A similar situation was recorded in the case of Bra¸sov, which, like Sibiu, benefited from approximately the same set of privileges.46 The trade privileges that had been granted in the 14th–15th centuries, along with the activity of the guilds, of the merchants, and the financial and the political power of 34 Ub. II (see note 6), nr. 667, p. 84; DRH. C (see note 6), vol. X, nr. 87, pp. 99–100. 35 Ub. II (see note 6), nr. 824, p. 223; DRH. C (see note 6), vol. XII, nr. 376, pp. 390–391. 36 Ub. II (see note 6), nr. 899, pp. 297–298. 37 Ub. II (see note 6), nr. 899, pp. 297–298. 38 Ub. II (see note 6), nr. 972, p. 369; DRH. C (see note 6), vol. XIV, nr. 84, pp. 93–94. 39 Ub. III (see note 6), nr. 1311, pp. 61–62. 40 Ub. III (see note 6), nr. 1455, p. 263. 41 See note 10–11. 42 Crıˆngaci Tiplic/Niedermaier, ¸ Privilegiile (see note 3), pp. 120–121. 43 Bra¸sov was granted this right in 1369 (Ub. II (see note 6), nr. 937, p. 336), Sibiu in 1378, 1382 and in

1384 (see note 32), Bistri¸ta in 1523, and Cluj in 1538/1558 (Samuel Goldenberg, Clujul ıˆn secolul XVI, Bucure¸sti 1958, p. 251). 44 Fabini, Sibiul gotic (see note 5), p. 51. 45 Ibidem, pp. 53–55. 46 For the trade privileges of Bra¸sov during the Middle Ages, see Radu Manolescu, Comer¸tul T˘ ¸ arii Romaˆne¸sti s¸ i Moldovei cu Bra¸sovul (secolele XIV–XVI) [The Trade of the Wallachia and Moldavia with Bra¸sov (14th–16th centuries)], Bucure¸sti 1965; Crıˆngaci Tiplic/Niedermaier, ¸ Privilegiile (see note 3), pp. 124–131.

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the patricians, triggered the growth and/or the change of the urban space in the Saxon towns of Transylvania. For example, as far as the commercial space was concerned, the various categories of annual fairs and the staple and storage right altered not only the architectural expression; the image of the squares also changed, mainly the vertical one, achieved by reconstruction or by the erection of new buildings, which nowadays represent a valuable architectural heritage (e. g. the buildings in Sibiu’s Grand Square and Lesser Square47). Thus, the need to store wares over a relatively long period of time and to display a larger amount of merchandise led, in the case of Sibiu, to the extension of the domestic space and of the merchant’s house.48 In the case of Bra¸sov, from 1468 onwards the goods coming from Moldavia and Wallachia49 could be stored only in certain streets.50 Some researchers consider that when the German colonists settled in the area of the future towns of Sibiu, Sebe¸s, and Sighi¸soara during the reign of King Ge´za II of Hungary, there were already settlements, probably Sze´kely ones.51 The settlements were usually located in the proximity of the future core of the towns and then integrated later into the urban space, along with the expansion of the towns. However, the urban structures of Sibiu, Sebe¸s, and Sighi¸soara correspond to the typology of the 13th–14th century settlements planned for colonization.52 They were formed around a parish church surrounded by defensive walls or a system of defense, close to which there were one or two marketplaces from which the main streets led in several directions. In addition to the economic factor, other important features of the urbanization of the settlements were the favorable geographical location, i. e. the placement of the settlements at the crossroads of principal trade and transit routes, as follows from the 14th and 15th century privileges, and the distance between the various centers and urban communities.53 In our case, owing to the insufficient distance between certain administrative centers of the Seven Chairs and other urban settlements, various shortterm rivalries arose, which subsequently influenced their development irrevocably (for example, the hostility in the early 14th century between Sibiu and Cisn˘adie, and the highly insufficient distance of only 10 km between them). In the case of Sebe¸s,

47 Denkmaltopographie Siebenbu¨rgen, 5.1.1, bearb. v. Avram/Bucur (see note 4), pp. 105–134. 48 Fabini, Sibiul gotic (see note 5), p. 55. 49 Ub. VI (see note 6), nr. 3647, pp. 372–373. 50 Niedermaier, Dezvoltarea (see note 5), p. 168. 51 Idem, Siebenbu¨rgische Sta¨dte. Forschungen zur sta¨dtebaulichen und architektonischen Entwicklung

von Handwerksorten zwischen dem 12. und 16. Jahrhundert (Siebenbu¨rgisches Archiv 15), Ko¨ln/Wien 1979, pp. 134–139; Idem, Der mittelalterliche Sta¨dtebau in Siebenbu¨rgen, im Banat und im Kreischgebiet. Teil 1. Die Entwicklung vom Anbeginn bis 1241, Heidelberg 1996, pp. 128–130, 133–135; Atlas istoric, coord. Iacob (see note 4), p. 2. 52 Niedermaier, Siebenbu¨rgische Sta¨dte (see note 51), pp. 90–99, 104–118. 53 Andra´s Kubinyi, A ko¨ze´pkori magyarorsza´gi va´rosha´lozat hierarchikus te´rbeli rendje´nek ke´rde´se´hez [About the Hierarchy System of the Towns Network in Mediaeval Hungary], in: Telepu¨le´studoma´nyi ko¨zleme´nyek 23 (1971), pp. 58–78, here p. 59; Paul Niedermaier, Evolu¸tia re¸telei de ora¸se ıˆn Transilvania medieval˘a [The Development of the Towns-network in Mediaeval Transylvania], in: Historia urbana 1 (1993), pp. 21–26, here p. 21, 25.

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Or˘as¸ tie, and Alba Iulia, the same circumstances also led to a cessation of economic growth and the stagnation of built-up areas.54 In the case of Sebe¸s, although documents dated to 1224 (terra Siculorum tarrae Sebus) confirm the presence of the Sze´kelys,55 the location of the Sze´kely settlement established in the first half of the 12th century has not been identified with certainty. It is assumed that their settlement would have been in the vicinity of the old street called Sikulorum Gasse (now the eastern section of Lucian Blaga Street), on the site of the current center of the town56 or, according to another theory, on the site of Malum prandium (Gießhu¨bel),57 a settlement no longer in existence. However, it was the Saxons who founded the Sebe¸s. Moreover, the urban structure of Sebe¸s is particularly evident owing to its location on a flat surface, without hillocks. It is composed of a nucleus represented by the parish church, surrounded by a defensive structure, already existent in 1241, and two approximately quadrangular squares (Grand Square of 1 ha and Lesser Square) located in the immediate vicinity of the fortified church. The street network consists of two parallel main streets, wide and straight, which border both the church and the two squares to the north and south, and of short, narrow transversal linking streets. In 1322, the eastern section of the perimeter of the medieval enclosure was delimited by a Dominican convent. In the late 13th and early 14th century, the town extended over less than 25 ha.58 If from the point of view of economic development an increase was recorded up to the beginning of the 15th century (1438), the town of Sebe¸s having become an important commercial and handicraft center, there followed a stagnation in terms of urban space expansion, which was presumably caused by the town’s close proximity to Or˘as¸ tie (38 km) and to Alba Iulia (16 km).59 This is reflected in the planimetric structure, which remained at the level attained in the early 14th century. However, despite the close proximity to the above-mentioned towns, the economic and commercial development of Sebe¸s increased slightly, a fact that is displayed by the silhouette of the church and of the fortifications. In the second half of the 13th century, the construction of the church was resumed, obviously under the influence of the Cistercian ar-

54 Niedermaier, Evolu¸tia re¸telei (see note 53), p. 25. 55 Ub. I (see note 6), nr. 43, pp. 32–35; DIR C XI (see note 6), nr. 157, pp. 208–210, 383–384; EO I (see note

6), nr. 132, pp. 161–162. 56 For more details see Niedermaier, Der mittelalterliche Sta¨dtebau (see note 51), pp. 128–129, 181–182;

Atlas istoric, coord. Iacob (see note 4), p. 5.

57 Atlas istoric, coord. Iacob (see note 4), p. 2. 58 For the planimetric and morphological structure of the town, see Niedermaier, Siebenbu¨rgische

Sta¨dte (see note 51), pp. 49–61; Atlas istoric, coord. Iacob (see note 4), p. 5. For the architectural evolution of the church, see Albert Klein, Baugeschichte der ev. Kirche in Mu¨hlbach, in: Studien zur siebenbu¨rgischen Kunstgeschichte (Siebenbu¨rgisches Archiv 13), Ko¨ln/Wien 1976, pp. 23–59; Gustav Gu¨ndisch/Thomas Streitfeld, Der Umbau der Mu¨hlbacher Marienkirche im 15. Jahrhundert und seine geschichtlichen Voraussetzungen, in: ibid., pp. 60–80. For the medieval fortifications see Gheorghe Anghel, Fortifica¸tii medievale de piatr˘a din secolele XIII–XVI [The Mediaeval Stone Castles (13th–16th Centuries)], Cluj-Napoca 1986, pp. 159–166; Mihaela Sanda Salontai, Fortifica¸tiile Sebe¸sului medieval [The Mediaeval Fortifications of Sebe¸s], in: http://www.medievistica.ro/texte/monumente/starile/SebesSalontai/SebesSalontai.htm 59 Niedermaier, Evolu¸tia re¸telei (see note 53), p. 25.

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chitectural design of Caˆr¸ta.60 Then the first fortified enclosure was built around the stone church61 and in 1322 the Dominican monastery was mentioned,62 thus demonstrating the urban character of the settlement. The first documentary attestation of the town took place in 1341.63 This status was reinforced in 1376 by a document about the revision of the statutes of the 19 guilds in the Province of Sibiu, when the guilds of Sebe¸s were mentioned alongside those of Sibiu, Sighi¸soara, and Or˘as¸ tie,64 and by other documents granting trade privileges, in particular free trade exempted from customs dues (1224, 1317, 1366, 1383, 1387, 1406,65 1438,66 1439,67 148068), and the institutionalization of the annual fair (1439,69 145770). From the point of view of documentary evidence, the Sebe¸s boasts the earliest authorization given to a town in Transylvania to build fortification walls: In 1387,71 at the inhabitants’ appeal, King Sigismund of Luxembourg granted Sebe¸s this right (ut dicti fideles cives et Saxones nostri praedictam civitatem nostram muro circumdandi, muniendi et fortifcandi tutam, liberam et absolutam habeant facultatem, prout fundamentum eiusdem dicitur iam fore inceptum72). Even if the town benefited from the same package of trade privileges as the other settlements of the Seven Chairs, and we compare it here to Sighi¸soara, the year 1438 turned out to be decisive for Sebe¸s. The armies of the Ottoman sultan Murad II and of Vlad II Dracul besieged and destroyed the town;73 from this moment on, Sebe¸s entered an irreversible economic backslide, suggestively shown by the silhouette of the parish church, whose reconstruction ceased along with the beautiful choir bay.74 The defensive system mainly remained frozen at the level of 1438; for this reason, the fortifications of Sebe¸s are considered to represent the most archaic system of 60 Radu Heitel, Monumente medievale din Sebe¸s-Alba [Mediaeval Monuments of Sebe¸s-Alba], Bu-

cure¸sti 1969, pp. 7–13; Klein, Baugeschichte (see note 58), p. 28–34. 61 Anghel, Fortifica¸tii medievale (see note 58), pp. 162–163; Atlas istoric, coord. Iacob (see note 4), p. 6. 62 Mihaela Sanda Salontai, M˘an˘astiri dominicane din Transilvania [The Houses of the Dominican Order

in Transylvania], Cluj-Napoca 2002, p. 201. 63 Ub. I (see note 6), nr. 564–565, pp. 514–516; DIR C XIV (see note 6), vol. IV, nr. 12, 24, pp. 9–10, 20–21. 64 Ub. II (see note 6), nr. 1057, pp. 449–552; DRH. C (see note 6), vol. XV, nr. 73, pp. 86–94; Comer¸t s¸ i

me¸ste¸suguri, hg. v. Vlaicu (see note 11), nr. 12, p. 64–70. 65 See note 10–11. 66 Ub. V (see note 6), nr. 2301, pp. 1–2. 67 Ub. V (see note 6), nr. 2348, pp. 35–36. 68 Ub. VII (see note 6), nr. 4366–4367, p. 245–246. 69 Georg E. Mu ¨ ller, Stu¨hle und Distrikte als Unterteilungen der Siebenbu¨rgisch-Deutschen Nations-

universita¨t 1141–1876 (Schriften zur Landeskunde Siebenbu¨rgens10), unvera¨nderter Nachdruck der Ausgabe Krafft&Dortleff, Hermannstadt 1941, mit einer Einfu¨hrung und einem Ortsnamenregister von Konrad G. Gu¨ndisch, Ko¨ln/Wien 1985, p. 22. 70 Ub. V (see note 6), nr. 3064, pp. 561–562. 71 Ub. II (see note 6), nr. 1219, pp. 615–616; Mu ¨ ller, Stu¨hle und Distrikte (see note 69), p. 24; Anghel, Fortifica¸tii medievale (see note 58), p. 160. 72 Ub. II (see note 6), nr. 1219, pp. 615–616. 73 Thomas Streitfeld, Wer war der Autor des „Tractatus de ritu et moribus Turcorum“?, in: Forschungen zur Volks- und Landeskunde 16/2 (1973), pp. 26–36; A. E. Do¨rner, Documente s¸ i cronici privind istoria ora¸sului s¸ i scaunului Or˘as¸ tie: 1200–1541 [Documents and Chronicles about the History of the Town and the Chair of Or˘as¸ tie], vol. I, Cluj-Napoca 2003 (German edition: A. E. Do¨rner, Urkunden und Chroniken u¨ber die Geschichte der Stadt und des Stuhls Bross: 1200–1541, Bd. 1, Cluj-Napoca 2002), nr. 87, p. 52. 74 Salontai, Fortifica¸tiile Sebe¸sului (see note 58).

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defensive structures in Transylvania, as most of the original constructional elements, erected in the late 14th and the early 15th century, have not disappeared over time.75 This economic backslide is reflected not only in the architectural expression of the town and in the stagnation of urban development, but also in the inhabitants’ perception of the urban space, e. g. in the names of the streets and of the towers. Thus, no street or gate tower bears the name of any guild of craft (as we frequently encounter in Sibiu and in Sighi¸soara), which could be interpreted as a reflection of their decay, a fact that is also confirmed by the lack of any documentary or architectural attestation of the guildhalls and warehouses in the 15th and the 16th centuries. As for the city towers, only three of them are named after guilds: the Shoemakers’ Tower, the Tailors’ Tower and the Blacksmiths’ Tower; the gate towers are called: the Lower Gate/Unteres Tor (to the west), the Upper Gate/Oberes Tor (to the east), the B˘algrad Gate or the Field Gate (Feldtor/Weissenburgertor) (to the north) and the Petre¸sti Gate/Petersdorfer Tor (to the south). The street names instead express the social and religious character of the areas, as they are named after public buildings or after the earliest settlements around Sebe¸s (e. g. Schulga¨sschen/School Alley, Schulplatz/ School Square, Rathhausplatz/Town Hall Square, Herrengasse/Men’s Lane, Jakobigasse/James’ Street, Szekler Gasse/Sze´kely Lane, Petersdorferga¨sschen/Petre¸sti Alley). We have not been able to locate the homes of the Sebe¸s elite, as was possible in Sighi¸soara and in Sibiu. Most probably they were located on the northern front of the square, where a 14th century Gothic house still exists. Initially it was the Chair seat; then it was partially reconstructed, and at one time it became the residence of John Za´polya, the King of Hungary, who also died there in 1540.76 In the case of Sighi¸soara, it was assumed that here, too, there had been a Sze´kely settlement ever since around the year 1100, but it could not be identified on the site.77 Like Sebe¸s, Sighi¸soara was founded by Saxon colonists. However, if in the case of Sebe¸s it was relatively easy to identify the nucleus of the Saxon settlement, with Sighi¸soara it is much more difficult, because of the special geographical features of the terrain and the theories put forward in the specialized literature. Most of the discussions about the genesis of the city were around the ratio established between the age of the Citadel/„Burg“ district and the central area of the Lower Town.78 Unlike Sebe¸s, Sibiu, and Or˘as¸ tie, the first documentary attestation occurred rather late, in 1280.79 Nevertheless, archaeological research has attested the Saxons’ presence ever since the 75 Anghel, Fortifica¸tii medievale (see note 58), pp. 164–165. 76 Atlas istoric, coord. Iacob (see note 4), p. 7. 77 K. Horedt, Contribu¸tii la istoria Transilvaniei ıˆn secolele IV–XIII [Contributions to the History

of Transylvania], Bucure¸sti 1958, pp. 117–122; Idem, Siebenbu¨rgen im Fru¨hmittelalter, Bonn 1986, pp. 158–169; Niedermaier, Siebenbu¨rgische Sta¨dte (see note 51), pp. 90–99; Atlas istoric, coord. Niedermaier (see note 4), p. 2. 78 Paul Niedermaier, Geneza ora¸sului Sighi¸soara [The Genesis of Sighi¸soara], in: Revista Muzeelor s¸ i monumentelor istorice. Monumente istorice s¸ i de art˘a 48/2 (1979), pp. 67–74; Atlas istoric, coord. Niedermaier (see note 4), p. 6; Niedermaier, Sta¨dtebau im Mittelalter (see note 1), pp. 95–98; Denkmaltopographie Siebenbu¨rgen. 4.1, bearb. v. Popa (see note 4), p. 34. 79 Ub. I (see note 6), nr. 197, p. 141; EO I (see note 6), nr. 384, p. 254; Gernot Nussba¨cher, Zur Datierung einer Urkunde u¨ber einen Grund- und Mu¨hlenverkauf (1280?, Ub. I (see note 6), nr. 197), in: Forschungen zur Volks- und Landeskunde 23/2 (1980), pp. 119–120.

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second half of the 12th century,80 and perhaps even the existence of a nobiliary fortified residence on the School Hill plateau (with a chapel, a donjon and a fortified enclosure,81 like those that can be encountered in the second half of the 12th century and in the 13th century all over the territory of the German colonization in southern Transylvania, at Or˘as¸ tie, Sibiu, Viscri, Caˆlnic, Gaˆrbova, etc.82). The existence of a defensive wall built around the Citadel district ever since the late 13th or the early 14th century has also been attested.83 Despite a brief chronological gap, the situation is similar to that of Sibiu. Regardless of affiliation (whether it was a county fortification and/or that of a nobleman) and origin, in Sighi¸soara there was a fortification on the hill around the year 1200, which stood slightly to the side of the wooden dwellings of the German hospites.84 In comparison with other Transylvanian towns, i. e. Sebe¸s, Sibiu, Or˘as¸ tie, Bistri¸ta, Cisn˘adie, etc., where the parish church and its fortification are located in the center of the built-up areas, in the case Sighi¸soara, this nucleus stands on a hilltop, somewhat isolated from the settlement. From there, it dominates the whole town. The Gothic Church on the Hill is visible from all directions and represents the main element of urban composition and a hallmark of the urban space.85 The environmental and geographic background strongly influenced the urban structure of Sighi¸soara and the shaping of its urban space. In comparison with Sebe¸s or with other German towns in Transylvania, what makes Sighi¸soara so distinctive is the relationship between the natural environment and the urban solutions adopted. Ever since the 12th century, the city has been made up of two parts. Firstly, there is the settlement in the Citadel district, a rather small sector, with small properties and 80 Maria Crıˆngaci Tiplic, ¸ „Oaspe¸tii germani“ ıˆn sudul Transilvaniei. Istorie, arheologie s¸ i arhitectur˘a

(secolele XII–XIII) [„German Hospites“ in Southern Transylvania. History, Archaeology and Architecture (12th and 13th Centuries)], Bucure¸sti 2011, pp. 121–135, 294–296. 81 Paul Niedermaier, Sta¨dte, Do¨rfer, Baudenkma¨ler. Studien zur Siedlungs- und Baugeschichte Siebenbu¨rgens. Als Festgabe zum 70. Geburtstag (Studia Transylvanica 36), Ko¨ln/Weimar/Wien 2008, pp. 270–271. 82 Crıˆngaci Tiplic, ¸ „Oaspe¸tii germani“ (see note 80), pp. 90–93. 83 For various interpretations relating to the fortifications of Sighi¸soara, see Atlas istoric, coord. Niedermaier (see note 4), p. 6; Denkmaltopographie Siebenbu¨rgen. 4.1, bearb. v. Popa (see note 4), p. 50; Adrian Andrei Rusu, Castelarea carpatic˘a. Fortifica¸tii s¸ i cet˘at¸i din Transilvania s¸ i teritoriile ıˆnvecinate (sec. XIII–XIV) [The Carpathian Castellation. Castles and Fortifications from Transylvania and its Vicinity (13th–14th Centuries)], Cluj-Napoca 2005, p. 354, 533. 84 Archaeological digs conducted at the „Vlad Dacul House“ and at the „Deer House“ in the Citadel district have brought to light vestiges of the earliest stages of medieval forms of habitation attributed to the German hospites; they are vestiges of wooden houses, one of them displaying a wood-panelled cellar; they were dated to the first half of the 13th century: Radu Popa/, Gheorghe Baltag, Documente de cultur˘a material˘a or˘as¸ eneasc˘a ıˆn Transilvania din a doua jum˘atate a secolului al XIII-lea [Evidences about the Urban Material Culture in Transylvania in the Second Half of the 13th Century], in: Studii s¸ i Cercet˘ari de Istorie Veche s¸ i Arheologie 31/1 (1980), pp. 33–52; I. F. Pascu Casa cu Cerb. O istorie succint˘a a celui mai important monument civil din Sighi¸soara [Deer House. A Brief History of the Most Important Civil Monument of Sighi¸soara], in: In memoriam Radu Popa. Temeiuri ale civilizat¸iei romaˆne¸sti ˆın context european [In Memoriam Radu Popa. Issues of the Romanian Civilization in European Context], coord. D. Marcu Istrate/A. Istrate/C. Gaiu, Cluj-Napoca 2003, pp. 329–351, here pp. 332–333. 85 Denkmaltopographie Siebenbu¨rgen. 4.1, bearb. v. Popa (see note 4), p. 37.

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short, narrow streets. The structure of this district is composed of a nucleus represented by Citadel Square (Burgplatz); the street network is formed by a wide main street, which links Citadel Square with the Church on the Hills, and of another axis, which links the square and the main street (School Street) with the Clock Tower and the Lower Town. By the end of the 13th century, the area inside the citadel was highly built up, evidence in this respect being the construction of the Dominican monastery on the edge of the Citadel; subsequently the entire district was surrounded by fortifications. The second part of the city is the settlement at the foot of the hill (Lower Town), which is much larger than the former district. Located along a river, this district was never surrounded by a fortified perimeter stone wall, as was the case with the Lower Town in Sibiu, yet there were small sections of defensive structures. The core of this district is also a square (Square Hermann Oberth/Marktplatz) that is situated at the intersection of the principal streets. It also functions as an important link with the upper part of the city. The backbone of the street network is a broad main street which delimits the southern section of the square.86 The main linking element between the two districts is the Gate Tower, the highest tower of the city – the Clock Tower (used as the Town Hall until 1560, like those of Sibiu, Media¸s, and Bra¸sov). It represents the second hallmark in the urban space. It is both a physically and an optically distinctive feature, which establishes a connection between the two cores of the Lower Town and of the Citadel district,87 and thus between the two public und commercial spaces (Citadel Square and Hermann Oberth Square). Economically, the Sighi¸soara Chair was the second most powerful among the Seven Chairs after Sibiu. The settlement was first mentioned as a civitas in 1367.88 Sighi¸soara benefited from approximately the same package of trade privileges as Sebe¸s and Or˘as¸ tie, i. e. from the statutes of the 19 guilds existing in the Province of Sibiu in 137689 and, in particular, from free trade in the Kingdom of Hungary exempted from customs dues (1224, 1317, 1366, 1383, 1387, 1406,90 1480,91 and 148192). Unlike Sibiu, Sebe¸s and other towns, the institutionalization of the annual fair occurred relatively late. It was only in 1493 that King Vladislaus II of Hungary granted the town the right to hold an annual fair,93 a fact that is reflected in the size of its squares and in the existence of a greater number of houses owned by craftsmen than by merchants and patricians. Unlike Sebe¸s, Or˘as¸ tie, and Cisn˘adie, the course of economic and urban development in Sighi¸soara reveals an ascending trend. Thus, in 1429 the construction of current Gothic Church on the Hill began, the defensive system was improved, and 86 Atlas istoric, coord. Niedermaier (see note 4), pp. 4–6; Denkmaltopographie Siebenbu¨rgen. 4.1,

bearb. v. Popa (see note 4), pp. 26–30, 35–40. 87 Denkmaltopographie Siebenbu¨rgen. 4.1, bearb. v. Popa (see note 4), pp. 37, 38–39. 88 Ub. II (see note 6), nr. 887, pp. 283–284; DRH. C (see note 6), vol. XIII, nr. 190, pp. 308–310. 89 Ub. II (see note 6), nr. 1057, pp. 449–552; DRH. C (see note 6), vol. XV, nr. 73, pp. 86–94; Comer¸t s¸ i

me¸ste¸suguri, hg. v. Vlaicu (see note 11), nr. 12, pp. 64–70.

90 See note 10–11. 91 Ub. VII (see note 6), nr. 4366–4367, pp. 245–246. 92 Ub. VII (see note 6), nr. 4435, p. 288. 93 Mu ¨ ller, Stu¨hle und Distrikte (see note 69), p. 22.

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the city limits were extended.94 In the second half of the 15th and the beginning of the following century, a shift of the town’s central point even took place, for instance, several of the guilds, together with their warehouses and guildhalls, moved to the Lower Town, and the perimeter of the citadel could no longer offer optimal conditions for a series of craftsmen like the butchers and the tanners who needed the water of the Sae¸ ¸ s river.95 This is the reason why the documents recorded the craftsmen’s frequent relocation from the Citadel district to the Lower Town.96 A set of regulations followed, like those of 1517, when the municipality forced half of the craftsmen of the tailors’, the goldsmiths’, the strap-makers’, and the locksmiths’ guilds to live in the Citadel district.97 The guildhalls and warehouses have been attested both in the central area of the Citadel district (in front of the link between Citadel Square and the Clock Tower) and in the Lower Town (the guildhalls of the furriers, of the butchers and of the coopers were located in the Lower Town in the 16th century). This fact is also reflected in the topography of the names of the streets and of the towers in the Citadel, where the only streets named after crafts are: Joiners Street (2 streets), Tinkers Street (1 street and 1 square) and Furriers Street; the above-mentioned guilds were the most powerful ones in the town. On the other hand, all of the 14 towers were named after the guilds into whose custody they had been given (the goldsmiths, the butchers, the furriers, the shoemakers, the tailors, the weavers, the coopers, the ropers, the locksmiths, the barbers, the blacksmiths, the masons, the curriers, and the tinkers). However, owing to the measures taken by the municipality, like those of 1517, the town center remained within the Citadel district. The names of the streets and of the buildings in the Citadel district express the privileged, legal, religious, and social character of the area, as the Town Hall offices, the churches and the monasteries, the school, the parish house, and the patricians’ houses are located here. The houses and the residences of the patricians were located both in the Citadel district (in the area around Citadel Square and Museum Square) and in the Lower Town (Tower Street and Hermann Oberth Square).98 Although the existence of both patricians’ families 94 For the urban and the morphological structure of the town, see Niedermaier, Siebenbu¨rgische Sta¨dte

(see note 51), pp. 90–99; Atlas istoric, coord. Niedermaier (see note 4), pp. 4–6; Denkmaltopographie Siebenbu¨rgen. 4.1, bearb. v. Popa (see note 4), pp. 26–38. For the architectural evolution of the church, ˘ a¸ ˘ sianu, Istoria artei feudale ıˆn t¸a˘ rile romaˆne [The History of Feudal Art in the Romasee Virgil Vat nian Countries], vol. I, Bucure¸sti 1959, pp. 239–240, 535–536; Christoph Machat, Die Bergkirche zu Scha¨ßburg und die mittelalterliche Baukunst in Siebenbu¨rgen, Mu¨nchen 1979; Denkmaltopographie Siebenbu¨rgen. 4.1, bearb. v. Popa (see note 4), pp. 91–102. For the medieval defensive system see Vasile ˘ t, Dragu ¸ Cetatea Sighi¸soara, Bucure¸sti 1968; Denkmaltopographie Siebenbu¨rgen. 4.1, bearb. v. Popa (see note 4), pp. 50–56. 95 Denkmaltopographie Siebenbu¨rgen. 4.1, bearb. v. Popa (see note 4), p. 35, 57. 96 Atlas istoric, coord. Niedermaier (see note 4), p. 6; Denkmaltopographie Siebenbu¨rgen. 4.1, bearb. v. Popa (see note 4), p. 57. 97 Gernot Nussba¨cher, Documente s¸ i s¸ tiri documentare privind me¸ste¸sugurile din Sighi¸soara ıˆntre 1501–1520 [Documents and Documentary News about the Crafts of Sighi¸soara between 1501–1520], in: Sub semnul lui Clio. Omagiu Acad. Prof. Stefan ¸ Pascu [Under the Sign of Clio. Homage to Acad. Prof. Stefan ¸ Pascu], Cluj 1974, pp. 212–222. 98 Corina Popa, Locuin¸te s¸ i re¸sedin¸te ˆın cetatea Sighi¸soara [Houses and Residences in Sighi¸soara], in: Historia Urbana, VI (1998), pp. 105–113; Denkmaltopographie Siebenbu¨rgen. 4.1, bearb. v. Popa (see note 4), p. 57.

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and patricians’ houses has been attested, from an architectural point of view no element exists that could reveal the presence of dwelling towers,99 such as we have in Sibiu. The rest of the Citadel district is mainly formed of houses of craftsmen rather than of merchants. Sibiu. If Sebe¸s impresses with the clarity of its urban structure, and Sighi¸soara with the relationship between the natural framework and the urban solutions that it adopted, then Sibiu impresses with its urban composition, its urban tissue, and its architectural expression. In the Middle Ages, the city of Sibiu was in turn a county seat, the political and administrative center of the Saxons in the Seven Chairs, the seat of the Universitas Saxonum, and an ecclesiastical center. Of all Transylvanian towns, Sibiu benefited from the largest number of privileges for long-distance trade with Western Europe.100 Its economic and military power is reflected in the urban structure, in the civil and military architectural expression, and in the expansion of the urban space (for example, as mentioned at the beginning of this article, Sibiu extended over 46 ha in the mid-14th century and then 72 ha one hundred years later). The commercial importance of Sibiu is reflected inclusively in the size of the workspace for trading activities (e. g. Grand Square, Lesser Square, the main streets, such as Avram Iancu, N. B˘alcescu, Faurului/Blacksmiths Street, 9th of May, etc.). The topographic image and the studies based on land plotting show that Sibiu, too, was a planned settlement.101 Nevertheless, mention must be made of the fact that Sibiu does not belong to the group of towns that developed on the basis of an ideal plan102 like, for instance, Cluj, Bistri¸ta, or Sebe¸s. The time when the trade privileges were granted coincided with the period over which urban space grew, i. e. the time when the current Gothic church and the third enclosure wall around the Upper Town were built (between 1357–1366) and when the fortification works in the Lower Town were initiated (completed in the early 15th century).103 The city revenues were mainly channeled toward the consolidation and the maintenance of the defensive structures and of the T˘almaciu, Turnu

99 See the opinion of Corina Popa, who believes that the small building adjacent to the Venetian House

would initially have been a dwelling tower; Popa, Locuin¸te (see note 98), p. 110.

100 See note 30–41 s¸ i Crıˆngaci Tiplic/Niedermaier, ¸ Privilegiile (see note 3), pp. 118–124. 101 Niedermaier, Siebenbu¨rgische Sta¨dte (see note 51), pp. 104–116; Idem, Der mittelalterliche Sta¨dtebau

(see note 51), pp. 183–189.

102 Fabini, Sibiul gotic (see note 5), pp. 152–153. 103 For the planimetric and the morphological structure of the town, see Niedermaier, Siebenbu¨rgische

Sta¨dte (see note 51), pp. 104–116; Idem, Der mittelalterliche Sta¨dtebau (see note 51), pp. 183–189; Idem, Sta¨dtebau im Mittelalter 2002 (see note 1), pp. 199–200, 202–204, 233–234, 245; Idem, Sta¨dtebau im Mittelalter 2004 (see note 1), pp. 112–114, 208–212. For the architectural evolution of the church, see Ludwig Reissenberger, Die evangelische Pfarrkirche A. B. in Hermannstadt, Hermannstadt 1884; M. von Kimakowicz, Studien zur Baugeschichte der evangelischen Stadtpfarrkirche in Hermannstadt, in: Archiv des Vereins fu¨r Siebenbu¨rgische Landeskunde 39 (1913), pp. 477–508; Niedermaier, Sta¨dte, ¨ ber Do¨rfer (see note 81), pp. 271–285. For the medieval defensive system see Ludwig Reissenberger, U die ehemaligen Befestigungen von Hermannstadt, in: Archiv des Vereins fu¨r Siebenbu¨rgische Landeskunde 29 (1900), pp. 315–417; Avram/Bucur (eds.), Denkmaltopographie Siebenbu¨rgen, 5.1.1 (see note 4), pp. 29–35.

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Ro¸su, and Lotrioara fortresses in the Olt Defile, which were also held by the city.104 This could be one of the answers to the question of why the Gothic parish church in Sibiu, otherwise an ecclesiastical center, is so plain in comparison with the churches in Sebe¸s, Cluj, and Bra¸sov. The urban strategy of the municipality was to invest in the fortification of the city, which turned out to be effectual, as the city was able to successfully resist all of the sieges laid by the Ottoman armies. In a letter dated 1444, Pope Eugene IV considered the city to be an example in itself, a true bastion of Christianity.105 Because Sibiu is a very complex city, I would like to mention here only the main details that define its composition and its urban space. Sibiu is unique in the way in which its urban core, represented by the parish church (Huet Square) and surrounded by defensive structures, and the two squares of the Upper Town (Lesser Square and Grand Square) communicated with the other parts of the city. The linking elements are the multiple passageways and lanes, which rarely close in a right angle. The Upper Town hosts the major public buildings (the parish church, the Town Hall), the merchants’ houses and the patricians’ houses grouped around Grand Square or very close to it, whereas Lesser Square is dominated by warehouses and guildhalls. Most of the craftsmen owned their houses in the Lower Town, a fact that is reflected in the names of the various streets. In addition, more than half of the defensive towers of Sibiu were named after the guilds that were supposed to defend them (22 towers and 4 gate towers).106 The important trade privileges granted to Sibiu are reflected in the fronts and the fac¸ades of the buildings that delimit the commercial space (commercial halls and guildhalls in Grand Square, Lesser Square and Avram Iancu Street), but also in the civil architecture programs of that time.107 For instance, a new type of house was born along with the granting of the staple right to Sibiu in 1382. These houses, built with merchants in mind, display an enlarged domestic space, with a view to storing goods over a long period of time; they differ from the former type of housed by an increased number of rooms, a layout over two or three stories (basement, ground floor, which sometimes had open archways, and an upper story) and a high value of the building.108 These houses are located mostly in the Upper Town. In the 15th century, along with the growth of long-distance trade, a new type of civil building emerged, namely the patrician’s house, which comprised residences (e. g. Hecht House – at

104 In 1453, King Vladislaus V granted Sibiu property over the fortresses T˘almaciu, Turnu Ro¸su, and

Lotrioara with all of their possessions, over the market town T˘almaciu and the right to levy customs in order to maintain the fortresses in the Olt Defile: Aurel Dumitrescu-Jippa/Nicolae Nistor, Sibiul s¸ i t¸inutul ıˆn lumina istoriei [Sibiu and his County from a Historical Perspective], vol. I, Cluj-Napoca 1976, p. 86. 105 Reissenberger, U ¨ ber die ehemaligen Befestigungen (see note 103), p. 315. 106 Hermann Fabini, Pia¸ta Republicii din Sibiu – un studiu de istorie s¸ i urbanism [The Grand Square of Sibiu – a Study about History and Urbanism], in: Buletinul Monumentelor Istorice XLII/1 (1973), pp. 49–52; idem, Sibiul gotic (see note 5), pp. 142–153; Avram/Bucur (eds.), Denkmaltopographie Siebenbu¨rgen, 5.1.1 (see note 4), passim. 107 Fabini, Sibiul gotic (see note 5), pp. 54–55. 108 Ibidem.

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No. 8, Grand Square) and dwelling towers that were erected towards the end of the 15th century (Altemberger House, Haller House, and Lutsch House).109 The three patricians’ dwelling towers identified in Grand Square and its proximity represent a special feature of the city, as they are not to be encountered in any other Transylvanian town.

Conclusions

From the very succinct information presented above, it can be ascertained that, in the case of Sebe¸s, Sighi¸soara, and Sibiu, trade privileges have exerted a major influence on the area designed for commercial activity, on the evolution of the urban space, and on its well defined demarcation by the enclosures. We can even speak of an urban strategy, if we take into account the urban structure, in particular that of Sebe¸s, along with that of Sibiu and of Sighi¸soara, which complied with the typology of planned settlements. It can be assumed that the urban strategy initiated in the 13th century continued throughout the 14th and the 15th centuries, but on a lesser scale. It was perceivable in municipal and royal intervention110 and in the location of representative public buildings, as against other parts of the city.111

109 For information about the dwelling towers in Sibiu, see Hermann Fabini, Patriziertu¨rme des spa¨ten

Mittelalters in Hermannstadt, in: Siebenbu¨rgen als Beispiel europa¨ischen Kulturaustausches (Siebenbu¨rgisches Archiv 12), Ko¨ln/Wien 1975, pp. 27–45. 110 We mention only a few examples here: In the case of Sibiu, starting in the latter half of the 14th century, the Town Council issued documents which granted the guilds of the tailors, the shoemakers, and the butchers the permission to build their own shops in Lesser Square or in the space between Lesser Square and Grand Square; in 1505, the Town Council of Sibiu allotted the tailors’ guild a vacant location between Lesser Square and Grand Square to build a commercial hall where they could sell their goods at annual fairs and weekly markets (Comer¸t s¸ i me¸ste¸suguri, hg. v. Vlaicu [see note 11], nr. 84, pp. 239–243). In the case of Sebe¸s, in 1387, at the inhabitants’ appeal, King Sigismund of Luxembourg granted the town the right to erect enclosure walls; this document is considered the earliest permission ever granted to a Transylvanian town to be walled-in (Ub. II (see note 6), nr. 1219, pp. 615–616). 111 For instance, the monasteries of the mendicant friars were initially located on the edge of the fortified town (as is the case in Sighi¸soara, Sebe¸s, and Sibiu). In terms of the location of the town halls, in Sighi¸soara the Town Hall was located in the Gate Tower (Clock Tower), which provided access to the Citadel district and the Lower Town; at some point, the Town Halls of Media¸s and of Sibiu were also located in former gate towers, which connected two public spaces/commercial spaces (Lesser Square and Grand Square). With regards to the commercial halls and the guildhalls in Sibiu – Grand Square and Lesser Square – in 1589, the open ground floor shops were considered long-standing community property with the purpose of protecting the people and the merchandise form rain (see Emil Sigerus, Vom alten Hermannstadt, Bd. I, Hermannstadt 1922, p. 21).

FROM THE MEDIEVAL MARKETPLACE TO THE MODERN SQUARE The modernisation of the markets of Ia¸si in the first half of the 19th century* by Dan Dumitru Iacob

Due to the complex functions of the market (economic, administrative and urban), it has a special significance in the urban structure. The market also has an obvious social role, as it is one of the places in which activities and important community manifestations are held. In many cases we can also identify a religious function and, not least, an explicit or implicit symbolic value.1 The emergence and evolution of medieval towns in Romania have common elements with the urban phenomenon in East and Central Europe, but also many differences.2 The same can also be said of the characteristics of the markets in Romanian towns, seeing as in most cases the creation of the central marketplace coincided with the moment an urban settlement spontaneously appeared.3 In Western and Central Europe, the medieval town market inherited, depending on the case, either some of the ancient markets’ characteristics, those of the GrecoRoman markets (agora and forum), or some of the characteristics of the old rural structures that preceded the urban stage.4 The differences are much more numerous * This work was supported by a grant of the Romanian National Authority for Scientific Research,

CNCS – UEFISCDI, project number PN-II-ID-PCE-2011-3-0562.

1 Pierre Lavedan, Historie de l’urbanisme. Antiquite´ – Moyen A ˆ ge, Paris 1926, p. 455; Jean Schneider,

ˆ ge. Les institutions e´conomiques, in: Recueils de la socie´te´ Jean Bodin Les villes allemandes au Moyen A pour l’histoire comparative des institutions 7 (1955), p. 429; Teodor Octavian Gheorghiu/Radu Radoslav, Spa¸tiul central al ora¸sului medieval romaˆnesc extracarpatic din secolele XIV–XVI, spa¸tiu al coeziunii sociale. Elemente pentru un studiu comparat european [Central area of the Romanian medieval town in XIV–XVI centuries, a space of social cohesion. Elements for an European comparative study], in: Historia Urbana I-2 (1993), pp. 153–174, here p. 154. 2 The most recent synthesis on this topic: Lauren¸tiu Radvan, ˘ At Europe’s Borders: Medieval Towns in the Romanian Principalities, transl. by Valentin Cıˆrdei, Leiden/Boston 2010, and Idem, Ora¸sele din t¸a˘ rile romaˆne ˆın evul mediu (sfaˆr¸situl sec. al XIII-lea – ıˆnceputul sec. al XVI-lea) [Medieval towns from the Romanian Principalities (late XIIIth – beginning XVIth centuries)], Ia¸si 2011. 3 Gheorghiu/Radoslav, Spa¸tiul central al ora¸sului (see note 1), p.154. 4 Lewis Mumford, The City in History, New York 1961. I used the French edition, La cite´ a` travers l’histoire [transl. by Guy and Ge´rard Durand], Paris 1964, p. 382; Camillo Sitte, Arta construirii ora¸selor. Urbanismul dup˘a principiile sale artistice [The art of building cities. City planning according to its artistic principles], (transl. by R. Eftenie/H. Derer/M. Eftenie), Bucure¸sti 1992, p. 10.

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depending on the variety of the European urban forms. The evolution of the urban market was affected by the pressure of political, economic and social changes, but also by the technical and scientific progress from the different stages of history. In many cases, the markets had to suffer major changes, together with the general plans of systematisation and modernisation of towns. The old markets of Antiquity and the medieval ones were rearranged according to new architectonic principles, and the new ones were built in accordance with set models, where the aesthetic aspect and geometry of forms were important. The delimitation of the civic markets from the commercial ones, which began in Antiquity, continued to be a concern of the city planners, but also of the towns’ leaders, and the results were visible in the subsequent historical eras, in different geographical spaces, without being, however, a general rule. There were towns like Florence or London, in which the central markets acquired a representative-symbolic role, the economic functions being transferred to commercial markets. The commercial markets then saw a separation or an acute specialisation in the sort of economic activities that they represented and the types of merchandise that they sold.5 Although there is no uniform historical evolution, we can observe that, nowadays, in most of the old central marketplaces which have been preserved in many European towns, the representative, symbolic and social roles are more important than the economic ones. The commercial element has not disappeared, but it has been adapted to the modern requirements such as tourism and cultural, sporting or political events, etc. The market appeared in the first stages of the Romanian urban genesis on one hand due to social and economic habits and needs as a spontaneously created space, with no geometry, placed near a landmark that served as a community gathering place (like an important road, a crossroads, a princely home, a church), around which the settlement took shape. In this case, like other elements in urban morphology, the medieval market carried the marks of old rural structures with similar functions. Regardless of the name, these were no more than empty spaces found in the centre or at the edge of the village, used for different economic, administrative and social activities of the community: occasional or periodical commerce, village meetings, public punishments, folk parties and so on.6 On the other hand, the emergence of town markets in the Romanian lands happened as they took on certain urban, architectonic and juridical elements that were specific to the Central European model of a town, amongst which was a town market in a regular geometrical form (for Moldavia see Baia, Roman, Suceava, Ia¸si, Siret and other towns). The Saxons and Hungarians from Transylvania as well as the Germans and Armenians from Poland played an important role in the transfer and application of this knowledge to the south and east of the Carpathians.7

5 Spiro Kostof, The City Assembled. The Elements of Urban Form Through History, London 1992,

pp. 95–96. 6 Vasile Neamtu, ¸ Pie¸tele s¸ i uli¸tele medievale ale Moldovei (contribu¸tii) [Moldavia’s medieval streets and

markets (contributions)], in: Historia Urbana VII-1 + 2 (1999), pp. 113–120, here pp. 114–115.

7 Gheorghiu/Radoslav, Spa¸tiul central al ora¸sului (see note 1), p. 173; Neamtu, ¸ Pie¸tele s¸ i uli¸tele me-

˘ dievale (see note 6), p. 113; Radvan, At Europe’s Borders (see note 2), pp. 348–371.

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In the West, the market was a symbol of the force of the community and the town’s freedom; in medieval towns located in Romanian lands, these characteristics were diminished by the meddling of the central powers, which controlled multiple aspects of urban life.8 Generally speaking, in Romanian medieval towns we do not find all three types of markets that are characteristic the occidental world (we refer specifically to the peninsula of Italy) and are symbolic reflections of the religious, economic and political powers: the cathedral square, the town square and the marketplace.9 It must also be pointed out that there was not always a central marketplace, surrounded by the main princely and communal buildings: cathedral or church, the princely palace and the town hall. We can, of course, establish some connections between the medieval market in towns from Romanian lands and the economic, political and religious factors, but these links are, however, more practical than symbolic. In medieval towns in Moldavia and Wallachia, the markets had a predominantly economic character. The Church owned some of the marketplaces, or stalls and inns in the marketplace, which it rented out, or on which it sold its own groceries, grown on its estates. Most of the commercial markets were situated next to a church or a monastery, for economic reasons as much as for the protection of the salesmen and the goods. The political power was represented in the market through the ruler’s local officials, whose job it was to keep things under control and to collect taxes. The economic aspect is for sure the most important for all medieval markets in towns within Moldavia and Wallachia, and refers us back to the process of urban genesis. The economic connection between the market and the town is clearly shown in semantics. In Romanian, the word taˆrg (which comes from Old Slavonic) has several meanings.10 On the one hand, it means emphdeal, bargain, transaction, business and so on, and on the other hand, it means marketplace, fair, borough, town and even – until the 19th century – city (in Moldavia). If we take as an example the city of Ia¸si, these multiple meanings can be seen from the 17th century in the existence of multiple taˆrguri (marketplaces), inside or outside the town. For example, the toponym Taˆrgul Nou (New Marketplace) or Taˆrgul de Sus (High Marketplace) started off meaning a new market or a new place intended for economic activities. As the number of houses around these markets multiplied, the new area of town was then known under that name, as a new neighbourhood. From a linguistic point of view, the toponym Taˆrgul Nou (New Marketplace) stands in semantic opposition to Taˆrgul Vechi (Old Marketplace). As far as urban geography is concerned, it designates a new urban reality (a new marketplace and a new neighbourhood), separate from the old one – Taˆrgul Vechi (the old marketplace and neighbourhood), from the centre of the town. At the same time, although there is no precise timeframe, the term clearly indicates the succession in urban development. The semantic opposition is present in the associated

8 Gheorghiu/Radoslav, Spa¸tiul central al ora¸sului (see note 1), p. 162; Radvan, ˘ At Europe’s Borders

(see note 2), pp. 183–206 and 393–418.

9 Sitte, Arta construirii ora¸selor (see note 4), p. 10. 10 Radvan, ˘ At Europe’s Borders (see note 2), pp. 12, 140, 143–144, 171, 336–337, 371–381; Sever Pop,

Sinonimele cuvaˆntului taˆrg ˆın lumina geografiei lingvistice [Synonyms of the word taˆrg in the light of linguistic geography], in: Revista Geografic˘a Romaˆn˘a 1 (1938), pp. 44–61.

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terms, which designate the two parts of town, Taˆrgul de Sus (meaning Taˆrgul Nou) and Taˆrgul de Jos (meaning Taˆrgul Vechi). These names had a decisive topographical meaning in the locals’ minds and were directly linked to the uneven land and hills on which the town stood.

Fig. 1: Old and new markets in Ia¸si (16th–19th centuries) A. The old princely palace, B. Taˆrgul Vechi [Old Marketplace], C. Taˆrgul Nou [New Marketplace]. I. Hay Market, II. Flour Market, III. Salt Market, IV. Cattle Market, V. Fish Market – uncertain location. 1. St Friday Market, 2. Beilic Market, 3. Iacovachi Buiucliu’s Market, 4. Golia’s Market, 5. Market on Podul Lung [Long Street] – uncertain location, 6. Taˆrgul Cucului Market (place of Ioan Negru¸ti), 7. St Spyridon Market, 8. Market near the Natural History Cabinet, 9. Scarlat Miclescu’s Market, 10. Copou Market (place of Elena Sturdza), 11. Iancu Constantin’s Market, 12. St Paraskevi Market. Projects of squares at: a. St Elijah church, b. National Theatre, c. Metropolitan Cathedral, d. St George church, e. Talpalari Church or Academia Mihailean ˘ a, ˘ f. Banu church Source: Drawn by Mariana Vlad, 2012

I. The medieval marketplaces

The city of Ia¸si is the biggest and most important urban centre of Moldavia. Although it appeared in the 14th century on the site of an old rural settlement, it earned its current status gradually and quite late. It became the Moldavian ruler’s main residence half way through the 16th century, and from the 17th century it became the sole residence of the ruler.11 11 Radvan, ˘ At Europe’s Borders (see note 2), pp. 501–506.

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The first commercial markets in Ia¸si are more often mentioned in documents from the end of the 16th century; it was only in the following century, however, that the urban development and intensification of economic activities determined the emergence of many commercial markets. In the 16–18th centuries there were many such markets in Ia¸si (Fig. 1): Taˆrgul Vechi or Taˆrgul de Jos (Old Marketplace or Lower Marketplace), Taˆrgul Nou or Taˆrgul de Sus (New Marketplace or Higher Marketplace), Taˆrgul Fainii ˘ (Flour Market), Taˆrgul Faˆnului (Hay Market), Taˆrgul Boilor (Cattle Market), Majile ˘ (Fish Market) and Sar ˘ aria ˘ Veche (Old Salt Market).12 The Taˆrgul Vechi or Taˆrgul de Jos neighbourhood is mentioned in a document from Prince Vasile Lupu’s time (18th September 1644).13 The main part of it was located on Uli¸ta Ruseasca˘ (Russian Street), near the princely courts, and it was very close to an inn owned jointly by the Barnovschi and Baˆrnova Monasteries. The princely customs and their inn were not too far away from this market either. In the courtyard of the customs there was a church, Sfaˆntul Lazar ˘ (St Lazarus), which had been built at the beginning of the 18th century. In or around the market there was a place known as where the saleswomen are, which leads us to think that the market was separated into areas depending on the wares. The market was quite an important one, as shown by the other name that it bore: Taˆrgul Mare (Large Market) and also by the attention that it received from the rulers, who were interested in stimulating the commercial activity in the capital of Moldavia. In order to do this, Prince Constantine Mavrocordatos ordered during his first rule in Moldavia (1733–1735) that the market ground be covered in boards so that commercial activities would not stop when it rained.14 His intervention proved that the market was already a permanent part of urban life and that the area was a good commercial location. In the 18th century, the Beilic, a special inn with room for caravans, was built not far from the Baˆrnova Monastery, next to the Sfaˆntul Ioan Zlataust (St John Chrysostom) church. It was built to accommodate soldiers and Ottoman officials who were passing through or who had come to Ia¸si. This building, as well as the area around it, was full of stalls and had a steady flow of customers. It made an ideal commercial location.15 All of these markets and inns were arranged along the sides of two commercial streets, which were connected end to end, Uli¸ta Ruseasca˘ and Uli¸ta Trapezaneasc ˘ a. ˘ Due to constant development, these streets and markets formed a „commercial zone“ which spread out from the gates of the princely court to the Cacaina stream. At the same time, this neighbourhood bore the same name, and thus the semantic connection between market (taˆrg) and town (taˆrg) mentioned earlier on is perfectly explained. 12 Documente privitoare la istoria ora¸sului Ia¸si. Vol. I. Acte interne (1408–1660) [Documents about the

history of Ia¸si. Vol I. Internal documents (1408–1660)], ed. by Ioan Capro¸su/Petronel Zahariuc, Ia¸si 1999; Vol. II. Acte interne (1661–1690) and Vol. III. Acte interne (1691–1725), Ia¸si 2000. 13 The document was discussing the neighbourhood known by this name, but the existence of the market is self-evident considering that the neighbourhood derived its name from that market; Documente privitoare la istoria ora¸sului, Vol. I (see note 12), doc. 319, pp. 397–398. 14 Istoria ora¸sului Ia¸si. Vol. I [History of Ia¸si city. Vol. I], ed. by Constantin Cihodaru/Gheorghe Platon, Ia¸si 1980, pp. 91–93. 15 Ibidem, p. 93.

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Another important market was Taˆrgul Fainei ˘ (Flour Market) which was at the crossroads of many of the main streets: Uli¸ta Fain ˘ ariei ˘ (Flour Market Street), Podul Vechi (Old Street), Uli¸ta Goliei (Golia’s Street) and Uli¸ta Taˆrgului de Sus (Higher Marketplace’s Street). The merchant caravans that went through the town, coming from or going down the Salt road, Tartarie road, „Imperial“ road (or Gala¸ti road), Boto¸sani road and Hotin road had to pass by to the market. Around this large market, the Mahalaua Fainei ˘ (Flour Suburb) appeared and, later on, in 1762, the Sfaˆntul Pantelimon (St Pantelimon) church was built. Here there was also an inn called the Carv ˘ as ˘ aria ˘ veche (Old Caravanserai).16

II. Characteristics of the marketplaces in Ia¸si in the first half of the 19th century Most of the markets from the first half of the 19th century were created in the medieval period, which explains their central position in urban development and the fact that certain characteristics are still in evidence in modern times. The markets in Ia¸si, if sorted by their opening hours, were of two kinds: permanent and periodical (weekly, four times a year or just for certain religious festivals). In terms of their commercial specificities, there were also two types: the general marketplaces, where you could find all kinds of goods (Taˆrgul Vechi or Taˆrgul de Jos, Taˆrgul Nou or Taˆrgul de Sus), and the specialised marketplaces, where there were only certain types of goods such as cattle (Taˆrgul Boilor), fish (Majile), ˘ salt (Sar ˘ aria ˘ Veche), flour (Taˆrgul Fainii), ˘ or hay (Taˆrgul Faˆnului). The geometrical form of the markets in Ia¸si was, generally speaking, similar to the structures from other areas in Europe. In this respect there were also two types of marketplaces, with more or less defined perimeters: linear markets and polygonal markets. In the linear market, or the „informal street market“ – as Spiro Kostof called it – the commercial activity took place both in the marketplace and in the street around it.17 In this case, the commercial functions of the market and the street fused into one. This kind of market with medieval origins existed until the middle of the 19th century next to the Sfaˆnta Vineri (St Friday, the folk name for St Parascheva) church. Because the space was too small for the market, the commercial activity spilt out onto Sfaˆnta Vineri street. The more or less symmetrical polygonal type of market was specific to most of the marketplaces in Ia¸si. The geometry and functions of the marketplace were disturbed in time by the changes of ownership, the increase in population and of the buildings surrounding it, walls erected by the neighbours and the competition from other local markets. For

16 Ibidem, pp. 94–96. 17 Kostof, The City Assembled (see note 5), p. 96; see also Gheorghiu/Radoslav, Spa¸tiul central al

ora¸sului (see note 1), pp. 172–173.

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this reason, some markets changed their shape and size, others changed their commercial activities and some shut down. Another characteristic of the marketplace in Ia¸si was its location, which was always very close to a church. This fact is not hard to explain. Most of the markets were private ones or used land that was let by the town hall. In this respect, churches and monasteries offered a range of advantages. They had large properties that were available in the town and enough money to invest in economic activities. They also had the possibility of offering shelter to the merchants in their own inns, which existed around each market of the town. Some churches and monasteries had fortifications, which offered protection for merchants and their wares against fire and thieves. Last but not least, in a time when religion had a great importance in the life of the community, the churches ensured a flow of people and maintained social cohesion in the area.

III. The modernisation of the marketplaces of Ia¸si in the first half of the 19th century In Romanian society in the first half of the 19th century, the way of understanding and thinking about the market changed from what it had been in the Middle Ages, from an urban but also a social point of view. The main causes of the transformations in the way in which the markets were set up, the architecture and the functionality of the markets included: the growth of the population and the changes in demographic density in certain zones; the creation of new neighbourhoods; a more efficient use of space, which was becoming tighter and tighter in the centre of town; the changes of economic usages for certain streets; the use of modern urban principles and the start of an urban systemisation; the sudden interest in arranging public spaces and the creation of institutions and laws referring to the development and planning of urban sites.18 In this period, the creation of new marketplaces and the modernisation of old ones was decided first and foremost by economic and social demands. Usually these demands were shown by requests made by the inhabitants from a certain neighbourhood addressed to the town administration and the rulers of the country. After the modern urban laws appeared, there were a number of terms and conditions that had to be upheld in order to complete such a project regarding the location of the market, the type of commerce, respecting certain rules of safety and hygiene, and so on.

18 Nicolae Lascu, Epoca regulamentar˘a s¸ i urbanismul. Caˆteva observa¸tii generale [The Age of „Organic

Regulations“ and the town planning. Some general observations], in: Historia Urbana II-2 (1994), pp.119–130, here pp. 128–129.

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I. Choosing the location for a new marketplace The choice of the best position for a market inside a town depended on many factors, such as: the type of market, the relationship with the neighbourhood that the market would be serving and the relationship with the neighbouring markets. The markets that sold flammable wares and those which needed large spaces to hold their wares – wood, hay, timber – were located at the edge of the town in areas that were less populated; the markets for food and necessities, such as fruit and vegetable markets, were in the centre of town. The markets had to be placed at the best distance from the neighbourhoods that they served. When this criterion was not respected, there were fluctuations in the business in the markets, sometimes leading to their closure, and social tensions were also created. Good examples of this are the complaints that appeared amongst the inhabitants of the town in 1832, when the commercial activities on the Sfaˆnta Vineri Street became exceedingly busy. They were unhappy about the closure of Sfaˆntul Theodor market in the Taˆrgul de Sus neighbourhood, and faced a long journey to the Sfaˆnta Vineri market, which was in a different neighbourhood. The inhabitants from Taˆrgul de Sus thus complained to the authorities that their interests had been overlooked: „Due to the distance to the Sfaˆnta Vineri market, we are caused a lot of grief in order to buy the things necessary to our homes“.19 Documents from that time show a harsh economic competition between neighbouring markets and between the merchants that sold their wares in these markets. For example, the merchants from Sfaˆnta Vineri street and those from around the Beilic market were fighting over the monopoly of the commercial roads in the Taˆrgul de Jos neighbourhood. In order to appease all of them, on 6th September 1832 the authorities decided the following: „The carts with wood, wine, hay and other goods that come from the upper part of the town should gather at the Sfaˆntul Spiridon marketplace, and the carts that come from the lower part of the town should stop in the Beilic market to sell their goods; the women who sell fruits and vegetables and other food should sell in the Sfaˆnta Vineri market“.20 As we can see, the authorities tried to reduce the disagreements between the merchants and at the same time to satisfy the economic and alimentary needs of the inhabitants of the area. For this purpose, they tried to match the specificity and commercial offers of the neighbouring markets in a way that would make them complementary and not competitive. The authorities also tried to distribute more evenly the wares over the whole town. The results, however, were not always positive due to the market owners’ abuse and the influence of important merchants as well as the corruption in local and central administration.

19 Documente privitoare la istoria economic˘a a Romaˆniei. Ora¸se s¸ i taˆrguri (1776–1861), Moldova, Seria A,

vol. II [Documents about the economic history of Romania. Cities and towns (1776–1861), Moldavia, ˘ alescu/M. ˘ Series A. Vol. II], ed. by Gh. Ungureanu/Gh. Dasc Gheorghi, Bucure¸sti 1960, doc. 92, pp. 148–149. 20 Ibidem, doc. 102, p. 158.

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II. Respecting hygiene and safety rules Modern markets had to provide safety, both for merchants and customers, but also for the integrity of the whole urban zone in which they were located, thus avoiding a series of risks, such as: outbreaks of plague and fire, the extension of commerce into the neighbouring streets, traffic blockages on the roads and the destruction of the paving stones. In order to keep the town clean and safe, polluting activities and those which involved risks of fire were kept to the outskirts of the town. For this reason, from the 18th century, brickyards, ovens in which ceramics were baked, workshops where soap was made, slaughter-houses, etc. were moved to the edge of town.21 From the beginning of the 19th century, this principle was applied with a measure of flexibility with regards to the location of the markets in which such activities were carried out. For example, on 10th March 1813, Prince Scarlat Callimachi ordered that all the fishmongers from the streets, together with any other polluting commercial places, move to one common marketplace. After some research, it was decided that the best place for this market was the Pescaria ˘ Veche (Old Fish Market), at the end of the Old Street, towards the Cacaina stream. It can be assumed that the place was not well chosen considering that due to the distance from the other neighbourhoods and the circulation problems, merchants and customers avoided going there and the market was shut down.22 It was only after 1830 that the principle of relocating markets that polluted or had a high-risk of fire to the outskirts of town became mandatory and was made law in Regulamentul Organic (The „Organic Regulations“ was the first fundamental law of the Romanian principalities): „On the edge of the Bahlui River and the Cacaina stream there are two markets where the slaughter-houses, distillery, candle making, saltwater fish, mazut and any other inflammable and dangerous materials have been moved: merchants will bring into town only as much of these materials as is necessary for daily sales“.23 The authorities tried their best to put the law into practice by grouping commercial activities into four places: the old princely garden and Taˆrgul Boilor, Beilic and Sfaˆntul Theodor markets.24 To help implement the law, they decided to move the Lippovan fishmongers from the Sfaˆnta Vineri street to the Podul Ro¸su (Red Street), which was closer to the edge of town.25 In spite of the strictness of the authorities, things did not work perfectly this time either. For this reason, the theory behind moving the markets and activities towards the edges of town as well as the theory of separating the markets by their wares was discussed in 1850, when, in the context of clean21 Stefan ¸ Olteanu/Constantin Serban, ¸ Me¸ste¸sugurile din Tara ¸ Romaˆneasc˘a s¸ i Moldova ˆın evul mediu

˘ ar ˘ au/ ˘ [Crafts in Moldavia and Wallachia in the Middle Ages], Bucure¸sti 1969, p. 272, 362; Dan Bad Ioan Capro¸su, Ia¸sii vechilor zidiri (Paˆn˘a la 1821) [Old buildings of Ia¸si (until 1821)], Ia¸si 2007, p. 253. 22 Documente privitoare la istoria economic˘a (see note 19), doc. 35, p. 61. 23 Regulamentul Organic al Moldovei [„Organic Regulations“ of Moldavia], ed. by Dumitru Vitcu/ ˘ ar ˘ au/Corneliu ˘ Gabriel Bad Istrate, Ia¸si 2004, Art. 44, p. 230 (for the edition from 1831 of the Organic Regulations), and Art. LXXI, p. 438 (for the 1835 edition). 24 Documente privitoare la istoria economic˘a (see note 19), doc. 95, p. 151–152. 25 Ibidem, doc. 99, pp. 155–156.

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ing operations, the Department of Public Work informed the Prince that: „One of the main causes of uncleanliness in the streets, deterioration of the paving stones and the increase in the risk of fire is the concentration in the middle of town of all kinds of flammable materials [&] and so, in order to avoid this, four large public markets should be created“.26 These markets were to be placed at the Socola, T˘at˘ara¸si, Copou and P˘acurari barriers, thus receiving most of the commercial vehicles that came from outside the town. Part of the internal traffic going to these markets would therefore be sent on a circular route which would decongest the traffic from the centre of town. The proposal was not carried out, and only two of these markets were created: one in Copou (owned by Elena Sturdza) and another on the Bahlui river plain (belonging to Iancu Constantin).

Fig. 2: The plan of Saint Spyridon Market, by engineer Iosif Raschek, 1843 Source: The National Archives of Romania – Ia¸si County Branch, fond Departamentul Lucr˘arilor Publice [Department of Public Work], dos. 325/1845, f. 150. Edited by Mariana Vlad, 2012

26 Manualul administrativ al Principatului Moldovei [Administrative manual of the Moldavia Principal-

ity], vol. I, Ia¸sii 1855, doc. 140, pp. 212–213.

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III. Systematisation and protection of the markets In the first half of the 19th century, the central commercial spaces became even more congested. The measures taken by the urban administration were the systematisation and modernisation of the markets. For this, they called upon architects, who drew up topographical plans, like those of the Sfaˆntul Spiridon (St Spyridon) (Fig. 2) and Beilic markets. They also took measures to expel neighbours who had extended their property into the marketplace. The situation in Taˆrgul Boilor was a good example of this.27 Due to the fact that it was only open periodically, once a week, and also due to its specific nature (a cattle market), this place had no extra architectonic features but was rather a large space which was almost empty most days of the week. The situation led to the trespassing of the neighbours, especially as the market was not surrounded by fences or other markers. In addition to the problems in the running of the market, the „disappearance“ of parts of the land of the market was also due to the increase in population in that area, as the town was growing. Compared to the medieval period, when the market was on the edge of town, the area became more populated and more used in the 19th century as it was now integrated within the town. The market also lost its initial specific commercial character (cattle market and fair), as the sale of cattle was moved to the other markets and fairs closer to the edge of town. Even though the authorities were interested for a while in rehabilitating this commercial area, the logical result of these changes was the closure of the market, which from the middle of the 19th century no longer appeared on the list of markets in Ia¸si.28 Another example is the Sfaˆnta Vineri market. Until 1832, the Sfaˆnta Vineri church had no walls around it and the saleswomen who sold their wares in the market were therefore able to put their stalls as close to the cemetery as they wished. From 1832, the Sfaˆnta Vineri church was protected by a fence and this meant the space left for the market in front of the church was significantly smaller. The merchants moved their stalls and mats into the street, making things difficult for the traffic. To solve this situation, the authorities decided that part of the activity from the Sfaˆnta Vineri market should be moved to the Beilic market, which they had started renovating and extending a year before.29 In some cases, the markets were extended and fenced off from the streets and surrounding properties.30 They also created parking spaces, both for the merchants’ wagons and wagons with passengers, and rules were created to help the traffic move around the markets. The carts with larger wares were sent to the markets on the outskirts of town, which had larger spaces for the carts. For the area around the markets that lacked these kinds of stopping spaces, the police set a timetable according to which the carts could stop on the surrounding roads. For example, in 1832, carts

27 Documente privitoare la istoria economic˘a (see note 19), doc. 91, p. 148; Direc¸tia Jude¸tean˘a Ia¸si a

Arhivelor Na¸tionale ale Romaˆniei [The National Archives of Romania – Ia¸si County Branch], fond Eforia Ia¸si, dos. 64/1835, f. 1. 28 Manualul administrativ (see note 26), doc. 144, pp. 221–222. 29 Ibidem, doc. 143, pp. 218–219 and doc. 144, p. 222. 30 Ibidem, doc. 138, p. 211.

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with wares could stop on the Sfaˆnta Vineri Street for only 2 hours each day.31 In 1853, larger vehicles were completely forbidden from stopping, and carts or carriages with vegetables were accepted at the front of the market only in the evenings and at night, when they would unload their wares. The front of the market had to be clear by morning.32 The traffic restrictions often led to complaints from the merchants, suppliers and market owners, who were more interested in profit than organisation, thus the police were often called upon to restore order.33

IV. Architecture and features of the markets Several documents from the first half of the 19th century, wherein the princes gave to certain individuals the right to create markets, make it possible for us to find out about the structure of a commercial marketplace in Ia¸si. The organisation of the space for a market was carried out according to the plan made by the town’s architect. A large, complex market, such as the one set up by Elena Sturdza on the Copou hill in 1850, had two large areas: the marketplace where the carts with large wares could stop and where these wares were also sold, and the market for small things and vegetables. The difference between the two parts of the market was noticeable. In the market on Copou hill, the place for the larger carts and the wholesale merchants measured 2646 staˆnjeni cvadra¸ti (12,958.08 m2), whereas the area designed for smaller merchandise was much more compact, measuring only 572 staˆnjeni cvadra¸ti (2,800.57 m2). In some cases, the two parts of the market were separated by the main road of the suburb in which the market was located.34 Besides these sections of the market, there was also usually one more where the storehouses and warehouses for raw materials were located. In the smaller markets from the centre of town, this part of the market did not exist, partly due to lack of space but also due to the restrictions on storing flammable materials there. These restrictions were not always obeyed: some of the locals who lived next to the market illegally kept these kinds of good in their courtyards, where they were brought by merchants to be sold there.35 The central markets were surrounded by small shops, which separated them from the roads and whose architecture, aesthetics and practicalities allowed the merchants to make the best use of both the location of the market and the possibility of selling on the street. For example, amongst the conditions set out by the authorities for building a shop around the Beilic marketplace in 1847, the following was mentioned: „The

31 Documente privitoare la istoria economic˘a (see note 19), doc.102, p. 158. 32 Manualul administrativ (see note 26), doc. 144, p. 222. 33 Ibidem, doc. 141, 141 and 142, pp. 212–218, doc. 144, pp. 222–224. For the duty of the police, see: Dan

Dumitru Iacob, Din istoria str˘ajilor urbane ie¸sene: culucciii (secolul XVIII-mijlocul secolului XIX) [About town street guards history: culucciii (XVIIIth – mid XIXth centuries)], in: „Ioan Neculce“. Buletinul Muzeului de Istorie a Moldovei (serie nou˘a) [„Ioan Neculce“. Bulletin of the Moldavia Museum of History (new series)], II–III (1996–1997), pp. 125–148, here pp. 131–133 and Annex I. 34 Manualul administrativ (see note 26), doc.141, p. 217. 35 Direc¸tia Jude¸tean˘a Ia¸si a Arhivelor Na¸tionale ale Romaˆniei, fond Eforia Ia¸si, dos. 39/1836, f. 4.

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building of the shops must be done as shown in the pre-established plans and facing the market, but also having a nice facade towards the street, for aesthetic reasons“.36 In the middle of the 19th century, most of the marketplaces in Ia¸si were paved with stone or planking, they had running water (pumps, artesian fountains, a well or a pool), and they were lit and guarded. They also had utilities with an administrative role and for public information, about the timetable of the market, the maximum prices and the measuring units used. The wares were presented on mats or stalls, which were built according to the authorities’ set models.37 An examination of the juridical aspects which relate to the ownership of the marketplace, the rent, the rights of the owners, etc. would go beyond the scope of this contribution. It is enough to remember that in 1853 the Department of Public Works decided that, in the future, the town hall of Ia¸si was to buy private property out of its own funds on which it could set up new markets to be administrated by the municipality.38

IV. A new type of market: the civic square or parade square Until the 19th century, there were no civic squares within towns in Moldavia and Wallachia. Their role was taken on partly by marketplaces, by the courtyards of certain administrative buildings and churches, or some of the empty pieces of land in town. These kinds of spaces existed in front of princely houses and in the yards of the Metropolitan Church and of the Trei Ierarhi (Three Hierarchs) church. This is where the inhabitants of the town sometimes met for public ceremonies – such as the festivities surrounding the coronation of a new prince, the receiving of foreign ambassadors, and military parades – or for consultative meetings, but also festivities and collective protests. These places were used on a temporary basis and had far fewer social and urban functions than the civic square. The Organic Regulations, applied in 1831/32, was a clear step in the advancement of Romanian society, although it had many shortcomings and was often criticised.39 The modernising effect was felt in the urban development, especially in the capitals of Moldavia and Wallachia. The preoccupation of the authorities in the „embellishment of the town“ shows an assimilation of modern urban principles, such as the increase 36 Manualul administrativ (see note 26), p. 219 (the document in the notes). 37 Ibidem, doc. 138, p. 211, doc. 140, pp. 212–215 and doc. 146, pp. 225–226. 38 Ibidem, doc. 144, p. 224. 39 Gheorghe Platon, Regulamentul Organic: oper˘a de progres sau instrument de opresiune social˘a s¸ i

na¸tional˘a? [„Organic Regulations“: progress work or social and national oppression tool?], in: De la constituirea na¸tiunii la Marea Unire. Studii de istorie modern˘a, vol. III [From the creation of nation to the Great Unification. Studies of Modern History, Vol. III], Ia¸si 2000, pp. 34–48; Anastasie Iordache, Contrastul dintre anacronic s¸ i modern ˆın Regulamentele organice ale Principatelor Romaˆne [The contrast between archaic and modern in the „Organic Regulations“ of the Romanian Principalities], in: Revista istoric˘a 2/7–8 (1991), pp. 351–368.

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of interest in aesthetic value and not only functional value of the town’s projects.40 Amongst these projects was one that involved the creation of squares around certain churches and monasteries. These squares were designed to be representative of the social, cultural and urban aspects of the town. First of all, the architecture of certain churches and monasteries was displayed, especially of those which had no surrounding walls. Another objective was the planned creation around the churches of a safety perimeter against fire by means of demolishing the parasitical buildings that had appeared around these churches.41 Initially they chose four churches around which they intended to build civic squares: Banu, Sfaˆntul Ion (St John, in Taˆrgul de Sus), Sfaˆntul Gheorghe Lozonschi (St George) and Talpalari.42 After this, they also chose the Sfaˆntul Ilie (St Elijah) church.43 A decade later, the concept of the civic square was extended to other places that were representative from an architectonic, social and cultural point of view, such as the National Theatre, the Natural History Cabinet and the Academia Mihailean ˘ a˘ (a college founded by Prince Mihail Sturdza).44 The chosen solutions seem to coincide with the objectives established in the Organic Regulations about the urban modernisation of the town of Ia¸si. For this purpose, the choice of these churches and public institutions to receive civic squares showed the authorities’ intent to create a new town centre, different to the medieval one. On the other hand, it can be suspected that the town project was also used by Prince Mihail Sturdza (1834–1849) in order to glorify his own rule. The intervention of the Prince in choosing these squares was clear. At least two of the churches chosen had a certain link to the prince’s person: the Sfaˆntul Gheorghe (Lozonschi) church was in front of the princely palace and the Talpalari church was close to an important public institution: the Academia Mihailean ˘ a, ˘ created by the same prince. The projects did not go as planned, however, as there were many juridical, administrative and social issues which led to delays and failures. For example, the civic square near to the Banu church was never created because of the disagreements between the council of the church and the town authorities. The process lasted over a decade, until in 1853 the church regained its rights to freely use its own property. Although the land had been cleared of all buildings, it was never rebuilt as a town square.45 40 Lascu, Epoca regulamentar˘a (see note 18), pp. 128–129. 41 Regulamentul Organic al Moldovei (see note 23), Art. 46–47, p. 230 (pentru edi¸tia din 1831) and Art.

LXXIII–LXXIV, p. 438 (pentru edi¸tia din 1835).

42 Analele Parlamentare ale Romaˆniei, X2 (1840–1841), pp. 528–529. 43 Dan Dumitru Iacob, Proiecte edilitare ıˆn Ia¸sii primei jum˘at˘at¸i a secolului al XIX-lea. Pia¸ta de la bis-

erica „Sfaˆntul Ilie“ [Urban projects in Iasi in the first half of the XIXth century. The square from the „St. Elias“ Church], in: „Monumentul“ (Lucr˘arile Simpozionului Na¸tional „Monumentul – Tradi¸tie s¸ i viitor“, Edi¸tia a XI a [„The Monument“ (The National Symposium ‘Monument Tradition and Future’ paperworks, Edition XI], ed. by Mircea Ciubotaru/Lucian-Valeriu Lefter/Aurica Ichim/Sorin Iftimi, Ia¸si, 2009, vol. XI1, Ia¸si 2010, pp. 157–169. 44 Buletin. Foae oficial˘a 12/63 (1844), p. 269; Manualul administrativ (see note 26), doc. 244, p. 378, doc. 138, p. 212. 45 Mihai-R˘azvan Ungureanu, Not˘a la un proces care a durat o jum˘atate de secol. „Locul bisericii Banu“ [Note to a trail that lasted half a century. „The Place of Banu Church“], in: „Ioan Neculce“, Serie nou˘a 1 (1995), pp. 77–89, here p. 78 and doc. 3, p. 82.

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Another case in which the smaller community’s interest (in this case, that of the church’s parishioners) prevailed over the authorities was at the Sfaˆnta Paraschiva (St Paraskevi) church. This church was not initially chosen to have a square; the idea appeared, however, after a business conflict based on religious intolerance. Three Jews rented a space next to the Orthodox Church Sfaˆnta Paraschiva, where they intended to build a couple of shops and a synagogue. The Christian inhabitants were not in favour of this project as they did not want the synagogue to be so close to the church. To protect the church from the proximity of the Jews, they suggested the transformation of the land into a public square. The town administration created a marketplace, however, and this went bankrupt a few years later.46 The project of creating a civic square near to the Sfaˆntul Ilie church was similar to the one at the Sfaˆnta Paraschiva church. The land in front of the church was cleared of the buildings, but instead of creating a square, they made a marketplace which only ran for a short period of time.47 As for the other projected squares, we do not have many details. There are, however, many indications that these projects only partially succeeded. After almost two decades from the decision to create the civic squares in the Organic Regulation, and a decade after the authorities actually started work, the results were disappointing. On the 26th January, the Department for Public Works decided again that some of the markets in Ia¸si would remain commercial markets and some would be transformed into parade squares, that is to say civic squares.48 The simple comparison of the lists of these markets in the town in 1853 shows that only the market of the Academia Mihailean ˘ a˘ (or of Talpalari church)49 was transformed into a civic square.50 Another partial result of this urban project was the clearing of buildings that surrounded the churches and hid their facades or, due their proximity, were a fire hazard. This is what happened around the Banu, Sfaˆntul Ilie, Sfaˆnta Paraschiva churches and also the Metropolitan church. When the booths in front of the Metropolitan church were destroyed during the rule of Prince Grigore Alexandru Ghica (1848–1856), „the face of the Metropolitan church was unveiled, so that the monks could see out onto the street.“51 Thus the free space between the street and the Metropolitan buildings became a square for parades.52

46 Dan Dumitru Iacob, Proiecte edilitare ıˆn Ia¸sii primei jum˘at˘at¸i de secol XIX. Pia¸ta de la biserica

Sfaˆnta Paraschiva [Urban projects in Ia¸si in the first half of the XIXth century. The market near Saint Paraskeva Church], in: „Ioan Neculce“. Buletinul Muzeului de Istorie a Moldovei, serie nou˘a, IV–VII (1998–2001), pp. 125–140. 47 Iacob, Proiecte edilitare – Pia¸ta de la biserica „Sfaˆntul Ilie“ (see note 43). 48 Manualul administrativ (see note 26), doc. 139, p. 212. 49 Seeing as the Talpalari church was close to the Academia Mih˘ailean˘a, it can be assumed that it is one and the same square, referred to differently in different documents. 50 Manualul administrativ (see note 26), doc. 144, pp. 221–222. 51 Pahamicul Constantin Sion, Arhondologia Moldovei. Amintiri s¸ i note contimporane. Boierii moldoveni [The Moldavia’s Arhondology. Memories and Contemporary notes. Moldavian boyars], ed. by Rodica Rotaru/Mircea Angelescu/Stefan ¸ S. Gorovei, Bucure¸sti 1973, p. 272. 52 Manualul administrativ (see note 26), doc. 144, pp. 221–222.

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In certain documents, other locations are named parade squares, like the promenades or certain empty spaces which were occasionally used for various public activities.53 Also, in the category of public markets the following are included: platforms, small squares, the open courtyards of certain public institutions, such as the theatre on the Copou hill, which had a space with a platform where the carriages could stop.54 The failure of the creation of civic squares in the first half of the 19th century showed that the majority of the town’s inhabitants did not understand the role of these squares. In addition, the authorities suffered financial problems and came up against the resistance of some of the owners, who did not wish to tear down their shops or the houses around the church. It was only in the second half of the 19th century that Romanian society was ready to assimilate the idea of a civic square. For this, however, they needed to go through another transition stage in which the concept was tried out, both at an urban level and for the collective mentality.

Conclusions In the first half of the 19th century, the market had an important place in the urban structure and the life of the community. Commercial markets showed the economic poles of the town and, implicitly, the territorial modifications therein. The central marketplaces which took over from the medieval ones marked the old areas of the town. They were modernised and adapted to the multiple demands of the locals. The larger marketplaces in the outskirts were outlets for the commerce with the outside, and were the „middle-man“ between the town and the rest of the country. They contributed to the reduction of pollution, traffic and fire hazards. Due to the economic activity and their links to the town centre, these markets contributed to the urban integration of the suburbs. The project to create civic squares or parade squares was a clear sign of urban modernisation. The location of those markets, even on paper, shows the intention of the town leaders to redesign a new centre of town which would include a number of the civil institutions and important urban elements. From an architectonic point of view, the relationship between markets and churches was different than in the Middle Ages. If, in many cases, the proximity between the two was maintained, the reasons behind it differed. The secularisation of urban society brought the civic square into the urban landscape. Even if the projects were only partially achieved by the middle of the 19th century, the projects to create these squares around the churches show the intentions of the authorities to draw attention to the value of ecclesiastical architecture. They also correspond with the real social needs, seeing as the civic square was a space for recreation, coagulation and social representation.

53 Documente privitoare la istoria economic˘a (see note19), doc. 238, p. 363. 54 Manualul administrativ (see note 26), doc. 244, p. 378.

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Today there is no clear typological or functional continuity between the markets in 19th century Ia¸si and the contemporary ones. As a result of the repeated measures taken for the systematisation of the town, most of the old commercial markets were shut down, merged, relocated, or lost their historical and functional identity and were changed into squares, parks and spaced for parking vehicles. Thus, the number of commercial markets declined as their functions were taken on by shops and supermarkets, but the number of squares rose. Today, no elements of architecture that were specific to the markets from previous centuries still exist. There is, however, a link between the current markets and the old ones in terms of their location. Some of the contemporary markets and squares from the centre of town appeared in the same areas where the commercial markets and civic squares were located in the 19th century, albeit not on exactly the same spot.

DER WANDEL DES MITTELALTERLICHEN ZENTRUMS ¨ DTEN IN OSTMITTELEUROPA¨ ISCHEN STA ZWISCHEN DEM 13. UND DEM 19. JAHRHUNDERT von Roman Czaja

Mit der großen (als deutschrechtliche Kolonisation bezeichneten) Siedlungsbewegung gelangte in die ostmitteleuropa¨ischen La¨nder im 13. Jahrhundert auch eine neue urbane Kultur zum Durchbruch. Das auf den Gebieten o¨stlich der Elbe im Verlauf des 12. und 13. Jahrhunderts entwickelte, verfassungsrechtlich und ra¨umlich einheitliche Modell der Lokationsstadt begann schrittweise a¨ltere, einheimische Stadtformen zu ersetzen.1 Grundlegende Bedeutung fu¨r die Genese und Entwicklung des neuen Stadttypus erlangte vor allem die Organisation des Zentrums. Die einheimischen fru¨hsta¨dtischen Siedlungen zeichneten sich durch eine polyzentrische Raumordnung aus, die aus mehreren Elementen bestand: Burg und daran angebundene Produktionssiedlungen, Ma¨rkte, kirchliche Institutionen, ra¨umlich separierte Siedlungen fremder Kaufleute.2 Die mit einer Stadtlokation vollzogenen Vera¨nderungen fu¨hrten zu einer Zusammenlegung der verschiedenen Funktionen, die zuvor von den vielgliedrigen, stadta¨hnlichen Zentren wahrgenommen worden waren, nach Art eines geschlossenen Organismus, der im Mittelpunkt einen regelma¨ßig abgesteckten Raum – einen Markt – hatte.3 1 Winfried Schich, Die Bildung der Sta¨dte im westslawischen Raum in der Sicht der a¨lteren und der

ju¨ngeren Forschung, in: Konzeptionelle Ansa¨tze der Hanse-Historiographie, hg. v. Eckhard Mu¨llerMertens/Heidelore Bo¨cker (Hansische Studien 14), Trier 2003, S. 115–140; ders., Stadtwerdung im ¨ bergang von der slavischen zur deutschen Periode, in: Germania Raum zwischen Elbe und Oder im U Slavica 1, hg. v. Wolfgang H. Fritze, Berlin 1980, S. 191–238; Roman Czaja, Sta¨dte und Bu¨rgertum in den polnischen La¨ndern an der Wende vom 13. zum 14. Jahrhundert, in: Rechtsstadtgru¨ndungen im mittelalterlichen Polen, hg. v. Eduard Mu¨hle (Sta¨dteforschung A/81), Ko¨ln/Weimar/Wien 2011, S. 323–338, hier S. 324; Sławomir Gawlas, Die Lokationswende in der Geschichte mitteleuropa¨ischer Sta¨dte, in: ebd., S. 77–105, hier 87ff. 2 Jerzy Piekalski, Od Kolonii do Krakowa. Przemiany topografii wczesnych miast, Wrocław 1999, ¨ bersetzung: Von Ko¨ln nach Krakau. Der topographische Wandel fru¨her Sta¨dte, S. 158ff. [deutsche U Bonn 2001]; Marian Rebkowski, ˛ Pierwsze lokacje miast w ksi˛estwie zachodniopomorskim. Przemiany przestrzenne i kulturowe [Die ersten Stadtgru¨ndungen im Pommerschen Fu¨rstentum. Raum- und Kulturwandlungen], Kołobrzeg 2001, S. 25f. 3 Sławomir Gawlas, Die zentrale Funktion der Sta¨dte in Ostmitteleuropa in der Zeit des Landesausbaus, in: Sta¨dtelandschaften im Ostseeraum im Mittelalter und in der Fru¨hen Neuzeit, hg. v. Roman Czaja/ Carsten Jahnke, Torun´ 2009, S. 9–29; Piekalski, Od Kolonii (wie Anm. 2), S. 167ff.

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Das Ziel des vorliegenden Beitrages ist es, die Rolle des Zentrums in der ra¨umlichen Ordnung der Stadt, wie auch seine soziale und funktionelle Auswirkung darzustellen. Der zeitliche Rahmen der Analyse umfasst die Periode von der Stadtgru¨ndung und der Vermessung des Stadtraumes im 13. Jahrhundert bis hin zu den Anfa¨ngen der Industrialisierung in der ersten Ha¨lfte des 19. Jahrhunderts. Als zentraler Raum wird in diesem Beitrag also der Ort betrachtet, in dem sich die Transformation der mittelalterlichen Stadt in eine moderne Form des sta¨dtischen Lebens widerspiegelt. Der bisherige Forschungsstand erlaubt keine systematische Analyse dieser Problematik, deswegen wird der Versuch unternommen, anhand eines ausgewa¨hlten Beispiels die Grundtendenzen in der Entwicklung des im Mittelalter gestalteten Zentrums in ostmitteleuropa¨ischen Sta¨dten aufzuzeigen.4 Charakteristisches Merkmal dieser Sta¨dte war die weitgehende Regelma¨ßigkeit des Stadtbildes, das von einer schachbrettartigen Aufmessung des sta¨dtischen Raumes gepra¨gt war. Hervorgehoben werden soll, dass in einem solchen Grundriss mehrere Schichten und Vermessungen zu unterscheiden sind; selten entstand ein Stadtgrundriss in Folge einer einmaligen Umgestaltung.5 Die gro¨ßte Bedeutung fu¨r die Gestaltung des sta¨dtischen Raums hatte der Marktplatz. Seine a¨ltere Form knu¨pfte an die Hauptverkehrsachse einer Stadt an und nahm die Gestalt einer breiten Straße an. Seit den 1240er Jahren verbreitete sich in den ostmitteleuropa¨ischen La¨ndern dann das Modell eines Stadtgrundrisses mit einem zentral platzierten rechteckigen Marktplatz.6 Die ra¨umliche Aussonderung des Zentrums ergab sich nach einer ersten Phase der Entwicklung der Lokationsstadt vor allem aus den Interessen des Stadtherrn, dem die Konzentration der Handelseinrichtungen (Fleischba¨nke, Krambuden, Tuchhallen,

4 Eine gute Basis fu¨r die Erforschung dieser Problematik stellen die Ergebnisse der Tagungsreihe dar,

die den Pla¨tzen im ra¨umlichen Gefu¨ge der Sta¨dte in Polen vom Mittelalter bis zum 20. Jahrhundert gewidmet wurde, in: Kwartalnik Historii Kultury Materialnej 40,3 (1992); ebd., 41,2 (1993); ebd., 41,4 (1993). Die Ergebnisse der neueren archa¨ologischen Forschungen zum Thema „Ma¨rkte und Pla¨tze“ ´ ´ ask vgl. im Tagungsband: Sredniowieczny Sl ˛ i Czechy. Centrum s´ redniowiecznego miasta. Wrocław a Europa s´ rodkowa [Mittelalterliches Schlesien und Bo¨hmen. Zentrum der mittelalterlichen Stadt. Breslau und Mitteleuropa], hg. v. Jerzy Piekalski/Krzysztof Wachowski, Wrocław 2000. 5 Rafał Eysymontt, Kod genetyczny miasta. Sredniowieczne ´ ´ aska miasta lokacyjne Dolnego Sl ˛ na tle urbanistyki europejskiej [Der genetische Stadtcode. Die mittelalterlichen Gru¨ndungssta¨dte Niederschlesiens vor dem Hintergrund der europa¨ischen Urbanistik], Wrocław 2009, S. 620; Bogusław Krasnowolski, Lokacyjne układy przestrzenne na obszarze ziemi krakowskiej w XIII I XIV wieku [Urbanistische Anlagen der Lokationssta¨dte im Krakauer Land im 13. und 14. Jh.], Krako´w 2004, S. 88–90; Ders., Muster urbanistischer Anlagen von Lokationssta¨dten in Kleinpolen. Forschungsstand, Methoden und Versuch einer Synthese, in: Mu¨hle, Rechtsstadtgru¨ndungen (wie Anm. 1), S. 275–322. 6 Henryk Samsonowicz, Die funktionale Gliederung des sta¨dtischen Raumes, in: Gilde und Korporation in den nordeuropa¨ischen Sta¨dten des spa¨ten Mittelalters, hg. v. Klaus Friedland (Quellen und Darstellungen zur Hansischen Geschichte 29), Ko¨ln/Wien 1983, S. 91–103, hier S. 97f.; Gawlas, Die Lokationswende (wie Anm. 1), S. 91f.; Małgorzata Chorowska, Rozplanowanie s´ redniowiecznego Poznania na tle miast s´ laskich, ˛ in: Civitas Posnaniensis. Studia z dziejo´w Poznania, hg. v. Zofia Kurnatowska/Tomasz Jurek, Poznan´ 2005, S. 207–224, hier S. 213f.; Małgorzta Chorowska/Mateusz Golinski, ´ Soziale und ra¨umliche Entwicklung der Stadt nach der Aussetzung nach Deutschem Recht, ´ ask in: Atlas historyczny miast polskich [Historischer Atlas Polnischer Sta¨dte], Bd. 4: Sl ˛ [Schlesien], H. 1: Wrocław (Breslau), hg. v. Marta Młynarska-Kaletynowa, Wrocław 2001, S. 19.

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Waage) auf dem Markt zugleich auch die Kontrolle der Einku¨nfte aus dem Marktregal erleichterte.7 Mit den o¨konomischen Funktionen eng verbunden waren die Verkehrseinrichtungen, welche die große Intensita¨t des Durchgangsverkehrs und die optimale Erreichbarkeit im Rahmen der innersta¨dtischen Kommunikation sicherten. In der a¨ltesten Phase der Entwicklung der ostmitteleuropa¨ischen Lokationssta¨dte machte sich die Nachbarschaft des Marktplatzes zur Pfarrkirche und zum Friedhof deutlich bemerkbar.8 In diesem Aspekt wird die Fortsetzung eines Raumordnungsmodelles aus der Vorlokationszeit sichtbar, als Dom oder Marktkirche das Zentrum der Sta¨dte bestimmten. Mit der sozial-wirtschaftlichen Entwicklung und der Gestaltung der juristisch-verfassungsrechtlichen Autonomie der Stadtgemeinde – ein Ausdruck davon ist die Bildung von Stadtra¨ten und Stadtgerichten – erfahren auch die Funktionen des Zentrums eine Erweiterung.9 Am Marktplatz wurden nicht nur die Sitze der Kommunalbeho¨rden (Ratha¨user, Gerichtsstuben)10 und die Symbole der kommunalen Herrschaft und der Gerichtsbarkeit (Pranger, Rolande) angelegt,11 der Marktplatz

7 Gawlas, Die Lokationswende (wie Anm. 1), S. 97f.; ders., Die zentrale Funktion (wie Anm. 3), S. 20ff.;

Marian Rebkowski, ˛ An urban landscape in transition. The Pomeranian towns in the 13th century from the archaeological perspective, in: Czaja/Jahnke, Sta¨dtelandschaften (wie Anm. 3), S. 119–140, hier S. 132f.; Mateusz Golinski, ´ Die Anfa¨nge der Kaufha¨user und Reichkrame in den schlesischen Sta¨dten, in: Zeitschrift fu¨r Ostforschung 42,1 (1993), S. 1–13. 8 Als „Nachbarschaft“ verstehe ich die Lage der Kirche an der Ecke des Marktplatzes oder auf einem an den Markt grenzenden Grundstu¨ck, vgl. Zbigniew Morawski, „Intra muros“. Zarys problematyki cmentarza miejskiego [„Intra muros“. Abriss der Problematik des sta¨dtischen Friedhofes], in: Czas, ´ praca w dawnych miastach. Studia ofiarowane Henrykowi Samsonowiczowi w sze´sc´ dzieprzestrzen, siat ˛ a˛ rocznic˛e urodzin, hg. v. Andrzej Wyrobisz/Michał Tymowski, Warszawa 1991, S. 93–96; ders., Funkcje religijne placo´w miejskich w s´ redniowiecznej Polsce [Die religio¨sen Funktionen der sta¨dtischen Pla¨tze im mittelalterlichen Polen], in: Kwartalnik 40, 3 (1992), S. 295–303, hier S. 299; Bogusław Krasnowolski, Z badan´ nad rynkami i placami w planach urbanistycznych i programach lokacyjnych miast małopolskich [Forschungen u¨ber die Ma¨rkte und Pla¨tze in den urbanistischen Pla¨nen und Programmen der Lokationssta¨dte in Klein Polen], in: Ulica, plac i cmentarz w publicznej przestrzeni ´ ˙ s´ redniowiecznego i wczesnonowozytnego miasta Europy Srodkowej [Straße, Platz und Friedhof im o¨ffentlichen Raum der mittelalterlichen und fru¨hneuzeitlichen Stadt Mitteleuropas], hg. v. Stefan Krabath/Jerzy Piekalski/ Krzysztof Wachowski, Wrocław 2011, S. 163–178, hier S. 174; Eysymontt, Kod genetyczny (wie Anm. 5), S. 85; bemerkenswert ist die Tatsache, dass in den bo¨hmischen Lokationssta¨dten im 13. Jahrhundert die Errichtung der Pfarrkirche in der direkten Nachbarschaft zum Zen˙ trum eine Ausnahme war, vgl. Martin Jezek, Archeologia na rynku małego miasta w Czechach [Die ´ ´ ask Sl ˛ i Czechy (wie Archa¨ologie auf dem Ring der kleinen Sta¨dte in Bo¨hmen], in: Sredniowieczny Anm. 4), S. 22–46, hier S. 30. 9 Jerzy Piekalski, Das Zentrum der mittelalterlichen Stadt als archa¨ologisches Forschungsproblem, in: ´ ´ ask Sredniowieczny Sl ˛ i Czechy (wie Anm. 4), S. 11–19, hier S. 15–19; Rebkowski, ˛ Pierwsze lokacje (wie Anm. 2), S. 104–111. 10 Waldemar Komorowski, Sredniowieczne ´ ratusze w Małopolsce i na ziemiach ruskich Koron [Die mittelalterlichen Ratha¨user in Klein Polen und in den ruthenischen La¨ndern der Krone], in: Civitas & villa. ´ Miasto i wie´s w s´ redniowiecznej Europie Srodkowej, hg. v. Cezary Bu´sko u. a., Wrocław/Praha 2002, S. 241–248; Matthias Untermann, Pla¨tze und Straßen. Beobachtungen zur Organisation und Repra¨¨ ffentlichkeit in der mittelalterlichen Stadt, in: Stadt und O ¨ ffentlichkeit. Die Entstehung sentation von O politischer Ra¨ume in der Stadt der Vormoderne, hg. v. Stephan Albrecht, Ko¨ln/Weimar/Wien 2010, S. 59–72, hier S. 65f. 11 Arthur Semrau, Die Pranger in Elbing, Kulm und Thorn, in: Mitteilungen des Copernicus Vereins fu¨r Wissenschaft und Kunst 45 (1937), S. 101–117; Dieter Po¨tschke, Rolande als Problem der Stadtgeschichtsforschung, in: Jahrbuch fu¨r die Geschichte Mittel- und Ostdeutschlands 37 (1988), S. 4–45, hier

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wurde auch zum zentralen Ort der Strukturierung des sta¨dtischen Lebens und der ¨ ffentlichkeit. Mit dieser Funktion ist auch die Konzentration der Erzeugung von O Kommunikationsmittel der Stadtobrigkeit, sowohl der schriftlichen, akustischen als auch der optischen Zeichen (Turmschlaguhren, Glocken, Marktfahnen, Ikonografie der o¨ffentlichen Geba¨ude, Aushang der schriftlich verfassten Ordnungen, Verlesen der „Willku¨r“),12 verbunden. Der Marktplatz war auch Ort der Konzentration von periodischen und außergewo¨hnlichen Ritualen, die mit dem kommunalen und o¨ffentlichen Leben zusammenhingen (Versammlungen der Stadtgemeinde, Ratswahlzeremoniell, Turniere).13 Zu den o¨ffentlichen Einrichtungen, die im Zentrum angesiedelt wurden, sind auch Brunnen oder Zisternen zu za¨hlen.14 Der funktionale Ausbau des Marktplatzes bedeutete freilich nicht, dass die Handelsta¨tigkeit aus dem zentralen Stadtraum ausgeschlossen wurde. Zwar entstanden mit der ra¨umlichen und wirtschaftlichen Entwicklung der Stadt auch neue Orte des Einzel- und Großhandels, beispielsweise an Flussufern oder vor den Stadttoren,15 der Marktplatz blieb aber nach wie vor der wichtigste Ort des Handelsgeschehens. Erwa¨hnenswert ist die Vielfalt des Handels, der sich im Stadtzentrum konzentrierte, die Ausdifferenzierung

S. 42; Jolanta Bresch/CezaryBu´sko, Badania na Placu Sadowym ˛ (wykop nr IX) [Die Forschungen auf dem Gerichtsplatz (Grube Nr. 9)], in: Rynek Wrocławski w s´ wietle badan´ archeologicznych, T. 1, hg. v. Cezary Bu´sko (Wratislavia Antiqua 3), Wrocław 2001, S. 109–146, hier S. 115–120; Maciej Trzcinski, ´ ´ aska, ˙ Urzadzenia ˛ penitencjarne w krajobrazie s´ redniowiecznych I nowozytnych miast dolnego Sl ˛ in: ´ ´ ask Sredniowieczny Sl ˛ i Czechy (wie Anm. 4), S. 147–158, hier S. 150–154; Hanna Zaremska, Miejsca ka´zni w Krakowie w XIV–XVI wieku [Hinrichtungssta¨tten in Krakau im 14. – 16. Jh.], in: Kwartalnik 40,3 (wie Anm. 4), S. 305–312, hier S. 307. 12 U ¨ ber die Medien zur Bildung von O ¨ ffentlichkeit vgl. Mark Mersiowsky, Wege zur O ¨ ffentlichkeit. ¨ ffentlichkeit Kommunikation und Medieneinsatz in der spa¨tmittelalterlichen Stadt, in: Stadt und O (wie Anm. 10), S. 13–58; Carla Meyer,‚City Branding‘ im Mittelalter? Sta¨dtische Medien der Imagepflege bis 1500, in: Stadt und Medien. Vom Mittelalter bis zur Gegenwart, hg. v. Clemens Zimmermann (Sta¨dteforschung A/85), Ko¨ln/Weimar/Wien 2012, S. 19–48, hier S. 39–43; Klaus Neitmann, Die Publikation von Staatsvertra¨gen und Landesordnungen im Deutschordensland Preußen, in: Kommunikationspraxis und Korrespondenzwesen im Mittelalter und in der Renaissance, hg. v. Heinz-Dieter Heimann, Paderborn 1998, S. 113–124, hier S. 120; Teresa Jakimowicz, Ratusz jako miejsce kulturowe [Das Rathaus als Kulturort], in: Ratusz w miastach po´łnocnej Europy, hg. v. Stanisław Latour, ´ 1997, S. 37–48, hier S. 39. Gdansk 13 Henryk Samsonowicz, Das Verha¨ltnis zum Raum bei den hansischen Bu¨rgern im Mittelalter, in: Hansische Geschichtsbla¨tter 95 (1977), S. 27–37, hier S. 30; Dietrich W. Poeck, Rituale der Ratswahl. Zeichen und Zeremoniell der Ratssetzung in Europa (12. – 18. Jahrhundert) (Sta¨dteforschung A/60), Ko¨ln/Weimar/Wien 2003, S. 237, 239, 254; Stephan Selzer, Artusho¨fe im Ostseeraum. Ritterlich-ho¨fische Kultur in den Sta¨dten des Preußenlandes im 14. und 15. Jahrhundert, Frankfurt a. M. 1998, S. 38. 14 Urszula Sowina, Woda i ludzie w mie´scie po´zno´ ´ sredniowiecznym i wczesnonowozytnym: ˙ ziemie polskie z Europa˛ w tle [Wasser und Menschen in der spa¨tmittelalterlichen und fru¨hneuzeitlichen Stadt: Polnische La¨nder und Europa im Hintergrund], Warszawa 2009, S. 148f.; dies., Sieradz. Układ prze´ strzenny i społeczenstwo miasta w XV–XVI. [Sieradz. Ra¨umliche Anlage und Stadtgesellschaft im 15. – 16. Jh.], Warszawa/Sieradz 1991, S. 30. 15 Marian Rebkowski, ˛ Archa¨ologische Erkenntnisse zum Handel in Kolberg (Kołobrzeg) vom 13. bis zum 15. Jahrhundert, in: Lu¨becker Kolloquium zur Stadtarcha¨ologie im Hanseraum, Bd. 2: Der Handel, hg. v. Manfred Gla¨ser, Lu¨beck 1999, S. 403–414, hier S 411; Jacek Wiesiołowski, Funkcje placo´w ´ sredniowiecznej aglomeracji poznanskiej ´ miejskich w po´zno´ [Funktionen der Stadtpla¨tze im spa¨tmittelalterlichen Posen], in: Kwartalnik 40,3 (wie Anm. 4), S. 325–332, hier S. 330; Roman Czaja, Place targowe Starego Miasta Elblaga ˛ w s´ redniowieczu [Marktpla¨tze der Altstadt von Elbing im Mittelalter], in: Kwartalnik 40,3 (wie Anm. 4), S. 359–364, hier S. 360f.

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seiner Warenstruktur, die soziale Position der Handelsteilnehmer und die Verkaufsformen. Auf dem Markt wurde nicht nur mit Luxuswaren (Tuch, Wein, Gewu¨rze) gehandelt, sondern auch mit Lebensmitteln, Handwerkserzeugnissen, Massenartikeln (Asche, Kohle) oder sogar mit gebrauchten Waren. Unter den Handelsteilnehmern finden wir sowohl Kaufleute, die das aus dem Westen importierte Tuch verkauften und die zur Oberschicht der Stadtgesellschaft za¨hlten, wie auch Kra¨mer, Ho¨cker, Handwerker. Der Marktraum war mit Handelseinrichtungen verschiedenen Typs und verschiedener Qualita¨t bebaut, von den vornehmen Tuchhallen bis hin zu Buden und unterschiedlichen Ba¨nken und Kramen. Der Marktplatz war durch eine bestimmte Ordnung gekennzeichnet, die sich an der Spezialisierung des Marktes und den einzelnen Branchen der Handelssparten orientierte.16 Hervorzuheben ist die Intensita¨t der Bewirtschaftung des Marktplatzes, der außer den Verkehrswegen praktisch keinen freien Raum mehr bot, der unbebaut oder keiner bestimmten Funktion zugeordnet wa¨re. Beispielsweise wurden auf dem Marktplatz der Stadt Posen außer dem Rathaus und der Waage u¨ber 200 Handelspla¨tze errichtet.17 In Elbing befanden sich auf dem Abschnitt der Alte-Markt-Straße, der als Markt bezeichnet wurde (zwischen der Heiliggeist- und der Fischerstraße) – außer dem Rathaus und dem Schreiberhaus, Tuchhallen und zwei Brotma¨rkten –, 34 Fleischba¨nke, Brotba¨nke und 31 Buden (darunter 10 Kra¨mer- und 13 Schusterbuden).18 Der Marktplatz in den ostmitteleuropa¨ischen Sta¨dten erfu¨llte im Spa¨tmittelalter unabha¨ngig von seiner Gestalt und von seiner Gro¨ße die Funktion eines „globalen“ Zentrums, das abgesehen von der Produktion von Gu¨tern alle Elemente des sta¨dtischen Lebens zusammenbrachte. Es ist jedoch zu betonen, dass die Gestalt des Marktraumes im Mittelalter nur zum geringen Teil von repra¨sentativen und a¨sthetischen Funktionen beeinflusst war. Zwar tauchen seit der zweiten Ha¨lfte des 14. Jahrhunderts in den Stadtrechnungen regelma¨ßig Belege auf fu¨r das Aufra¨umen des Marktplatzes sowie Informationen u¨ber die Marktknechte, die fu¨r die Aufrechterhaltung der Ordnung zusta¨ndig waren, aber man kann die Frage nicht eindeutig beantworten, ob die Sorge der Kommunalbeho¨rden fu¨r den Zustand des zentralen Platzes nur aus praktischen Gru¨nden resultierte oder ob dabei auch a¨sthetische Faktoren eine gewisse Rolle spielten.19 Zweifelsohne wird die Rein16 Krasnowolski, Z badan´ (wie Anm. 9), S, 173; Cezary Bu´sko, Rynek – Centrum s´ redniowiecznego

´ ´ ask Wrocławia [Der Große Ring – Zentrum des mittelalterlichen Breslau], in: Sredniowieczny Sl ˛ i ´ Czechy (wie Anm. 4), S. 235–244, hier S. 237–239; Rafał Czerner/Czesław Lasota, Sredniowieczne murowane obiekty handlowe na rynku wrocławskim [Mittelalterliche gemauerte Handelsbauten auf ´ ´ ask dem Breslauer Ring], in: Sredniowieczny Sl ˛ i Czechy (wie Anm. 4), S. 331–346; Małgorzata Chorowska/Czesław Lasota, Zabudowa rynku s´ widnickiego do połowy XVI wieku [Bebauung des ´ ´ ask Schweidnitzer Marktes bis zur Mitte des 16. Jhs.], in: Sredniowieczny Sl ˛ i Czechy (wie Anm. 4), ´ ´ sredniowiecznej SwidS. 349–367, hier S. 352–355; Mateusz Golinski, ´ Woko´ł socjotopografii po´zno´ nicy, cz. 1 [Zur Sozialtopographie des spa¨tmittelalterlichen Schweidnitz, T.1], Wrocław 2000, S. 42–44. 17 Jacek Wiesiołowski, Socjotopografia po´zno´ ´ sredniowiecznego Poznania [Die Sozialtopographie der spa¨tmittelalterlichen Stadt Posen], Poznan´ 1997, S. 141–143. 18 Tadeusz Nawrolski, Sredniowieczny ´ plac rynkowy Starego Miasta w Elblagu ˛ [Der mittelalterliche Marktplatz der Altstadt von Elbing], in: Kwartalnik 40,3 (wie Anm. 4), S. 365–376; Roman Czaja, Socjotopografia miasta Elblaga ˛ w s´ redniowieczu [Die Sozialtopographie der Stadt Elbing im Mittelalter], Torun´ 1992, S. 88–90. 19 Roman Czaja, Troska o stan sanitarny w miastach pruskich w XIV i XV w., in: Kwartalnik Historii Kultury Materialnej 3–4 (2005), S. 343–349, hier S. 348f.

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lichkeit im 15. Jahrhundert eines der Elemente, nach denen der o¨ffentliche Raum in europa¨ischen Sta¨dten bewertet wurde.20 Der Begriff des Zentrums als eines repra¨sentativen Raums, der bei der Gestaltung des Stadtbildes die wesentlichste Rolle spielt, ist ein Pha¨nomen, das sich erst ab dem 16. Jahrhundert versta¨rkt herausbildet. Das „globale“ Zentrum u¨bte auch einen entscheidenden Einfluss auf die soziale Bewertung des Stadtraumes aus. In Sta¨dten mit einem zentral platzierten rechteckigen Marktplatz waren die Ha¨user am Ringplatz bevorzugter Wohnsitz fu¨r die Vertreter der Eliten und der kaufma¨nnischen Oberschicht (Beispiele Kulm, Thorn, Posen).21 Mit der Entfernung vom Markt verminderte sich auch das Sozialprestige des Wohnortes. Ein etwas komplexeres Modell der Valorisierung des Stadtraumes liegt in Hafensta¨dten vor, wo die zentrale Achse des Stadtgrundrisses von einer breiten Straße gebildet wurde. Die sozialtopographische Analyse Elbings deutet darauf hin, dass die optimale Lage der Wohnorte fu¨r Vertreter der kaufma¨nnischen Oberschicht aus zwei Elementen resultierte: der Zugang zum Hafen und die jeweilige Entfernung vom Handels-, Kultus- und Verwaltungszentrum. Aus diesem Grund besaßen in der Altstadt Elbing die Ha¨user in den Straßen, die zum Flussufer fu¨hrten (die Bru¨ck-, Fischer- und Bo¨ttcherstraße) die gro¨ßte soziale Geltung, sowohl im Spa¨tmittelalter als auch in der Fru¨hen Neuzeit. Es ist bemerkenswert, dass der soziale Wert des Raumes in der sehr langen Straße Alter Markt von der Entfernung zum Stadtzentrum mit Rathaus und Pfarrkirche abhing.22 In der Neuzeit erfuhren die Zentren der im Mittelalter gegru¨ndeten Sta¨dte ¨ nderungen. Unter dem Einfluss der urbanistischen Modelle der keine wesentlichen A Renaissance machte sich zwar eine Tendenz zur Umgestaltung der Ma¨rkte in Pla¨tze von repra¨sentativerem Charakter bemerkbar, hauptsa¨chlich durch den Umbau von o¨ffentlichen Geba¨uden und durch die Beschra¨nkung der Bebauung und der Handelsfunktion. Die Tendenz zeichnete sich jedoch nur in den großen Sta¨dten, wie Danzig und Warschau ab.23 Der multifunktionale Charakter des Zentrums mit der dominierenden Rolle des Warenaustauschs blieb in den meisten Sta¨dten erhalten. Zwischen 20 Ulf Dirlmeier, Die kommunalpolitischen Zusta¨ndigkeiten und Leistungen su¨ddeutscher Sta¨dte im

Spa¨tmittelalter (vor allem auf dem Gebiet der Ver- und Entsorgung), in: Sta¨dtische Versorgung und Entsorgung im Wandel der Geschichte, hg. v. Ju¨rgen Sydow (Stadt in der Geschichte 8), Sigmaringen 1981, S. 113–150, hier S. 148f. 21 Roman Czaja, Die Gestaltung des Stadtraumes und das Sozialgefu¨ge mittelalterlicher Sta¨dte am Beispiel Polens, in: Europa¨ische Sta¨dte im Mittelalter (Forschungen und Beitra¨ge zur Wiener Stadtge´ schichte 52), Innsbruck 2010, S. 203–216, hier S. 211–215; Małgorzta Chorowska, Sredniowieczna ´ kamienica mieszczanska we Wrocławiu [Das mittelalterliche Bu¨rgerhaus in Breslau], Wrocław 1994, ´ sredniowiecznego Wrocławia (przestrzen´ – podatS. 44ff.; Mateusz Golinski, ´ Socjotopografia po´zno´ nicy – rzemiosło) [Sozialtopographie des spa¨tmittelalterlichen Breslau (Raumanlage – Steuerzahler – Handwerk], Wrocław 1997, S. 10ff., 31ff.; Wiesiołowski, Socjotopografia (wie Anm. 17), S. 146f.; ´ ´ XIV do poczatku Krzysztof Mikulski, Przestrzen´ i społeczenstwo Torunia od konca ˛ XVIII w. [Der Stadtraum und die Gesellschaft Thorns vom Ende des 14. bis zum Anfang des 18. Jhs.], Torun´ 1999, S. 221f. 22 Roman Czaja, Neue Erkenntnisse zur Sozialtopographie der spa¨tmittelalterlichen Hansesta¨dte im Ostseeraum, in: Vergleichende Ansa¨tze in der hansischen Geschichtsforschung, hg. v. Rolf HammelKiesow (Hansische Studien 13), Trier 2002, S. 273–284, hier S. 280. 23 Maria Bogucka/Henryk Samsonowicz, Dzieje miast i mieszczanstwa ´ w Polsce przedrozbiorowej [Geschichte der Stadt und des Bu¨rgertums in Polen vor den Teilungen], Wrocław 1986, S. 492; Ryszard Szczygieł, Rola handlowa placo´w miejskich w s´ rednich i małych miastach Rzeczypospolitej w

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dem 16. und dem 18. Jahrhundert wurden jedoch in einigen gema¨ß den Mustern der Renaissance oder des Klassizismus neu gegru¨ndeten Sta¨dten die Zentren in Form von weiten o¨ffentlichen Pla¨tzen angelegt – befreit von Handelseinrichtungen und -funktionen, deren Raum der Exponierung monumentaler Bauten dienen sollte.24

Das Fallbeispiel Elbing Die sich seit der Mitte des 17. Jahrhunderts abzeichnende Stagnation der meisten Sta¨dte in Mittelosteuropa bewirkte, dass das in seiner grundsa¨tzlichen Form gestaltete Zentrum bis in die industrielle Zeit u¨berdauert, und dass Umgestaltungen der Stadtzentren, die sich aus der Modernisierung der Stadtstruktur in gro¨ßerem Ausmaß ergaben, erst in der zweiten Ha¨lfte des 19. Jahrhunderts unternommen wurden. Im Lichte dieser Dynamik des Wandels gewinnt der Umbau des Zentrums von Elbing in den 1770er Jahren eine besondere Bedeutung. Nachdem 1454 das Gebiet der Ordensburg an die Altstadt angeschlossen und die Verwaltungsautonomie der Neustadt Elbing abgeschafft worden war, bildete die Stadt einen einheitlichen Verwaltungsko¨rper. Viel schwieriger und langsamer verlief dennoch der Prozess der Bildung einer einheitlichen Stadtstruktur. Zwar umschlossen die in den Jahren 1626–35 errichteten Befestigungen das Gebiet der Alt- und der Neustadt und den am dichtesten bebauten Teil der Vorsta¨dte; das Straßennetz und die Bebauungsstruktur jeder dieser Einheiten blieben jedoch unvera¨ndert. Es ist nicht gelungen, den von dem schwedischen Ingenieur Heinrich Thome´ erarbeiteten Plan zu verwirklichen, der anla¨sslich des Befestigungsbaues die Zusammenlegung der verstreuten Vorstadtbebauung zu einem einheitlichen Stadtbild vorsah.25 Die Faktoren, welche diese urbanistische Integration verhinderten, waren folgende: die erhaltene mittelalterliche Stadtmauer der Altstadt Elbing und die Lage des Zentrums. Dieses konnte nicht die Rolle eines Verkehrsknotenpunkts fu¨r die gesamte Stadt spielen, weil es von den Vorsta¨dten und von der Altstadt durch die Stadtmauer getrennt war. Bis 1772 unternahmen die Stadtbeho¨rden keine Anstalten zur urbanistischen Integration der Stadt, was sich nicht nur aus der eher schlechten wirtschaftlichen Situation der Stadt, sondern auch aus einem gewissen Konservatismus der altsta¨dtischen Fu¨hrungsschichten ergab. XVI–XVIII wieku [Die Handelsrolle der sta¨dtischen Pla¨tze in den kleinen und mittleren Sta¨dten in Polen im 16. – 18. Jh.], in: Kwartalnik 41,2 (wie Anm. 4), S. 285–291. 24 Vgl. Beispiel von Zamo´sc´ , Teresa Zarebska, ˛ Place Zamo´scia a teoretyczne koncepcje urbanistyki Renesanu [Die Pla¨tze von Zamo´sc´ und die theoretischen Konzepte der Renaissance-Urbanistik], in: Kwartalnik 41,2 (wie Anm. 4), S. 225–241; Kersten Kru¨ger, Die Idealstadt der fru¨hen Neuzeit, insbesondere in Nordeuropa, in: Sta¨dtesystem und Urbanisierung im Ostseeraum in der Fru¨hen Neuzeit. Wirtschaft, Baukultur und Historische Informationssysteme, hg. v. Frank Braun/Stefan Kroll, Mu¨nster 2004, S. 11–46, hier S. 15, 16, 18. 25 Atlas Historyczny Miast Polskich [Historischer Atlas Polnischer Sta¨dte], hg. v. Antoni Czacharowski, Bd. 1, H. 1: Elbing, bearb. v. Roman Czaja/Zenon Kozieł, Torun´ 1993, Karte 8B; Gerhard Eimer, Die Stadtplanung im schwedischen Ostseereich 1600–1715, Stockholm 1961, S. 193–195.

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¨ nderungen im Stadtbild erfolgten erst, nachdem Elbing infolge Grundsa¨tzliche A der ersten Teilung Polens 1772 Preußen eingegliedert wurde. In den ersten 20 Jahren der preußischen Regierung erlebte die Stadt eine dynamische wirtschaftliche und demografische Entwicklung. Die Wirtschaftspolitik Friedrichs des Großen bewirkte, dass Elbing damals zum Haupthafen des Weichselgebiets wurde. In den Jahren 1772–92 stieg die Zahl der Einwohner von 10 733 auf 14 151. Von den im Jahre 1780 in der Stadt ta¨tigen 148 Kaufleuten ließen sich 55 erst nach 1772 in der Stadt nieder.26 ¨ nderungen waren auch von urbaDie wirtschaftlichen und demografischen A nistischen Umgestaltungen begleitet: Sie wurden durch die von Ko¨nig Friedrich dem Großen wa¨hrend seines Stadtbesuchs am 6. Juni 1773 gegebene Einwilligung zum Abriss der mittelalterlichen und neuzeitlichen Befestigungen ermo¨glicht.27 Eine wichtige Rolle bei der Initiierung neuer urbanistischer Lo¨sungen spielten auch die vom Ko¨nig ernannten Stadtbeho¨rden, in denen das alte Patriziat der Altstadt seinen bislang bestimmenden Einfluss verlor. An der Spitze des aus neun alten und sieben neuen Ratsherren bestehenden Magistrats stand der Oberbu¨rgermeister, der preußische Beamte Johann Christian Lindenowski.28 Fu¨r die Bauangelegenheiten war der Bauinspektor Gottfried G. Gotsch verantwortlich, ein u¨berzeugter neusta¨dtischer Patriot, der mehrmals gegen den Elbinger Stadtrat um die verwaltungsrechtliche und wirtschaftliche Autonomie der Neustadt Elbing ka¨mpfte. Von der Beziehung Gotschs zur Altstadt zeugt beredt der Titel seiner mehrba¨ndigen Geschichte seiner Heimatstadt „Journal derer Unterdru¨ckungen, so die Neustadt von der Altstadt erdulden mu¨ssen [...]“.29 Das Hauptelement des Programms zum Stadtausbau war die Einrichtung eines neuen Marktplatzes. In einem Brief an die Kriegskammer vom 27. Juli 1773 legte der Magistrat einen Entwurf fu¨r den Abriss der Stadtbefestigung vor. Unter den Vorteilen wurden u. a. die bessere Verbindung zwischen Altund Neustadt sowie auch die Mo¨glichkeit erwa¨hnt, im Gebiet des alten Stadtgrabens und der Vorsta¨dte einen neuen großen Platz anzulegen, der eine bessere Aufsicht u¨ber das Marktgeschehen ermo¨glichen wu¨rde. In der Bittschrift wurde auch auf die a¨sthetischen und gesellschaftlichen Vorteile hingewiesen, da der neue Platz „u¨berhaupt

26 Andrzej Groth, Handel, in: Historia Elblaga, ´ 2000, ˛ Bd. III, T.1: 1772–1850, hg. v. dems., Gdansk

S. 46–60; Adelheid Simsch, Elbings wirtschaftliche Entwicklung vom 18. bis 20. Jahrhundert im Blick auf Berlin, in: Elbing 1237–1987, hg. v. Bernhart Ja¨hnig/Hans-Ju¨rgen Schuch, Mu¨nster 1991, S. 215–228, hier S. 217f.; Fritz Liedke, Die Elbinger Industrie von 1772 bis zur Gru¨ndung der Schichauwerft im Jahre 1837, in: Elbinger Jahrbuch 10 (1932), S. 56–93, hier S. 57, 60, 110; Helene Deppner, Friedrich der Große und die Elbinger Kaufleute, in: Elbinger Jahrbuch 15 (1938), S. 214–216. 27 U ¨ ber die Geschichte der Anlage und Bebauung des Neuen Marktes Michael Gottlieb Fuchs, Beschreibung der Stadt Elbing und ihres Gebietes in topographischer, geschichtlicher und statistischer Hinsicht, Bd. II, Elbing 1821, S. 401–426; Max Toeppen, Geschichte der ra¨umlichen Ausbreitung der Stadt Elbing, in: Zeitschrift des Westpreußischen Geschichtsvereins 21 (1887), S. 109ff.; Karl Hauke/Heinz Stobbe, Die Baugeschichte und Baudenkma¨ler der Stadt Elbing, Stuttgart 1964, S. 182ff. 28 Andrzej Groth, Ustro´j miasta i zmiany demograficzne [Stadtverfassung und demographische Entwicklung], in: Historia Elblag ˛ (wie Anm. 26), S. 16–18; Eduard Carstenn, Geschichte der Hansestadt Elbing, Elbing 1937, S. 423. 29 Archiwum Panstwowe ´ ´ w Gdansku [Staatsarchiv Danzig], Sign. 492/466; Max Toeppen, Elbinger ¨ bersicht vorgefu¨hrt, in: Zeitschrift des Geschichtsschreiber und Geschichtsforscher in kritischer U Westpreußischen Geschichtsvereins 32 (1893), S. 147–156.

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[nicht nur] zur Bequemlichkeit des Publikums dienen sollte, sondern dessen Bebauung auch zur Erweiterung und Zierde der Stadt gereichen mo¨chte“. Man plante den neuen Markt mit neuen Wohngeba¨uden zu umbauen und ein Denkmal fu¨r Friedrich den Großen. zu errichten.30 Die Absicht der Denkmalerrichtung deutet darauf hin, dass der neue Platz neben Handels- und Wohnfunktionen auch eine repra¨sentative

10

7 5 6 5 1 23 8 4 9

11

Abb. 1: Elbing. Ausschnitt aus der Katasterkarte von 1839 1 – das alte Rathaus, 2 – das Gewandhaus, 3 – die Fleischba¨nke, 4 – der Pranger, 5 – Kramer- und Schusterbuden, 6 – die Waage, 7 – der Brunnen, 8 – Brotba¨nke, 9 – Brotma¨rkte, 10 – Pfarrkirche St. Nicolai, 11 – der Neue Markt Quelle: Atlas Historyczny Miast Polskich [Historischer Atlas Polnischer Sta¨dte] hg. v. Antoni Czacharowski, Bd. 1, H. 1: Elbing (wie Anm. 25), Karte 1

Funktion erfu¨llen sollte. Im Jahre 1775 wurde der Platz bereits teilweise ausgepflastert und man begann an seiner su¨do¨stlichen Seite das erste o¨ffentliche Geba¨ude, die Hauptwache der Garnison, einzurichten. Mit dem Bau von Wohngeba¨uden wartete man auf die Entscheidung der preußischen Beho¨rden in Sachen der finanziellen Unterstu¨tzung fu¨r dieses Unternehmen. Erst im Juni 1777 fand in Gegenwart von

30 Fuchs, Die Beschreibung (wie Anm. 27), S. 403f.; Hauke/Stobbe, Die Baugeschichte (wie Anm. 27),

S. 186.

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Oberbu¨rgermeister Lindenowski die feierliche Grundsteinlegung fu¨r das erste Haus an der Westseite des Platzes statt. Unter den privaten Ha¨usern, die in diesem Teil des Platzes gebaut wurden, befanden sich auch zwei Gastho¨fe.31 Ein unglu¨cklicher Zufall bewirkte, dass die Position des Neuen Marktes gegenu¨ber dem alten Zentrum wesentlich versta¨rkt wurde. Am 26. April 1777 wurde das altsta¨dtische Rathaus durch einen Brand verheert. Die Frage seines Wiederaufbaus fu¨hrte zu großen Auseinandersetzungen innerhalb der Stadtbeho¨rde.32 Die Mehrheit der Ratsherren erkla¨rte sich fu¨r einen Wiederaufbau am alten Ort. Eine andere Fraktion, versammelt um den Oberbu¨rgermeister Lindenowski, strebte danach, das neue Rathaus an der Su¨dseite des Neuen Marktes zu errichten, an der der Oberbu¨rgermeister u¨brigens sein eigenes Haus gerade bauen ließ. Das Projekt von Lindenowski wurde von der Westpreußischen Kriegs- und Doma¨nenkammer unterstu¨tzt und noch im Jahre 1777 wurden Entwurf und Kostenanschlag zum Bau des neuen, den Platz an der Su¨dseite abschließenden Rathauses von Landmeister Mu¨ller angefertigt. Der Bau wurde 1778 begonnen und 1782 abgeschlossen. Die Bauarbeiten an der Ostseite des Marktes konnten – infolge der Notwendigkeit der Verfu¨llung des Stadtgrabens und der Schwierigkeit, vom Staat finanzielle Unterstu¨tzung zu bekommen – erst im Jahre 1788 abgeschlossen werden.33 Der neue Platz u¨bernahm sehr schnell Marktfunktionen. Zuerst wurde der Handel mit Heizholz vom Holzmarkt (Teil des Altmarkts vor dem Markttor) auf den Neuen Markt verlegt und nach der Errichtung des Rathauses fand auch der fru¨her auf dem Altmarkt zwischen der Bo¨ttcher- und Bru¨ckstraße stattfindende Mai-Jahrmarkt auf dem neuen Platz statt. Der Platz erfu¨llte nun auch die Funktion eines Verkehrsknotenpunkts, da u¨ber ihn die Straße von Berlin nach Ko¨nigsberg fu¨hrte.34 Interessante Informationen u¨ber die Funktionen und die Rolle des neuen Zentrums liefert die sozialtopographische Analyse. Unter den bis 1820 bekannten Hauseigentu¨mern am Neumarkt machten Kaufleute die entschiedene Mehrheit (ca. 60 %) aus, die zweitgro¨ßte Gruppe waren Beamte (27 %), unter anderen Eigentu¨mern finden sich ein Landgutbesitzer und ein Ba¨cker. In dieser Zeit betrug der Anteil der Kaufleute unter den Bewohnern der Alter-Markt-Straße 51 %, derjenige der Kra¨mer 10 %, derjenige der Beamten 5 % und derjenige der Handwerker 35 %. Wa¨hrend im Mittelalter die Anzahl der Kaufleute an den Bewohnern der Alter-Markt-Straße mit der Entfernung vom Zentrum abnahm, wo Rathaus und Kirche lagen, ist Anfang 31 Max Ba¨r, Westpreussen unter Friedrich dem Großen, Bd. 1–2, Leipzig 1909, hier Bd. 1, S. 409; Roman

Czaja, Nowy Rynek w Elblagu. ˛ Przyczynek do historii przemian urbanistycznych w miastach pruskich w drugiej połowie XVIII w [Der Neue Markt in Elbing. Ein Beitrag zur Geschichte der sta¨dtebaulichen Wandlungen in den preußischen Sta¨dten in der zweiten Ha¨lfte des 18. Jhs.], in: Kwartalnik 41,2 (wie Anm. 4), S. 321–326; Fuchs, Die Beschreibung (wie Anm. 27), S. 424. 32 Informationen u¨ber die Auseinandersetzungen unter den Mitgliedern des Magistrats um den Wiederaufbau des Rathauses bei: Johann Heinrich Ammelung, „Versuch einer historischen Beschrei´ ´ bung der Stadt Elbing“ (um 1786), Msk., in: Archiwum Panstwowe w Gdansku [Staatsarchiv Danzig], Sign. 492/3, S. 285; Fuchs, Beschreibung (wie Anm. 27), S. 416. 33 Ba¨r, Westpreussen (wie Anm. 31), Bd. 2, Nr. 400, 450; Fuchs, Beschreibung (wie Anm. 27), S. 410–418; Hauke/Stobbe, Die Baugeschichte (wie Anm. 27), S. 185. 34 Ammelung, „Versuch“ (wie Anm. 32), S. 197; Jerzy Domino, Rozwo´j przestrzenny Elblaga ˛ [Die ra¨umliche Entwicklung Elbings], in: Historia Elblaga ˛ (wie Anm. 26), S. 241f.

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Abb. 2: Elbing. Der Plan des Neuen Marktes von Friederici 1787 ´ ´ Quelle: Archiwum Panstwowe w Gdansku [Staatsarchiv Danzig], Sign. V/62–63

des 19. Jahrhunderts bezeichnenderweise eine umgekehrte Situation zu beobachten. Mehr Kaufleute wohnten damals in Ha¨usern, die vom alten Zentrum entfernt waren. Im Jahre 1807 wohnten am Brotmarkt lediglich vier Kaufleute, dagegen aber fu¨nf Handwerker. Die sozialtopographische Analyse deutet ausdru¨cklich auf eine hohe soziale Bewertung des Raumes am Neuen Markt hin. Zugleich ho¨rte das alte Zentrum auf, die Rolle eines Faktors zu erfu¨llen, der das soziale Prestige des Wohnortes determinierte.35

35 Czaja, Nowy Rynek (wie Anm. 31), S. 324f.

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Im Laufe von 15 Jahren wurde in Elbing der durch die neue Fu¨hrungsgruppe initiierte und von der Staatsverwaltung unterstu¨tzte Plan zum Bau des neuen Zentrums verwirklicht, der die im Mittelalter gebildete Stadtanlage grundsa¨tzlich vera¨nderte. Der Neue Markt, der ab 1816 den Namen Friedrich Wilhelms trug, hob sich mit seiner Gro¨ße und Bebauung von der a¨lteren Bebauung deutlich ab. Der Elbinger Chronist Michael Gottlieb Fuchs schrieb Anfang des 19. Jahrhunderts mit Stolz: „Er ist mit lauter großen, nach dem neuesten Geschmack erbauten Ha¨usern besetzt, und weder Danzig noch Ko¨nigsberg haben in ihren Mauern einen so scho¨nen Platz aufzuweisen“.36 Der 70 Meter breite und 160 Meter lange Markt war mit architektonisch einheitlichen zweisto¨ckigen Ha¨usern im Stil des friderizianischen Klassizismus umgeben. Sie besaßen Mansardda¨cher und waren mit sparsamen Zierformen geschmu¨ckt. An der Su¨dseite des Platzes schien der Platz mit o¨ffentlichen Geba¨uden richtiggehend abgeriegelt: Rathaus und Wache befanden sich dort.37 Im Prozess der Neumarktgestaltung spiegelt sich die wechselnde Vorstellung von der Rolle und vom Charakter des Zentrums wider. In den 1770er Jahren strebte man lediglich nach einer Verlegung des multifunktionalen alten Zentrums an einen neuen Ort, der die Raumanlage der gesamten Stadt besser integrieren sollte. Die Initiatoren dieses Unternehmens hatten nicht zum Ziel, einen neuen Typ des Zentrums zu schaffen. Erst Ende des 18. Jahrhunderts und in den ersten Jahrzehnten des darauffolgenden Jahrhunderts wurden Handlungen gesetzt, die den Charakter des zentralen Raums grundsa¨tzlich vera¨ndern sollten. Man strebte zwar weiterhin nach der Versta¨rkung der Gebrauchsfunktion des Platzes, wovon die 1831 erfolgte Verlegung der Post aus dem Haus Am Altmarkt Nr. 2 zeugt. Zugleich aber wurde die Handelsfunktion eingeschra¨nkt, die man am Ufer und am Alten Markt konzentrierte. Seit den 1790er Jahren wurde der Marktplatz mit Ba¨umen bepflanzt und mit Blumenanlagen ausgestattet. Im Jahre 1794 wurde eine neue Beleuchtung installiert. Im Zentrum des Platzes wurde statt des Denkmals fu¨r Friedrich den Großen nun ein Brunnen errichtet. Dank dieser Unternehmungen hat der Platz die Funktion einer Promenade erlangt. Anfang der 1830er Jahre wurden in seiner Nachbarschaft an der Su¨d- und an der Nordseite Parkanlagen eingerichtet.38 Im Laufe der ersten Ha¨lfte des 19. Jahrhunderts wollten die Stadtbeho¨rden die Gebrauchsfunktionen des Zentrums einschra¨nken, statt dessen sollte der repra¨sentative und gesellige Charakter des zen¨ nderungen in der Organitralen Raums in den Vordergrund gestellt werden. Die A sation und in der Nutzung des zentralen Raums in Elbing verliefen parallel zu den gesellschaftlichen und wirtschaftlichen Prozessen, sie sind ein Zeugnis fu¨r die Transformation einer mittelalterlichen Stadt in ein sta¨dtisches Zentrum der industriellen ¨ ra. A

36 Fuchs, Beschreibung (wie Anm. 27), S. 402; eine a¨hnliche Meinung a¨ußerte auch Ammelung, „Ver-

such“ (wie Anm. 32), S. 196.

37 Bruno Thomas Satori-Neumann, Elbing im Biedermeier und Vorma¨rz, Elbing 1933, S. 102; Hauke/

Stobbe, Die Baugeschichte (wie Anm. 27), S. 186. 38 Domino, Rozwo´j przestrzenny (wie Anm. 34), S. 252f.; Satori-Neumann, Elbing im Biedermeier

(wie Anm. 37), S. 102; Hauke/Stobbe, Die Baugeschichte (wie Anm. 27), S. 188.

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Fazit

Das Beispiel der Baugeschichte des Neuen Marktes in Elbing ist sicherlich nicht repra¨sentativ fu¨r die urbanistischen Umgestaltungen in Mittelosteuropa, da die Transformation des im Mittelalter gebildeten zentralen Raums in den meisten Sta¨dten dieser Region im Vergleich zu Elbing mit erheblicher Verspa¨tung verlief. Die in der ersten Ha¨lfte des 19. Jahrhunderts unternommenen Umgestaltungen der Raumordnung in den Zentren beschra¨nkten sich meist auf den Abriss eines Teils der Bebauung, zumeist der Ratha¨user oder Marktgeba¨ude. Die mittelalterlichen Ma¨rkte behielten weiterhin ihre Funktion als der wichtigste Ort des sta¨ndigen und des periodischen Handels.39 Ku¨hnere Umgestaltungsversuche wurden nur anla¨sslich des Wiederaufbaus einer Stadt nach einem Brand unternommen, aber auch in solchen Situationen wurde das Zentrum nicht an einen neuen Ort verlegt, sondern die Anlage des mittelalterlichen Marktplatzes modernisiert. Beispielsweise wurde in Gnesen nach dem Großbrand von 1819 ein von den Staatsbeho¨rden unterstu¨tzter Entwurf eines radikalen Umbaus der Raumanlage abgelehnt, der u. a. eine Erweiterung des Marktes auf Kosten der an der Nordseite gelegenen Grundstu¨cke und eine Erschließung der Sicht vom zentralen Platz aus auf das Kloster und die Franziskanerkirche vorsah. Infolge von Messarbeiten wurde lediglich eine Korrektur der Gestalt des mittelalterlichen Marktplatzes vorgenommen und eine neue Verkehrsachse gebildet, die das Stadtzentrum mit dem Dom verband.40 Die in vielen Sta¨dten sichtbare konservative Einstellung hinsichtlich einer Umgestaltung des Zentrums ergab sich einerseits aus der Angst der Stadtbewohner vor ¨ nderung der Eigentumsverha¨ltnisse, andererseits aus den Bestrebungen der der A Staatsobrigkeit, die mittelalterlichen und neuzeitlichen Wehrbauten zu erhalten, welche aber umgekehrt die ra¨umliche Entwicklung der Sta¨dte hemmten.41 Erst seit den 1870er Jahren hat man in den meisten Sta¨dten Mittelosteuropas begonnen, Projekte einer radikalen Umgestaltung des mittelalterlichen Zentrums zu realisieren, deren Wesen darin bestand, den Schwerpunkt des Warenaustauschs vom mittelalterlichen Markt auf die neu gebildeten Pla¨tze zu verschieben und aus dem zentralen Raum die handelsgebundenen Bauten zu entfernen.

39 Anna Bitner-Nowak/Stefan Kowal, Rodzaje i funkcje placo´w miast Wielkopolski w XIX i XX

wieku [Arten und Funktionen der Pla¨tze in großpolnischen Sta¨dten im 19. und 20. Jh.], in: Kwartalnik Historii Kultury Materialnej 41,4 (1993), S. 589–600; Andrzej Stawarz, Funkcje rynku w miastach ´ [Funktionen des Martkplatzes in den Kleinsta¨dten Mazowsza w XIX wieku (wprowadzenie do badan) Masowiens im 19. Jahrhundert], in: ebd., S. 601–606. 40 Adolf Warschauer, Geschichte der Stadt Gnesen, Poznan´ 1918, S. 330ff.; Jerzy Topolski (Hg.), Dzieje Gniezna, Warszawa 1965, S. 475ff. 41 Edward Włodarczyk, Rozwo´j urbanistyczny miast pomorskich i ich gospodarka komunalna [Urbanisierungsentwicklung der pommerschen und preußischen Sta¨dte und ihre Kommunalwirtschaft], in: Historia Pomorza, Bd. IV/1, hg. v. Stanisław Salmonowicz, Torun´ 2000, S. 460f.; Andrzej Piatkow˛ ski, Miasta Prus zachodnich w pierwszej połowie XIX wieku : przemiany demograficzne i społeczno-zawodowe [Die Sta¨dte Westpreußens in der ersten Ha¨lfte des 19. Jhs.: demographische und sozialberufliche Wandlungen], Torun´ 1984, S. 122.

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Ab Ende des 19. Jahrhunderts macht sich auch die Tendenz zur Bildung neuer Zentren deutlich bemerkbar, wobei in diesen neuen Zentren neue Geba¨ude fu¨r die kommunale und staatliche Verwaltung und fu¨r kulturelle Institutionen errichtet werden sollten. Infolge dieser Vera¨nderungen werden die Funktionen des mittelalterlichen kernsta¨dtischen Raumes reduziert, wodurch der alte Kern allma¨hlich seine Rolle als wichtigster Stadtraum verlor. In den meisten Sta¨dten hat der alte mittelalterliche Markt die Funktion des zentralen o¨ffentlichen Raums (sowohl eines Treffpunkts als auch einer Bu¨hne fu¨r o¨ffentliche Rituale und fu¨r politische Manifestationen) beibehalten. Der alte mittelalterliche Markt blieb im Bewusstsein der Stadtbewohner als Wahrzeichen und als wichtigster Teil der Stadt bestehen. Die urbanistischen Umgestaltungen der zweiten Ha¨lfte des 19. Jahrhunderts sind freilich ein eigenes Thema, dessen Behandlung u¨ber den Rahmen des vorliegenden Beitrags weit hinausgeht.

English Abstract

The architectural history of the New Market in Elbing in northern Poland (WarmianMasurian Voivodeship) is only to a limited extent representative of the urban transformations in Central Eastern Europe, because, from the 19th century, the remodeling of the medieval urban structures in this area took place with a significant delay. The transformations of spatial planning in the city centers that took place in the first half of the 19th century are mostly limited to the demolition of parts of the buildings, in most cases of the city halls and market buildings. The medieval markets continued to maintain their function as the most important place for constant and periodic trade. Bolder attempts at reorganization were only taken during the reconstruction of a city after a fire. However, even in these situations, the center was not moved to a new location, but the facilities of the medieval market place were modernized. After the fire of 1819, for example, a draft of a radical reconstruction of the facilities supported by the state authorities was rejected in Gnesen which inter alia would have included an extension of the market at the expense of the buildings located on the north side and the creation of a view of the monastery and the Franciscan Church from the central place. The only results of the measurement work conducted were a correction of the shape of the medieval market place and a new transport axis which connected the city center with the cathedral. The conservative attitude regarding a transformation of the center, which was apparent in several cities, was caused, on the one hand, by the fear of the city’s inhabitants of a change of ownership, on the other hand, by the efforts of the authorities to preserve the medieval and modern fortifications, which, conversely, inhibited the spatial development of the cities. It wasn’t until the 1870s that projects for a radical transformation of the medieval center were realized in most Central Eastern European cities, with the aim of moving the heart of the exchange of goods from the medieval market to newly created places and removing the buildings bound to trade from the central space.

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From the end of the 19th century, the trend towards the formation of new centers became clearly noticeable, whereby new buildings for municipal and state administration and for cultural institutions were to be built in these new centers. These changes resulted in a reduction of the functions of the medieval inner city, which meant that the old city center gradually lost its role as the most important urban space. In most cities, the old medieval market has maintained its function as the central public space (both as a meeting place and as a platform for public rituals and political events). The old medieval market was still considered a landmark and regarded as the most important part of the city by the city’s inhabitants. The urban transformations in the 19th century certainly constitute another subject area, whereby its treatment goes far beyond the scope of this contribution.

DIE STADT ALS ELEMENT DER RAUMORDNUNG – VON DER KAUFMANNSSIEDLUNG ZUR STADT von Karlheinz Blaschke

Die europa¨ische Stadt hat als eine Sonderform sta¨dtischen Wesens seit dem Ende des ersten nachchristlichen Jahrtausends ihre Gestalt als Siedlungs- und Verfassungsko¨rper entwickelt, womit sie sich von anderen Mo¨glichkeiten sta¨dtischer Lebensart

Abb. 1: Go¨rlitz. Kaufmannssiedlung am Steinweg mit Nikolaikirche Quelle: Kupferstich von Mattha¨us Merian, 1650 (Ausschnitt)

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unterscheidet. Sie fu¨llt in dieser ihrer Eigenart das zweite nachchristliche Jahrtausend aus und lebt in Europa auf den im Mittelalter entstandenen Grundlagen ungeachtet tiefgreifender Vera¨nderungen weiter. Diese Feststellung gestattet es, das genannte Jahrtausend als die Epoche der europa¨ischen Stadt zu bezeichnen. Um die gesamteuropa¨ische Gu¨ltigkeit der hier angefu¨hrten Entwicklungen deutlich zu machen, werden Einzelfa¨lle aus drei unterschiedlichen La¨ndern dargelegt. An Hand der Beispiele von Go¨rlitz in der Oberlausitz, Auma in Thu¨ringen, Bruneck aus Su¨dtirol und Laibach/Ljubljana aus Slowenien soll die Tatsache belegt werden, dass die Entstehung der Stadt nicht an nationale, herrschaftliche oder sprachliche Grenzen gebunden war. Die europa¨ischen Sta¨dte des Mittelalters sind nicht „gegru¨ndet“ worden, sondern in einer Entwicklung aus Kaufmannssiedlungen „entstanden“. Das la¨sst sich an vielen Fallbeispielen nachweisen. In der Abbildung der Stadt Go¨rlitz (Abb. 1) aus dem Jahre 1650 sind drei Stufen der Stadtentwicklung enthalten. No¨rdlich der ummauerten Stadt erstreckt sich die Kaufmannssiedlung des 11./12. Jahrhunderts mit ihren 50 eng aneinander gebauten Ha¨usern und der etwas abseits stehenden Nikolaikirche. Fu¨r die Stadt innerhalb der Mauer sind zwei Bauabschnitte zu unterscheiden. Der erste reicht von der Neiße landwa¨rts bis an die halbrunde Klostermauer. Darin wurden die Peterskirche, das Rathaus und das Landhaus erbaut und der Untermarkt angelegt. Als Entstehungszeit ist die erste Ha¨lfte des 12. Jahrhunderts anzunehmen. Das am Rande der ersten Ausbaustufe gelegene Franziskanerkloster wurde 1234 erbaut, womit die Stadterweiterung am Obermarkt zeitlich bestimmt und der vollsta¨ndige Ausbau der mittelalterlichen Stadt festgelegt werden kann. Sie ist fu¨r die Zeit nach 1080 anzusetzen, wobei es keine „Gru¨ndung“ gibt, sondern nur eine Entwicklung der Stadt. Die Abbildung der Stadt Auma in Thu¨ringen (Abb. 2) zeigt die Entstehung der Stadt an einer Fernstraße von Nu¨rnberg nach Leipzig im Wirkungsfeld einer Burg am Auma-Fluss und in der Na¨he eines sorbischen Dorfes an. Im Ortsverband befindet sich die Nikolaikirche, an der eine in solchen Siedlungen ha¨ufig auftretende Breite Straße festzustellen ist. Die Stadt bietet ein Musterbeispiel fu¨r eine „Entstehung“ in mehreren Stufen, wobei der topographische Aufbau der werdenden Stadt zu beachten ist. Am Rande der Siedlung ist eine Judengasse zu bemerken, mit der die Entwicklung zur Neustadt begann. Ein Marktplatz ist zum Mittelpunkt der Stadt geworden. In dem sich ausbildenden Straßennetz zeigen sich sechs Stadttore, die den Weg in die Nachbarsta¨dte o¨ffnen. Die neu erbaute Marienkirche wird zur Stadtkirche mit ihrem ju¨ngeren Patrozinium abseits der zur Begra¨bniskirche absinkenden Nikolaikirche. Im westlichen Pustertal Su¨dtirols entstand an der Fernstraße von Augsburg nach Venedig am Stegener Markt an der Rienz die Kaufmannssiedlung Bruneck (Abb. 3) mit Nikolaikirche, die zum Jahre 1348 u¨berliefert ist. Dabei errichtete Bischof Bruno von Brixen bald nach 1250 die nach ihm benannte Burg und Stadt, 1268 erscheint der Ort als oppidum. Die Lageskizze zeigt die Kaufmannssiedlung mit etwa 50 eng aneinander geschmiegten Grundstu¨cken zu Fu¨ßen der Burg an der Breiten Straße. Die Stadt bildete sich neben der Kaufmannssiedlung. In einem starken Bogen des Ljubljanica-Flusses in Slowenien entstand unterhalb der Burg die a¨ltere Marktsiedlung stari trg, aus der die 1262 genannte Ha¨ndlersiedlung mit Nikolaikirche hervorging. Aus ihr entwickelte sich bei der Bru¨cke die Stadt

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Abb. 2: Auma (in Thu¨ringen) um 1250

Laibach (Abb. 4), die sich zu der im Jahre 1243 u¨berlieferten civitas an einer Breiten Straße weiter bildete. Am gegenu¨berliegenden Flussufer entstand die Stadt mit dem Neuen Markt, dem Judenviertel und der Kreuzkirche. Der Typus der Stadt tra¨gt die Merkmale der Entwicklung und des Wachstums in sich. Im Gegensatz zu anderen Auspra¨gungen sta¨dtischen Wesens in anderen Teilen der Welt tra¨gt er das Grundmuster der Ausdehnung an sich, so dass an ihr ein sta¨ndiges Streben nach Expansion auftritt. Daraus ergibt sich ein stets ungesa¨ttigter Bedarf an Fla¨che, der die Inanspruchnahme von Raum verursacht. Schon bei ihrem ersten Erscheinen als neue Siedlungsform trat die Stadt mit einem Raumbedarf auf, indem sie Straßen und Pla¨tze anlegte, auf denen Wohnha¨user und o¨ffentliche Geba¨ude fu¨r gemeinnu¨tzige Zwecke errichtet wurden. Dazu geho¨rten Kirchen, Ratha¨user, Mu¨h-

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Abb. 3: Bruneck (Tirol), Entstehung der Stadt Quelle: Katasteraufnahme des 19. Jahrhunderts

len, Waagen und Sta¨tten des Warenaustauschs und des Handwerks im allgemeinen Interesse wie die Schmieden. Dafu¨r wurde sta¨dtischer Raum in Anspruch genommen. Geistliche Bauwerke wie Hospita¨ler und Klo¨ster fu¨llten den Platz einer Stadt aus, der durch die Stadtmauer eingeschra¨nkt wurde. Im weiteren Aufbau und Ausbau der Stadt kamen Gaststa¨tten und Ra¨ume fu¨r kulturelle Geselligkeit hinzu, die es im la¨ndlich-do¨rflichen Bereich nicht gab. Das fu¨hrte im spa¨ten Mittelalter an manchen Stellen zur Raumnot in der Stadt, die zur Stadterweiterung oder auch zur Anlage einer Neustadt fu¨hrte. Die Erforschung der Stadtgrundrisse zeigt Nahtlinien zwischen fru¨hen Ausbaustufen und Erweiterungen innerhalb der Stadt wie im Falle von Go¨rlitz

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Abb. 4: Laibach/Ljubljana (Slowenien) Quelle: nach Milko Kos, Srednjeveska Ljubljana. Topografiski opis mesta in okolice, Ljubljana 1955

Es ist das Verdienst des belgischen Historikers Henri Pirenne (1862–1935), die Entstehung der europa¨ischen Stadt aus den Kaufmannssiedlungen des spa¨ten Mittelalters abgeleitet zu haben. Damit hat er den Grund fu¨r die Geschichte des europa¨ischen Sta¨dtewesens gelegt, die sich in einer Ereigniskette auf der Linie einer fortschreitenden Expansion a¨ußerte. Am Beispiel der Stadt Go¨rlitz (Abb. 1) wird anschaulich die Entwicklung von der urspru¨nglichen Kaufmannssiedlung zur Rechtsstadt deutlich, die sich in diesem Falle in einer ersten Ausbaustufe am Flusslauf der Neiße erkennen la¨sst. Spa¨ter folgte die zweite Stufe mit einem neuen Marktplatz, der sich neben dem „Untermarkt“ im Stadtgrundriss als „Obermarkt“ abhebt. Schon an sol-

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chen schlichten topographischen Elementen wird der Grundgedanke der Entwicklung offenkundig. ¨ bergang von der fru¨hen Kaufmannssiedlung zur Rechtsstadt la¨sst sich im Der U Allgemeinen mit der Entwicklung vom Nikolaus-Patrozinium der Kaufmannskirche zu einer ju¨ngeren Kirchenweihe erkla¨ren. Auch darin a¨ußert sich das Grundmuster der sta¨dtischen Geschichte, das auf Expansion beruht. Ein weiterer Schritt auf diesem Wege war der Aufbau einer rechtlichen Selbsta¨ndigkeit der Stadtgemeinde, mit der sie sich den Regeln der mittelalterlichen Feudalordnung entsprechend auf die gleiche Ebene wie die Inhaber der Herrschaft begab. Diesen hohen Rang erreichten jedoch nur die großen Sta¨dte, deren auf Reichtum beruhende Macht fu¨r diesen Schritt ausreichte. Er wurde u¨berall in Europa dort vollzogen, wo es den mit der Geldwirtschaft reich und ma¨chtig gewordenen Stadtgemeinden gelang, auf die gleiche Ho¨he der Feudalordnung wie die alte Herrenschicht aufzusteigen. Mit dem Einstieg der Stadtgemeinde in die Geldwirtschaft gelang ihr der Beitritt zur ho¨chsten Rangstufe der politischen Ordnung. Ein Blick auf die politische Verfassung des Markgraftums Oberlausitz bis zum fru¨hen 19. Jahrhundert zeigt die Rolle der Sta¨dte an, die sich hier in drei Stufen darstellt. An erster Stelle standen die mit ihren Namen ausgewiesenen Sechssta¨dte Bautzen, Go¨rlitz, Zittau, Kamenz, Lauban und Lo¨bau, die im Laufe des spa¨ten Mittelalters in der Landesverfassung eine Fu¨hrungsrolle erlangten. Sie nahmen einen Platz auf gleicher Ho¨he wie die unmittelbar dem bo¨hmischen Ko¨nig als dem Landesherrn der Oberlausitz unterstehenden Sta¨dte ein. Fu¨r einen Vergleich etwa mit den großen italienischen Sta¨dten fehlen u¨berzeugende Anhaltspunkte, da die politischen Umweltbedingungen zwischen der Oberlausitz und Oberitalien zu weit auseinander liegen. Im Verha¨ltnis der Sta¨dte zu ihrem Territorium ergeben sich aber doch gewisse Hinweise. Im landwirtschaftlichen Zeitalter des Mittelalters gab es Sta¨dte im juristischen Sinne nicht, auch nicht als antike Reste. Diese Feststellung geht auf Henri Pirenne zuru¨ck. Es bedurfte einer großen sozialen Vera¨nderung, damit sie entstehen konnten. Das geschah in einem „Aufbruch“ um das Jahr 1100. Er wird durch die Kanonisation des hl. Nikolaus im Jahre 1087 angezeigt.1 Als Sammelbegriff fu¨r die tiefen Vera¨nderungen um die Wende zum 12. Jahrhundert wird von Blaschke die Bezeichnung „Nikolaus-Bewegung“ angewandt.2 Die Wortwahl stu¨tzt sich auf die Beweiskraft von 500 nachweisbaren Nikolaikirchen, die um das Jahr 1100 zwischen der Bretagne und der Ukraine vorhanden waren. Davon unabha¨ngig sind in 2500 Sta¨dten Europas Nikolaikirchen bezeugt. Der hl. Nikolaus wurde zum Schutzpatron und zum Markenzeichen einer die Vo¨lker und Herrschaftsra¨ume u¨bergreifenden Fro¨mmigkeit und Kultur, womit eine breite Urbanisierung

1 Karl Bosl, Regularkanoniker (Augustinerchorherren) und Seelsorge in Kirche und Gesellschaft des

europa¨ischen 12. Jahrhunderts (Bayerische Akademie der Wissenschaften, Abhandlungen Phil.-Hist. Klasse N. F. Heft 86), Mu¨nchen 1979. – Henri Pirenne, L’origine des constitutions urbains au Moyen ˆ ge, in: Revue Historique 53 (1893) und 55 (1895). A 2 Karlheinz Blaschke/Uwe Ulrich Ja¨schke, Nikolaikirchen und Stadtentstehung in Europa. Von der Kaufmannssiedlung zur Stadt, Berlin 2013.

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verbunden war. Eine der um das Jahr 1100 in Mitteleuropa nachzuweisenden Nikolaikirchen unterstreicht den Begriff der Nikolaus-Bewegung. Bei jeder Nikolaikirche kann eine Stadt angenommen werden. Es zeigen sich Verdichtungsra¨ume in Mittel-, Ost- und Nordeuropa, in Westeuropa und in England. Etwa 200 Jahre nach den von Pirenne beschriebenen Ansa¨tzen zur Stadtentwicklung im westlichen und mittleren Europa liegen die von Paul Johansen3 erforschten Vorga¨nge im no¨rdlichen, skandinavisch-baltischen Raum festgestellten Entwicklungen zur dortigen Entstehung von Sta¨dten, die sich in ihrem Grundmuster von den bei Pirenne dargestellten Anfa¨ngen der Stadtentstehung nicht unterscheiden. In beiden, zeitlich und ra¨umlich weit auseinander liegenden Gebieten wird ein spontanes Wachstum sta¨dtischen Wesens aus dem agrarischen Zustand der Fru¨hzeit dargelegt. Die neu entstandenen Sta¨dte brachten wirtschaftliche und berufliche Arbeitsteilung. Die Lebensverha¨ltnisse entwickelten sich unterschiedlich in Stadt und Land. Es entstand eine sta¨dtische Kultur, mit der eine Christianisierung verbunden war. Sie hatte eine gegliederte Kirchenorganisation mit Bistu¨mern, Archidiakonaten, Erzpriestersitzen und Ortspfarreien zur Folge. Bis zum 12. Jahrhundert entstand das System der kirchlichen Raumordnung, mit dem die alte West-Ost-Teilung durch ein neues „nationales“ Kirchenwesen auf der Grundlage „nationaler“ Bistu¨mer aufgehoben wurde. Wa¨hrend des Mittelalters wurde die Stadt expansiv. Sie entwickelte mit ihrer Wirtschaftskraft in Folge ihrer Anlehnung an die Geldwirtschaft eine fu¨hrende Stellung. Stadtra¨te und geistliche Ko¨rperschaften in den Sta¨dten erwarben Grundherrschaft, mit der die politische Macht der Sta¨dte auf das Land hinaus ausgedehnt wurde. Das dadurch entstehende System blieb dauerhaft bis in das 19. Jahrhundert bestehen. Im System der kapitalistisch-industriellen Wirtschaft erlangte die Stadt eine vorherrschende Stellung, die im 19. Jahrhundert mit dem Bau der Eisenbahn als einer eindeutig sta¨dtischen Leistung auftrat. Die Sta¨dte wurden zu fu¨hrenden Pla¨tzen der Technik und Wissenschaft, verloren diese Stellung aber mit der fla¨chenhaften Ausbreitung des Straßenverkehrs, so dass der Unterschied von Stadt und Land verwischt wurde und an vielen Stellen kaum noch wahrnehmbar ist. Wohnsiedlungen mit riesenhaften Ausmaßen, Trabantensta¨dte und ausgeuferte Mega-Sta¨dte entwerteten den ¨ berlieferung verwenBegriff der Stadt, der in vielen Fa¨llen nur noch aufgrund der U det werden kann und keine praktische Aussage entha¨lt. Ersatzweise wird er nur noch nach der Einwohnerzahl definiert. Der Unterschied zwischen Stadt und Land la¨sst sich heute nur noch in einem akademischen Sinne fassen. Dabei wird die staatliche Klassifizierung in Stadtgemeinden und Landgemeinden genu¨tzt, die sich aber weithin als bedeutungslos erweist. Bei der Einordnung der Sta¨dte innerhalb ihrer Territorien wurden in allen Fa¨llen die unmittelbar der Landesherrschaft unterstellten von solchen unterschieden, die erst mittelbar der obersten Territorialgewalt unterstanden. In Preußen nannte man

3 Paul Johansen, Die Kaufmannskirche im Ostseegebiet, in: Studien zu den Anfa¨ngen des europa¨ischen

Sta¨dtewesens. Reichenau – Vortra¨ge (1955–56) (Vortra¨ge und Forschungen IV), Sigmaringen 1958, S. 499–525.

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das die immediate oder die mediate Stellung, womit eine allgemein gu¨ltige Klassifizierung erreicht wurde. In der Oberlausitz standen den erstrangigen Sechssta¨dten die 21 mediaten „Sta¨dtlein“ gegenu¨ber. Der Vollsta¨ndigkeit halber werden die 24 Marktflecken angefu¨hrt, die sich in ihrer u¨blichen Bezeichnung nur wenig u¨ber die Do¨rfer hinaushoben. Immerhin zeigt sich bei diesem Blick auf die Rangfolge das Bemu¨hen um den Ausdruck von Rangunterschieden innerhalb einer Masse von tausend Do¨rfern im ganzen Territorium. Fu¨r das Thema der Raumordnung ergibt sich dabei die Feststellung, dass auch unter den Bedingungen der Grundherrschaft das Bemu¨hen herrschte, in die Masse der Ortschaften eine Gliederung zu bringen und Unterschiede zu kennzeichnen. Die zuletzt genannten Marktflecken traten dabei nur noch mit ihrer ho¨heren Einwohnerzahl und ihrer Teilnahme am Marktbetrieb aus. Die Darlegungen u¨ber Stadt und Raum haben mit der Unterscheidung von Immediatsta¨dten, Mediatsta¨dten und Marktflecken einen Sachverhalt aufgedeckt, der bei jeder langfristigen, die Zeiten u¨bergreifenden Betrachtung bedacht werden muss. Es geht dabei um die Frage nach der Bindung oder der Freiheit des Bodens und dabei um das jeweils geltende Bodenrecht. Unter den Bedingungen der Feudalordnung war jedes Stu¨ck Land bestimmten Besitz- und Rechtsverha¨ltnissen unterworfen, in denen sich Landesherrschaft oder Grundherrschaft ausdru¨ckten. Diese Rechtsordnung wurde in Deutschland erst durch die Agrarreformen des 19. Jahrhunderts aufgelo¨st. In gewissen Resten erhielten sich Formen von bodenrechtlichen Bindungen bis zur Mitte des 20. Jahrhunderts, als es in Nordwestdeutschland noch die zu Arbeitsdiensten beim Großbauern verpflichteten „Heuerleute“ gab. Es kann demzufolge bei einer Untersuchung u¨ber Stadt und Raum nicht einfach um den Boden schlechthin gehen, es muss vielmehr das jeweils geltende Bodenrecht bedacht werden. Ganz allgemein kann die Tatsache gelten, dass erst mit dem bu¨rgerlich-liberalen Staat des 19. Jahrhunderts die freie Verfu¨gbarkeit des Bodenbesitzers u¨ber seinen Grund und Boden eintrat. Erst seit dieser Zeit konnte ein ungehindertes Verha¨ltnis von Stadt und Raum gelten, wobei auch alle Formen perso¨nlicher Abha¨ngigkeit zu beachten sind.

English Abstract

During the Middle Ages, the city became expansive. Due to its economic power as a result of its dependence on the monetary economy, it developed a leading position. The city councils and the clerical body of the cities became landowners, causing the political power of the cities to be extended to the country. The resulting system remained permanent until the 19th century. In the system of capitalist-industrial economy, the city gained a dominant position which became apparent with the construction of the railway in the 19th century as a distinct urban achievement. The cities became leading places of science and technology, but they lost this position on account of the extensive expansion of road transport so that the difference between urban and rural areas became blurred and is hardly perceivable in many places. Housing complexes of

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gigantic proportions, satellite towns and escalated mega-cities devalue the term city, a term which in many cases can only be used due to tradition and is no longer of practical use. As a substitute, the term is now only defined according to the number of inhabitants. Today, the difference between city and countryside can only be grasped in an academic sense. The state classification is used in municipalities and rural communities, yet it continues to remain insignificant. With the differentiation between mediate cities, immediate cities and market town, the analyses of city and space have uncovered an issue that must be considered in any long-term observations that transcend time. It is necessary to ascertain whether land is bound or free, taking into account the applicable land law. Under the conditions of the feudal order, every piece of land was subject to property situation and certain legal relationships which the territorial lordship or the manorial system manifested themselves in. It wasn’t until the agrarian reform in the 19th century that this legal order was dissolved. To a certain extent, forms of land law bindings remained until the 20th century, during a time in which there still were „tenants“ that were required to perform work services for large-scale farmers in northwestern Germany. Thus, a study of city and space cannot only examine the land as such, but it is rather important to consider the correspondingly applicable land law. More generally, it can be considered a fact that the free availability of the land owner over his land did not emerge until the existence of the bourgeois-liberal state in the 19th century. Only from this moment onward could an unhindered relationship between city and space exist, whereby all forms of personal dependence must be born in mind.

THE REFORMATION AND THE TRANSFORMATION OF URBAN SPACE IN IRISH TOWNS (based on the Irish Historic Towns Atlas) by Anngret Simms

In Ireland the Reformation assumed a political, rather than a primarily theological character.1 In May 1536 the Reformation Parliament met in Dublin and enacted that Henry VIII was to be king of all Ireland. The Act of Supremacy that followed recognized him as supreme head on earth of the whole church in Ireland. These constitutional changes were driven by the idea that there should be conformity of religion in both kingdoms, England and Ireland. All subjects were to swear the oath of loyalty to the crown and become members of the Established Church, that is to say the Anglican Church. In the event the large majority of the Irish people refused to follow this directive. As a consequence of the Act of Supremacy the existing parish churches and cathedrals came into the ownership of the Established Church, depriving the Catholic population of its medieval parish centres. In towns Catholic services were held in semisecrecy in safe-houses. From 1537, again with the support of parliament, Henry VIII carried out the dissolution of the Irish monasteries as he had done previously with

1 John Thomas Ball, The Reformed Church of Ireland, London 1886, p. 85. For the chronology of his-

torical events in the 16th and 17th centuries in Ireland see: A New History of Ireland (Vol. VIII, Part I), ed. by Theodore William Moody/Francis X. Martin/Francis John Byrne, Oxford 1982; for an interpretation of the Reformation in Ireland see: A New History of Ireland, 1534–1691 (Vol. III), ed. by Theodore William Moody/Francis X. Martin/Francis John Byrne, Oxford 1976, reprinted with corrections 1978). See also: Brendan Bradshaw, The Dissolution of the Religious Orders in Ireland under Henry VIII, Cambridge 1974; Colm Lennon, The Lords of Dublin in the Age of Reformation, Dublin 1989; As by Law Established, Dublin 1995; Nicholas Canny, Making Ireland British, 1580–1650, ed. by Alan Ford/James McGuire/Kenneth Milne, Oxford 2001. Focused on towns see: Anthony Sheehan, Irish towns in a period of change, 1558–1641, in: Natives and Newcomers (Essays on the Making of Irish Colonial History, 1534–1641), ed. by Ciaran Brady/Raymond Gillespie, Dublin 1986, pp. 93–119; recently there has been a growing interest in Reformation studies, see: Enforcing the Reformation in Ireland and Scotland 1550–1700, ed. by Elizabethane Boran/Crawford Gribben, Aldershot 2006; James Murray, Enforcing the English Reformation in Ireland. Clerical resistance and political conflict in the diocese of Dublin 1534–1590, Cambridge 2009; Henry A. Jeffries, The Irish Church and the Tudor Reformation, Dublin 2010; for comparative study with England see: Alexandra Walsham, The Reformation of Landscape, Cambridge 2011.

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English religious houses. Later, in the late 17th and early 18th century the Penal Laws (1691–1829) barred Catholics from acquiring property and holding any state office. But, despite these set-backs, by the 1750s the Catholic Church had largely succeeded in reorganizing its structures. After Catholic emancipation in 1829 Catholicism consolidated in Irish towns. The breakthrough had come with the formal lifting of the Penal Laws. We will explore the impact of the Reformation in the short term and in the long term on the fabric of two small Irish towns: Tuam (near Galway on the west coast) and Armagh in Northern Ireland, and in one larger town, Limerick, at the mouth of the river Shannon. We will look at the three case-studies on the eve of the Reformation and then discuss the impact of the Reformation, as it is recorded in the topographical information sections contained in the relevant Irish Historic Towns Atlas publications.

Tuam: Ecclesia inter Hibernicos

Our discussion of Tuam in County Galway at the time of the Reformation and beyond follows the analysis of the town’s history by J. A. Claffey, whose fascicle was published in 2009.2 The map of Tuam on the eve of the Reformation (Fig.1) shows the importance of the churches in the medieval town, all of which with the exception of St John’s Priory are the heritage of the 12th century, when Tuam, under the patronage of King Toirrdelbach Ua Conchobair, was an important ecclesiastical centre in episcopal and monastic hands. The oldest foundation is Temple Jarlath originally founded by St Jarlath in the 6th century. Within the outer enclosure of the former early-medieval monastic site stands St Mary’s Cathedral, founded in 1111. Templenascreen, the church of the relics of St Jarlath, in the eastern suburb of Tuam was probably consecrated in 1172. There are three religious houses: On the eastern periphery it was St John’s Priory (canons regular of St Augustine) founded by the Gaelic King Toirrdelbach in c. 1140. South of the monastic enclosure stood St Brigid’s Hospital, whose site is now unknown. On the western periphery of Temple Jarlath’s enclosure stood the Abbey of the Holy Trinity (Premonstatensiens), founded by William de Burgh in c. 1204. What happened to these ecclesiastical institutions under the impact of the Reformation? Henry VIII appointed Christopher Bodkin who took the oath of supremacy as archbishop in 1537. In 1538 the Vatican appointed Arthur O’Friel in opposition to Bodkin. During the time of Queen Mary, Bodkin was investigated for heresy but Archbishop Reginald Pole in London acquitted him and O’Friel resigned when Bodkin was absolved. The first Protestant archbishop of Tuam, installed in 1572, is said

2 John Anthony Claffey, Tuam, ed. by Anngret Simms/Howard B. Clarke/Raymond Gillespie/Jac-

inta Prunty (Irish Historic Towns Atlas 20), Dublin 2009.

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Fig. 1: Early Christian and medieval Tuam Source: Claffey, 2009

´ Maolalaidh (Mullaly) from a Gaelic family that had accepted to have been William O Henry VIII’s offer to surrender and re-grant which helped them to secure land.3 St John’s Priory of canons regular of St Augustine was dissolved in 1570 and the monastic lands were granted to the earl of Clanricard. In 1672 the priory is referred to as ‘in ruins’. There are no extant remains left today. The abbey of the Holy Trinity was dissolved in 1574 and the property was granted to Thomas Lewes. In 1787 it is referred to as ‘not one stone upon another’. It was finally obliterated by road construction in 1972. The parish church of Templenascreen was referred to in 1479 as

3 Claffey, Tuam (see note 2), p. 5.

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long void. It was recorded as unroofed and in ruins in 1650. There are now no visible traces of this church. What were relations like on the ground? In the late 16th century Archbishop William Daniel (O’Donnell) of the Established Church showed great generosity towards Catholics and handed over St Jarlath’s reliquary to Catholic authorities when

Fig. 2: Archbishop’s (A) and temporal land (T) in Tuam, 1720 overlaid on 1838 (O. S.) Source: Claffey, 2009

his workmen found it on the floor of the ruined Templenascreen Church. He also allowed Catholic seminarians to be educated at Isaac Lally’s public school and he cooperated with Francis Kirwan, the Catholic archdeacon, in the construction of the Bishop Street Bridge. In the 19th century, faced with famine, the Protestant Archbishop Power Le Poer Trench took over responsibility for Tuam. He purchased vast quantities of flour and distributed it. He joined with Oliver Kelly, the Catholic Archbishop, on the Tuam Relief Committee. While Archbishop Trench was very generous to the Catholics of Tuam at the time of crisis he was vehemently opposed to the establishment of a Catholic cathedral in Tuam. But, as he had no influence over the land on the eastern outskirts of the town it was here that Archbishop Oliver Kelly was able to acquire

The Reformation and the transformation of urban space in irish towns

Fig. 3: Tuam in 1839, scale 1 : 2500 Source: Claffey, 2009

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sites and found a diocesan college, an episcopal residence, and in 1827 he began with the construction of a new cathedral, the second Catholic cathedral founded in Ireland since the Reformation (Fig. 2). The cathedral was funded in part by Protestant donations. J. A. Claffey put it very succinctly: „The Cathedral of the Assumption gave the town a new dimension. Convents and schools encircled it with remarkable spatial regularity as if Catholic emancipation had been accompanied by an urban plan“.4 The results of the processes that we have described are recorded on the large-scale map of Tuam dating to 1839 (Fig. 3). St Mary’s Cathedral belongs to the Church of Ireland. Temple Jarlath stands in ruins and the Abbey of the Holy Trinity is marked by site only and St John’s Abbey is only represented on the map by its cemetery. The map expresses strong discontinuities and change in the Irish urban landscape as a result of the Reformation. The dominating feature on the map is the new R. C. Chapel associated with the R. C. Bishop’s House and College and the buildings of the teaching orders dating to the early 19th century. This new Catholic quarter gives testimony to how the Catholic Church reasserted itself after Catholic Emancipation in 1829.

Armagh (Ecclesia inter Hibernicos and Anglicos)

For Armagh my discussion relies on the research carried out by Catherine McCullough and W. H. Crawford whose towns atlas of Armagh was published in 2007.5 Like Tuam, Armagh took its origin from an early Christian site and became an important bishop’s seat. The map representing Armagh on the eve of the Reformation (Fig. 4) shows how important the churches were. According to recent archaeological excavations the Church of the Repository on the eastern outskirts of the early monastic settlement was the oldest one predating the hill-top settlement. The early Christian monastery at the heart of the enclosures is said to have been founded in A. D. 444. By the late 7th century Armagh had become the most important ecclesiastical centre in Ireland because of its association with St Patrick. By the 9th century the great church on the hill top was built on the site of the earlier monastery. In A. D. 921 the priory of Culdees is mentioned in the annals. In A. D. 1132 Malachy was appointed primate in Armagh and he embraced the church reform movement that facilitated the introduction of continental religious orders. In 1126 the large abbey of Augustinian canons, dedicated to SS Peter and Paul, was founded to the north of the cathedral. The community of Tempul na Ferta located to the south-east of the enclosure was probably an Augustinian nunnery by 1144. St Brigid’s church located to the south-east of the cathedral enclosures also became an Augustinian nunnery in c. 1144. How were these many religious institutions affected by the Reformation? 4 Claffey, Tuam (see note 2), p. 7. 5 Catherine McCullough/W. H. Crawford, Armagh, ed. by Anngret Simms/Howard B. Clarke/

Raymond Gillespie/Jacinta Prunty (Irish Historic Towns Atlas 18), Dublin 2007.

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The introduction of the Reformation in Armagh was delayed because Archbishop George Dowdall, who had been appointed as Primate of All Ireland by Henry VIII, accepted Henry’s position as Supreme Head of the Church in Ireland but like Henry, he took an anti-Protestant theological position. When after Henry VIII’s death he still continued saying mass in his cathedral he was warned by the Dublin administration to follow the Common Prayer Book. In the event he was temporarily replaced as archbishop.

Fig. 4: Early Christian and medieval Armagh Source: McCullough/Crawford, 2007

The priory of Culdees was closed and converted to a college in 1550. The Augustinian nunnery associated with the Church of the Repository was suppressed in 1542 and closed down probably in 1562. The site and three adjacent houses were granted to Sir Francis Annesley whose descendants developed the area that contained three-anda-half English acres. Today no traces are left of this church. The abbey of SS Peter and Paul of canons regular of St Augustine was surrendered to the crown eventually in 1562. The abbey site and precincts covered a large triangular space downhill from the cathedral. The property was granted to Sir John Davies in 1609 and to another crown official Sir Toby Caulfield in 1618 and became known as the ‘Lord Viscount

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Charlemont liberty’. The 1834 map shows no trace of it. In the Franciscan friary, the windows were walled up in the mid 16th century and the building was used as a barracks. The friars were finally expelled in 1565. In 1586 the buildings are described as ‘broken, defaced’. The 1834 map refers to the abbey with the symbol for ruins. In 1947 the site was designated as an historic monument, a late admission as to the cultural value of this historic monastery. By the end of the 17th century the Presbyterian Church had become an important element in Armagh’s population and ended the jurisdiction of the Established Church over all British settlers. In 1714 a survey of Armagh recorded 183 householders of whom 47 were Episcopalians, 74 Presbyterians, 60 Catholics and 2 Quakers. Protestant schools were set up by private initiative as for example the Drelincourt School or charter school for the promotion of English Protestants working in Ireland. After the restoration of the monarchy in 1660 the Church of Ireland regained all its privileges but it did not succeed in keeping its superiority over other religious denominations, although successive primates had inserted in their leases a clause designed to prevent the building of meeting houses or mass houses on their property. A Presbyterian church was built as early as 1676 (Fig. 5). It lay just outside the town boundary on its northern edge. But then about 1712 the Presbyterians were granted a site in Lord Viscount Charlemont’s liberty on the territory of the former SS Peter and Paul’s Abbey from where they removed stones to build their new meeting house. Similarly, the Catholics secured a site from a private landholder and built a chapel in 1750 dedicated to St Malachy, and so did the Methodists when they built a chapel in 1786, and after a split ended up with two churches in Abbey Street. The short narrative of Armagh in the age of Reformation has shown that the initial steps under Henry VIII provided the legal framework for the transfer of the cathedral and its substantial landed property in the town to the Established church. The dissolution of the monasteries provided families loyal to the crown with land for later developments including Presbyterian and Catholic churches. The creation of a viable Anglican community only came with the influx of English families in the late 17th century. Similarly, the Presbyterian churches were established as a result of Scottish settlers moving into the town as part of the Ulster Plantation scheme. The 1834 map shows that the medieval cathedral in the hands of the Established Church was then and is now the dominating feature of the town. The only new church that the Church of Ireland had erected in Armagh by 1834 was St Mark’s Church on The Mall East. It was built in 1811 and was rebuilt in 1831. The first Roman Catholic Church, St Malachy’s, in Chapel Lane was built in 1752 during the time of the Penal Laws. The Roman Catholic cathedral built on a commanding site northwest of the town was only begun in 1841, too late to be shown on our 1834 map. In Northern Ireland unlike in the Republic we do not find the development of Catholic quarters consisting of the parish church and the buildings of the teaching orders. In Armagh the Catholic institutions are spread over the western periphery of the town. This was so because of the lack of a Catholic middle class and because it would have been more difficult to acquire building sites in largely Protestant owned towns.

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Fig. 5: Armagh in 1834, scale 1 : 2500 Source: McCullough/Crawford, 2007

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Limerick By the beginning of the 16th century Limerick was the third largest town in Ireland in terms of population. My discussion will be based on the Limerick fascicle compiled by Eamon O’Flaherty.6 Limerick began in the early 9th century with the arrival of the Vikings who established themselves on an island site that was taken over by the Anglo-Normans in the very late 12th century. The Irish speaking part of the population was moved into Irishtown. In our context we are interested in the question of how the Reformation affected the town? For this purpose we look at Limerick on the eve of the Reformation (Fig. 6). The oldest of the churches, St Munchin’s Parish Church, was probably established in the 7th century. There were three church buildings founded by Domnall Mo´r Ua Briain in the 12th century. Those were St Mary’s Cathedral, St Peter’s Priory or Cell of Canonesses of St Augustine and St Nicholas Parish Church. St John’s Parish Church and St Michael’s were first recorded around c. 1200. St Mary’s Priory of the Fratres Cruciferi was founded before 1216 by a local merchant, St Saviour’s Dominican Priory was founded by Donnchadh Carbreach O’Briain in 1227, and the Franciscan Friary was founded by Thomas de Burgo in 1267 (Table 1). By the end of the 17th century Limerick had fewer churches and religious buildings than 150 years earlier. Only two parish churches and the cathedral remained and those were under the control of the Established church, while Catholics worshipped in private mass houses. The building of St Munchin’s that was taken over by the Church of Ireland in the 16th century, has recently become the property of the University of Limerick. Both St Nicholas’s Church and St Michael’s Church were destroyed during the Cromwellian Siege in 1651 and there are no traces left of either of them. St John’s Church survived but went into commercial use in 2010. Religious houses were dissolved during the reign of Elizabeth I. The oldest one was St Peter’s Friary. It was granted with substantial lands to Edmond Sexton in 1548. The Sextons, promoted by Thomas Cromwell, assembled a large estate within the town by receiving grants from the Franciscan Friary, St Mary’s Priory, and the large south Prior’s land that was later developed as the Georgian Newtown Pery. Intriguingly the Sextons were an old Irish family by the name of O’Shaughnessy, who had trade connections with England already before the Reformation and were privileged by Henry VIII when they swore the Act of Allegiance. It was the descendants of the Sextons who developed the Georgian part of Limerick, Newtown Pery, on the old south Priory land in the 18th century (Fig. 7). Eamon O’Flaherty suggests that the Sextons had an uneasy relationship with the old civic families most of whom rejected the Reformation. In spite of legislation to the contrary, from the early 17th century to the early 18th century, the old religious orders re-established themselves on small sites near their previous locations. The Do-

6 Eamon O’Flaherty, Limerick, ed. by Anngret Simms/Howard B. Clarke/Raymond Gillespie/Jac-

inta Prunty (Irish Historic Towns Atlas 21), Dublin 2010.

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Fig. 6: Medieval Limerick Source: O’Flaherty, 2010

minicans settled in Fishlane in 1730, the Franciscans in Bourke’s Castle in 1732 and the Augustinians in Fishlane in 1736, close to the Dominicans. This means that there must have been a greater number of Catholic clergy in the town. O’Flaherty suggests that the location of St John’s outside John’s Gate in Garryoen in 1709, St Munchin’s on Clancy’s Strand near Thomand Gate and St Mary’s east of the wall at Athlumkard

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Street in 1749 is likely to indicate that it was here in the suburbs where the Catholics lived. Interestingly, in Limerick unlike in smaller provincial towns we do not find the emergence of a Catholic quarter with church, schools and teaching orders. In Limerick the relocation of Catholic churches and religious orders appear to have followed

Fig. 7: Limerick in 1840, scale 1 : 2500 Extract showing the Georgian part of Limerick, Newtown Perry, on the old Priory land Source: O’Flaherty, 2010

the people that they served. Another reason why Catholic quarters did not develop in the larger towns was because there it was more difficult to assemble a coherent land bank. The large scale early 19th century map of Limerick shows instead the emergence of a government quarter with the County Prison, Lunatic Asylum, County Hospital and Municipal Cemetery representing the increasing presence of the State in the life of the people in the 19th century Ireland.7 7 Mark Hennessy has discussed this issue in greater detail on the basis of the Irish Historic Towns Atlas

publications in Maps and Texts. Exploring the Irish Historic Towns Atlas, ed. by Howard B. Clarke/ Sarah Gearty, Dublin 2013.

Founder

probably St Munchin in 7th century.

by Domnall Mo´r Ua Briain in late 12th century.

by Domnall Mo´r Ua Brian in 1171.

patron Domnall Mo´r Ua Brian, built before 1194.

recorded 1200–1201.

recorded 1200–1201.

recorded 1200–1201.

recorded 1201–1202.

Church

St Munchin’s Church (C. of I.); medieval parish church

St Mary’s Cathedral (C. of I.)

St Peter’s Priory or Cell (Cannonesses of St Augustine)

St Nicholas medieval parish church

St John’s Church (C. of I.)

St Michael’s Church

St Patrick’s Church

St Laurence’s Church medieval parish church

Mulgrave Street North.

St Patrick’s Road South.

Michael Street East.

John’s Square East in Irishtown.

Nicholas Street West in Englishtown.

in Pump Lane outside the walls of Englishtown.

Bridge Street North in Englishtown.

Church Street North in Englishtown.

Location

County Infirmary built on site of former St Laurence Church in 1811; hospital closed and converted to Vocational College of Education in 1962.

Destroyed during the Cromwellian Siege in 1651. No traces left.

By 1590s under control of Established Church. Destroyed during the Cromwellian Siege in 1651. No traces left.

By 1590s under control of Established Church. In commercial use in 2010.

By 1590s under control of Established Church. Destroyed during the Cromwellian Siege in 1651. No traces left.

During the suppression given to Lord Milton. Thomas Bartlett built two houses there in 1654 (Civil Survey). Factory built on site in early 20th century.

After 1571 under control of Established Church. In use as C. of I. Cathedral.

By 1590s under control of Established Church. Currently in use by the University of Limerick.

Transformations and Present State

Tab. 1: Table of churches at the eve of the Reformation in Limerick, their founders, transformations and present state

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by Simon Minor before 1216.

by Donnchadh Carbreach O’Briain in 1227.

by Thomas de Burgo in 1267.

St Mary’s Priory (Fratres Cruciferi), Augustinians

St Saviour’s Dominican Priory

Grey (Franciscan) Friary

Long Lane North

Barracks Street East

Fish Lane

Granted to Edmond Sexton in 1543. Buildings except for choir secularised or pulled down in 1548. Abandoned until 1615, when friars were re-established. Place of Catholic worship 1642 51; occupied by Franciscans 1687; in secular use since early 18th century.

Dissolved during suppression in 1543; restored to friars in 1555; site forfeited to crown in 1569 72. Granted to Robert Ansley in 1589; reoccupied by friars by 1622; only ruins left in 1690. North wall of former church, part of cloister extant 2010.

Suppressed in 1537, granted to Edmond Sexton. Arrival of Cromwell in 1649, Augustinians fled the city. Returned to Fish Lane in 1660 under King Charles II. Vacant after the Siege of Limerick. Around 1730 Augustinians established a monastery on the site. Not extant by 1866.

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Conclusion

What do the narratives of our towns at the age of the Reformation and beyond convey to us? There was no Reformation as a critical process in Ireland. Henry VIII’s Reformation imposed his spiritual and temporary supremacy on a colonised people. It is this close association of Reformation and colonisation that makes the situation in Ireland so unique. At the local level, religious conformity was not ignored but doctrinal considerations were very much secondary to social practice.8 „As the Reformation could not be enforced it was negotiated“.9 The early 19th century large scale Ordinance Survey maps of Irish towns, contained in the Irish Historic Towns Atlas, show how the Catholic Church re-established itself on the periphery of smaller Irish towns by the creation of distinctive Catholic quarters consisting of the parish church and the institutional buildings of the new religious orders (Presentation Sisters, Mercy Sisters and Christian Brothers), who contributed greatly to the education of children in Ireland. In larger towns like Limerick the Catholic Church re-established itself in the evolving suburbs. The same maps also show that any remaining medieval church buildings were in the ownership of the Established Church. In fact, the maps reflect how religion acts as an ethnic marker within Irish towns. We should remember that the dissolution of monasteries in Europe is not exclusively associated with the Reformation. In the late 18th century during the French revolution, monasteries in France were secularised. In the early 19th century Napoleon secularised monasteries in those parts of Germany under his control and Joseph II, in the interest of enlightenment, secularised a large number of monasteries in Austria in the late 18th century, particularly the contemplative orders whom he considered not to be productive.10 Monastic property was then used to set up new parishes or plan new urban development as happened on a great scale in Vienna. The ruins of dissolved abbeys on the periphery of small Irish towns constitute, in the words of Kevin Whelan, an Irish Historical Geographer „the presence of absence, in which the long-term effects of historical trauma have become fixed in place“. He continues to say of these sites that they are „negative landscapes“ marked by the presence of absence, as such they represent a special form of ‘lieux de me´moire’.11 This observation leads us to acknowledge that large scale topographical maps reflect historical processes, as we have shown. However, they also communicate cultural meaning, and as such we should learn to read these maps as the expression of cultural shifts that

8 Enforcing the Reformation (see note 1), p. 5. 9 Raymond Gillespie, Godly order: enforcing peace in the Irish Reformation, in: Enforcing the Refor-

mation (see note 1), p. 186.

10 Pope Pius VI. (1775–1799) travelled personally in spring 1782 to Vienna in order to deter the emperor

from his reform movements but he did not succeed (see http://de.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pius_VI).

11 Kevin Whelan, Reading the ruins: the presence of absence in the Irish landscape, in: Surveying Ire-

land’s Past (Multidisciplinary Essays in Honour of Anngret Simms), ed. by Howard B. Clarke/Jacinta Prunty/Mark Hennessy, Dublin 2004, p. 315.

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affected the fabric of Irish towns. The Long Reformation in Ireland, imposed under colonial conditions, created one of ‘colonialism’s significant spaces’ that are clearly identifiable on the cadastral maps. These spaces represent the building blocks that make up „the sophisticated cultural formations of the Irish“.12

12 Anngret Simms, The ‘Long Reformation’ and its impact on the morphology of towns in Ireland, in: At

the Anvil (Essays in Honour of William J. Smyth), ed. by P. J. Duffy/William Nolan, Dublin 2012, p. 323.

TOWN AND ITS VICINITY AS SPACES FOR SACRAL REPRESENTATION, BOHEMIA 1350–1600 * o

by Robert Sˇimunek

Town as a liturgical and, speaking more broadly, a social space is rather a large topic – the large volume of literature devoted to this subject as well as the (rather extensive) analyses devoted both to individual towns and to individual churches (in towns and villages) make this abundantly clear.1 The name of this study addresses the forms and expressions inherent in declarations of religiosity, on the one hand, and visualizations of social status (social hierarchy) on the other. It also illustrates the links to the question of social topographies of medieval and early modern towns.2 The examples, for which we are able to reconstruct the proceedings of liturgical activities in towns as * Translated by Marcela K. Perett. This article is a result of the research project „Historical Geography

Research Centre“, supported by The Grant Agency of the Czech Republic (No. 410/12/G113).

1 Frantisˇek Hoffmann, Stˇredovˇeke´ mˇesto v Cecha ˇ ´ ch a na Moravˇe [Medieval town in Bohemia and

o ˇ Moravia], Praha 2009, esp. pp. 463–476, 512–523; Robert Sˇimunek, Cesky ´ Krumlov v 15. stoletı´. ˇ Pozdnˇe stˇredovˇeke´ mˇesto jako jevisˇtˇe sakra´lnı´ reprezentace [Cesky ´ Krumlov in the 15th century. Late ˇ medieval town as a stage for sacral representation], in: Cesky ´ Krumlov. Od rezidenˇcnı´ho mˇesta k paˇ ma´tce svˇetove´ho kulturnı´ho dˇedictvı´, ed. by Martin Gazˇi, Ceske ´ Budˇejovice 2010, pp. 475–520; Idem, Mˇelnı´k jako rezidenˇcnı´ mˇesto a jevisˇtˇe sakra´lnı´ reprezentace [Mˇelnı´k as a residential town and stage for sacral representation], in: Confluens. Vlastivˇedny´ sbornı´k Mˇelnicka 7 (2010), pp. 12–43; Roman o ˇ ˇ Lavicka/Robert Sˇimunek, Mˇestsky´ farnı´ kostel ve stˇredovˇeky´ch Cecha ´ ch. Trhove´ Sviny 1250–1520 ˇ [Urban parish church in medieval Bohemia. Trhove´ Sviny 1250–1520], Ceske ´ Budˇejovice 2011; Robert o ˇ ˇ Sˇimunek/Roman Lavicka, Pa´ni z Rozˇmberka 1250–1520. Jizˇnı´ Cechy ve stˇredovˇeku. Kulturnˇehisˇ toricky´ obraz sˇlechticke´ho dominia ve stˇredovˇeky´ch Cecha ´ ch [Lords of Rosenberg 1250–1520. Southern Bohemia in the Middle Ages. Cultural and historical depictions of a noble dominium in Southern ˇ Bohemia], Ceske ´ Budˇejovice 2011 (Section II – Kostel a kostelnı´ okrsek jako socia´lnı´ prostor [Church and parish district as a social space], pp. 143–239). – Of the comparative literature from recent years, the most significant contribution is by A. Reitemeier, collected in the synthesis Arnd Reitemeier, Pfarrkirchen in der Stadt des spa¨ten Mittelalters: Politik, Wirtschaft und Verwaltung, Wiesbaden 2005 (with an extensive bibliography). 2 Comparative studies clearly show the connection with the social dimension of urban communities – especially questions of the social framework of processions in urban milieu. Miri Rubin, Symbolwert und Bedeutung der Fronleichnamsprozessionen, in: Laienfro¨mmigkeit im spa¨ten Mittelalter. Formen, Funktionen, politisch-soziale Zusammenha¨nge, ed. by Klaus Schreiner et al., Mu¨nchen 1992, pp. 309–318 and Dieter Scheler, Inszenierte Wirklichkeit: Spa¨tmittelalterliche Prozessionen zwischen Obrigkeit und „Volk“, in: Von Aufbruch und Utopie. Perspektiven einer neuen Gesellschaftsgeschichte des Mittelalters. Fu¨r und mit Ferdinand Seibt aus Anlaß seines 65. Geburtstages, ed. by Bea Lundt/Helma Reimo¨ller, Ko¨ln etc. 1992, pp. 119–129. – The literature on the role of relics (their gifts, posession and public presentation) in the context of sacral legitimity is now quite extensive,

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well as their social context (in relation to the town authorities, gilds, pupils, but also the various groups on the margins of the town society, especially the poor), increase in number from the late middle ages on, as opposed to the pre-Hussite period for which the extant source base is rather limited. The following case study will serve as the starting point for reflections on this ˇ question. The study describes the feast of Corpus Christi in Cesky ´ Krumlov/Bo¨hmisch Krummau, a town in southern Bohemia around the year 1400, which is unusually well-documented in the extant sources. Naturally, the question is, to what extent we can generalize basic characteristics of the proceedings of various liturgical feasts in the 14th and 15th centuries. The general framework and the various key moments that remain stable across time or that undergo change will be discussed in the second section of this article. That which is concrete (locally specific) and generally characteristic can serve as the starting point for our comparison in the central European framework.

ˇ I. Corpus Christi processions in pre-Hussite Cesky ´ Krumlov

The feast of Corpus Christi was introduced in 1264 by the pope Urban IV, but his death in the same year stopped the feast from spreading; it was re-introduced by John XXII in 1317 in Avignon, and became a stable part of the liturgical calendar around the mid-14th century. In the Czech milieu, the feast was introduced as a part of Charles IV’s conception of sacral legitimization.3 The coronation route of Charles IV to Aachen, where the Roman and Bohemian king was crowned on July 25, was the key event of the high medieval politics in the year 1349. On his journey through the empire, the king was accompanied by leading Bohemian lords, in whose benefit he issued a number of charters. We have evidence, for example, from Mainz

and cannot be surveyed even in an extensive selection. We note at least the collection Fu¨rstenhof und Sakralkultur im Spa¨tmittelalter, ed. by Werner Ro¨sener/Carola Fey, Go¨ttingen 2008 (the articles contained therein map the spectrum of forms of expressions used for sacral legitimization), and a special study Ralf Lu¨tzelschwab, Prag – das neue Paris? Der franzo¨sische Einfluss auf die Reliquienpolitik Karls IV., in: Wallfahrten in der europa¨ischen Kultur. Tagungsband Pˇr´ıbram, 26. – 29. Mai 2004, ed. by Daniel Dolezˇal et al., Frankfurt a. M. 2006, pp. 201–219; see also the literature listed in note 3. 3 Dorota Le´sniewska, Das Heiligtu¨merfest in Bo¨hmen des 14. Jahrhunderts, in: Pielgrzymki w kulturze s´ redniowiecznej Europy, ed. by Jacek Wiesiołowski, Poznan´ 1993, pp. 199–204; on the question of displaying relics in the imperial milieu (including Prague), see detailed study by Hartmut Ku¨hne, ostensio reliquiarum. Untersuchungen u¨ber Entstehung, Ausbreitung, Gestalt und Funktion der Heiltumsweisungen im ro¨misch-deutschen Regnum, Berlin etc. 2000. – The celebrations of the feast of Corpus Christi in Prague are a part of a wider context of Charles’s legitimization of power via relics, at which point Prague’s cathedral of St. Vitus and Karlsˇtejn Castle were among the central locations: most recently, Karel Otavsky´, Drei wichtige Reliquienscha¨tze im luxemburgischen Prag und die Anfa¨nge der Prager Heiltumsweisungen, in: Kunst als Herrschaftsinstrument. Bo¨hmen und das Heilige Ro¨mische Reich unter den Luxemburgern im europa¨ischen Kontext, ed. by Jiˇr´ı Fajt/Andrea Langer, Berlin/Mu¨nchen 2009, pp. 300–308.

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(June 1), Frankfurt (June 21–22), and Bonn (July 11–13). Members of the Vı´tkovci (Wittigonen) family, such as Jindˇrich of Hradec/Heinrich von Neuhaus and Josˇt of Rozˇmberk/Jobst von Rosenberg were among the Czech noblemen; their cooperation with the ruler continued an older tradition of cooperation by their forefathers with Charles’s father John of Luxembourg. The royal confirmation of privilege to Aachen from that July 25, issued in die sollempnitatis coronationis nostre, contains a witness seal of Josˇt of Rosenberg. And it is here, in Aachen, in the summer of 1349, that the story called „town as the stage for sacral representation“ can have its beginning. Its meaning is derived from the act of imitation that appeals to an authoritative model. Charles’s imitatio Romae is a „terminus technicus“, and we do know that Aachen, as the site of the coronation of Roman kings, played the role of one of the key models for the royal representation of the second member of the Luxembourg dynasty on the Czech throne. The imitation of Aachen was expressed very strongly in the conception of the foundation of Prague’s New Town, the last of the large medieval town foundation in Central Europe: its octagon was copied by the church of Charles the Great in the New Town’s Augustinian monastery, and the two towns were linked also via occasions of ostensio reliquiarum. Whereas in Aachen, the „ostensio“ took place every seven years on Charles’s command (which tradition, by the way, exists to this day – the next „ostensio“ will take place in 2014), in Prague’s New Town, the „ostensio“ became an annual celebration. Hundreds of pilgrims would congregate in the area of the Cattle Market (modern day Charles’s Square) and watch the relics displayed from the New Town Hall. However, the stage for sacral representation, which we focus on here, is not ˇ Prague but Cesky ´ Krumlov, which was the residential town of one of Czech noble dynasties, the lords of Rosenberg. The model case of a noble residential town, in which the sources allow us to reconstruct the proceedings of one important liturgical feast with an unusual level of detail – the display of the holy relics during the feast of Corpus Christi – and address the question of devotional forms of expression in the urban milieu, on the one hand, and sacral legitimization of its nobility on the other. Josˇt of Rosenberg, the direct participant in Charles’s coronation in Aachen, was present also at the „ostensio“ there, and also had to know the proceedings of this celebration from Prague. Imitatio Pragae, which could also be described as imitatio Caroli IV., thus proved to be one of the key sources of inspiration for the conceptual development of Rosenberg’s residential town in the 14th century. ˇ Corpus Christi processions in Cesky ´ Krumlov and the ostensio reliquiarum began between the 1360–1370s, and reflect the growing popularity of the cult of the Corpus Christi. Va´clav of Miliˇcı´n (d. 1401), a leading, and very active, cleric in the services of the Rosenbergs, served as the „spiritus agens“; it is he, who in 1354 was asked to store the relics, which the Rosenbergs acquired from Charles IV, in a monˇ strance probably intended for the parish church in Cesky ´ Krumlov. (This kind of donation of holy relics as an expression of social bond was characteristic of the time.) It is more than likely that it was Va´clav of Miliˇcı´n, who stood at the origins of Corpus ˇ Christi processions in Cesky ´ Krumlov. The relics on display were stored in several ˇ places – in the parish church in Cesky ´ Krumlov, in the nearby Cistercian monaster-

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ies (Rosenberg’s dynastic monastery Vysˇsˇ´ı Brod/Hohenfurt and monastery Zlata´ Koruna/Goldenkron) and also in the castle chapel of the Rosenberg residence (this also ˇ marks the somewhat loose parallel of the chapel in Cesky ´ Krumlov as an imitation of Sainte-Chapelle in Paris). The initiative from the top, that is from the nobility, was well received in the environment of the town community. The display of the relics on the feast of Corpus Christi soon became the key liturgical feast in the town.4 The possibility partially to glimpse the town activities on this feast day is a result of an accident – in the 14th century a description of the fundamental moments in the celebrations was put together and has survived to the present day. It describes relatively well some of the contemporary activities in the town and reveals a number of ˇ other details. Cesky ´ Krumlov and its surrounding area were bilingual; the commentaries to the relics on display as well as the sermons and exhortation to prayer were in Czech and German. There was a set place for the relic display between the parish church of St. Vitus and the Minorite Monastery and the Convent of the Clarissian sisters (exeundo de parochia versus claustrum ad locum, ubi reliquie ostendi debent) – these were at the end of the procession route taken from the church, at pre-arranged moments Te deum laudamus and Salve regina were sung. The description also specifies, which relics were shown to the people – the golden cross with a piece of the wood of the cross and the thorn from its crown, and the cloth „jı´zˇto jemu jeho svˇete´ oˇci byly zava´za´ny“ [with which his holy eyes were covered] were naturally at the center of the proceedings. This was followed by Marian relics and others, such as the tooth of John the Baptist, St. Peter and St. Nicholas. At the end, the faithful heard the long-awaited declaration of indulgences, given to those who participated in the procession, which was then followed by the subsequent liturgical activities – preaching (again in Czech and in German), after which the laity and monks took some refreshments, followed by almsgiving. After that, monks and secular clergy gathered in the Minorite monastery church, where they heard a Latin sermon on the Corpus Christi (quibus unus lector sermonem in latino faciat de corpore Christi).5

o 4 On Va´clav of Miliˇc´ın, most recently Sˇimu ˇ nek/Lavicka, Pa´ni z Rozˇmberka 1250–1520 (see note 1),

pp. 151–156. Gift-giving as one of the important moments of development of the relationship between o Charles IV and Rosenberg lords, Robert Sˇimunek, Karel IV. a pa´ni z Rozˇmberka v 50. letech 14. stoletı´. Ritua´ly moci a hleda´nı´ modu vivendi [Charles IV and the lords of Rosenberg in the 1350s. Rituals of power and the search for modus vivendi], in: Husitsky´ Ta´bor 17 (2012), pp. 69–103. – We can list the relics both according to descriptions of Corpus Christi festivities and (with information about their owners) in the inventory from 1418 when they were gathered at the Krumlov Castle for safe-keeping: Urkundenbuch des ehemaligen Cistercienserstiftes Goldenkron in Bo¨hmen, ed. by Mathias Pangerl, Wien 1872, pp. 380–404, no. 166a (relics are listed along with sacred vessels as well as with charters and other valuables that were then moved to the Krumlov Castle). 5 On the question of what relics were displayed in the course of the Corpus Christi processions in Krumlov, most recently Jiˇr´ı Kuthan/Jan Royt, Hradnı´ kaple v Krumlovˇe jako Sainte-Chapelle [The ˇ castle chapel in Krumlov as Sainte-Chapelle], in: Cesky ´ Krumlov. Od rezidenˇcnı´ho mˇesta k pama´tce ˇ svˇetove´ho kulturnı´ho dˇedictvı´, ed. by Martin Gazˇi, Ceske ´ Budˇejovice 2010, pp. 443–454; the following, albeit older, material study has lost nothing on its importance: Ferdinand Tadra, Ukazova´nı´ sv. o ˇ Krumlovˇe v XIV. vˇeku [Ostensio reliquiarum in Cesky ˇ ostatku v C. ´ Krumlov in the 14th century], ˇ ˇ in: Casopis Ceske ´ ho musea 54 (1880), pp. 432–437, which paraphrases the description of the procession, whose original version was shortly after edited by Joseph Neuwirth, Geschichte der bilden-

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We are correct in speaking of the town during liturgical feasts as the stage for sacral representation. The inclusion of all sorts of persons from a wide social spectrum into the liturgical program is evident – in addition to clergy, there were also burghers (partially guilds) as well as villagers and people from the surrounding areas, who traveled to the town on occasions of great liturgical feasts. Their participation signaled that all social classes – persons of whatever rank, and regardless whether they held active or passive role in the proceedings – as well as all age groups were represented (which is apparently so logical that our understanding tends to overlook it). And we could hardly say that one group was more important than another – from the point of view of the liturgical proceedings, they were all equally indispensable. Only a very small percentage of the population remained on the margins. The role of individual social groups can hardly be deduced from the direct evidence in the sources. The poor can serve as a good example – an anonymous group of people who were, on the one hand, „on the margins“ and, on the other, also „in the middle of action“. Although the analysis of testaments for the late medieval period in Bohemia shows clearly that in the context of the afterlife the bequests to the poor played a minor role in comparison with the bequests to the church, the poor were an integral part not only of the social stratigraphy of every town, but also of its liturgical life. We meet the poor in this way also in the late medieval Krumlov – individual persons or their groups across the town and even in front of the church door made their living from the very fact that they gave the wealthy an opportunity to display their own charity and ensure the salvation of their soul by helping the needy. The small gifts to the poor as part of the celebration of annual feasts were mentioned in very stereotypical manner, which suggests that it was a common part of the liturgical memory and also of the sacral representation. The situation is analogous – mutatis mutandis – regarding the pupils (the Krumlov parish church had a school as early as the 14th century).6 The sources clearly show their role in the liturgical life of the town, but their role is explicitly mentioned only rarely and apropos (for example as a mention of the pulpit in the choir of the parish church, where the pupils sang). The pupil’s singing in the church, their participation in the processions, as well as their accompaniment of the priest who carried the anointing for extreme unction and undoubtedly also their participation in the funerals are clearly evidenced. And however symbolic their income (a group of pupils usually received as much or less than a parish priest or the schoolmaster himself), this modus vivendi perhaps allowed the talented, but socially poor (or at least some of them) literally to „survive“, and with a bit of luck it opened the door to subsequent university studies and offered social mobility. den Kunst in Bo¨hmen vom Tode Wenzels III. bis zu den Husitenkriegen I. Allgemeine Verha¨ltnisse, o Baubetrieb und Baudenkmale, Prag 1893, pp. 592–595, no. 2; Ferdinand Tadra, Ukazova´nı´ sv. ostatku th ˇ ˇ v Ceske´m Krumlovˇe ve XIV. vˇeku [Ostensio reliquiarum in Cesky´ Krumlov in the 14 century], in: ˇ ˇ Casopis Ceske ´ ho musea 73 (1899), pp. 173–174 (indulgence charters); Valentin Schmidt, Das Krummauer Heilthumsfest, in: Festschrift des Vereins fu¨r Geschichte der Deutschen in Bo¨hmen seinen Mitgliedern gewidmet zur Feier des 40ja¨hrigen Bestandes, 27. Mai 1902, Prag 1902, pp. 117–125. 6 Josef Hejnic, Ceskokrumlovska ˇ ˇ ´ latinska´ sˇkola v dobˇe rozˇmberske´ [The Latin school in Cesky ´ Krumlov in the Rosenberg period], Praha 1972.

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II. Procession as a component of the liturgical life of town and an expression of collective identity ˇ Cesky ´ Krumlov’s extraordinarily well preserved source base about the period around 1400 allows us to approach the „liturgical proceedings“ (which is also a social analysis) with a level of detail, which would be unthinkable in a number of other localities. However detailed – and in its way unique – the description of the feast, it leaves much of the activity in the streets of Krumlov undescribed. Great church feast days were accompanied by a corresponding number of pilgrims, who came to town from close by and far away. And it was not merely the number of people, but also the material support of their stay: they needed, in the first place, food and drink, accommodation, but also care for their horses. There is no doubt that similar opportunities meant significant profit for the members of a number of crafts, with innkeepers being the most profitable. The relationship between processions (and large liturgical feasts in general) and markets is not accidental – in Krumlov, the annual fair took place in the octave of the Corpus Christi.7 And similarly, the usual infamous ends of liturgical feasts in the form of pub brawls and nightly disturbances were an incorrigible phenomenon (and the usual orders that bathhouses and pubs be closed on these days were evidently left unheeded). Where the testimony of the unique description of Krumlov’s Corpus Christi feast ends, we turn to analogies known from elsewhere. The analysis offered by comparative history of towns suggests the following as the basic attributes that characterized town in the eyes of a medieval person: „fortified“, „holy“, and „nice“.8 We take this elementary interpretative framework and apply it to our interpretation of the town as a stage for sacral representation – it entirely reflects the situation which we see in Krumlov in the pre-Hussite and later periods, as well as in other towns, especially those with a residential function. A town surrounded by walls, with vertical towers of profane and sacred buildings, with paved streets and with unmistakable ratio of stone development was a dignified pendant to the Rosenberg’s residential castle on top of the rock massive above the town. The town was not only „fortified“ and „nice“ but also „holy“ – with the parish church, monastery and two hospital churches, as well as with its active liturgical life. Sacral and, in a wider sense of the word, power representation of the nobility was indivisibly connected with the proud self-representation of the urban community. The route of the procession and the places, where the gathered pilgrims paused in order to see holy relics or hear a sermon, naturally had their importance as well. The proceeding of large liturgical feasts, as we can reconstruct them in the case of Krumlov, had in its time comparable analogies both in the royal and noble residen7 This relationship noted already by Schmidt, Das Krummauer Heilthumsfest (see note 5), p. 120. 8 Roland Gerber, Wehrhaft, heilig und scho¨n. Selbstversta¨ndnis, Außensicht und Erscheinungsbilder

mittelalterlicher Sta¨dte im Su¨dwesten des Reiches, in: Was machte im Mittelalter zur Stadt? Selbstversta¨ndnis, Außensicht und Erscheinungsbilder mittelalterlicher Sta¨dte, ed. by Kurt-Ulrich Ja¨schke/ Christhard Schrenk, Heilbronn 2007, pp. 25–46.

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tial towns of its time. The difference is small and rests in the following: explicit descriptions (characteristic is, for example, the active role of guilds in the liturgical life of towns, specifically in the relationship to Corpus Christi processions we can also ´ stı´ nad Labem/Aussig a. d. Elbe) for the majority of other mention late medieval U localities is missing. The fact that Corpus Christi processions were a common phenomenon and that their proceedings were to great extent standardized are evident from the matter-of-fact attitude with which they were discussed in the privilege by cardinal Leonard for Strakonice (1512). He issued it at the request of the general prior of the Johanite order of John III of Rosenberg and Strakonice commendam, allowing that a procession take place in the church in Strakonice on one Thursday every month before a holy mass; this processions was to carry the sacrament of the altar in a monstrance as on the feast of Corpus Christi (prout in festo corporis domini nostri Jhesu Christi).9 At times of liturgical feasts, towns became the center stage for devotion (and representation) of individual social groups in the town population and their role in the liturgical life of the town. Social hierarchies were clearly visible. It is evident especially in the case of guilds (the distance from the sacred [object] in the course of the processions being the indicator of social position), but also in a number of other cases of declaration of the superior and inferior position of individual social groups, which participated. In addition, there were other aspects: among them the above-mentioned moment of imitation, the appeal to an authoritative model, functioning as one of the key indicators of social relationships in the Middle Ages (in this case having the shape of an appeal to the similarity of Corpus Christi celebrations in the imperial residence town, Prague). This framework has a general validity: Corpus Christi processions were one of the key feasts of the liturgical calendar in a number of royal and serfdom ˇ town in the Middle Ages. However, we have sources for Prague and Cesky ´ Krumlov that allow us to describe the activities in a relative detail, usually we have only accidental mentions – about Corpus Christi processions, and even less frequently about individual Corpus Christi chapels and fraternities.10 In addition to the fraternity of Corpus Christi (with close relationship to the court of Wenceslas IV), there were the chapel of Corpus Christi in the New Town in Prague and chapel of Corpus Christi in Kutna´ Hora, founded by the fraternity of Corpus Christi and St. Barbara (documented between 1384 and 1424).11

9 The origins of Corpus Christi processions in U ´ stı´ nad Labem go back to the pre-Hussite period; in

1459 indulgences were proclaimed for those who participated; in 1490 the fraternity of Corpus Christi, Virgin Mary and St. Wenceslaw [Urkundenbuch der Stadt Aussig bis zum Jahre 1526, ed. by Wenzel ˇ cka, ˇ Hieke/Adalbert Horci Prag 1896, pp. 194–195, no. 452 – indulgences to the participants in the ˇ – L, processions, pp. 151–153, no. 323 – statute from 1490]. – Strakonice: Na´rodnı´ archiv Praha, RM inv. no. 2498. 10 Hana Pa´tkova´, Die vorhussitischen Fronleichsnamsbruderschaften in Bo¨hmen, in: Die „Neue Fro¨mmigkeit“ in Europa im Spa¨tmittelalter, ed. by Marek Derwich/Martial Staub (Vero¨ffentlichungen des Max-Planck-Instituts fu¨r Geschichte 205), Go¨ttingen 2004, pp. 77–83. 11 Joseph Neuwirth, Der Baubeginn der Frohnleichnams- und Barbarakirche in Kuttenberg, in: Mitteilungen des Vereins fu¨r Geschichte der Deutschen in Bo¨hmen 31 (1893), pp. 306–341; Hana Pa´tkova´, o ˇ Bratrstvie ke cti bozˇie. Pozna´mky ke kultovnı´ cˇ innosti bratrstev a cechu ve stˇredovˇeky´ch Cecha ´ ch

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The social dimension of liturgical feasts was relatively wide – it corresponded to the participation of persons from a whole social spectrum; this is why processions were one of the important factors of „social concord“, given the socially heterogeneous spectrum of members of the urban community. The sources from the 15th and 16th century make it clear that processions with singing, with the scattering of flowers and burning candles were a dominant secular accompaniment during feasts of Corpus Christi. The collective identity of the urban community was expressed also via decorated altars in squares and festive refreshment.12 Processions (and liturgical feasts in general), therefore, worked as an integrative agent of the collective identity, similar to, for example, patron saints of towns or individual gilds and fraternities,13 and often there is also the memorial component. Especially in relation to wars, processions were bearers (as well as encapsulations) of the key traditions of urban communities in some cases well into the (early) modern period. Same was the case for assaults of towns by noblemen from the vicinity (Jihlava/Iglau, 1402) or cases of rather miracuˇ lous rescues from destruction (Most/Bru¨x 1421, Plzen/Pilsen 1433–34).14 Whereas liturgical feasts had their regular rhythm and their place in the liturgical calendar (and, therefore, in the life of every town), funerals were no different. They too had – as is given by the logic of funerals – a cyclical nature, and they too served as visualizations of social hierarchies, also with a close link to sacred spaces. Direct testimonies of the sources are (somewhat surprisingly) even more sporadic than in the case of liturgical feasts, but their testimony is to some extent analogous; thus we

[Fraternities for God’s honor. Notes on the cultic activities of fraternities and gilds in medieval Bohemia], Praha 2000, p. 115 (with bibliography). 12 Cenˇ ˇ ek Zı´brt, Staroˇceske´ vy´roˇcnı´ obyˇceje, povˇery, slavnosti a za´bavy prostona´rodnı´, pokud o nich vypravujı´ pı´semne´ pama´tky azˇ po na´sˇ vˇek. Pˇr´ıspˇevek ke kulturnı´m dˇejina´m cˇ esky´m [Old Czech annual customs, superstitions, feasts and national pastimes, since the time of the written record to this day. A contribution to the Czech cultural history], Praha 1889, esp. pp. 123–126. – The moment of visualization (declaration) of the „social concord“ can be seen in both sacred and profane festivities in the urban space – it is described in this way, for example, in the book by Jacques Heers, Vom Mumenschanz zum Machttheater. Europa¨ische Festkultur im Mittelalter, Frankfurt a. M. 1986. 13 Werner Bergmann, Die Heiligen und das Profane. Zur Bedeutung der Heiligenverehrung und des Patroziniums in der mittelalterlichen Gesellschaft, in: Von Aufbruch und Utopie (see note 2), pp. 107–118, shows how the role of the pantheon of the saints grows in the course of the medieval period, or rather that it shifts from a (purely) religious level to a political and social level: national saints emerge, emperors and kings, as well as gilds and fraternities, craftsmen and miners have their own saints, knights elected St. George as their patron, even towns, buildings, altars have their own saints; saints are seen as patrons of those who bear their name. 14 Ivo Hlobil/Frantisˇek Hoffmann, Baroknı´ freska Pˇrepadenı´ Jihlavy roku 1402 v minoritske´m kostele. Kopie goticke´ veduty z doby pˇred rokem 1436 [The baroque fresco Assault on Jihlava in 1402 in the Minorite church. A copy of the gothic veduta from the time before 1436], in: Umˇenı´ 51 (2003), ˇ ´ rek, Bitva u Mostu roku 1421 [Battle of Most in 1421], in: Sbornı´k Pedapp. 147–157; Petr Janca ˇ ´ stı´ nad Labem. Rada gogicke´ fakulty v U regiona´lnı´, Praha 1966, pp. 31–63; Josef Hejnic/Miloslav Polı´vka, Plzenˇ v husitske´ revoluci. Hilaria Litomˇerˇ icke´ho „Historie mˇesta Plznˇe“, jejı´ edice a hisˇ by Hilarius Litomˇerˇ icky´, toricky´ rozbor [Plzenˇ in the Hussite revolution. „History of the town Plzen“ its edition and historical analysis], Praha 1987. – Collective memory of the wartime events and the forms of its fixation and preservation in the milieu of German towns in the 14th and 15th centuries, discussed by Klaus Graf, Schlachtengedenken in der Stadt, in: Stadt und Krieg. 25. Arbeitstagung in Bo¨blingen 1986, ed. by Bernhard Kirchga¨ssner et al., Sigmaringen 1989, pp. 83–104.

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can use the method of a case study. It is important to note that the place of the burial itself (inside the church or in churchyard) was a social indicator in itself, especially as far as burials in the presbytery ad sanctos or burial in a family necropolis, for example in front of a side altar, were concerned.15 Similar to processions, funeral processions also included a wide spectrum of the society, reflecting the ruling hierarchies in the given town – clergy, burghers and, in the case of funerals of craftsmen, members of the guild, pupils with a cantor, and, of course, the poor. It was in the interest of the deceased that their funeral be attended by as many people as possible – simply put, the more people in the processions, the more intercessors for the salvation of the soul of the deceased (to say nothing about the representation of the bereaved through a pompous funeral of their relative). And if we thought that it was only the poor who were motivated to attend by the visions of alms (which were automatically distributed in the course of funerals), we would be mistaken: there are sources that specify the exact amounts that the clergy would receive in return for participating in the funeral procession. The position in the funeral processions reflected the hierarchy; the participation itself or non-participation communicated their own meaning.

III. Processions in the period of change

Processions as well as funeral processions traversed through towns on different days in the year, with various level of regularity; again and again they visualized and therefore confirmed the present hierarchy. The processions that accompanied those sentenced to death to the place of execution encapsulated also the symbolism of law and justice, the correction of social imbalance, but also the moment of forgiveness. They would take place in public squares (the site of the pillory – another legal and social symbol) or outside of the city walls – the procession would take a precisely demarcated route, which would have included a wayside shrine: the projection of the criminal’s fate into the narrative of Christ’s passion can perhaps be understood as a symbolic kind of reintegration of the delinquent into the communitas christianorum.16 The cyclicality and perennial existence of all kinds of processions were eo ipso an expression of legitimacy; the fact that the „immutability“ (in this case of local hierarchies) was only apparent changes nothing about this. Rivalries between guilds for

15 Tablets with inscriptions that recorded names of persons buried in that place, in the Minorite o

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monastery church Jindˇrichuv Hradec/Neuhaus: Robert Sˇimunek, Minoritsky´ kla´sˇternı´ kostel sv. Jana Kˇrtitele v Jindˇrichovˇe Hradci. Unika´tnˇe dokumentovany´ pˇr´ıpad sˇlechticke´ nekropole druhe´ poloviny o 14. stoletı´ [The Minorite monastery church of St. John the Baptist in Jindˇrichuv Hradec. A well-documented example of a noble necropolis from the second half of the 14th century], in: Vlastivˇedny´ sbornı´k ˇ Daˇcicka, Jindˇrichohradecka a Tˇrebonska 20 (2008), pp. 18–39. 16 Achim Timmermann, The Poor Sinner’s Cross and the Pillory: Late Medieval Microarchitecture and Liturgies of Criminal Punishment, Umˇenı´ 55 (2007), pp. 362–373.

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more honorable places in processions, less distant from the sacred [object] are well known, and the same was the case for burgher families, for which the late middle ages brought a new element, heraldry as a new way of declaring social ascendancy in the urban environment (prior to the battle of the White Mountain, even average towns in the countryside often boasted tens of coats of arms). Moreover, the nobility, which owned houses in towns, often with residential function, as well as the burghers considered the local parish church to be their liturgical focus. The co-existence of nobility and burghers was not, in the late medieval period, nearly as rife with conflict as we might suppose based on a simple projection of political and economic rivalries on the national scene into local micro-worlds, however, hierarchic distance was felt (especially burghers with a coat of arms strove to obfuscate and level out social barriers in their relationship to the nobility).17 The routes of processions changed as well. At the turn of the 15th and 16th centuries at the latest, processions began to lead beyond the town walls. In many places, cemeteries were translated away from the town parish churches into suburbia either in the late medieval period or in the course of the 16th century. Sometimes, these were translated into the vicinity of older churches, often in the course of the 16th century (and especially in the decades around 1600), many communities built display and representative cemetery churches (with a favorite patronage by the Holy Trinity). Cemeteries were also places for preaching – the clear boundary between funeral procession and procession thus became blurred. In addition to written sources, extant pulpits (uniquely extant) on the outer walls of cemetery churches offer evidence of this. The renaissance pulpit in the cemetery church dedicated to the Most Holy Trinity in ˇ Cesky ´ Brod is among the best preserved ones, whereas only a ruin (torso) remains in other places (such as cemetery church dedicated to the Virgin Mary of the Snow in Budynˇe nad Ohˇr´ı) and usually not even that.18 The oldest „town“ pilgrim chapels begin appearing around the same time, the chapel of St. Anne near Horsˇovsky´ Ty´n is a good example – founded in 1516, it was an element in the „sacred landscape“ not far from the residence of Wolf Dobrohost of Ronsˇperk/Ronsperg (Rammsberg). New pilgrimage places, which began to appear in the vicinity of towns from the late medieval period on, and especially proliferated in the baroque period, signaled a modification of liturgical feasts in the urban communities – the parish church or another sacred institution inside the walls were not

o 17 Robert Sˇimu nek, Sˇlechta a mˇesta pozdnı´ho stˇredovˇeku: konfrontace cˇ i koexistence? [Nobility and

towns in the late medieval period: confrontation or co-existence?], in: Stredoveke´ mesto ako miesto ˇ stretnutı´ a komunika´cie, ed. by Ja´n Lukacka/Martin Sˇtefa´nik, Bratislava 2010, pp. 225–237. o 18 On cemeteries as „social spaces“, most recently Sˇimu ˇ nek/Lavicka, Pa´ni z Rozˇmberka 1250–1520 (see ˇ note 1), pp. 185–195; summarily on the question of cemeteries Martin Cechura, Gestalt und Funktion mitteleuropa¨ischer Friedho¨fe im Licht materieller Quellen, in: Ecclesia als Kommunikationsraum o in Mitteleuropa (13. – 16. Jh.), ed. by Eva Dolezˇalova´/Robert Sˇimunek, Mu¨nchen 2011, pp. 211–236 (with bibliography). – The subject of translation of cemeteries beyond town walls and the related questions (beginning with representative functions of display cemetery churches and ending with changes in routes of funeral processions) has not yet been systematically studied (the author of this study intends to take up this question in his future research).

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their only focal points, but came to include churches and chapels in the „sacred landscape“, which surrounded the town (which is not a license but rather a move that closely corresponded with the contemporary view) and which had always included since the time immemorial wayside shrines. The pilgrimage site Ka´jov/Gojau symbolizes both the stability and changeability: the local church of Assumption of the Virgin Mary was the destination of pilgrimages from the medieval period to the 19th ˇ century; the pilgrimage route from the nearby Cesky ´ Krumlov, the residential town of the Rosenbergs, was unchanged for centuries, what did change was the social context of pilgrimages to Ka´jov – the strongly heterogeneous community of the pilgrims that visualized social hierarchies.19

19 Zdenka ˇ ˇ Prokopova´, Baroknı´ poutnı´ cesta z Ceske ´ ho Krumlova do Ka´jova [The baroque pilgrim

ˇ ˇ route from Cesky ´ Krumlov to Ka´jov], in: Sta´tnı´ okresnı´ archiv v Ceske ´ m Krumlovˇe 1993–1998, ˇ Cesky ´ Krumlov 2000, pp. 73–80; summarily in Eadem, Wunderbu¨cher in der Barockzeit und Wundererho¨rungen an Marienwallfahrtsorten in Su¨dbo¨hmen, in: Wallfahrten in der europa¨ischen Kultur. Tagungsband Pˇr´ıbram, 26. – 29. Mai 2004, ed. by Daniel Dolezˇal et al., Frankfurt a. M. 2006, pp. 381–393.

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ˇ Fig. 1: Panoramic view of Cesky ´ Krumlov with the attributes of medieval „urbanity“ 1 – Minorite monastery and convent of Clarissian sisters, 2 – part of town walls with the tower and the only surviving town gate, 3 – hospital church of St. Jobst, 4 – parish church of St. Vitus and the Virgin Mary, 5 – castle – the residence of lords of Rosenberg (5a – lower castle, 5b – upper castle) o Source: Photo by Robert Sˇimunek (2010)

Fig. 2: Whereas the chapel of Corpus Christi in the New Town of Prague was destroyed to its foundations, in Kutna´ Hora, it was abolished in the 18th century though it partially survived and was recently reconstructed. In the immediate vicinity of the monumental church of St. Barbara, it is a small and relatively simple, but an extraordinarily impressive space o Source: Photo by Robert Sˇimunek (2009)

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Fig. 3: Jindˇrichuv Hradec, the Minorite monastery, the plaque with the names of lords from Vˇcelnice and their relatives, buried in front of the family altar in the monastery church, c. 1360–1370 o

Source: Photo by Robert Sˇimunek (2007)

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Fig. 4: Display renaissance cemetery church St. George in Velvary, built between 1616 and 1619 by B. Santini was situated toward the access road from Prague – as evident from the visual link between the church and Prague gate o Source: Photo by Robert Sˇimunek (2011)

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ˇ Fig. 5: Cesky ´ Brod/Bo¨hmisch Brod, cemetery church of the Holy Trinity (founded in 1560), renaissance pulpit at the outer wall of the church, with reliefs of the Crucifixion and Resurrection (1585, W. Schulthes) o Source: Photo by Robert Sˇimunek (2008)

Fig. 6: Moravska´ Tˇrebova´/Ma¨hrisch Tru¨bau, the church of the Discovery of the Holy Cross at the Kˇr´ızˇovy´ vrch above the town, a gothic-renaissance structure (picture on the left), since its founding in the late medieval period as a cemetery church (in 1575 a new staircase was constructed, which can be accessed through the decorated renaissance gate – picture in the middle). In the first half of the 18th century, three baroque chapels leading to the Calvary – a monumental relief depicting the Crucifixion (picture in the right) – were added at Kˇr´ızˇovy´ vrch. o

Source: Photo by Robert Sˇimunek (2009)

THE HISTORIC BUILT ENVIRONMENT AND THE CONCEPTUALIZATION OF URBAN SPACE IN BRITAIN AND ITALY C. 1700–1830 by Rosemary Sweet

This brief paper addresses the conceptualization and cultural production of historic urban space rather than its purely physical manifestation. It arises out of my work on antiquarian research in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries as well as the traditions of urban topographical and descriptive writing, which I have recently explored in „Cities and the Grand Tour“.1 The common theme that holds these areas of interest together is the extent to which the different genres of topographical literature – tours, guidebooks, and antiquarian accounts – provide evidence of society’s changing awareness of the historic built environment and how they provide evidence of the development of a way of conceptualizing the urban environment as the product of historical processes, of which the physical fabric bears witness: in short, the evolution of a more historicist approach to the city. The historicist approach also entailed a sense of the impermanence and vulnerability of the historical fabric, which in turn gave rise to what we would now refer to as a preservationist sensibility. This paper briefly considers the process by which urban space or spaces were constructed as ‘historic’ and acquired value because of their age in the course of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. In understanding how these changes came about there are six different factors that can be identified, although isolating them is a somewhat artificial exercise as they are closely interrelated. However, for the purposes of clarity, they may be summarised as follows: First is the influence of antiquarianism and the study of architectural antiquities, which arose from the more widespread knowledge and appreciation of antiquities that developed during the eighteenth century. The ability to ‘read’, interpret and understand the architectural form of buildings as historical evidence became more widespread. Related to this, the interpretation of archaeological evidence similarly

1 Rosemary Sweet, Antiquaries. The discovery of the past in eighteenth-century Britain, London 2004;

Rosemary Sweet, Cities and the Grand Tour: the British in Italy, 1690–1820 (Cambridge Social and Cultural Histories), Cambridge 2012.

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became more sophisticated and the analysis of archaeological excavations generated new insights into the historic development of cities and the relationship of modern urban settlements to an original Roman street plan. Second is the contemporary vogue for the picturesque: picturesque taste could assume a multitude of different forms, but in the context of the urban environment its significance lies in the additional aesthetic value that buildings acquired simply because they were old rather than simply from their connection with historical personages or events, or as manifestations of religious or secular authority. Thirdly we must consider the introduction of new media through which topographical and antiquarian images were represented and reproduced on a hitherto unprecedented scale, notably through the use of lithography (invented 1796), steel plate engraving and steam press printing, from in the early nineteenth century. This brought down the costs of production and therefore the price of illustrated topographical literature, creating a far wider readership, and in turn a larger community of readers with antiquarian knowledge. The lithograph was also particularly suited to evoking the picturesque qualities noted above, allowing very delicate calibration of light and shade. The context of rapid urban change in British cities, particularly evident from the 1780s and acquiring new intensity from the 1820s constitutes the fourth factor: demographic and physical expansion led to the destruction of many older buildings and structures in order to make way for the technologies of modern urban improvement, such as wider streets, pavements, gas mains, sewers and later railways. The interest in a city’s past and its historic environment has to be seen, in part, as a response to a sense of loss and the disappearance of a form of collective memory embodied by the buildings. This often led to the articulation of nostalgia, a re-evaluation of the urban fabric that remained and the construction of a historical past to compensate for the loss of memory: a process that might be described as the creation of a lieu de me´moire. A fifth factor is the contemporary interest in the study of social life and customs that arose out of the eighteenth-century science of society. This involved the deliberate eschewal of history as a simple narrative succession of kings and queens or wars and battles and focused attention instead upon manners and customs and the practice of everyday life: how people lived, what they eat and drank, what were their pastimes and recreations. Towns assumed new importance as the location and context for a different approach to history, the evidence for which was traceable in the physical form of the town, as well as the documentary evidence. Finally, we must bear in mind the influence of a burgeoning domestic tourist industry, stimulated by the lower cost and greater speed of travel offered by railways from the 1830s. What sociologists term the ‘tourist gaze’, which emerged out of the increase in tourism and the tourists’ desire to consume, helped to increase the value attached to what we would now call the town’s heritage.2 Travellers had expectations of what they wanted to see (influenced by the factors outlined above) and towns responded in exercises of ‘place promotion’ such as the production of illustrated guides 2 John Urry, The tourist gaze: leisure and travel in contemporary societies, London 22002.

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and tours (made more widely available through the new printing technologies). The nexus of value familiar to modern students of heritage, whereby local sentiments of civic pride and identity combine with the more instrumentalist values of attracting tourist custom, were also beginning to influence decisions over preserving and memorialising historic spaces in the early nineteenth century. In what follows, I will illustrate these points with reference to examples from both Italy (specifically Rome) where the abundant availability of travellers’ commentaries on the cities they visited allows one to explore some of these changes in greater detail,3 and in Britain where the rapid social and economic changes of the early nineteenth century bring the developments outlined above into sharp relief. If any city embodied historic space it was Rome and any educated traveller to Rome from the middle ages onwards was struck by the evidence of its former grandeur and was constantly aware of its historic significance. Although Rome was replete with significance as a site of Christian pilgrimage, for eighteenth-century British travellers the monuments of Rome acquired meaning and interest principally from the events or personages of classical antiquity with which they were associated and with which their education had made them familiar. Rome’s antiquities were as much intellectual prompts for the recollection and discussion of classical learning, as objects of curiosity in their own right. The purpose of viewing them was to recall the historical event or piece of literature with which they were associated, rather than to understand them as buildings, objects or constituent parts of a city.4 In the topographical descriptions and guides to Rome for much of the eighteenth century, descriptions of the city were not organized in terms of its chronological development, or even by geographical region, but under headings according to the type of antiquity: temples, aqueducts, columns and baths. Buildings were not described in terms of their architectural style or the period in which they were built, but were rather reduced to a simple enumeration of pillars, and notes on the type of marble used. Rome’s ancient history was undifferentiated: lists of baths and triumphal arches from the later empire sat alongside the monuments of the early republic. This way of seeing and describing Rome influenced all accounts of the first half of the century, and in many cases beyond, whether they were personal observations, pocket guidebooks, or the lengthier volumes of travels and antiquarian treatises. Descriptions changed, however, in the later eighteenth century as travellers arrived in Italy with a different set of expectations, educated in the language of picturesque tourism which allowed them to articulate a different set of responses to what they saw. Ruins and antiquities could be admired for their intrinsic aesthetic properties, rather than simply their historical associations. Whereas previously monuments had been described as if in their pristine perfection and divorced from the accretions

3 This section summarises arguments presented in Rosemary Sweet, The changing view of Rome, in:

Journal for Eighteenth-Century Studies 33/2 (2010), pp. 145–164; Sweet, Cities and the grand tour (see note 1), pp. 107–129, where these themes are developed in greater depth and with more references. 4 See for example, Joseph Addison, Remarks on several parts of Italy, London 1705.

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of subsequent generations, the evidence of time’s dilapidations and the prosaic purposes to which former magnificence was now reduced were equally the object of notice and careful portrayal in both published and unpublished accounts. But there were also more meticulously antiquarian influences at work which helped to change the way in which the city was perceived. For example, closer attention was given to locating the historical moment at which buildings or monuments were erected and the chronology of construction was much more explicitly articulated in terms of the overall approach to viewing the city. Guidebooks, by this stage, included three different plans marking Rome in its successive stages of development.5 The greater importance that was now attached to identifying the historical growth of the city was also manifested in the higher levels of precision and consistency given to providing the date of construction of particular buildings (although this was obviously not a development that was confined to accounts of Rome alone). Descriptions of buildings generally became more specific; styles were identified and pinpointed to particular periods and dates of construction were more likely to be provided. Greater effort was made to distinguish between monuments dating from different eras in Rome’s history and to establish a sense of the development of the city over the course of time. The vocabulary of architectural description which tourists and writers of travel literature were using by the end of the century was more sophisticated and more analytical; it showed the gradual dissemination of a kind of architectural literacy which made the traveller better able to interpret the physical environment as a historical document. It is also evident that British visitors were showing a greater appreciation of the value of what would now be called archaeological evidence. Specifically, the insights derived from the archaeological excavations undertaken in Rome during the French occupation found their way into descriptions of the city and travellers began to appreciate that excavation could reveal new information about the city as opposed to simply confirming or illustrating what was already known from textual sources. Excavating the original ground level of the forum allowed accurate measurements to be taken of buildings in their entirety for the first time, thereby focussing attention on their dimensions, proportions and their spatial relationship to each other, rather than simply upon their literary and historical associations. It heralded a different approach to seeing Rome: one which was more interested in understanding how the ancient city had operated as an entity, as opposed to viewing its antiquities simply as a prompt to literary recollection or philosophical reflection.6 This shift in perspective, also owed much to the discoveries at Pompeii, not just in terms of material evidence, but because the excavations brought the visitor face to face with a very different and much more prosaic version of everyday Roman life.7 The implications of this new awareness of urban antiquity and the different approaches 5 See for example the many editions of the „Itinerario istruttivo“ published by the Vasi family. 6 On archaeological excavation in Rome see Ronald T. Ridley, The eagle and the spade: archaeology in

Rome during the Napoleonic era, Cambridge 1992.

7 Christopher Charles Parslow, Rediscovering antiquity: Karl Weber and the excavation of Hercula-

neum, Pompeii and Stabiae, Cambridge 1995.

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and questions that it provoked can be seen in one of the accounts of Rome published in the 1790s, Andrew Lumisden’s „Remarks on the Antiquities of Rome“. Lumisden began his discussion with a description of Rome’s original irregular layout, detailing its narrow streets and tall houses, so tall that they often fell down, hence necessitating legislation to restrict the height of houses and stipulating a minimum gap between them. This, he explained, was the origin of the insulae, the high rise tenements which had housed most of the population of Rome. His authorities included traditional sources such as Vitruvius but also the evidence of finds at Herculaneum and Pompeii and excavations in Rome. If only, he observed, the Italians had made a better job of excavating these sites ‘we should have seen the disposition of the streets, houses, temples & c., we should have seen the interior of the houses and a thousand curiosities we are now deprived of’.8 The combined effect of these changes was that the rigidly textual approach to ancient Rome, which focussed on the monuments associated with famous people, events and literary texts, started to break down. In its place was a sharper awareness of the importance of what remained buried beneath Rome as well as what was still visible. Excavation was revealing information concerning the function, identity and location of buildings within the city. This encouraged observers like Lumisden to try to interpret and understand historic Rome as a functioning urban centre inhabited by people, not just by the Roman senate or emperors and their armies; a city whose growth, glory and decline could be traced through its physical remains. Although these developments relate to Italy, their significance for attitudes to British towns and cities should not be underestimated. Given the ubiquity of books of travel and topographical description amongst the educated reading classes of eighteenth-century Britain, and given the mighty array of armchair travellers, descriptions of Rome were widely read outside Italy itself. The urban topographical literature of Britain and Italy were not discrete phenomena and the traditions of ‘grand tour’ writing, exercised a clear influence on many representations of the historic spaces of British towns and cities. No British town, of course, could lay claim to the kind of antiquity on display in Rome or anything like the volume of published and unpublished material describing the city and its antiquities. The conventional descriptions of the eighteenth century, however, did follow very much along similar lines to those of Rome: there would be a brief statement of the town’s historical origins (frequently laying claim to a Roman foundation); a summary listing of the charters of privileges granted to the town and its involvement in national events (such as visits by royalty, the holding of a meeting of parliament, or participation in the Civil War) and then a topographical description, which, as in Rome, was generally structured according to the type of building. The buildings themselves were generally described in fairly perfunctory terms.9 Towards the end of the eighteenth century we can also see some of the same changes in the 8 Andrew Lumisden, Remarks on the antiquities of Rome and its environs, London 1797, pp. 12–14. 9 For a longer discussion of the traditions of urban historical and topographical literature in the eigh-

teenth century see Rosemary Sweet, The writing of urban histories in eighteenth-century England, Oxford 1997.

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conceptualisation of towns as historic places and greater appreciation of the historical evidence inscribed in the architecture that was noted in Rome. But by the turn of the century many British towns were also being transformed in a much more dramatic way than was Rome at this time: through the progress of ‘urban improvement’ with its project of street widening and the pursuit of order and regularity, and later, through the construction of drains, sewers, gas mains, railways, and the essential infrastructure of urban modernity.10 As a consequence, we see a more acute sense of loss and of historical disjuncture: local authors and visitors began to express regret for the loss of elements of the familiar, medieval urban fabric and the traditions that it embodied.11 But, as a consequence of excavations in particular, we also find a new appreciation of the continuity of urban settlement which was given material form in the range of archaeological evidence being thrown up by deep excavation, of which previous generations had been completely unaware. Indeed it was both the danger to antiquities and the wealth of new material that was revealed for study that led to the foundation of a swathe of antiquarian and archaeological societies across the country at both local and national level. The 1830s and 40s saw a flurry of provincial societies being established, but also the foundation of the British Archaeological Association (BAA) in 1843 and, as a result of an internal split, the Royal Archaeological Institute (RAI) in 1844.12 Both these societies made explicit in their founding statements the importance of recording and preserving the antiquities brought to light through railway construction and the need to preserve from further destruction buildings of historic and antiquarian interest which were held to stand in the way of improvement. These developments can be illustrated clearly in the cathedral city of York, for example, where the arrival of the railway not only breached the city walls but exposed a wealth of archaeological evidence which enabled antiquaries to reconstruct the extent of the original Roman walls and the layout of the street plan, long since overlaid by a different medieval pattern of streets. The evidence revealed by railway construction was also complemented by finds thrown up during excavations for the gas mains and sewers that were taking place at roughly the same time.13 In the previous century the antiquary Francis Drake had collated evidence on Roman antiquities and had optimistically ascribed to the Romans any medieval antiquity, the provenance of which he was unsure, but neither he nor subsequent antiquaries had been able to realise what the original ground plan of the Roman city had been like or understand the city’s Roman existence as anything other than a military station.14 Charles Wellbeloved, how10 Peter Borsay, The English urban renaissance. Culture and society in the provincial town 1660–1760,

Oxford 1989; Rosemary Sweet, The English town: culture society and government 1680–1820, London 1999. 11 Sweet, Antiquaries (see note 1), p. 295. 12 Charles Dellheim, The face of the past. The preservation of the medieval inheritance in Victorian England, Cambridge 1982, p. 45; Phillippa Levine, The amateur and the professional. Antiquarians, historians and archaeologists in Victorian England 1838–1886, Cambridge 1985, pp. 182–183. 13 Peter Addyman, Archaeology in York, 1831–1981, in: York 1831–1981. 150 years of scientific endeavour and social change, ed. by Charles Feinstein, York 1981, pp. 53–87. 14 Francis Drake, Eboracum: or, the history and antiquities of the city of York from its original to the present times, London 1736. For a discussion of eighteenth-century histories of York, see Rosemary

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ever, the leading antiquary of the day in York, changed this mode of understanding through his analysis of the archaeological remains through which he built up a description of the original layout of the town, its visible traces and its relationship to the modern walls, gates and street plan, where possible.15 Wellbeloved’s insights, interestingly, were not immediately taken up in the tourist guides to York (which in the 1840s and 50s focused more upon the medieval city) but they were appropriated by other antiquaries and local historians, such as James Thompson of Leicester. Thompson quoted passages from Wellbeloved’s essay word for word in his own account of the town published in 1849.16 The physical evidence for Roman settlements was not in itself a novelty: the process of construction work had revealed Roman antiquities such as mosaics or pieces of hypocaust on a regular basis in many towns such as Leicester throughout the eighteenth century, but as fragments only. But now there was more interest in the spatial form of the Roman city and its relationship to the present and a clearer sense of a city as a layered entity with multiple layers of history between the Romans and the present that were visible in the strata of the soil. The Roman street plan, as these antiquaries recognised, did not necessarily map onto the modern street one and there was increasing realisation that underneath the structures of the modern town lay evidence for a different layout of Roman houses and public buildings with its own infrastructure of drains and sewers; local historians started to speculate as to what the built form of the city would have looked like and to consider its relationship to the suburbs that grew up outside the city walls, for which evidence was being turned up in the wake of further urban expansion. There was also an increasing realisation that Roman towns, for which evidence of everyday life was being accumulated, were centres not just of military force, but political, religious, economic and social life and activity, and as such they had a domestic history. Here too it is easy to see how interpretations of Romano-British by excavations in Italy, and at Pompeii and Herculaneum in particular influenced interpretations of Romano-British antiquities. Ever since the first discoveries were reported in the British press, Pompeii had exercised a powerful fascination over British antiquaries, travellers and the general reading public. The archaeological evidence of the 1840s allowed antiquaries and historians in Britain to imagine and conceptualise a domestic version of Romano-British cities too: extrapolating evidence for domestic living arrangements and Romano-British social life in the layout of the city, the style of the housing, the street plan, the suburban developments.17 New sets of questions about the manner of urban living were opened up and new value was attached to archaeological evidence for structures such as the arrangements for ‘personal easement’ or toilet Sweet, History and identity in eighteenth-century York, in: Eighteenth-century York: culture, space and society, ed. by Jane Rendall/Mark Hallett (Borthwick Text and Calendars 30), York 2003, pp. 13–23. 15 Charles Wellbeloved, Eburacum, or York under the Romans, York 1842. 16 James Thompson, The history of Leicester, from the time of the Romans to the end of the seventeenth century, Leicester 1849, pp. 3–4, 11–12. 17 See for example Charles Roach Smith writing on recent excavations in London in: Journal of the British Archaeological Association 1 (1846), pp. 247–248.

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facilities which Thomas Wright described at Winchester and Richborough,18 as well as a new appreciation of the Roman flair for drains and sewers: the elegant symmetry of uncovering Roman sewers whilst digging their own was not lost on antiquaries of the time. But to return to the theme of interest in the built form of the city: by the 1840s there was already an established tradition of topographical art representing picturesque street scenes focussing on historic buildings, such as John Britton’s „Picturesque Views of English Cities“ (1830), Jonathan Flower’s „Views of Ancient Buildings in Leicester“ (1825), Robert Chambers’ „Traditions of Edinburgh“ (1825) or Daniel Wilson’s „Memorials of Edinburgh in Olden Times“ (1848) all of which self-consciously evoked a spirit of ‘olden times’.19 While the eighteenth-century gothic revival had ensured that churches, at least, were described in much more detail with due attention given to the historical chronology of their physical fabric, volumes such as these also drew attention to less prestigious structures such as houses, inns, alleys, gaols; indeed to any kind of building that could display the requisite signs of age or which might be illustrative of the manners and customs of former times. Britton was a pioneer in this, driven by an evangelical zeal to preserve buildings of antiquity for their picturesque qualities and for their historic associations as part of a heritage which gave meaning to the present.20 He waged a continuous battle against the destruction of modern improvement which paid no heed to the historic buildings that were lost in the pursuit of modernity, not just churches and cathedrals – which had long since had their protectors on account of their religious meaning – but gateways and barbicans, city walls, historic inns and the vernacular architecture of domestic housing.21 He stands out amongst early nineteenth-century topographical writers for the sheer volume of his output, but it is important to remember that his works were frequently plagiarised by the authors of local guides, widely referred to, and helped to inform and shape his contemporaries’ awareness of the physical fabric of their cities and the value to be placed upon it. A pattern emerges of towns being specifically identified for the richness of their architectural heritage: Britton’s „Picturesque Antiquities of English Cities“ offers one instance, but so too does the choice of ‘historic’ towns, such as Winchester, Canterbury or Cirencester selected by the BAA and RAI for their annual meetings: selected because of what they offered in terms of interest to the visiting antiquaries and archaeologists. In Canterbury, the Congress of the British Archaeological Association meeting in 1844 was delighted by the signs of the hospitality of ‘olden times’ at

18 Thomas Wright, The Celt, the Roman and the Saxon, London 1852, p. 215. 19 Peter Mandler, In the olden time’: romantic history and English national identity, in: A union of mul-

tiple identities. The British Isles, c. 1750–1850, ed. by Laurence Brockliss/David Eastwood, Manchester 1997, pp. 79–82; Lucy Peltz, Aestheticizing the ancestral city: antiquarianism, topography and the representation of London in the long eighteenth century, in: Art History 22/4 (1999), pp. 472–494. 20 The best account of Britton is Joseph Mordaunt Crook, John Britton and the genesis of the Gothic revival, in: Concerning architecture, ed. by John N. Summerson, London 1968, pp. 98–119. 21 Space does not permit the listing of his publications, but see the analytical account of his literary works in J. Britton, Autobiography, 2 vols. London 1850.

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the Chequer Inn which had added resonance due to the fact that Chaucer was supposed to have stayed there, although as Thomas Wright noted, it was ‘Now subdivided into tenements, and sadly altered and defaced, but bearing many marks of its ancient character’.22 Towns such as Ipswich, which was something of a backwater by the nineteenth century, became newly attractive on account of its picturesque timber framed and pargetted houses, with grand fireplaces and rich carvings, redolent of the wealth of former merchants. John Wodderspoon, author of the local history first published 1842, lamented the disappearance of many fine buildings which had taken place within in the last twenty years.23 At the same time in Edinburgh, Daniel Wilson enumerated in loving detail the historic, picturesque qualities of the Old Town, where memories of former grandeur and a lost lifestyle of sociability were preserved in the ancient tenements. He described the exterior and the interior of the houses: the wooden galleries, the plaster work of the ceilings, the stone carvings, the inscriptions over the doors, the alleyways or wynds, and staircases; he evoked a bygone mode of mutuality and sociability where closely packed tenements and an absence of domestic facilities fostered greater mutual dependence and closer social relations.24 All these publications were informed by a sense of the transience of the ancient fabric in the face of modern improvement and descriptions were frequently padded out with the oral testimony of older inhabitants who remembered the buildings that had been lost: the city walls which had been pulled down, the gateways demolished, and almshouses which were made to give way to more grandiose structures. Increasingly guides, histories, and tours were illustrated with images of buildings that had disappeared in the wake of urban growth and improvement. Visitors to towns were being encouraged not only to see the town in the present, but also to imagine its historic past and the buildings that had once lined the streets and the people who had inhabited them. Where the timber framed houses of the medieval and early modern period still survived visitors were urged to conjure up a spirit of ‘olden time’ – where different values prevailed: of communal solidarity (guilds, civic pageantry), hospitality and feasting (inns) and charity (almshouse and charitable institutions). The distinctive style of older buildings was also pointed out as representative of manners and customs, or records of past events or past prosperity. In all of this there was a much clearer sense of towns and cities with a past to which the physical form – not the written evidence – bore witness. This is a long way, however, from arguing that there was a real groundswell of activity to preserve the ancient fabric of these towns and cities from the threat of improvement: for many the preservation of the memory of a building through the publication of an engraving or a lithograph was sufficient and the march of progress and improvement should not be interrupted. The inevitability of gradual disintegration and decay was accepted as part of the natural course of events. Yet expressions of regret were rife, particularly from outsiders such as Britton or the members of the BAA or the RAI, who could afford to

22 Thomas Wright, The archaeological album or museum of national antiquities, London 1845, p. 19. 23 John Wodderspoon, A new guide to Ispwich, Ipswich 1842. 24 Daniel Wilson, Memorials of Edinburgh in the olden time, 2 vols., Edinburgh 1848.

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rise above the cost and practicalities of maintaining aging structures or the need to encourage trade and manufacturing growth. These individuals took upon themselves a kind of ‘watching brief’ for the preservation of what they deemed to be national monuments but few explicitly challenged the need for change, and a fully fledged preservationist movement did not emerge until later in the century with the Society for the Protection of Ancient Buildings in 1877. What was beginning to happen, however, was that a stronger connection was being made between the ‘character’ of the town and its built form and its history. The city of York offers a clear example of this: during the first half of the nineteenth century it was increasingly recognised that the historical fabric was a distinct advantage to a city whose economy was otherwise failing to compete with more modern rivals such as Bradford or Halifax. Antiquity was not just a matter of civic pride and something to be called upon when challenging a threat to the city’s privileges, but could also bring commercial benefits, particularly given the upswell of domestic tourism brought about by the railways. This had not always been the case, as the history of the debates over the survival of the city walls illustrates. By the end of the eighteenth century the defensive role of the walls and gates clearly lay in the past and the walls were coming under threat, not only from the ravages of time, but from the process of urban growth and modernity: they prevented expansion, they created overcrowded conditions within the city, they caused bottlenecks in the flow of traffic into the city and prevented the larger vehicles from entry altogether, and in terms of the railway, of course, they represented an absolute obstruction. They were also expensive to maintain. Repeated motions were put forward within the Corporation and in the press for their demolition. However, these plans met with resistance. Initially, the drive to preserve the walls drew on the cathedral clergy, county gentlemen, interested antiquarian-minded outsiders and a small group of inhabitants. But by mid century, the tide had turned and the movement to preserve the walls now encompassed members of the middle classes and tradesmen and even the director of the York and North Midlands Railway Company: it was appreciated that the walls and gateways gave York a unique character, without which it would have little to distinguish itself, that York’s economic advantage lay in preserving its historic character. The local press became the vehicle through which the value of the city walls was debated; local fundraising events raised the profile further and encouraged local inhabitants to invest personally in the preservation of the city’s by then unique mural heritage; and local guide books celebrated the walls and walked their readers around the fortifications.25 York is, in some respects, unique, but is representative of the transition of an urban space to a lieu de me´moire in this period – a transition that could of course be

25 Geoffrey G. Curr, Who saved York walls? The roles of William Etty and the Corporation of York, in:

York Historian 5 (1984), pp. 25–38; note too that the railway company at Lewes encouraged excavations because they attracted visitors and therefore custom for the railways (Dellheim, Face of the past [see note 12] p. 36). Robert Davies, Walks through the city of York, London 1880 (paper first read to the Yorkshire Archaeological Society in 1854); Henry F. Lockwood/Adolphus H. Cates, The history and antiquities of the fortifications of the city of York, London 1834.

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paralleled across other towns and cities. It was informed by greater empirical knowledge about the past, derived from archaeology and antiquarianism, and also from the sense of disjuncture with the past consequent upon the advance of modernity, and it was a response to the demand of domestic consumers, both locally and nationally, for a vision of the past against which their own modernity was defined. Urban spaces in the first half of the nineteenth century, as this brief outline has suggested, were becoming invested with meaning as symbols of a collective heritage, which could be local or national or even international in the case of Rome, in a period of rapid urban change.

CITIES AND THEIR SPACES The Hinterlands of Medieval Dublin* by Howard B. Clarke

This paper relates to the current programme of the „International Commission for the History of Towns“. It is a case study, but with a strong theoretical dimension. It should be noted, for example, that the word ‘hinterlands’ in the title is in the plural. In the English language the concept related originally to the district inland from the coastline, literally ‘the back country’. German has „das Hinterland“ with a wider range of meanings, while French has „l’arrie`re-pays“ but also borrows „le hinterland“. Hinterland is a two-way concept, depending on the perspective of the inhabitants of rural or of urban space. I shall suggest that towns (and cities) had different types of hinterland and that the hinterlands of towns with very long histories changed over the course of time. Sub-themes in this section were identified as economic, social and cultural connections; relations with other settlements, including other towns; agglomerations; urban and suburban; and setting within larger legal or political spaces. I shall make brief remarks about these aspects in five time-zones within the Middle Ages (down to c. 1500). The main sources are the Irish Historic Towns Atlas fascicle published in 2002 and a large and extremely impressive regional study published in 2010.1 It must be stressed that, without the latter, this paper would not have been possible, that is to say, this is a new perspective on medieval Dublin. In this book the hinterland of Dublin is defined in two ways – a selection of baronies inside and fringing County Dublin and a 30 km orbital zone around the city as the primary geographical focus.2 This approximates closely to what most people nowadays would regard as the city’s hinterland. The medieval world was generally on a smaller scale than the present one, most people’s horizons being limited to their „patria“ in Latin, that is to say, their country, district or neighbourhood. A typical „patria“ would have been a „tuath“ in Ireland, a * For permission to reproduce figs. 1, 2, 5 and 7 I am grateful to the Royal Irish Academy and for figs. 3,

4, 6, 8 and 9 the Four Courts Press. I wish also to thank Jennifer Moore of the Irish Historic Towns Atlas project of the Royal Irish Academy for her invaluable technical assistance. 1 Howard B. Clarke, Dublin, part I, to 1610 (Irish Historic Towns Atlas 11), Dublin 2002; Margaret Murphy/Michael Potterton, The Dublin region in the Middle Ages: settlement, land-use and economy, Dublin 2010. 2 Ibid., p. 32, fig. 1.3.

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county in Carolingian Frankia, a ‘hundred’ in Anglo-Saxon England and a „Þing“ or assembly district in Viking Age Scandinavia. During the high Middle Ages personal horizons were extended by a combination of processes, such as the growth of papal power, the crusades, colonization of peripheral parts of Latin Christendom and longdistance trade. But for most people their lordship or a relatively restricted urban hinterland was probably their normal limit.

I. The hinterlands of Gaelic Dublin to 841

Dublin before the first Viking settlement in 841 may be classified as a proto-urban settlement with two distinctive nuclei or agglomerations (Fig. 1). The older agglom´ th Cliath (still the basic element in the official Irish name of the city, eration was A ´ Baile Atha Cliath). This was a ridge-top settlement overlooking and controlling a major ford, with a church and a wayside chapel. It was also a crossroads of long-distance overland routes across Ireland and accessible by sea, especially from the neighbouring island of Britain.3 The later agglomeration was Duiblinn, a monastery founded in the sixth or early seventh century. In sharp contrast to the continental pattern of courtyard complexes modelled on the Roman villa, Duiblinn was a large enclosure defined by earthworks. It took its name (the ancestor of the English and international name for the modern city) from a tidal pool in the River Poddle. There are references to rather shadowy abbots and bishops of this place.4 Politically Gaelic Dublin was the chief settlement of a small population group in northern Leinster known as the Uı´ Fergusa, which constituted its effective hinterland in this early period.5 Possibly those abbots and bishops were functioning as senior ecclesiastics in the chief church of the Uı´ Fergusa. The inhabitants’ political horizons may have been extended more widely, since they belonged to a confederation of septs that monopolized the provincial kingship on a rotational basis from c. 728 to 1042. Another set of horizons arose from the convergence of four long-distance highways (Irish slighte) on Dublin Bay. The reality of such highways was confirmed by underwater archaeologists at Clonmacnoise on the River Shannon in central Ireland, where timbers of a bridge or jetty were dated dendrochronologically to the year 804.6 ´ th Cliath was one of the three most imAccording to a source of c. 900 the ford at A 7 portant in Ireland. 3 Ruth Dudley Edwards, An atlas of Irish history, London/New York 21981, p. 190, fig. 57. 4 Howard B. Clarke, Conversion, church and cathedral: the diocese of Dublin to 1152, in: History of

the Catholic diocese of Dublin, ed. by James Kelly/Da´ire Keogh, Dublin 2000, pp. 26–28.

5 Alfred P. Smyth, Celtic Leinster: towards an historical geography of early Irish civilisation

A. D. 500–1600, Dublin 1982, p. 148, plate VIII. 6 Fionnbarr Moore, Ireland’s oldest bridge – at Clonmacnoise, in: Archaeology Ireland 10/4 (1996),

p. 26.

7 The Triads of Ireland, ed. and transl. by Kuno Meyer, Dublin 1906, pp. 6–7.

Source: Clarke, Dublin, part I (see note 1), p. 2

Fig. 1: Dublin c. 840

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The district south of the River Liffey was called Cualu, famous (according to a later source) for its ale.8 Thus Dublin’s earliest historical hinterland may have corresponded roughly to this district, supplying the basic necessities of life in the form of food (and drink), clothing and shelter. Wider economic and political horizons would have arisen from the overland highways, from the Liffey crossing, and from traffic in and out of Dublin Bay.

II. The hinterlands of Viking Dublin, 841–980

All of this means that Dublin was an advantaged place and Vikings, with their famed mobility, were very adept at locating places that seemed to them advantageous. Comparable places were the Suir estuary at Woodstown and then Waterford, and the Shannon crossing at Limerick. Vikings made mistakes, too, as at Annagassan in County Louth, even though this site probably made good sense when it was first occupied in 841. We do not know exactly what happened at Dublin in that same year, but at a guess Vikings took over the monastery of Duiblinn and its resources together with the local territory of the Uı´ Fergusa. One probable archaeological reflection consists of four poorly preserved Viking burials discovered recently between the site of the tidal pool and the ecclesiastical enclosure.9 A ship encampment (Irish longphort) was quickly built to protect an essential resource, needed for escape as much as for arrival. As a trading place it was capable to generating impressive profits, as the Cuerdale hoard deposited in northern England c. 905 indicates.10 A century and a half later, after a very complex process of evolution, the key outcome was a third settlement nucleus or agglomeration (Fig. 2). This was a defended settlement, not merely a ship encampment. Its Norse name was Dyflinn, as it appears in Icelandic sources.11 The Irish annals start to refer to it in the mid tenth century as a stronghold (Irish du´n) and archaeology has revealed the earliest defences of that time,

8 Francis J. Byrne, Irish kings and high-kings, London 1973, pp. 152–153. 9 Linzi Simpson, Pre-Viking and early Viking-Age Dublin: research questions, in: Medieval Dublin X:

proceedings of the Friends of Medieval Dublin symposium 2008, ed. by Sea´n Duffy, Dublin 2010, pp. 62–66 and figs. 1, 3. 10 James Graham-Campbell, The Cuerdale hoard: a Viking and Victorian treasure, in: Viking treasure from the north west: the Cuerdale hoard in its context, ed. by James Graham-Campbell, (National Museums and Galleries on Merseyside Occasional Papers, Liverpool Museum 5), Liverpool 1992, pp. 1–14. 11 Howard B. Clarke, ‘Go then south to Dublin; that is now the most praiseworthy voyage.’ What would Brynjo´lfr’s son have found there?, in: Viking and Norse in the North Atlantic: select papers from the proceedings of the Fourteenth Viking Congress, To´rshavn, 19–30 July 2001, ed. by Andras Mortensen/Sı´mun V. Arge (Annales Societatis Scientiarum Færoensis, Supplementum XLIV), To´rshavn 2005, pp. 441–445.

Fig. 2: Dublin c. 1000 Source: Clarke, Dublin, part I (see note 1), p. 3

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at Wood Quay and elsewhere.12 A succession of sieges by Irish armies starting in 936 shows it to have been a concentration of wealth worth fighting for.13 It was also a concentration of post-and-wattle houses, requiring both light and heavy timber, as also for defensive palisades and gateways.14 As a Scandinavian kingdom from 853 onwards Dyflinn would have required territorial boundaries. Natural features included the mountains to the south and the Tolka and Broad Meadow Water rivers to the north. An early indication is the fort built by ´ la´fr) the White at Clondalkin, destroyed in a the first Viking king Amlaı´b (Norse O fierce Irish attack in 867. The Long Stone was a seaward marker of territorial possession.15 If the outlandish name in the modern city Dolphins Barn really did originate as „carn Uı´ nDu´nchada“, ‘the Uı´ nDu´nchada’s cairn’, this may have been erected as a stone-built territorial marker by the Vikings’ immediate neighbours. Norse or part-Norse place-names are a well-established method of measuring Scandinavian settlement elsewhere in Europe. There are very few purely Norse placenames in the Dublin region and several of these are merely coastal markers, created by sailors (Fig. 3). One inland exception, Leixlip meaning literally ‘salmon’s leapingplace’, need have been no more than the name of an important natural feature for fisheaters upriver towards the west. Windgate, ‘the windy way’, was another natural feature towards the south-east.16 The probability is that the core territory of the early Vikings comprised the lands of the Uı´ Fergusa and parts of those of the Uı´ Du´nchada to the south-west and of the Uı´ Briu´in Chualann to the south-east. Northward expansion into Brega appears to have been vigorously contested, but fluctuating control over some of the territory north of the Liffey was a significant development.17 Unrecorded economic activity in the form of the regular supply of food, drink, clothing and building materials probably continued to take place mainly on the Leinster side to the south. In addition tributary payments may have been demanded and received from farther afield from time to time. Recorded economic (and political) activity of an occasional kind, in the form of raiding and warfare, extended over a much bigger area.18 Such activity became less frequent after 951, as the economy evolved ´ la´fr) into a more regular, urban one during the long continuous reign of Amlaı´b (O 19 Cu´ara´n (952–980). 12 Linzi Simpson, Fifty years a-digging: a synthesis of medieval archaeological investigations in Dublin

city and suburbs, in: Medieval Dublin XI: proceedings of the Friends of Medieval Dublin symposium 2009, ed. by Sea´n Duffy, Dublin 2011, pp. 39–42. 13 Howard B. Clarke, The bloodied eagle: the Vikings and the development of Dublin, 841–1014, in: The Irish Sword 18 (1990–92), pp. 108–113 and fig. 3. 14 Patrick F. Wallace, The Viking Age buildings of Dublin, 2 parts (National Museum of Ireland, Medieval Dublin Excavations 1962–81, series A, 1), Dublin 1992. 15 Clarke, Bloodied eagle (see note 13), pp. 97, 99–100. 16 Howard B. Clarke, Unsung heroes: the Irish and the Viking wars, in: The Viking Age: Ireland and the west: papers from the proceedings of the Fifteenth Viking Congress, Cork, 18–27 August 2005, ed. by ´ Corra´in, Dublin 2010, p. 62. John Sheehan/Donnchadh O 17 Clare Downham, The Vikings in Southern Uı´ Ne´ill to 1014, in: Peritia 17 (2003–04), pp. 233–255. 18 Clarke, Bloodied eagle (see note 13), pp. 94–97, 102–105 and figs. 1, 2. 19 Howard B. Clarke, Proto-towns and towns in Ireland and Britain in the ninth and tenth centuries, in: Ireland and Scandinavia in the early Viking Age, ed. by Howard B. Clarke/Ma´ire Nı´ Mhaonaigh/ ´ Floinn, Dublin 1998, pp. 360–364. Raghnall O

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Fig. 3: Evidence for Scandinavian settlement in the Dublin region Source: Murphy/Potterton, Dublin region (see note 1), p. 62

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III. The hinterlands of Hiberno-Norse Dublin, 980–1170

After a major military defeat by an Irish army at Tara in 980 there was a long period of Scandinavian consolidation and acculturation, accompanied by many shifts in power relations. From the inhabitants’ perspective, powers to be reckoned with included Ma´el Sechnaill mac Domnaill, Brian Bo´ruma, the Uı´ Chennselaig of south Leinster, the Ua Briain of Munster, the Ua Conchobair of Connacht and Diarmait Mac Murchada. While they provided the overkings of Dublin, underkings were either their sons or adventurers from the Isle of Man and from the Scottish islands. The effects of all of this on the size and nature of Dublin’s hinterland, howsoever defined, are highly uncertain. The early twelfth-century „Book of Rights“, though a poetic source, posits Dublin firmly and credibly still in the Leinster polity. Its tributary payments to the provincial kings are stated to have consisted of bacon, boars, wethers (young sheep), oxen, cows and cloaks, that is to say, the products of a stock-farming economy.20 The archaeology of this period shows ample evidence of craftworking based on animal products, such as leather-working, horn-working and bone-working. The diet of the inhabitants included fruits such as apples, plums, cherries, blackberries and strawberries, and nuts such as hazel. Houses continued to be constructed in the post-andwattle style, ash being coppiced for that purpose, and roofing and insulating materials included sods, straw, brushwood and bracken fern.21 All of these things could have been supplied on a regular basis in the space between the Broad Meadow Water to the north and the mountains to the south. That this was the essential hinterland is hinted at in various sources, starting with the first reference to „fine Gall“, ‘the territory of the foreigners’, in 1013 in the context of Drinan south-east of Swords.22 In the following year clerics from Armagh journeyed south to collect the body of the slain Brian Bo´ruma, which was handed over to them at Swords.23 The early endowment of Christ Church Cathedral, founded c. 1030, was concentrated towards the south-east, with outliers at Portrane and Lambay Island (Fig. 4b). This is mirrored by the distribution of Rathdown graveslabs, none of which has been found north of the Liffey (Fig. 4c).24 Two place-names that may be indicative of settlement by groups of foreigners, Baldoyle to the north-east and Loughlinstown to the south-east, are both near Dublin. This, then, was the territory referred to in Icelandic sagas as Dyflinnarskı´ri, ‘Dublinshire’.

20 Lebor na Cert: the Book of Rights, ed. by Myles Dillon, Dublin 1962, pp. 4–5, 10–11. 21 Patrick F. Wallace, The archaeology of Viking Dublin, in: The comparative history of urban origins

in non-Roman Europe: Ireland, Wales, Denmark, Germany, Poland and Russia from the ninth to the thirteenth century, 2 parts, ed. by Howard B. Clarke/Anngret Simms (British Archaeological Reports, International Series 255), Oxford 1985, part 1, pp. 103–145. 22 The Annals of Inisfallen, ed. by Sea´n Mac Airt (MS. Rawlinson B. 503), Dublin 1951, pp. 182–183. 23 The Annals of Ulster (to A. D. 1131), part 1, Text and translation, ed. by Sea´n Mac Airt/Gearo´id Mac Niocaill, Dublin 1983, pp. 448–449. 24 Clarke, Conversion, church and cathedral (see note 4), pp. 33–40.

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Fig. 4: Distribution of (a) lands held by St Mary’s Abbey pre-1170; (b) lands held by Christ Church Cathedral pre-1170; and (c) Rathdown graveslabs Source: Murphy/Potterton, Dublin region (see note 1), p. 69

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Other place-names appear to be based on individual Scandinavians rather than ´ la´fr’s baile, ‘township’) and Rathturtle (Thorkell’s groups of them. Thus Ballaly (O rath, ‘ringfort’) may simply represent out-migration from Dublin, involving the acquisition of farmsteads through marriage or otherwise. Outward migration north of the Broad Meadow Water may have been a development of the mid twelfth century, the time of successive partitions of Meath. A sharp reminder of the dangers and difficulties came as late as 1146, when the men of south Brega inflicted a major defeat on the Dubliners and killed their underking.25 Another context for this movement was the foundation and early endowment of St Mary’s Abbey, starting in 1139 as a reformed Benedictine house belonging to the Normandy-based Savigniac order, before joining the Cistercian order in 1147 (Fig. 4a). Further ecclesiastical expansion came in 1152, courtesy of Toirrdelbach Ua Conchobair, with the elevation of Dublin to archiepiscopal status. The level of supervision of parish priests by bishops and their agents, the maintenance of churches and the practice of preaching are unknown factors, but the spiritual hinterland must have been of some significance.26 The foundation of Christ Church Cathedral and the construction of a bridge replacing the ford seem to have been factors in the doubling of the size of the defended enclosure (Fig. 5). For the mid eleventh century we have our first estimate of the population of Dublin, on the basis of the archaeology of houses, at 4,500.27 The year 1095 is the traditional foundation date of St Michan’s Church, indicative of a transpontine suburb.28 Soon after that we have the estimated date of construction of a stone defensive wall round the town c. 1100–1120.29 Other indices of expanding cultural horizons are the dedications of some of the parish churches: St Olaf’s (Scandinavia), St Werburgh’s (England), St Andrew’s (Scotland) and St Martin’s (France). St Kevin’s represents links with monks of Glendalough, whose abbot became the archbishop of Dublin in 1162. Thus in the mid twelfth century the effective hinterland of Dublin may have been expanding both nationally and internationally, just prior to the arrival of an altogether new set of colonizers.30

25 Clarke, Unsung heroes (see note 16), p. 62. 26 Clarke, Conversion, church and cathedral (see note 4), pp. 48–50. 27 Siobha´n Geraghty, Viking Dublin: botanical evidence from Fishamble Street (National Museum of

Ireland, Medieval Dublin Excavations 1962–81, series C, 2), Dublin 1996, p. 59. 28 Howard B. Clarke, Christian cults and cult-centres in Hiberno-Norse Dublin and its hinterland, in:

The island of St Patrick: church and ruling dynasties in Fingal and Meath, 400–1148, ed. by Ailbhe MacShamhra´in, Dublin/Portland 2004, pp. 147–148. 29 Patrick F. Wallace, Dublin’s waterfront at Wood Quay, 900–1317, in: Waterfront archaeology in Britain and northern Europe, ed. by Gustav Milne/Brian Hobley (Council for British Archaeology, Research Report 41), London 1981, 113; Simpson, Fifty years a-digging (see note 12), pp. 58–61. 30 Clarke, Christian cults (see note 28), pp. 144–147.

Fig. 5: Dublin c. 1170 Source: Clarke, Dublin, part I (see note 1), p. 5

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IV. The hinterlands of Anglo-Norman Dublin, 1170–1300

During the winter of 1171–1172, at the time of King Henry II’s visit, Dublin’s political allegiance and identity changed radically. The town was retained in royal demesne and became an Anglo-French colonial outpost. For a period of time it was granted to the men of Bristol in south-western England, whose (unstated) liberties it was meant to enjoy. The Hiberno-Norse inhabitants (Ostmen), or at least some of them, were resettled in the transpontine suburb that was to become known in Latin as „villa Ostmannorum“, later Oxmantown.31 Administratively Dublin acquired a dual identity in the late twelfth century. First the territorial liberty of 15.5 km2 gave it control over the bay and the Liffey up to the tidal reach at Islandbridge. The south-westward projection at Dolphins Barn may mark the site of the Viking-Age boundary marker.32 The ‘hundred’ court had jurisdiction over all of this, apart from districts carved out of it in favour of ecclesiastical barons. Secondly the county, managed by sheriffs, is first documented in the 1190s and included what would become known much later as County Wicklow.33 The absorption of the Gaelic diocese of Glendalough in 1216 reinforced this administrative hinterland, at least nominally.34 Economically Dublin’s hinterland was progressively manorialized, especially in the lowlands to the north (Fig. 6). Tillage for grains was a dominant feature, though normally combined with two or three other types of land use. Evidence for this in the form of manorial extents (surveys of material and human resources with monetary valuations) starts to come forward at this time.35 An increasing supply of grain was essential for an increasing population, reaching an estimated 11,000.36 By 1300 the city had expanded physically into the River Liffey and had acquired impressive suburbs in every direction (Fig. 7). The proliferation of watermills is a sign of the mechanization of flour production for the bigger population dependent on a necessarily bigger economic hinterland. Another cultural development after c. 1200 was the shift towards a new type of house, of half-timbered construction. Wood Quay was so called not because it was made of wood but because it was the location for the unloading of heavy timbers for sill-beams, roof-trusses and other building materials.37 Dublin was by far the dominant urban component in its equivalent of an Italian „contado“. In

31 Howard B. Clarke, Angliores ipsis Anglis: the place of medieval Dubliners in English history, in:

Surveying Ireland’s past: multidisciplinary essays in honour of Anngret Simms, ed. by Howard B. Clarke/Jacinta Prunty/Mark Hennessy, Dublin 2004, pp. 47–49. 32 Murphy/Potterton, Dublin region (see note 1), p. 74, fig. 4.1. 33 Annette J. Otway-Ruthven, A history of medieval Ireland, London 21980, p. 173. 34 Howard B. Clarke, Cathedral, close and community, in: St Patrick’s Cathedral, Dublin: a history, ed. by John Crawford/Raymond Gillespie, Dublin/Portland 2009, pp. 64–65. 35 Murphy/Potterton, Dublin region (see note 1), pp. 287–348. 36 Josiah C. Russell, Medieval regions and their cities, Newton Abbot 1972, pp. 136–138. 37 Howard B. Clarke, The social structure and topography of Dublin from the Viking period to the end of the thirteenth century, in: Ferdinand Opll/Christoph Sonnlechner (Hg.), Europa¨ische Sta¨dte im Mittelalter (Forschungen und Beitra¨ge zur Wiener Stadtgeschichte 52), Innsbruck 2010, pp. 190–195.

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Fig. 6: Distribution of principal medieval manor centres in the Dublin region Source: Murphy/Potterton, Dublin region (see note 1), p. 170

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Source: Clarke, Dublin, part I (see note 1), p. 6

Fig. 7: Dublin c. 1300

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Fig. 8: Distribution of towns and boroughs in the Dublin region Source: Murphy/Potterton, Dublin region (see note 1), p. 193

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effect it prevented all or at least most potential rivals from gaining a fully-fledged urban identity (Fig. 8). An important archaeological index is the distribution of Dublintype pottery wares (Fig. 9). Another type of measure of the hinterland is the distribution of prebends of the canons of St Patrick’s Cathedral, here in 1227.38 There is still a Leinster bias, yet the

Fig. 9: Distribution of (a) Leinster cooking ware and (b) Dublin-type wares in the Dublin region Source: Murphy/Potterton, Dublin region (see note 1), p. 453

‘golden prebend’ was Swords north of Dublin. A variation of this theme is to examine architectural influences on the surviving parish churches.39 A lowland/highland duality is reflected in the designation of the two minor ‘dignities’ (senior offices) of the cathedral – those of the archdeacons of Dublin and of Glendalough respectively. The lowland one was rich and secure; the highland one less rich and increasingly insecure.40 The prevailing insecurity is documented as early as 1269 on the eastern side of the Wicklow Mountains, partly because of insensitivity of Archbishop Fulk de Sandford towards the Irish living on episcopal property.41 In c. 1280 the English and Irish 38 Clarke, Cathedral, close and community (see note 34), pp. 68–70 and fig. 3.4. 39 Michael O’Neill, St Patrick’s Cathedral, Dublin, and its prebendal churches: Gothic architectural re-

lationships, in: Medieval Dublin V: proceedings of the Friends of Medieval Dublin symposium 2003, ed. by Sea´n Duffy, Dublin 2004, pp. 243–276. 40 Clarke, Cathedral, close and community (see note 34), pp. 63–65. 41 Emmett O’Byrne, War, politics and the Irish of Leinster, 1156–1606, Dublin 2003, pp. 58–69.

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tenants of Saggart (a royal manor) complained that ‘we are nearer to the mountains, always bearing the brunt of acts of wickness’, that is to say, opportunistic raiding.42

V. The hinterlands of Anglo-Irish Dublin, 1300–1500

Insecurity becomes the „Leitmotiv“ of the last part of the Middle Ages, as the English colony declined.43 The continued vulnerability of the north-western angle of the mountains is reflected in the great concentration of castles of all types.44 Towards the east Sir Hugh Lawless surrendered the manor of Bray to the crown in 1320, stating that his profit during five years’ tenancy had amounted merely to two salmon.45 Three years before then the city had suffered a devastating, though self-inflicted, blow with the demolition and burning of the suburbs to deter a Scottish army from undertaking a siege.46 The biggest and longest-lasting catastrophe, of course, was the plague pandemic known popularly as the Black Death that commenced in Dublin in the summer of 1348.47 We have no figures for population loss, but European experience in general suggests towards one-half. Suburbs in particular were probably depleted and replacement was slow. Most of the recorded entrants to full citizenship came from unenfranchised social levels and from outside the city, and even the island of Ireland, altogether.48 Unofficially significant numbers of Gaelic Irish may also have drifted into Dublin. The main evidence for this is the official attempts at expulsion in the mid 1450s; the specific citation of people from Ulster may reflect a particularly severe decline there.49 Another unwelcome group were the Harolds of the mountainous fringes, with whom the citizens were forbidden to speak.50 Starting in the 1350s numerous late medieval charters advert to a disturbed frontier zone to the south. That of 1358, for example, refers to the city ‘which stands on the frontier near the Irish enemies [O’Byrnes and O’Tooles], from whose attacks it

42 Documents on the affairs of Ireland before the king’s council, ed. by George O. Sayles, Dublin 1979,

p. 32.

43 Clarke, Angliores ipsis Anglis (see note 31), pp. 53–63. 44 Tadhg O’Keeffe, Medieval frontiers and fortifications: the Pale and its evolution, in: Dublin city and

county: from prehistory to present: studies in honour of J. H. Andrews, ed. by Frederick H. A. Aalen/ Kevin Whelan, Dublin 1992, p. 68. 45 Historic and municipal documents of Ireland, A. D. 1172–1320, from the archives of the city of Dublin, etc., ed. by John T. Gilbert (Rolls Series 53), London 1870, pp. 456–462. 46 Calendar of ancient records of Dublin, in the possession of the municipal corporation of that city, vol. 1, ed. by John T. Gilbert, Dublin 1889, pp. 149–151. 47 Maria Kelly, The great dying: the Black Death in Dublin, Stroud 2003. 48 Gearo´id Mac Niocaill, Socio-economic problems of the late medieval Irish town, in: The town in Ireland, ed. by David Harkness/Mary O’Dowd (Historical Studies 13), Belfast 1981, pp. 7–21. 49 Gilbert, Calendar (see note 46), pp. 280–281, 286–287. 50 Ibid., p. 309.

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and the adjacent borders have been hitherto bravely defended’.51 The great charter of 1363 was granted ‘in recognition of the good and praiseworthy services which the citizens and their predecessors have, at great peril and cost, many times rendered to his [King Edward III’s] progenitors ... against attacks of Irish enemies, who daily endeavour to invade his lands, and those of his subjects in Ireland, and to prey upon and destroy his people there’.52 Our understanding of the role of Carrickmines Castle, situated at the foot of the Dublin Mountains, is that it served as a cavalry outpost for military expeditions into the mountains.53 Its construction, maintenance and equipping were presumably organized in the city itself, at least in part. Thus long before the creation of the defensive Pale under that name, Dublin was seen, and saw itself, as a bastion of Englishness on the front line of the march or borderland. In 1401 or 1402 its citizen army inflicted a crushing defeat on the O’Byrnes at Little Bray. Their reward from a grateful monarch, Henry IV, was the gift of a civic sword, which still survives.54 Even so, insecurity persisted, as in 1448 when the city council authorized the master and wardens of the religious guild of St George ‘to choose one good cow out of every prey of cows taken by the mayor, bailiffs and commons of Dublin’.55 In other words, Dubliners were indulging in the age-old practice of cattle rustling, just like their distant Viking ancestors. Despite repeated efforts to solve the problem of the vulnerable southern hinterland, it could be stated in 1464 that ‘the frontiers on the march adjacent to the city are to a great extent devastated and destroyed by the English rebels and Irish enemies’.56 The creation of the Pale as a defensive zone in the last years of the fifteenth century was merely another outcome of a long-term process. In effect the city’s highland hinterland, along with the archdeaconry of Glendalough, had been all but lost. Yet topographically, despite severe depopulation, the city itself remained much as it had been two centuries earlier.57 And in its most immediate hinterland life went on as normal, as we see in the inventory of the goods of John Hammond, a shoemaker, who had in 1388 a barn containing grain from 20 acres of wheat, 8 acres of barley, 33 acres of oats and some hay.58

51 Ibid., pp. 19–20. 52 Ibid., pp. 21–24. 53 Emmett O’Byrne, A much disputed land: Carrickmines and the Dublin marches, in: Medieval Dublin

IV: proceedings of the Friends of Medieval Dublin symposium 2002, ed. by Sea´n Duffy, Dublin 2003, pp. 229–252. 54 Howard B. Clarke, From Dyflinnarskı´ri to the Pale: defining and defending a medieval city-state, 1000–1500, in: The march in the islands of the medieval west, ed. by Jenifer Nı´ Ghra´daigh/Emmett O’Byrne, Leiden/Boston 2012, pp. 47–48 and references. 55 Gilbert, Calendar (see note 46), p. 272. 56 Ibid., p. 32. 57 Clarke, Dublin, part I (see note 1), plate 2. 58 Gilbert, Calendar (see note 46), p. 128.

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Conclusions

From all of this it is possible to draw five conclusions: – First, the concept of the hinterland of a city or large town is a valid one. – Secondly, towns that went through a proto-town phase had hinterlands at that stage. – Thirdly, hinterlands were (and still are) multi-dimensional, whether administrative, economic, political or socio-cultural. – Fourthly, hinterlands could (though did not necessarily) vary in their extent and nature over the course of historical time, as did Dublin’s in their dramatic colonial and post-colonial phases. – And fifthly, this is fundamentally a highly complex topic, whose methodological parameters still need to be worked out. For example, an investigation might start with the selection of a politically cohesive time-frame. Then the relevant geographical dimension or dimensions should be determined. Finally evidence should be assembled from all of the available academic disciplines, as in the case of the best sort of historic towns atlas. As a subject for research, hinterlands still have a long way to go.

THE TERRITORIAL POLITICS OF THE SPANISH TOWNS FROM THE MIDDLE AGES TO THE BEGINNING OF THE NINETEENTH CENTURY by Ma´ximo Diago Hernando

Among historians of the nineteenth and the first half of the twentieth century the point of view prevailed that towns in medieval Europe constituted „bourgeois islands in a feudal sea“, because of their privileged juridical status and their singular social structure, characterized by the fundamental fact that all the citizens were free. And that is one of the reasons why they were not particularly interested in the study of the exercise of power by the urban corporations over the rural territories that surrounded the towns. It was assumed that they could exercise no power, because the countryside was dominated by the feudal nobility.1 During the second half of the twentieth century historians have progressively given up the idea that „medieval town“ and „feudalism“ were two opposed or even incompatible concepts. And in consequence the number of studies devoted to the analysis of the relationships that towns established with their hinterland has considerably increased.2 Whereas historians following the theories of Pirenne were almost exclusively interested in stressing the role played by towns in the development of long distance trade, many other scholars in the course of the twentieth century have proved that the proliferation of small towns that assumed the function of market for their rural hinterlands was much more important for the economic growth of Europe between the eleventh and the thirteenth centuries than the development of long distance trade.3 This increased interest in the study of the role played by small towns in the medieval feudal society has driven to the verification of the fact that towns could exercise an intense influence over their rural hinter-

1 Henri Pirenne, La ville du Moyen A ˆ ge. Essai d’histoire e´conomique et sociale, Bruxelles 1927; Hein-

rich Planitz, Die deutsche Stadt im Mittelalter. Von der Ro¨merzeit bis zu den Zunftka¨mpfen, Graz/ Ko¨ln 1954; Edith Ennen, Die europa¨ische Stadt des Mittelalters, Go¨ttingen 1972. 2 Town and Country in Europe, 1300–1800, ed. by Stephan R. Epstein, Cambridge 2001. 3 Rodney Hilton, English and French towns in feudal society. A comparative study, Cambridge 1992; Guy Bois, La mutation de l’an mil. Lournand, village maˆconnais de l’Antiquite´ au fe´odalisme, Paris 1981, p. 125f.

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land when no political or jurisdictional link existed between them and the villages of their surroundings.4 In many areas of medieval Western Europe towns were not in the position to increase the social and economic influence they exercised over their hinterlands by placing them under their jurisdiction and political authority. From this point of view, we may perceive, nevertheless, strong contrasts between countries. In the kingdoms of France and England, for instance, towns were not endowed with large territories.5 But, by contrast, many towns in northern and central Italy, after a long process known as „conquista del contado“ (conquest of the district), became lords of large territories, that arrived to constitute autonomous political entities called „citystates“, that in most cases turned into principalities in the course of the Late Middle Ages or the early Modern Time, although some of them, such as Venice, survived as republics until the Napoleonic era.6 In the Spanish kingdoms, many towns of their northern regions remained also deprived of the right to exercise jurisdiction over large territories beyond their walls, as their English or French counterparts. But, on the other side, a much bigger number of towns enjoyed such a right, especially in the Crown of Castile. Therefore certain parallels may be perceived, from this point of view, between the situation in the Spanish kingdoms and in the territories of Italy that belonged to the Empire. In both cases many towns became lords of large territories, where a big number of villages or even smaller towns existed. But, at the same time, important differences between both areas can also be detected. In the case of Italy towns became lords of large and compact territories after a long process of acquisitions and military conquests of castles, localities and lands that had belonged to the feudal nobility, the monasteries and other ecclesiastical institutions. And this process was set in motion on the initiative of the towns themselves, which acquired new territories in order to pursue their own political goals. On the contrary, in the Spanish kingdoms, especially in Castile, most territories under urban lordship came into existence as a consequence of decisions taken by the crown. And this happened in most cases between the end of the eleventh century and the middle of the thirteenth century, at a much earlier date than in Italy. Only a very small number of Spanish towns began to build their territories at a later date, from the second half of the thirteenth century onwards.

4 Rudolf Kiessling, Die Stadt und ihr Land. Umlandpolitik, Bu¨rgerbesitz und Wirtschaftsgefu¨ge in

Ostschwaben vom 14. bis ins 16. Jahrhundert, Ko¨ln/Wien 1989; Denis Menjot, La ville et ses territoires dans l’Occident me´die´val: Un syste`me spatial. E´tat de la question, in: La ciudad medieval y su influencia territorial, ed. by Beatriz Arı´zaga Bolumburu/Jesu´s A. Solo´rzano Telechea, Logron˜o 2007, pp. 451–492. 5 Hilton, English and French (see note 3). 6 Ivan Pini, Citta`, comuni e corporazioni nel Medioevo italiano, Bologna 1989, p. 77f.; Paolo Cammarosano, Citta` e campagna: rapporti politici ed economici, in: Societa` e istituzioni dell’Italia comunale: l’esempio di Perugia (Secoli XII–XIV), Perugia 1988, pp. 303–349.

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I. Territories under urban jurisdiction in the kingdoms of Castile-Leo´n and Aragon between the eleventh and the thirteenth centuries

Nowhere else in Europe towns could exercise jurisdiction over such large territories in the period between the eleventh and the thirteenth century as in the kingdoms of Leo´n-Castile and Aragon. The process of conquest and colonization of the areas of the Iberian Peninsula that had been under Muslim rule advanced in this period at a quick pace. And the crown, that was at the head of the enterprise, decided that these vast territories, that fell under its power from the second half of the eleventh century onwards, should be colonized according to a previously well defined plan. It decided that the area that had to be incorporated to the kingdom should be divided in large jurisdictional units, and at the head of each one there should be a walled town, that would exercise the political and military control of the territory on behalf of the crown, that fixed the boundaries of the district assigned to each town. All these territories ended up by being covered with a dense network of small villages that were subject to the jurisdiction of the town placed by the king at the head of each one. Most of these villages were founded by new settlers coming from the north, especially in the almost empty region between the river Duero and the Mus´ vila became lords lim kingdom of Toledo, where towns such as Soria, Segovia and A of hundreds of tiny villages that came into existence in the course of the process of colonization of this region, then called „Extremadura“, that began at the end of the eleventh century. The districts assigned by the crown to each town were of very different sizes. ´ vila, received in the first moCertain towns of high political rank, like Segovia or A ment extremely large territories that had no well defined boundaries on their southern flank, because those lands remained under Muslim rule. So, the district under the ´ vila covered during the first half of the twelfth century a jurisdiction of the city of A surface of almost 15,000 km2, at least theoretically because not all of it was effectually controlled by the town council. But after two amputations in 1186 and 1204, decided by the king in order to endow two other towns, Plasencia and Be´jar, with their own territories, its surface became reduced to 8,935 km2. Other towns received territories of a more moderate size, like Soria, near the border with the kingdoms of Aragon and Navarre, that was endowed with a territory that covered a surface of approximately 3,000 km2, where in 1270 around 240 small villages had come into existence, although many of them had so few inhabitants that they had already disappeared at the end of the Middle Ages. Most of the towns of second rank exercised jurisdiction over territories of much more reduced size, where the number of villages did not arrive in some cases to fifty.7 The towns of Andalucı´a, that were conquered from the Muslims in the course of the first half of the thirteenth century, were also endowed with very large territories, especially those of the highest rank, like Sevilla and Co´rdoba, that could even 7 Gonzalo Martı´nez Diez, Las Comunidades de villa y Tierra de la Extremadura castellana, Madrid

1983.

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extend their power over other towns, like Alcala´ de Guadaira, in the case of Seville,8 or Fuenteovejuna, in the case of Co´rdoba.9 The towns of Old and New Castile that received their territories during the process of colonization of the eleventh and twelfth centuries, on the contrary, only exercised jurisdiction over villages. Despite these contrasts in size, most of the territories placed under urban jurisdiction in Leo´n and Castile between the last decades of the eleventh century and the middle of the thirteenth century were considerably large in comparison with their counterparts in other European countries in later periods. So, for instance, Nu¨rnberg, one of the very few German towns that was successful in the enterprise of submitting a large rural district under its lordship at the end of the Middle Ages, had a territory of just 1,500 km2. And much smaller were the territories of other towns like Ulm, with 830 km2, Rothenburg, with 400 km2 or Hall, with just 30 km2.10 The strategic importance of the territories assigned by the Castilian crown to the towns south of the river Duero, was also considerably increased by the fact that in most of them a thick network of castles and smaller fortifications was established. And, with the exception of the big castles that reinforced the defence of the towns, which remained under royal control, all the rest were placed under the authority of the town councils.11 These territories also comprised wide surfaces of waste land that it took a long time to convert into arable. So, there was abundance of forests of pine, oak and beech, and also of grazing land, especially for sheep. These lands belonged theoretically to the crown, but their usufruct was granted to all the inhabitants of each urban territory, citizens as well as peasants.12 This fact favoured the development in most of these territories of economic activities like transhumant sheep rearing, that from the fifteenth century until the beginning of the nineteenth century was oriented towards the production of fine wool, of high quality and price, that was sold in other European countries (Italy, Low Countries, France and England), and remained throughout this period the main product exported by the Crown of Castile. As a consequence, in many ´ vila or Cuenca, stockbreeders that owned thousands of towns, like Soria, Segovia, A sheep became an influent group within the urban oligarchy.13

8 Alfonso Franco Silva, El concejo de Alcala´ de Guadaira a fines de la Edad Media, Sevilla 1974. 9 Emilio Cabrera, Antonio Moros, Fuenteovejuna. La violencia antisen˜orial en el siglo XV, Barcelona

1991.

10 Gerhard Wunder, Reichssta¨dte als Landesherrn, in: Zentralita¨t als Problem der mittelalterlichen

Stadtgeschichtsforschung, ed. by Erich Meynen, Ko¨ln/Wien 1979, pp. 79–91, here p. 79.

11 Francisco Garcı´a Fitz, Notas sobre la tenencia de fortalezas: Los castillos del concejo de Sevilla en la

Baja Edad Media, in: Historia. Instituciones. Documentos 17 (1990), pp. 55–81.

12 Ma´ximo Diago Hernando, Los aprovechamientos de las tierras de titularidad pu´blica en las Comu-

nidades de villa y Tierra de la Extremadura castellano-leonesa entre los siglos XIII y XVII, in: Las Comunidades de Villa y Tierra. Dina´micas histo´ricas y problema´ticas actuales, ed. by Vı´ctor Mun˜oz Go´mez, Murcia 2012, pp. 85–114. 13 For the most recent contributions to the history of transhumant sheep rearing in Castile, Emilio Pe´rez Romero, L’historiographie sur la transhumance en Espagne, 1983–2003, in: Transhumance et estivage en Occident des origines aux enjeux actuels, ed. by Pierre-Yves Laffont, Toulouse 2006, p. 97–108; Ma´ximo Diago Hernando, Mesta y trashumancia en Castilla. Siglos XIII a XIX, Madrid 2002. One interesting example of town specialized in the production of fine wool, exported to other European

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Until the middle of the thirteenth century, towns were allowed by the crown to govern their territories with the highest degree of autonomy, following the general norms that had been set in the local law-code (fuero). So, town councils could even take decisions about the foundation of new villages, in order to boost the process of colonization of certain backward or strategic sectors of their territories. That is what the council of Segovia did in 1297 when it decided the foundation of the new village of El Espinar, who became later one of the most prosperous of its territory. Most decisions about the use of the common lands were also taken by the town council, which could this way encourage the development of certain economic activities at the cost of others. And there were many activities that depended on these lands for their development, such as stockbreeding, hunting, fishing, timber trade and even agriculture. Conflicts between groups dedicated to different economic activities could easily arise, and the town council was the institutional instance that had to solve them. But since the middle of the thirteenth century the crown began to abandon its former policy of non-intervention in the internal affairs of the towns and their territories. So, in the course of time, it also assumed an increasingly active role in the regulation of the exploitation of common lands in the territories under urban jurisdiction. The norms set in the fueros, that in most cases were extremely vague, began to be complemented by new ordinances, which had to be confirmed by the Royal Council. And, when conflicts could not be solved at the local level, appeals to the royal courts became increasingly frequent, especially from the reign of the Catholic Monarchs onwards.

Relationship between the towns and their subject villages Spanish historians regularly employ the term „Comunidad de villa y Tierra“ (Community of town and territorial district) when they refer to these jurisdictional units established south of the river Duero, where a town (villa) exercised jurisdiction over a big number of subject villages. The use of this term is justified by the fact that, in these jurisdictional units, town and villages constituted a community, because all their inhabitants shared the same rights and duties that originally were fixed in the fuero.14 Certainly it was the town council that governed and assumed the administration of the whole territory, and this institution was controlled by the citizens. But the peasants that lived in the villages were not completely deprived of political rights. In many cases a parallel institution to the town council, in which the population of the whole rural district was politically organized, came into existence. And through this institucountries, is studied in Ma´ximo Diago Hernando, L’acce`s au pouvoir local dans une re´gion castillance tourne´e vers l’exportation. Soria aux XVe et XVIe sie`cles, in: Circulations maritimes. L’Espagne et son Empire (XVIe-XVIIIe sie`cle), ed. by Michel Bertrand/Jean-Philippe Priotti, Rennes 2011, pp. 137–158. 14 Alberto Garcı´a Ulecia, Los factores de diferenciacio´n entre las personas en los fueros de la Extremadura castellano-leonesa, Sevilla 1975; Ma´ximo Diago Hernando, Las ciudades en Castilla y en el imperio alema´n (Ana´lisis comparativo de su perfil jurı´dico), in: Anuario de Historia del Derecho Espan˜ol 65 (1995), pp. 1037–1070.

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tion peasants could exercise the right to send one or several representatives to defend their interests in the meetings of the town council.15 On the other side, the inhabitants of the towns and those of the subject villages shared the right to the usufruct of the abundant common lands. Certainly the decisions about the way these lands should be exploited were taken by the town council, where the citizens could more easily impose their points of view, since they constituted a majority. As a consequence many conflicts arouse between the peasants and the urban authorities. For instance, in periods of strong demographic growth, when pressure for the extension of arable land increased, the inhabitants of the villages opposed the policy of the town councils that did not allow them to cultivate cereal in the common lands because they insisted that these had to be preserved for grazing. But these conflicts about the use of the common lands did not just oppose rural population against urban population, since not all the inhabitants of the villages shared the same economic interests, neither all the citizens did. And, besides, when the peasants of the villages did not approve certain measures introduced by the town councils, they appealed to the Royal Council or to the royal courts, which had the final decision that in many cases was not unfavourable to them. Conflicts also arouse when the town councils decided to exploit part of the common lands by leasing them, and they tried to keep the rents without sharing them with the population of the villages. In these cases the institutions that defended the interests of the peasants also appealed to the crown. And in some occasions they obtained favourable sentences from the royal courts, that obliged certain town councils to share with the mentioned institutions the profits they obtained from leasing common lands, in proportion to the contribution they made to finance the common expenses of the community of town and villages. Towns certainly tried to reallocate the fiscal burden on the population of the villages, and many conflicts arouse for this reason. But the town councils did not exact feudal rights from the population of the villages, because such rights, like the martiniega, belonged to the crown that disposed of them the way it wanted. On the other hand the population of each village could elect their own officers, who assumed the exercise of the minor prerogatives that were not in the hands of the town council. And these officers were not obliged to pay homage to the urban authorities, in a ceremony of feudal character that, on the contrary, we find in urban lordships of different origin, like that of Burgos. So, although many Spanish historians in the last decades have frequently employed the term „sen˜orı´o colectivo“ (collective lordship) to allude to the dominion exercised by the Castilian towns of the Middle Ages over their territories,16 it is not completely accurate when we refer to the „comunidades de villa y Tierra“, because 15 Ma´ximo Diago Hernando, Una institucio´n de representacio´n polı´tica del campesinado en la

Castilla bajomedieval. Las Universidades de Tierra, in: Historia. Instituciones. Documentos 23 (1996), pp. 283–306. 16 Juan Antonio Bonachı´a Hernando, El concejo como sen˜orı´o (Castilla, siglos XIII–XV), in: Concejos y ciudades en la Edad Media hispa´nica. II Congreso de Estudios Medievales, Leo´n 1990, pp. 431–463.

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the relationship established in this case between town and subject villages was not properly one of feudal vassalage. On the contrary, we can even find documental testimonies where the officers that gave voice to the peasants of the villages defended the point of view that town and villages constituted one „republic“, in which rights and duties were shared by all the population. And in some occasions the royal courts subscribed this point of view when conflicts arouse between town council and rural population about the usufruct of common lands.

The case of the kingdom of Aragon In the kingdom of Aragon only four towns were initially endowed with large territories after the big conquests of Muslim principalities that took place in the course of the twelfth century. These towns were Calatayud, Daroca, Teruel and Albarracı´n, and all of them exercised jurisdiction over a big number of small villages in the same way that their counterparts in the kingdoms of Castile and Leo´n did. But at the middle of the thirteenth century the character of the relationship established between these four Aragonese towns and their villages changed. The villages achieved then their purpose of becoming autonomous from their capital towns, from the jurisdictional and administrative point of view. But these same villages continued to be together, constituting a new local corporation called „comunidad de aldeas“ (community of villages), completely independent from the town that had been at their head. They elected their own officers that exercised their authority over all the villages, and they had even the right to send delegates to the assemblies of Cortes of the kingdom of Aragon, in the same way that the royal towns did. And as a corporation these „comunidades“ even made purchases of new villages, to increase the size of the territory over which they exercised jurisdiction.17

II. The process of fragmentation of the territories under urban jurisdiction between the thirteenth and the seventeenth centuries in the Crown of Castile

The territories under urban jurisdiction attained their widest extension during the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, as a result of the decisions taken by the crown that had fixed the boundaries for the districts assigned to every single town, in some cases redefining them when it considered that other towns should also dispose of their own ´ vila was initially endowed, at the end of the eleventh centerritories. So, the city of A tury, with an extremely broad territory that had no boundaries on its southern flank. 17 Eloy Cutanda Pe´rez, Comunidades de villa y Tierra, comunidades de aldeas, in: Estudios histo´ricos

sobre la Comunidad de Albarracı´n, ed. by Jose´ Manuel Latorre Ciria, Tramacastilla (Teruel) 2003, vol. I, p. 23–62; Jose´ Luis Corral Lafuente, El origen de las Comunidades medievales aragonesas, in: Arago´n en la Edad Media 6 (1984), pp. 67–94.

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But, after new lands were conquered to the Muslims, king Alfonso VIII decided in 1186 the foundation of a new town, that he named Plasencia, which should promote the colonization of these new conquered territories. And it was accordingly endowed with a very wide district, that covered a surface of 4,909 km2, that had previously been ´ vila. Some years later, in 1209, the same monarch under the jurisdiction of the city A decided to deprive this city of another part of its territory, that covered a surface of 560 km2, in order to endow the town of Be´jar with its own district.18 Although some Castilian towns invested certain sums of money in order to increase the size of their territories by purchasing some isolated localities from the king himself or from other lords, it is an indisputable fact that all the Castilian medieval towns owed the bulk of their territories to the mercy of the crown. But the same crown that had granted large territories to these royal towns, could also deprive them of the most part of them. And that is what it began to do in the course of the Late Middle Ages, and it went on doing at a quicker pace during the two first centuries of the Modern Age. The process of dismantlement of the territories of the towns that had received them in the course of the process of colonization started already in the course of the thirteenth century. In a first phase towns began being deprived of isolated villages when the Castilian monarchs, in order to reward services paid by nobles who enjoyed their favour, decided to transfer to them the jurisdiction over these villages. The ter´ vila was one of the first to be seriously affected by this practice, ritory of the city of A at the end of the thirteenth century.19 But in this early phase many of the segregations were justified by the fact that the affected territories were marginal and underpopulated, and their new lords were considered to be in a better position to push the process of their colonization.20 In the course of the fourteenth and the fifteenth centuries the segregations of villages from urban territories in order to create new lordships for members of the nobility, continued at an increased pace, affecting to almost all the towns, that were deprived of prosperous and well populated villages. These segregations were unilaterally decided by the crown, and in most cases had political motivations. That is why their number significantly increased under the monarchs of the Trastamara dynasty, who established a new relationship with the nobility, based on massive transfers of jurisdiction to the members of this privileged group. But in periods of political instability and weak royal power many nobles took possession by force of villages and lands that had been under the jurisdiction of a royal town. That is what happened during the second half of the reign of Henry IV, but when the Catholic Monarchs took power after the Civil War that followed the death of Henry, they forced most of them to return what they had forcibly taken from the royal towns. Nonetheless these monarchs

18 Martinez Dı´ez, Las Comunidades (see note 7). pp. 554, 567, 623, 634. 19 Salvador de Moxo ´ , El auge de la nobleza urbana de Castilla y su proyeccio´n en el a´mbito administrativo

y rural a comienzos de la Baja Edad Media, in: Boletı´n de la Real Academia de la Historia 198/III (1981), p. 407–518. 20 Alfonso Franco Silva, La fundacio´n de pueblos en tierras situadas al noreste del reino de Toledo a fines del siglo XIII, in: Historia. Instituciones. Documentos 17 (1990), pp. 31–53.

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continued with the practice of depriving some of these towns of part of their territories in order to create new lordships to be transferred as a reward to some loyal servant. So, Andre´s Cabrera obtained from them a grant of a territory with 1,200 vassals, which had been until that moment under the jurisdiction of Segovia. This decision was received with deep dissatisfaction in this town, and left there a feeling of deep resentment that broke out in 1520, in the course of the revolt of the Comunidades, when the Segovian troops invaded this territory and ravaged it.21 The royal towns that were deprived of part of their territories and villages during the period of the Trastamara dynasty did not accept these alienations without resistance, and in certain cases they even took up arms to avoid them, especially during the reign of Henry IV. But in most cases they had no success. The crown always rejected their allegations with the argument that the towns and their territories belonged to the royal patrimony, and the king could dispose of them the way he wanted. On the other side, many of the beneficiaries of the royal grants were members of the oligarchies of the towns that were deprived of their villages. And this fact generated tensions within the urban communities that reduced their willingness and capacity to defy the king. After the reign of the Catholic Monarchs the practice of concession of lordships to members of the nobility as a gracious grant, in fact as a reward for political services, came to an end. But the process of disintegration of the territories under urban jurisdiction did not stop as a consequence of this fact. On the contrary, it continued at a much quicker pace, because the crown, instead of conceding lordships as a grace, began to sell them, as a new source of income for the Royal Treasury. So, during the sixteenth and the seventeenth centuries the kings of Castile of the Habsburg dynasty continued to deprive many royal towns of some of their dependent villages in order to transfer them to noble jurisdiction. But the nobles that became their new lords had now to pay money for their acquisition. On the other hand, the emperor Charles V introduced another important novelty, that of offering to those villages that were under the jurisdiction of a royal town the possibility of buying their liberty, paying a sum of money to the Royal Treasury, in exchange of the so-called „privilegio de villazgo“. Many villages that had felt particularly oppressed under the rule of their capital town were ready to invest in the purchase of these privileges, in order to become autonomous. And they did in an increasing number in the course of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, although at a high financial cost. The sales of privileges of exemption to villages under the jurisdiction of royal towns arrived to a peak during the reign of Philipp IV, and afterwards they became very rare.22 But at that time many royal towns had already lost almost all their villages, because they had bought a privilege of exemption, or because they had become vassals of a noble lord, that had bought the jurisdiction. Nevertheless, this process of disintegration of the urban territories did not affect to all the towns in the same degree. On the contrary, those towns that exercised jurisdiction over areas 21 Marı´a Asenjo Gonza´les, Segovia. La ciudad y su Tierra a fines del Medievo, Segovia 1986; Joseph

Pe´rez, La revolucio´n de las Comunidades de Castilla (1520–1521), Madrid 1979.

22 Helen Nader, Liberty in Absolutist Spain: The Habsburg Sale of Towns 1516–1700, Baltimore 1990;

Juan E. Gelabert, La bolsa del rey. Rey, reino y fisco en Castilla (1598–1648), Barcelona 1997.

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of mountain, where most of the villages were of small size, could successfully keep most of their territories and villages until the beginning of the nineteenth century, when Spain adopted the constitution of a Liberal State, and a new model of local government was adopted, that put an end to the relationship of subjection of villages to towns. The integrity of the territories under urban jurisdiction was not only affected by the segregation of villages. The crown also disposed in many occasions of part of the waste lands that covered wide surfaces in these territories. So, during the Late Middle Ages it made quite often grants of some of these lands to nobles or influent courtiers, who became their private owners. But it was king Philip II who for the first time disposed of these lands in a more systematic way by selling those that offered better conditions for agriculture to the highest bidders, in order to obtain additional income for the Royal Treasury.23

III. Building of new territories under urban lordship in the Spanish kingdoms during the Late Middle Ages

Whereas most of the Castilian towns south of the river Duero, and of the Aragonese towns south of the river Ebro, were endowed with large territories the moment they were incorporated to these kingdoms, most of the northern towns that had belonged to them from an earlier period, exercised jurisdiction over very small districts, because most of the villages of their hinterlands were subject to other secular or ecclesiastical lords. And a similar problem faced the numerous towns that, from the twelfth century onwards, were founded in these northern regions by the crown or by nobles of high rank, like the lords of Vizcaya, who founded Bilbao in 1300. These towns could not be endowed with large districts by their founders because all the territories that surrounded them were already under the jurisdiction of other lords. These northern regions conformed a patchwork of jurisdictions, and as a consequence it was impossible, even for the king, to build large compact territories under a single jurisdictional lord there.24 Nevertheless, some of these northern towns became also, in the course of the last centuries of the Middle Ages, lords of large territories, that included an important number of small towns and villages. In all the cases the process of accumulation of territories stretched over several centuries. But it was a process of a very different kind to those that led to the constitution of the city-states in northern and central Italy, or to the building of large urban territories in the Empire north of the Alps, such as those of Bern or Nu¨rnberg. Spanish towns were not in the position to put in practice a 23 David Vassberg, La venta de tierras baldı´as. El comunitarismo agrario y la Corona de Castilla durante

el siglo XVI, Madrid 1983.

24 Jesu´s A ´ ngel Solo´rzano Telechea/Beatriz Arı´zaga Bolumburu, El feno´meno urbano medieval en-

tre el Canta´brico y el Duero. Revisio´n historiogra´fica y propuestas de estudio, Santander 2002.

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territorial politics of their own, because they were too dependent from the authority of the crown. And, at the same time, they were not so pressed by the necessity to put in practice such a policy to protect themselves from the menaces of the nobility, because they could also rely on the crown as the main keeper of order and peace in the kingdom. In the Empire, north and south of the Alps, on the contrary, the absence of a strong central power forced the towns that were not subject to the authority of the princes to preserve their independence by developing a territorial politics that in some cases led to the massive acquisition of strategic territories, by purchase, conquest, or some other procedure.25

Crown of Castile The Castilian town that was most successful in the enterprise of building a large territory under its jurisdiction in the course of the Late Middle Ages was Burgos. It was one of the towns that enjoyed the highest rank in the kingdom, but until the middle of the thirteen century it had been almost deprived of rural territory subject to its jurisdiction, because it was surrounded by very ancient ecclesiastical and noble lordships. The situation began to change in 1255, when king Alfonso X. the Wise granted a privilege to the city that placed under its jurisdiction five smaller royal towns. That was the first step in a long process, that came to an end in 1508 with the donation by Queen Joana of the town of Rojas, and that allowed the council of Burgos to exercise jurisdiction over seven towns with their correspondent villages, that in some cases were very numerous.26 The council certainly invested some money in the acquisition of minor places, such as Pampliega and Mazuela, that were bought during the reign of Alfonso XI, but the bulk of the territory that fell under its jurisdiction was obtained thanks to an important number of donations made by the crown. The kings of Castile probably considered that a town of such high political rank should increase its prestige by becoming an important lord of vassals. And the need to obtain the support of such an influent and wealthy political community in certain difficult circumstances could explain many of the donations. Another town that was particularly favoured by the crown with several grants of new territories was Valladolid, one of the most visited by the itinerant royal Court during the late Middle Ages. Until the middle of the twelfth century the jurisdictional district of this town had been quite small. But a long process of enlargement of this territory began in 1155 when the king made a donation to the council of the localities of Renedo and Prado, followed in 1162 by another one, of the town of Cabezo´n with its castle. Alfonso X in 1255 made a grant of the towns of Tudela de Duero with its villages, Simancas with its strategic castle, and Pen˜aflor with its villages. In 1289 the king Sancho IV donated the town of Cigales, in 1325 the young king Alfonso XI the 25 Ma´ximo Diago Hernando, Los sen˜orı´os territoriales de las ciudades europeas bajomedievales. Ana´li-

sis comparativo de los ejemplos castellano y alema´n, in: Hispania 188 (1994), pp. 791–844. 26 Juan Antonio Bonachı´a Hernando, El sen˜orı´o de Burgos durante la Baja Edad Media (1255–1508),

Valladolid 1988.

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town of Portillo, with its 18 villages, and in 1367 Henry II put an end to the process with the donation of the town of Olmos de Valdesgueva.27 Besides Burgos and Valladolid other towns of high political rank received grants of localities with their territories in the course of the Late Middle Ages, although not in such a big number. Leo´n, for instance, received from Peter I in 1365 the jurisdiction over several villages of its hinterland. Much less numerous were, on the contrary, the purchases made by the royal towns from the crown in order to increase the size of their territories. The most important one was probably that concluded in 1246 by the city of Toledo, that bought from the king Ferdinand III a large territory called the „Montes“, that had belonged to Rodrigo Jime´nez de Rada, archbishop of Toledo, until 1243, since it had been conquered from the Muslims.28 Very rare were also the purchases made by the royal towns from noble families or ecclesiastical institutions of rights of jurisdiction over certain villages. The council of Burgos, as we have seen, bought Pampliega and Mazuela, and in 1427 it intended to buy three small localities to the noble Alvar Garcı´a de Castellanos, but the project failed because of the strong opposition of the majority of the unprivileged urban population, which found it too expensive.29 The acquisition of new territories by the towns of the Crown of Castile during the Late Middle Ages was, in consequence, basically the result of decisions taken by the crown, and in most cases for political, not for economic, reasons. That is why in very few occasions the towns had to pay money to the Royal Treasury to enlarge their jurisdictional territory. Paradoxically, since the middle of the thirteenth century, when the process of segregation of villages from the territories of the royal towns south of the river Duero began, we perceive a significant rise in the number of donations of territories made by the crown to other royal towns. We may find it contradictory. But the towns that received these donations were very few, they belonged to the group of the most influential ones from the political point of view, and they had not disposed of large territories until they began to receive these donations from the crown. The crown granted lordships to the royal towns of the highest rank in the same way that it did to the members of the nobility during the Trastamara period, always for political reasons, because it needed to reward services. In the case of the towns, these services had been mainly rendered by the members of the urban oligarchy, who were also the main beneficiaries of the conversion of the corporation they belonged to in a territorial power. The prestige of a town became considerably enhanced when it became lord of many vassals. But the members of the noble oligarchy were the most interested in these questions of prestige and precedence, while the popular sectors were more worried about the financial costs of the incorporations of new territories, that they rejected in certain occasions for this reason. The towns and villages that came under the jurisdiction of towns such as Burgos and Valladolid in the course of the Late Middle Ages were linked to them by a relationship that may be properly considered as feudal. They became their vassals, and 27 Adeline Rucquoi, Valladolid en la Edad Media. I. Ge´nesis de un poder, Valladolid 1987, pp. 95–99. 28 Jean Pierre Molenat, Campagnes et Monts de Tole`de du XIIe au XVe sie`cle, Madrid 1997, pp. 183–215. 29 Bonachı´a Hernando, El sen˜orı´o (see note 26), pp. 362.

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they had to pay homage to the urban corporation, that claimed from them the feudal rights that were due by custom by the vassals to the lord. The officers of these dependent towns and villages were also appointed by the council of the town that had become their new jurisdictional lord. For all these reasons these urban lordships that came into existence in Castile in the course of the Late Middle Ages were quite different from the old ones, established during the process of colonization between the eleventh and the thirteenth centuries, the so-called „comunidades de villa y Tierra“.30

Crown of Aragon Towns in the Crown of Aragon could not exercise jurisdiction over a significant part of their hinterlands or other territories beyond their walls, because, as we have seen, even those that were endowed with large districts when they were conquered from the Muslims (Calatayud, Daroca, Teruel and Albarracı´n), ended up by being deprived of their jurisdictional rights over their dependent villages at the middle of the thirteenth century. In the course of the Late Middle Ages, nevertheless, some towns acquired a significant number of localities and became lords of many vassals that resided in rural territories. Among them the capitals of the three kingdoms stand out, and that is why we are going to pay attention to them.

Zaragoza The city Zaragoza was conquered from the Muslims by Alfonso I in 1118, and some years later, in 1138, his successor Ramon Berenguer IV fixed in a charter the boundaries of its jurisdictional district. It was a large one, because within these boundaries there were 25 inhabited localities. But the city did not exercise jurisdiction over them, because they had other lords, in most cases monasteries and other ecclesiastical institutions. To compensate this lack of vassals the council of Zaragoza invested in the course of the Middle Ages important sums of money in order to acquire jurisdictional rights over different localities in the kingdom of Aragon. So, in 1305 it bought the town and castle of Longares, and in 1366 the king Peter IV sold to the city the barony of Zuera, although in 1432 it had to pay an additional sum of 8,000 florins to the king Alfonso V to acquire the ius luendi. The process ended in 1552 with the purchases of the barony of Pertusa from the widow of the noble Berenguer of Bardaxı´, and of the village of El Grado from Antonio de Espluga, citizen of Barbastro.31 We don’t know much about the reasons that moved the urban authorities to invest in these acquisitions. It was probably a question of prestige. In any case, it was not the necessity to find pastures for the numerous flocks of the citizens, because, although

30 Diago Hernando, Los sen˜orı´os (see note 25). 31 Marı´a Isabel falco ´ n Pe´rez, Zaragoza en el siglo X. Morfologı´a urbana, huertas y te´rmino municipal,

Zaragoza 1981, pp. 159, 164.

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they could not be maintained in the district of the city, the crown rewarded the citizens of Zaragoza with generous privileges that allowed them to graze their livestock in favourable conditions throughout the whole kingdom of Aragon. And that is the reason why we find in the ruling group of Zaragoza many stockbreeders that owned huge flocks of sheep.32

Barcelona The council of Barcelona began at a relatively late date to exercise jurisdictional rights beyond the walls of the city and a very small rural district that surrounded them. But in the course of the fifteenth century it became a powerful lord of vassals, which extended its political influence over an important number of localities not only of the principality of Catalonia, but even of the kingdom of Valencia. This change was made possible thanks to a combination of factors. In the fist place, the council employed its financial resources to acquire some important localities from the crown, although on a precarious basis, since the jurisdiction over them was transferred to Barcelona as a guarantee for the repayment of sums of money that the king had borrowed from the city, and it should return to the crown when repayment took place. This way, Barcelona became jurisdictional lord in 1391 of two important towns in Catalonia, Sabadell and Terrassa, and another two in the kingdom of Valencia, Elche and Crevillent.33 In other occasions the council employed its financial resources to make some purchases of strategic places to nobles with financial problems. So, in the last decade of the fourteenth century it acquired the castles of Flix and La Palma to a noble family of Lleida. Both castles, situated where the Ebro river entered Catalan territory, had a very high strategic value for the city, because they allowed to control the trade of Aragonese wheat, that was transported by boats along this river, and Barcelona needed to feed its numerous population. Another purchase, that of the coastal enclave of Miramar, between Hospitalet and Cambrils, was made with the same purpose of assuring the arrival of wheat to feed the urban population, because it was used to embark the Aragonese wheat that had arrived to Flix from Aragon, avoiding perils that it could face if it was transported by land from Flix to Barcelona. Other acquisitions by the council of Barcelona were also motivated by economic interests. That would be the case of certain places it acquired in the county of Empu´ries that were attractive because of their salt and corn production.34 But the factor that most contributed at the end of the Middle Ages to the development of the role of the council of Barcelona as jurisdictional lord in the principality of Catalonia was the systematic use that it made since the last decades of the fourteenth 32 Jose´ Antonio Fera´ndez Otal, La casa de ganaderos de Zaragoza. Derecho y trashumancia a fines del

siglo XV, Zaragoza 1993.

33 Ma . Teresa ferrer Mallol, La projeccio´ exterior, in: Historia de Barcelona, Barcelona 1991, III,

pp. 357–391, here p. 365.

34 Idem, p. 367.

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century of the institution of the „carreratge“ to incorporate a big number of Catalan towns and villages to its jurisdictional sphere of influence. This institution was a Catalan peculiarity, since we do not find it in any other Spanish kingdom. The kings of Aragon began at a much earlier date to sell jurisdictional rights over localities of the royal patrimony than the kings of Castile, since such sales were already numerous in the course of the fourteenth century. In many cases the localities that had been alienated could get their reincorporation to the royal patrimony by paying to their new lords the sum of money they had paid to the king for the purchase of the jurisdiction. These localities were, nevertheless, worried that the king could alienate them again. And that is why many of them decided to deliver themselves to other bigger royal towns, becoming their vassals, so that the king could not dispose of them any more. In the contracts that they signed it was said that they had become streets (carrers) of the bigger town, and that is why this institution is called carreratge. Barcelona was not the only town that received under its jurisdiction other Catalan localities as carrers, nor was it the first one to do it. But it stands out for the big number of carrers that it accumulated, seventy four in total, scattered throughout the whole principality of Catalonia. No doubt the small Catalan localities preferred to become vassals of Barcelona because of the greater political influence it exercised in the principality. But, at the same time, thanks to the carreratge Barcelona could significantly increase that influence in the course of the fifteenth century, the „Golden Age“ of this peculiar institution. Nevertheless, the admission of such a big number of localities as carrers, in fact as vassals, by the council of Barcelona was not the result of a pre-conceived plan, of „imperialistic“ nature, since, in most of the cases, the initiative was taken by the localities that delivered themselves, always with the consent of the king. Barcelona certainly obtained benefits from this institution that boosted its military potential, since the localities that became „carrers“ were obliged to provide troops for the city host. But in fact, when the city needed their military support many of these towns were not able to give it. That is what happened during the civil war that opposed Barcelona to king John II, when many localities that were „carrers“ of this city, but were situated in the area controlled by the king, were forced to fight on the side of the monarch.35

Valencia When James I conquered in 1238 the capital of the kingdom of Valencia from the Muslims, he did not endow it with a large territory. It was much later when this city, that enjoyed a pre-eminent position in the urban network of the kingdom of Valencia, began to acquire some localities and as a consequence became a territorial power of certain importance. The process began when in 1364 king Peter IV donated to the city the towns of Morvedre and Cullera, and the locality of El Puig, with its territory. Cullera, 39 kilometers away from Valencia, remained under the jurisdiction of 35 Ma . Teresa ferrer Mallol, L’associacio´ de municipis a l’Edat Mitjana. El carreratge de Barcelona,

Barcelona 1999.

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this city for some decades until the reign of Martin I, when the town recovered its independence. But that was not the case of Morvedre, that remained under its jurisdiction, although it kept a very hostile relationship with the Valencian council.36 In order to increase the size of the territory under its jurisdiction the city of Valencia also made some purchases, for instance of the locality of Pobla d’En Bellvis, bought to the noble Joan de Bellvis.37 But most of the later incorporations were the result of financial transactions with the king or other members of the royal family. In these cases the acquired localities remained under the lordship of the Valencian council only temporarily. So, in 1391 the city made a loan to the duke of Montblanc, the future king Martin I, and his wife, Marı´a de Luna, of 50,000 florins, on condition that the castle and the town of Je´rica, with other six localities would be transferred to the city of Valencia, and would remain under its dominion as a pawn until the money was repaid. This happened in 1403, so that these localities remained under the lordship of the city for little more than a decade.38 Some time later, between 1427 and 1430, the council made several loans to the king Alfonso V, that in 1430 transferred the jurisdiction over the localities of Paterna, Benaguasil and La Pobla de Vallbona to the city as a pawn, to be kept until the repayment of the money. But six years later Alfonso made a grant of all these places to his brother Henry, without having repaid that money. Valencia was in consequence compelled to bring a suit against the descendants of the infant Henry, which was not solved until the middle of the seventeenth century, when at last the duke of Segorbe took full possession of these localities as their feudal lord.39 In 1470 Valencia made another loan to the king, who transferred to its council the jurisdiction over the prosperous royal town of Gandı´a. In 1485, nevertheless, the king decided to sell this town to Pere Lluis Borja, son of the later Pope Alexander VI. The council of Valencia recovered then the sum of money that it had lent in 1470, and so its lordship over Gandı´a came to an end.40 The territory under jurisdiction of the city of Valencia was, in consequence, in process of constant change, because many localities were incorporated on a precarious basis. But in certain moments it attained big dimensions, and incorporated important towns, like Morvedre or Gandı´a. Nevertheless it did not constitute a compact block. On the contrary its components were scattered throughout the kingdom, and this fact added certain difficulties to the task of its administration. That is why at the end of the fourteenth century the council decided to appoint two officers called „procuradores“ to fulfil this task, one charged with the administration of the localities, castles and territories situated in the northern sector of the kingdom, and the other one with the administration of those situated in the southern sector.41

36 Eliseo Vidal Beltra´n, Valencia en la e´poca de Juan I, Valencia 1974, pp. 240–242. 37 Idem, p. 244. 38 Francisco Javier Cervantes Peris, La herencia de Marı´a de Luna. Una empresa feudal en el tardome-

dievo valenciano, Segorbe 1998, pp. 246–248.

39 Idem, pp. 58–60, 256–258. 40 Jose´ Luis Pastor Zapata, Gandia en la baixa Edat Mitjana: La Vila i el Senyoriu dels Borja, Oliva 1992. 41 Vidal Beltra´n, Valencia (see note 36), pp. 243–244.

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Some conclusions about the Crown of Aragon Besides the examined towns, that were the capitals of their respective kingdoms, others exercised jurisdictional rights over rural territories in the Crown of Aragon, but in a much smaller scale. We can not pay attention to them here. But the study of the cases of Zaragoza, Barcelona and Valencia, although every one offers significant peculiarities, allow us to arrive to some conclusions about the main features that characterize the processes of building of territories under urban jurisdiction in the Crown of Aragon. The most important one is that donations by the crown played a minor role in these processes. No Aragonese town received so many grants of territories during the Late Middle Ages as Burgos or Valladolid did in Castile. Certainly the crown transferred jurisdiction over many important localities to Barcelona and Valencia, but it was in most cases in exchange of money, and on a temporary basis. And the same financial reasons explain the fact that Barcelona became lord of so many localities through the institution of the carreratge, because these localities delivered themselves to Barcelona in order to avoid being sold by the king. Whereas in the Crown of Castile purchases of localities by royal towns played a very marginal role in the process of building of the urban lordships, that was not the case in the Crown of Aragon. So, Zaragoza built its territory exclusively thanks to purchases, and these also played an important role in the cases of Barcelona and Valencia. No doubt, money played a much more important role in the transfers of jurisdiction during the Late Middle Ages in the Crown of Aragon than in the Crown of Castile. Only in the course of the sixteenth century the financial factor began to play a prominent role also in Castile, but in this new phase Castilian towns could not take advantage of the sales of jurisdictions by the crown in order to increase the size of their territories. On the contrary, as we have seen, the new practice accelerated the process of their disintegration, because towns had not enough money to avoid alienations. Much remains to be explained about the aims that the Aragonese towns pursued by their territorial acquisitions during the Late Middle Ages. Nevertheless it is doubtful that they followed a well laid plan, inspired by political considerations. Quite frequently the acquisition of new territories was a result of their transactions with the crown, that, although much weaker than in Castile, never ceased to try to exercise its authority over the royal towns. And, as a consequence, these could not arrive to enjoy the degree of autonomy of the imperial cities in southern Germany and in Italy during the Late Middle Ages. This fact explains many differences between the territorial policy of these cities of the Empire, on one side, and that of the Spanish royal towns, in both the Crowns of Aragon and Castile, on the other. The Spanish towns always remained under the close supervision of the king, who quite often intervened in their internal affairs. On the contrary, in the Empire, north and south of the Alps, the towns that were not subject to the authority of the princes rarely experienced the direct interventions of the emperors. This allowed them, and at the same time forced them, to pursue a very active territorial politics, to defend their interests against their neighbours, even through military means. That was not the case of the Spanish towns.

TOWARDS A DEFINITION OF TOWNS’ AREAS OF INFLUENCE AND DOMINATION The large hinterlands of French ports, and their development from the middle of the 17th century to the end of the 18th century* by Jean-Pierre Poussou

In memory of Pierre Le´on1 Historians have often in various ways, especially over time and through the development of our discipline, studied in some measure the urban space, but only the interior of towns. On the other hand, geographers have to a much greater degree analysed what area of territory is covered by urban activity, prioritising the greater or lesser extent of this area, and taking into account to what extent there is a relationship of domination or of relative interdependency. The concept of a hinterland developed out of these initiatives. In fact, if any substantial town2 forms part of a territorial area with which it has all kinds of trade, and if we are dealing with ports, we speak of a backcountry or „hinterland“,3 and it is usual to write that the port which is the central town exercises an influence which is often domination over this geographical area. This has been written of all towns,4 but below the level of a large urban area there are not such significant effects on the port’s hinterland. This urban influence can be of different kinds: political, religious, administrative, social, demographic or economic. In addition, these spaces of urban influence and domination are often thought of as basins or spatial areas,5 which is clearly the case, as long as one remembers that their

* Translation by Moya Jones (University Michel-de-Montaigne, Bordeaux III). 1 We owe Pierre Le´on the organisation and publication of the proceedings of a very novel colloquium in

1973: „Aires et structures des espaces commerciaux franc¸ais aux XVIIe-XVIIIe sie`cles“, ed. by Pierre Leo´n, Lyon 1975. On this occasion, he also gave me, as a young researcher, a very friendly welcome, and – what is more – shortly afterwards he invited me to contribute to the „Histoire e´conomique et sociale du monde“, in six volumes, of which he was editor-in-chief for Armand Colin (Paris 1977–1978). 2 One can in fact say this of all towns without the qualifier „substantial“, but in that case there is no back-country. 3 The hinterland or back-country is the territory lying behind a port or coastal area. 4 For example, this is what Georges Duby writes in vol. 1 of: Histoire de la France urbaine, Paris 1983. 5 This is often the case in the field of demography, as is shown in my thesis: Bordeaux et le Sud-Ouest au XVIIIe sie`cle: croissance e´conomique et attraction urbaine, Paris 1983.

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form may be very irregular. As the title of this paper suggests, I intend to address the economic aspects of this influence or domination. It would be a huge subject had I not chosen to restrict it to an investigation of the French port hinterlands in the 17th and 18th centuries. We must first define what the hinterlands were at this time, by way of an explanation of how they worked and a description of them. We shall then come to another major aspect of the topic: becoming acquainted with how they grew in the 18th century – and hence discovering much about the development and influence of these large ports as well as the consequence of the kingdom of France’s maritime expansion at this time and of its economic growth. First we should explain what is meant by a port hinterland. It is both an area of privileged economic influence and a space of manifold deals. The central port town around which the hinterland takes shape is just the heart of a complex whole of which one or more groups of medium-sized or even very small ports may form a part. To these things should be added, in terms of length, an upstream river valley when there is one. Irregularly shaped areas of supply and sale are linked to this, and these not only alter with time, but may even differ from product to product. While it is true that all hinterlands are constructions, they can also be explained by geographical conditions. Thus, of the four great French port entities, three, Bordeaux, Nantes6 and Rouen/Le Havre,7 are located on the estuaries of large rivers, and this enables their activities to extend far into the interior of the land, as is also the case with Hamburg and the Elbe, to give a particularly pointed example. Similarly, the Rhine is of primary importance for Amsterdam and Rotterdam. A river is not, however, essential: while it is true that Marseille makes use of navigation on the Rhone, the latter is far from being able to offer the same advantages as the Loire does for Nantes. And one could cite the example of Genoa, which has not had the advantage of a large waterway to penetrate into the interior of the country, and did not even have, like other ports, a hinterland. This reminds us again that the shape and definition of hinterlands are highly variable in space, as they are over time. Nevertheless, if Marseille, not being an estuary port, has to have recourse to a large number of small and medium-sized ports on the shores of the Mediterranean, French estuary ports are in the same position, being sited far from the ocean: 56 kilometres in the case of Nantes, 100 for Bordeaux, and 125 for Rouen. It was thus necessary, particularly at Rouen and Nantes, to develop a system of „outer harbours“, like Honfleur for Rouen. Thanks to Bernard Michon we have a good understanding of the role of Paimboeuf for Nantes. From an administrative point of view, Paimboeuf remains a simple rural parish which has not attained town status. It gained in importance from 1640, at the same time as Nantes was becoming a 6 There is a very fine example of an estuary for Nantes thanks to the map published in Murielle Bouyer,

Les marins de la Loire dans le commerce maritime nantais au XVIIIe sie`cle, Rennes 2009, p. 24.

7 For a long time Honfleur functioned as a kind of outer harbour for Rouen, an estuary port, and thus

for Paris too, as Rouen supplied a large part of Paris’s requirements, but with the increase in the size of ships a deep-water port was needed, and that explains the rise of Le Havre in the second half of the 17th century and particularly in the 18th century. See Jean Meyer, Les paradoxes du succe`s havrais, in: Histoire du Havre et de l’estuaire de la Seine, ed. by Andre´ Corvisier, Toulouse 1983, pp. 75–106. The two towns, to which we must always add Honfleur, even though its role has diminished, constitute a single port complex, the estuary of the Seine.

Fig. 1: L’estuaire de la Loire / Loire’ estuary

Source: Murielle Bouyer, Les marins de la Loire dans le commerce maritime nantais au XVIIIe sie`cle, Rennes 2009, p. 24

This cart shows the great complexity of the french estuaries’ ports

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major port, its population growing strongly in the 18th century: 3,000 inhabitants in 1725 and 6,700 in 1789, perhaps even 9,000 with the floating population. In fact, Paimboeuf forms part of a whole series of ports serving Nantes, including all the harbours on the Ile d’Yeu.8 Nevertheless, Marseille suffers by its „isolation [...] in respect of Provence, the impoverished nature of its back-country and lack of centrality“ compared with the oceanic coast,9 but also from its lack of a true hinterland.10 It is moreover the case that, with various levels of economic domination, the three large French port complexes that I have just mentioned have since the 12th century effectively based their activities and prosperity on their links with their hinterlands, made easier by transport circumstances afforded by the river valleys at the ends of which they were located. We are also aware how important an economic advantage water transport was in former times. The case of Marseille is much more complex: this large city makes only partial use of the valley of the Rhone, on which it is in any case not situated, and this forces it to have recourse to a large number of other ports on the French Mediterranean coast, such as St Tropez, Agde and Se`te, and in the Rhone valley, such as Arles. One can also note that four large ports – Lorient, Dunkirk, St Malo and La Rochelle – have no substantial hinterland, and setting Dunkirk aside, this is largely accountable to the lack of a convenient waterway penetrating the interior. Lorient is distinguished by the fact that it essentially operates as an arsenal for the provisioning requirements of all kinds for the East India Company (Compagnie des Indes orientales). As for its sales to the interior, these were the work of buyers coming to take part in the Company’s sales, although a map can be drawn up showing an overall shift to the north-west of the realm, looking like a hinterland. However, it is one over which Lorient has no domination or real influence, maps showing that the two largest purchasing centres are Nantes and Paris.11 Furthermore, we shall see later on that the commercial zones of large ports can very easily overlap and that they can work together. The hinterland in fact also works as an entrepot both for goods to be exported and for those being brought into the internal market.12 And incidentally, as a study of the Bordeaux hin-

8 Bernard Michon, Les conditions du trafic transatlantique: le roˆle primordial des avants-ports de

Nantes, in: Bernard Michon, Le port de Nantes au XVIIIe sie`cle: construction d’une aire portuaire, Rennes 2011, pp. 79–124, 251–272. The very title of this study indicates how crucial it is for our subject. 9 Charles Carrie`re, Ne´gociants marseillais au XVIIIe sie`cle: contribution a` l’e´tude des e´conomies maritimes, Marseille 1973, vol. I, p. 187. 10 Charles Carrie`re emphasises about Marseille that „one needs to recognize that with the lack of a hinterland, and Provence’s aridity, Marseille scarcely felt dependent upon it. In fact the hinterland offered no strong economic support to foster the port’s prosperity. Rouen had textiles, and Bordeaux its wine, but Marseille had only Provence“; Carrie`re, Ne´gociants marseillais (see note 9), p. 190. But again, this inconvenience should not be exaggerated: in the 18th century Marseille looked towards oceanic trade; lower Provence supplied it with spirits, wines, oils and fruit which „sustained exports to the Caribbean islands, and later to the Indian Ocean“ (ibid., p. 192). 11 Claude Nie`res (dir.), Histoire de Lorient, Toulouse 1988. 12 Although this is not the present subject, as it does not concern a hinterland, one needs to add that in the 18th century the function of an entrepot is clearly linked to the arrival of products from the West Indies, which are then redistributed throughout Europe. This was especially the case at Bordeaux.

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terland in the 18th century makes clear,13 this was not usually a unified and homogeneous entity: on the contrary, „it divided itself into distinct ‘domains’, impenetrable to one another.“14 Geography and history have controlled the destinies of these large entities in very varied ways. Thus, it is clear that, being on the tin route, Bordeaux had a major role as a port even before the Roman conquest,15 but it had no established hinterland before the 12th century. Similarly, from antiquity Marseille exercised some part of its maritime and commercial functions, but without being the main port complex. In fact, it is not until the boom of the 12th and 13th centuries that large port hinterlands began to take shape, with Le Havre joining in very late, taking on its true role only from the late 17th century. There is clearly a connection with the extensive trade along the Atlantic coasts, but it is only with the rise in oceanic trade in the 17th century, and especially in the second half, during the reign of Louis XIV, that the French system of hinterlands took on its full scale. While it is true that three of our four large port complexes operated as such from the Middle Ages, as I have just indicated, some ports such as La Rochelle, Bayonne and Saint-Malo also did so and they did not differ greatly from the four major ones. Besides, it is only in the second half of the 17th century that there was a rapidly increasing growth in trade, initially along the European coasts, and then across the Atlantic, even if there were already substantial sales of Bordeaux and Charente wine to England. Lastly, as it operated in the 18th century, the system of French hinterlands was associated with the establishment of three large arsenals, at Brest, Rochefort and Toulon, and their supply areas fitted in with trading practices that already existed.16 We must now come to ports’ functions and activities. These can be grouped around three concepts: a) A port may be simply a site for transit or an entrepot, a centre for trade, a „hub“ in English. This is to say that it receives goods from various places by sea and then redistributes them to other countries. In this case, the role of the hinterland is limited or even non-existent. A good example from the 18th century is the redistribution of supplies from the colonies, such as sugar, coffee and indigo, brought from the West Indies by way of Bordeaux, the greater part of which then went on to north and north-west Europe: in such a case the hinterland is nothing but a small-scale outlet. 13 Anne-Marie Cocula, Pour une de´finition de l’espace aquitain au XVIIIe sie`cle, in: Aires et structures

(see note 1), pp. 301–330.

14 Pierre Le´on, Rapport general, in: Aires et structures (see note 1), pp. I–XXII, here p. XVII: this is a

commentary on Cocula, Pour une de´finition (see note 13).

15 This is demonstrated by Robert Etienne, Bordeaux antique, vol. I of Charles Higounet (ed.), His-

toire de Bordeaux, Bordeaux 1962, pp. 57–76. 16 See David Plouviez, De la terre a` la mer. La construction navale militaire franc¸aise et ses re´seaux

e´conomiques au XVIIIe sie`cle, doctoral thesis in history [University of Nantes] 2010. The summary of the thesis was published in: Revue d’histoire maritime 14/2 (2011), pp. 323–338. The second half of the 17th century and the early 18th century are the subject of current research by Caroline Le Mao (see her contribution in this volume). Also interesting in this respect is Rene´ Me´main, La marine de guerre sous Louis XIV. Le mate´riel. Rochefort, arsenal mode`le de Colbert, Paris 1937.

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b) A port can send the produce of the hinterland abroad: Bordeaux, again, sent wine and flour from Bordeaux and the back country to the West Indies in particular. It was already playing this role from the middle of the 12th century until the defeat of the English in 1453, sending wine, flour and fruit (especially plums) to England; the improvement in the course of the river Lot at the end of the 13th century was directly linked to this activity. This was a decisive advantage to Bordeaux suppliers and dealers, who could give priority to the commerce en droiture trade, with their ships leaving loaded full of wine and cereals from the hinterland, along with products easily found in Europe thanks to the wine trade. c) Conversely, it is certainly the case that a large maritime port gives the country lying behind it the chance to import most of the foodstuffs not locally available, such as tropical products. Four themes emerge from the relations between a port and its hinterland: a port draws on its hinterland; it supplies its hinterland. How is such trade allotted and balanced? What are the relations of influence or economic domination? These functions exist simultaneously in every case, but in different degrees: products from the hinterland play only a limited role in the port activity of Rouen and Le Havre, an activity with two main foundations: responding to the requirements of the capital, Paris, and taking part in transoceanic activity and in the European coastal trade. By contrast, Bordeaux’s predominance in the French West Indies trade resulted, as we have just seen, from the richness of its hinterland, which enabled the „commerce en droiture“17 with the West Indies. As a consequence, the place attained in the West Indies trade by Nantes and La Rochelle began to diminish at the end of the 17th and beginning of the 18th centuries. But the Bordeaux hub also counted for a lot: English, Dutch and Hanseatic traders came first for Bordeaux wines. When the demands of Northern countries for tropical products expanded rapidly, the circuits and networks already in existence because of the wine trade gave Bordeaux a kind of advantage by virtue of its situation. One gains a good understanding of this interrelation by comparing the map drawn up by Christian Huetz de Lemps for wine exports loaded in Guyenne ports before the War of the Spanish Succession (1698–1702)18 with Paul Butel’s map of Bordeaux’s relations with European ports in 1773.19 Furthermore, the latter makes it clear how vital the role of the Baltic countries had become. Ge´rard Le Boue¨dec discussed this advantage and made the just observation that „the hinterland of Nantes extends over a good third of France“,20 but the difference lies in the products from the immediate hinterland: Nantes has neither wheat nor „vins de

17 This was a direct trip between Bordeaux and the West Indies, with direct return. 18 Christian Huetz de Lemps, Ge´ographie du commerce de Bordeaux a` la fin du re`gne de Louis XIV,

Paris 1975, p. 157.

19 Paul Butel, La croissance commerciale bordelaise dans la seconde moitie´ du XVIIIe sie`cle, Lille 1973,

vol. II, annexes, p. 78.

20 There is a very remarkable analysis of the Nantes hinterland in: Ge´rard Le Boue¨dec, Activite´s mari-

times et socie´te´s littorales de l’Europe atlantique 1690–1790, Paris 1997, pp. 134–135.

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palu“21 or other reds capable of surviving the Atlantic crossing and the West Indian climate. Nor does it have Bordeaux’s very extensive network founded on centuries of its wine’s reputation in the markets of north and north-west Europe. It was easy for Nantes to recruit sailors from its local area,22 while Bordeaux had difficulty in that respect. However, this is one of those fields in which the area of influence can be very extensive, as Jan Lucassen has shown for Amsterdam,23 with the consequence that an immediate hinterland in which large groups of sailors are recruited adjoins vast areas where recruitment for one port overlaps with that of other port complexes. In terms of the dominance of transoceanic trade in value and capacity for growth, which was characteristic of the 17th and 18th centuries, as has been indicated briefly already, the first real exploitation of the hinterlands of Nantes, La Rochelle and Bordeaux was the work of the Dutch, who came especially in search of wine, brandy and fruit products. They particularly imported brandy from north Gascony (Armagnac) and from Charentes, sweet wine from the valleys of the Dordogne (Monbazillac), the Lot (Clairac) or the Garonne (Saint-Croix-du-Mont and Sauternes) and plums from the Agen area. French businessmen and statesmen – Colbert especially – were always complaining about the role they played and about their domination, which was deemed an abuse. Colbert wished to free the nation’s economy from the Dutch influence, which is why war with Holland erupted in 1672. Admittedly the Dutch did not act alone, and used dealers from Bordeaux, Nantes and La Rochelle, and even dealers and merchants from the hinterlands, to obtain what they needed; but they undeniably had all the influence in these deals. During Louis XIV’s reign, not only were the French largely freed from this influence, but they even began actively to take part in transoceanic trade, and in particular in the export of products from the West Indies to Europe, beginning in the last third of the 17th century (with Martinique and Guadeloupe) and at the end of the century (with Saint-Domingue). They also took part in the the slave trade, which for the French was closely associated with the development of West Indian plantations. Nantes is a good example of this development: in 1664 the port had only twelve ships of more than 100 tons (3.6 % of the national total), but by 1686 it had 84, in 1700 it had 128, and in 1704 the total number had increased to 151. At this time Nantes was the premier French supply port, and its rise took place between the end of the 1670s and the beginning of the 18th century.24 This first surge came to an end very quickly, which explains why towards the end of the

21 The palus are low-lying, flood-prone lands in the Garonne valley, close to Bordeaux. The wines from

their vineyards – named „vins de palu“ – were capable of surviving the Atlantic crossing and the West Indian climate. 22 Bouyer, Les marins (see note 6). See the map on p. 34, and we should note that Brittany is an excellent example of a region supplying sailors to many ports beyond its borders. 23 Jan Lucassen, No Golden Age without Migration? The case of the Dutch Republic in a comparative perspective, in: Le migrazioni in Europa secc. XIII–XVIII, ed. by Simonetta Cavciocchi, Firenze 1994, pp. 775–799; Jan Lucassen, Migrant Labour in Europe 1600–1900. The Drift to the North Sea, London 1987; Jan Lucassen, Dutch Long Distance Migration. A Concise History 1600–1900, Amsterdam 1991. 24 Jean Meyer, Le commerce nantais du XVIe au XVIIIe sie`cle, in: Histoire de Nantes, ed. by Paul Bois, Toulouse 1977, pp. 117–154, here pp. 132–133.

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17th century Nantes turned to the slave trade: the greater part of the production of the Loire valley above Angers made its way to Paris; wine from the Nantes region was of poor quality, and the Loire wines much more frequently travelled in the direction of Paris than of Nantes; the textile and metallurgical industries were mediocre and not large; and salt production (from Gue´rande and Bourgneuf) was not yet developed.25 Even though later, in the 18th century, there was a large increase in trade with the hinterland, it was much less active and on a smaller scale than at Rouen/Le Havre or at Bordeaux. Rouen/Le Havre’s dealings with the hinterland are complex. Their first function is to supply a large part of the provisioning of the capital, and therefore also of the hinterland which this represents. This was also the case with Normandy and Picardy, the two ports that had extensive dealings with these areas. Apart from textile production in Normandy and Picardy, the volume of output is reduced. In distinction from Bordeaux, which we will presently discuss, trade was essentially from the two ports towards the hinterland. If hinterlands are defined as being economically dominated, it is clear that this idea has only very limited application here. By contrast, Bordeaux is a very clear instance of a port complex which entirely dominates its hinterland, as Christian Huetz de Lemps demonstrated for the end of Louis XIV’s reign. The agricultural richness of its hinterland, especially in wine and in flour, was the foundation of the port’s wealth. In fact there were two systems to deal with. On the one hand, many Bordeaux wines come from close by. On the other, flour and a substantial quantity of wine – though less at this date – come from the higher back country, with one distinction: the Dordogne valley had only limited external relations with Bordeaux, as its port was Libourne. Moreover, Bordeaux undertook the redistribution of products that were brought from other regions of France or imported: for example, butter from Ireland and Brittany from 1707 to 1716, and Swiss Indian cotton in 1776.26 Unlike all the other ports, Marseille united different modes of transport – by land, with roads and the Canal des Deux Mers, by river and by sea. Sea transport was vital here, as it was at Genoa as well: wheat and textiles from Languedoc arrived from Agde and Se`te to be loaded onto Marseille ships, and in return thousands of coasters redistributed products brought to Marseille by its extensive Mediterranean and oceanic maritime trade. The complexity of Marseille is also found in various ways in the other ports. On the one hand, as they are estuarial ports their hinterland is limited neither to the single river valley on which they are sited, nor to the upstream land alone: Nantes’ hinterland extends as far as Saint-Nazaire, and in particular the recruitment of sailors was conducted predominantly downstream. The same goes for Bordeaux. At Rouen and Le Havre the coastal shores of Normandy are of importance. We can observe in passing that this does not take into account the complexity of the recruitment of Dutch sailors who came in large numbers from the southern or even the eastern shores of the Baltic Sea.27 Both banks of the Garonne played a large part in 25 Meyer, Le commerce nantais (see note 24). 26 Butel, La croissance commerciale (see note 19), vol. II, annexes, p. 98. 27 Lucassen, Migrant Labour in Europe (see note 23).

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Bordeaux activity, and much smaller ports like Pauillac, Blaye, Bourg and Marennes played a considerable role in Bordeaux trade, just as for instance Paimboeuf did in Nantes’ trade. On the other hand, the maps drawn up by Thomas Le Roux from tables compiled in 1793–94 to fix maximum prices are very illuminating: in global terms, there is of course a division of the kingdom into large regional areas, but the zones of influence vary – for the same port – according to products, and they may even overlap, although the overlapping relates only to a minority of the dealings concerned. The maps drawn up for Nantes show the port on the Loire, but also a hinterland that covers a significant part of the north west of the kingdom, from the Loire valley to that of the Seine.28 This same work gives clear examples of overlapping zones of influence by means of maps of the distribution through the interior of cocoa, coffee and sugar.29 The strong points constituted by the river valley and the surrounding area appear very distinctly as zones of influence for Nantes and Bordeaux. The overall increase in trade with the hinterland, which may also have been an extension of the zone of influence, and which definitely reinforces the primacy of the large ports, is very evident in the 18th century. How could it have been otherwise, given the growth of French maritime commerce at that time? Despite being imperative, it is not always simple to measure this, as the statistical data which would make it possible are missing. For instance, in distinction from Bordeaux, which specialised in clayed sugar for re-exportation, Nantes imported raw sugar from the West Indies mainly destined for refineries in Orleans, which supplied Paris. There was certainly growth, as we go from two or three refineries at the beginning of the century to ten or more, but we do not have production figures for these refineries. The large constituents of growth in trade with the hinterland at Bordeaux are shipments of wine from the hillier areas, and of bushels of flour, of which the best – durum wheat – came from around Ne´rac and Lomagne. Even the mills of Montauban, despite being very close to Toulouse, worked for Bordeaux suppliers, as flour was an essential part of their cargoes for the West Indies. The hinterland of Bordeaux, and one could say just the same of Nantes, took up only a small fraction of the goods brought into the port, particularly in the case of sugar and coffee, of which the greater part was redistributed throughout northern Europe. But Bordeaux needed its hinterland, which supplied the cargoes, thus feeding its extensive „commerce en droiture“ with the West Indies, and the same is true for the commercial and maritime requirements of other large ports, if to a lesser degree. An entire commercial network existed, often many-branched and with personal and family relations playing a fundamental role, of which a crowd of merchants and dealers,30 agents of the domination of the hinterland, made use. This growth of the four large hinterland ports is considerable. After 1720–30 it led to a reclassification of the French port system. On the one hand, Dunkirk, Dieppe, Saint-Malo, La Rochelle up until the 1730s and Bayonne throughout the period, all 28 Thomas Le Roux, Le commerce inte´rieur de la France a` la fin du XVIIIe sie`cle, Paris 1996, p. 152. 29 Le Roux, Le commerce inte´rieur (see note 28), pp. 227, 230. 30 Philippe Gardey, Ne´gociants et marchands de Bordeaux: de la guerre d’Ame´rique a` la Restauration

1780–1830, Paris 2009.

Source: Thomas Le Roux, Le commerce inte´rieur de la France a` la fin du XVIIIe sie`cle, Paris 1996, p. 236

These two maps emphasize the concept of hinterland. Ne consomme pas de produits de ... / No consumption of products from Bordeaux – Place occupe´e par Bordeaux / Rank held by ...

Fig. 2: Les aires d’influence de Bordeaux et de Nantes / The areas of influence of Bordeaux and Nantes [at the end of the 18th century]

244 Jean-Pierre Poussou

Source: Le Roux, Le commerce (see Fig. 2), p. 233

These two maps show the interpenetration of the trading areas of the great French hinterlands for the spreading of the imported products. Les ports de diffusion du cacao / Ports of cocoa diffusion – Les ports de distribution du cafe´ / Ports of coffee diffusion

Fig. 3: Les ports de diffusion du cacao et du cafe´ / The ports of diffusion of cocoa and coffee in France [at the end of the 18th century]

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equally played a notable role and commanded a large hinterland appropriate to their size – even if that was clearly not very large. Apart from Dieppe and Saint-Malo,31 the ports did not decline in the 18th century. The case of Dunkirk may be relatively special because of its corsair activities and its role in contraband trade with the British Isles,32 but La Rochelle held out well, as did Bayonne, protected by distance. Even so, Bayonne never rose to the level of Bordeaux or of Nantes, despite advancing strongly during the 1780s: 941 ships made use of the port between 1763 and 1767, and 1271 in the period 1785 to 1789.33 It is true that Bayonne has a very serious handicap, „the great mediocrity of the Bayonne hinterland“.34 The growth of large hinterlands was such that average sized ports with limited space and no large river valley lost their position, even though they may have been real competitors up to the first third of the 18th century. And another re-ranking took place: Bordeaux overtook Nantes in the 1730s, and progressed to the top position, favoured particularly by its great capacity for distribution on a European scale, and it tied in with the ever greater part played in trade by the West Indies and northern Europe. It kept its position in front very decisively, although the end of the period did see Marseille and Le Havre rising. The result of this growth, or surge, was that, as Bernard Michon has shown in the case of Nantes35 and Gilbert Buti in the case of Marseille,36 the large ports enjoyed a greater and greater supremacy over subsidiary ports, some of which even collapsed, like cod fishery in Sables-d’Olonne. We must be careful to offer an interpretation here: vessels from the Ile d’Yeu, like those from many small Breton ports, worked for Bordeaux, while others worked for Nantes; this indicates that areas of domination were not watertight, the more so as many vessels did not – and could not – frequent just one port, and if they picked up a cargo in a port that they delivered to, they sometimes went to ports other than those from which they normally sailed. And one port might wish for something from another; for instance, people in Nantes had red wine sent to them from Bordeaux. There is another factor which must be considered: from a geographical point of view, the hinterland does not necessarily grow, even if Bordeaux sales of „siamoises“ 31 Although Brittany afforded it a major export, cloth, Saint-Malo did not manage to grow in the 18th

century: „as a small town of seafarers, caught between two powerful and vigorous capitalist rivals who controlled the arteries of inland communication, Saint-Malo was not fighting on a level playing-field. But it was not so much the lack of an immediate hinterland as the impossibility of being a centre for long-distance redistribution, by sea or inland, that put the brakes on its development“; Carrie`re, Ne´gociants marseillais (see note 9), p. 191. 32 There was no true growth in normal port trade at Dunkirk until 1785. Thanks to canals, the town did have a significant back-country, but not on a scale to dominate a large hinterland: the frontier is very close. See Christian Pfister-Langanay, Ports, navires et ne´gociants a` Dunkerque (1662–1792), Dunkerque 1985, particularly pp. 74–82 for the hinterland, and pp. 155–184 for an investigation of the development of trade. 33 Josette Pontet, Bayonne, un destin de ville moyenne a` l’e´poque Moderne, Biarritz 1990, p. 55. 34 Pontet, Bayonne (see note 33), pp. 407–419: „There was nothing in the Bayonne hinterland which could constitute an „en droiture“ cargo for the colonies, nor open wide the gates of northern Europe for Bayonne trade“ (p. 419). 35 Michon, Le port de Nantes (see note 8). 36 Gilbert Buti, Expe´dier a` la coˆte et aller a` la cueillette: le cabotage en Me´diterrane´e aux XVIIe et XVIIIe sie`cles, in: Revue d’histoire maritime 8/1 (2008), pp. 67–108.

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seem to suggest so. This has to be taken further: the growth of hinterlands in the 18th century is in no way proportionate to the growth in French maritime and oceanic commerce. It is in fact much lower, even if some cases give the opposite impression. The explanation is simple: the rise in French maritime commerce in the 18th century is essentially a trade in re-exporting colonial foodstuffs and, above all in Nantes, the slave trade. It is not just through the effect of provisioning ships leaving for the „commerce en droiture“, or setting off to take part in the slave trade, that the rise in maritime commerce affected hinterlands. While it is true that the redistribution of colonial foodstuffs within the kingdom increased, it did so without noticeably increasing trade, especially as this was already organised, as we will see in the case of sugar from Nantes. We should add that the population increase in Paris was relatively limited in comparison with London. Indeed, the greater part of trade that supplied Paris took place by land, as has been clearly shown by Steven Kaplan37 and particularly Reynald Abad.38 In his investigation of trade at Rouen and Le Havre, Pierre Dardel stresses that the movement of river traffic between Paris and the estuary was very limited, while acknowledging that many goods were transported by land: between 1723 and 1770 there were two to three hundred boats per year, with no marked increase. Dardel estimates average annual tonnage at 32,749 between 1770 and 1776 and at 30,793 between 1785 and 1789. However, the trade in colonial foodstuffs alone between the Seine estuary and Paris gives a very different impression if one compares the periods 1770 to 1774 and 1784 to 1789: – sugar – from 365,000 pounds weight to 1,792,000; – coffee – from 713,000 to 929,000; – cocoa – from 31,000 to 100,000 pounds weight.39 These are certainly instances of spectacular growth, but they are essentially quantitative and they do not modify the geography of the hinterlands themselves or in relation to others. In Orleans at the end of the 17th century there were only two refineries treating sugar from Nantes before it was shipped to Paris, but there were ten or more at the end of the 18th century. Exports of Bordeaux flour to the West Indies multiplied 3.6 times between the 1740s and the end of the 1760s. At Bordeaux the increase in the sales of wine always seems limited if one only takes into account the outputs calculated by the taxation authorities, up 50 %; but the figures are much higher if one includes sales in Brittany and the north of France, as well as in the West Indies. Languedoc cloth sold through Marseille goes from about 30,000 Tours pounds in the 1720s to 62,000 in the 1750s and to more than 90,000 in the 1770s. The opening up of the hinterlands to other markets is also important. For instance, Bordeaux purchased large quantities of Languedoc and Swiss cloth through 37 Steven L. Kaplan, Les ventres de Paris: Pouvoir et approvisionnement dans la France d’Ancien

Re´gime, Paris 1988. 38 Reynald Abad, Le grand marche´. L’approvisionnement alimentaire de Paris sous l’Ancien Re´gime,

Paris 2002.

39 Pierre Dardel, Navires et marchandises dans les ports de Rouen et du Havre au XVIIIe sie`cle, Paris

1963.

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the Beaucaire fairs. And there was heavy commercial traffic on the Canal des Deux Mers: Agde operated as a supplementary port for both Bordeaux and Marseille. Can one then speak of „domination by Marseille“ when wine that arrived at Se`te left there for Bordeaux by the canal, to go on to northern Europe? And this is not unique, to say the least. Incidentally, there is a very large increase in trade on the canal: at the beginning of the 18th century the revenue is around 200,000 Tours pounds, and some years very much higher; in the 1740s it is more than 450,000 Tours pounds, and in the 1780s more than 850,000, with occasional large annual variations. Significant changes took place in some cases. Working from data prepared by Paul Butel about the unloading of silks at Cap Franc¸ais, Olivier Le Gouic has shown that silks and textiles from Lyons, which had for a long time mainly used Bordeaux for their sales to the West Indies, reverted to Marseille in the second half of the century for half of them, principally because travelling down the Rhone was easier and cheaper than transport overland, which meant going by way of Limoges or Toulouse.40 In general, Marseille increasingly had recourse to navigation on the Rhone, which secured its Rhone hinterland more and more: toll revenue levied at Valence by the Prince of Monaco was about 45,000 Tours pounds in the 1730s; in the 1780s it exceeded 75,000 Tours pounds.41 „Goods were first transported by cart to Avignon, before being loaded onto Rhone vessels which took them up to Lyons.“ Under Louis XVI, Bordeaux doubled its sales of wine to Normandy and tripled those for northern France. This is very substantial, as together they are rare equivalent to two-thirds of the sales to the West Indies! One important change was the growth of regional undertakings, which have already been noted in respect of small ports. Rouen exported increasing amounts of Normandy textiles, and the development of the cotton industry up until 1787 augmented the imports of cotton, which had a bearing on the hinterland. At Elboeuf, exports of cloth multiplied 19 times between 1730 and 1776, which can be contrasted with some reductions, such as that of bleached linen from Pont-Audemer.42 The effects could be felt over a long distance, sometimes further than one would normally have expected: in the second half of the 18th century, Rouen exported more and more wine, and particularly Champagne, from Burgundy. This shows that the notion of a hinterland is not simply one of urban domination: its strength and configuration derived from the facilities of the port controlling it, and its geographical situation, but also from commercial networks, and even the commercial situation in which trade was conducted. Sales of Burgundy and Champagne wine through Rouen were made because, despite the distance to be covered, that was the best route to take within the kingdom. In the last analysis, a hinterland is a big issue in urban history. Its existence, how it works and how it develops depend directly on the power of a large port complex,

40 Olivier Le Gouic, De l’Atlantique a` la Me´diterrane´e: la re´orientation du commerce colonial de Lyon

au XVIIIe sie`cle, in: Revue d’histoire maritime 13/1 (2011), pp. 119–138, here p. 121.

41 Carrie`re, Ne´gociants marseillais (see note 9), p. 1065. 42 Dardel, Navires et marchandises (see note 39), pp. 201–202.

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which exerts a territorial domination that is primarily economic. But the matter cannot be left there. If there is indeed domination, it is above all quantitative. Furthermore, it is evident that this domination is built upon even more powerful structures – notably the importance of supply, the knowledge of markets and the possibility of sending shipments there. A hinterland is neither a matter of a totally structured territorial space, nor of a single occupant, nor does it lack competition and complementarity, which distinguishes it from demographic concentrations. Bernard Michon has written that we are dealing with port areas whose central hub is clearly structured and deploys the power of a single large port – except in the case of Rouen and Le Havre – but whose shape is unfixed and variable. A hinterland may even have zones of influence which are limited but real, without these having any direct attachment within the port area under consideration. It may even have territories that overlap, just as Brittany drew on the hinterland of Nantes for wheat and cereals and on Bordeaux for wine, although Nantes supplied 40 % of that consumed in Brittany. The area dominated by the large French ports of the 18th century has proved to have been both variable and heterogeneous, but we do not have a quantitative study enabling us to better understand their power beyond the immediate environment. We also need an investigation of the exact consequences for different areas in a hinterland, something that we do not have in any depth. It is a given that the overall consequences are positive, but this is something about which we need more exact knowledge.

FRENCH ARSENALS AND THEIR HINTERLANDS AT THE BEGINNING OF THE WAR OF THE LEAGUE OF AUGSBURG (1688–1690) * by Caroline Le Mao

As a continuation of Jean-Pierre Poussou’s consideration of French urban hinterlands in the seventeenth century, we have opted to concern ourselves with the hinterlands of a rather special kind of town, French maritime arsenal towns.1 If one considers the definitions of the time, these fit into different categories in the typology of urban functioning: as maritime towns they were of course more specifically ports, military ports, and in effect industrial towns, a kind of original kernel of the military-industrial complex. Furthermore, it should be pointed out that in the case of France, a town and its arsenal are inextricably linked, to the extent that the second has often given rise to the first, as the case of Rochefort demonstrates. For the Acade´mie Franc¸aise, an arsenal was at that time and still is „a magazine of armaments and all kinds of equipment for warfare by land or sea“, with those of Venice and Paris cited as examples. It is in fact in Corneille that we come close to the subject that we are going to be examining, namely the naval arsenal, „a port where the king retains naval officers, with ships and everything needed for arming them“, a sense found again in Furetie`re, who states that there are naval arsenals at Rochefort and Toulon. The list could in fact be extended somewhat to include Le Havre, willed into existence by Richelieu and Louis XIV, Brest, and indeed Dunkirk, and – to be right up to date – Port Louis. At the end of the seventeenth century this pattern was quite recent, as the selection of most of the sites had been made in the reigns of Louis XIII and Louis XIV.

* Translation by Moya Jones, with the support of the Institut Universitaire de France. 1 French arsenal towns from the Ancien Re´gime are known thanks to several extensive monographs,

including Martine Acerra, Rochefort et la construction navale franc¸aise 1661–1815, Doctoral thesis 1993; Alain Boulaire, Brest et la marine royale de 1660 a` 1790, doctorat d’e´tat [s. n.] 1988; Rene´ Me´main, Le mate´riel de la Marine de Guerre sous Louis XIV, Paris 1936; Jean Peter, La Marine du Levant sous Louis XIV: Toulon, le port-arsenal de Vauban, the`se 3e cycle [s. n.] 1993; Jean Peter, Le port et l’arsenal de Toulon sous Louis XIV: la construction navale et les approvisionnements, Paris 1995; Jean Peter, Le port et l’arsenal du Havre sous Louis XIV, Paris 1995; Jean Peter, Le port et l’arsenal de Brest sous Louis XIV, Paris 1998; Jean Peter, Le port et l’arsenal de Rochefort sous Louis XIV, Paris 2002; Michel Verge´-Franceschi/Jean-Noe¨l Turcat, Toulon, port royal 1481–1789, Paris 2002.

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Without detailing the reasons for the choice of sites or the difficulties encountered,2 it is appropriate to note the essence of what was prioritised by criteria of military, strategic and where possible technical order. Arsenals needed to be protected from the enemy, evenly distributed along the French coasts, close to areas of conflict, and preferably in deep-water situations, able to take warships of ever greater flotation depth. One can see that in these criteria the matter of provisioning arsenals or the nature of their hinterland is hardly considered. However, arsenals constitute the first industrial concentrations of the modern era, and to operate and to serve their purposes they require large quantities of very diverse raw materials. The question of provisioning arsenals is therefore a basic one. We are choosing to consider this for the years 1688–1690. French arsenals had by then passed their inauguration phase, and even if they had not finished evolving, we are nonetheless dealing with relatively stable, functioning structures. Even more important is the fact that 1688 marks the beginning of the War of the League of Augsburg, a decisive moment for the French navy. The latter was confronted with the joint forces of the two great naval powers of the time, England and Holland, and maritime operations had a front-of-stage role. For France this meant a great increase in the monies allocated to the navy,3 which for the arsenals signified augmented means and requirements. Lastly, another aspect of the question is that, for France, war with Holland and England closed several commercial routes and access to certain products, notably naval stores or „products of the North“, which came to the arsenals by sea. It was necessary to find substitutes for these products and to find them from within the interior of the country. These various aspects of the question allow us to appreciate the stakes involved in supplying an arsenal and raise a very important question: was the hinterland of an arsenal town sufficient to keep it supplied, especially in times of war? Once again, we need to begin by defining what is understood by ‚hinterland‘ or ‚back-country‘. For Pierre Georges4 it is the area in which merchandise handled by a maritime port is gathered and distributed. Roger Brunet5 agrees, and specifies that this supply or service region is limited to the area which communicates directly with the port, is resupplied through it, or manages its exports through it, whether within the immediate region of the port or on the same continent. Having looked at the limits of the hinterland and at the associated problems, we will look at how arsenals were linked to their hinterlands, and at the impact which they could have upon them.

2 On the difficulties, see Martine Acerra/Andre´ Zysberg, L’essor des marines de guerre europe´ennes

1680–1790, Paris 1997, pp. 24–26; Jean Meyer/Jean-Pierre Poussou, E´tudes sur les villes franc¸aises, Paris 1995, pp. 227–252. 3 On this matter, see Caroline Le Mao, Financer la marine en temps de conflit. L’exemple de la guerre de la Ligue d’Augsbourg (1688–1697), in: Revue d’Histoire Maritime 14 (2011), pp. 285–320. 4 Pierre Georges, Dictionnaire de ge´ographie, Paris 1970. 5 Roger Brunet, Les Mots de la ge´ographie, dictionnaire critique, Paris 1992.

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I. How is an arsenal’s hinterland defined?

What does an arsenal need? The delimitation of an arsenal’s hinterland begins with defining its needs. It would be pedantic and pointless to attempt to give an account of the entirety of these needs,6 but it is nonetheless necessary to gain some insight into them in order to understand the composition of a hinterland. As an aid to this end, we draw on the construction of two Royal frigates, La Gentille and La Gracieuse, at Le Havre between November 1688 and May 1689; a detailed account of this was prepared by the navy clerk.7 The different components used are listed, together with their costs and the man-days involved. In total the two frigates cost the King approximately 40,000 Tours pounds ()8 distributed under several headings, but these headings are not very relevant to our investigation; so we have chosen to keep the categories shown in Graph 1.

Graph 1: Construction costs of the two frigates La Gentille and La Gracieuse (10/11/1688–25/05/1689) Total: 41 700 l. t. Source: AN, MAR D 1 56, fo 17 seqq.

6 As Martine Acerra and Andre´ Zysberg remind us, the list of raw materials and of manufactured goods

needed by a fighting navy constitutes „an almost limitless inventory“. For an introduction, consult their L’essor des marines de guerre europe´ennes (see note 2), pp. 107–119; see also Jean Boudriot, Le vaisseau de 74 canons, t. 1, Grenoble 1973, chap. 4. 7 Archives nationales [henceforward AN], fonds de la marine (henceforward MAR), D 1 56, „statement of expenses involved in the construction of the King’s frigates La Gentille and La Gracieuse, construction begun 10th November 1688 and finished 25th May 1689“. 8 The currency unit „Tours pound“ will be represented henceforth by , the symbol closest to that used in naval account books of the time.

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This outline confirms that the cost of a frigate is constituted primarily of wood and men. If the cost of the work represents slightly less than a third of the total, this means that the purchasing of material makes up two thirds9 of the construction costs. Wood is the biggest heading – 40 % of the cost, of which 5 % is for masts and spars – especially oak, representing more than a quarter of the total cost of the ship. And one must not forget the iron and copper – it can be supposed that the two frigates did not use fewer than 100,000 nails – or ropes and sailcloth. The heading „varia“ takes in all the lesser expenses, from the various shades of ochre used in painting the hull to brushes for tar, not to mention the plaster needed for the galleys. Even so, the list seems incomplete. For instance, the amount of tar appears to be an underestimate, as the rope, mentioned just as such, is in fact composed of hemp and tar. Moreover, La Gracieuse and La Gentille were each armed with 16 cannons and consequently supplied with ball and powder. And we can add the crew’s provisions to the list. From this quick survey we can identify elements relevant to our definition of an arsenal’s hinterlands, a concept that has to be used in the plural. The requirements were very great, especially as the War of the League of Augsburg was a period of intensive construction and refitting. The needs were also extremely diverse and required very different levels of technical ability. To fit out a ship, an arsenal had to put to work winemakers from Bordeaux for the provisions, peasants from Champagne for the hemp, cloth factories in Brittany, and the few master anchor-makers from, for example, the Nevers region, one of the very few areas where iron adequate for making these vital pieces of equipment could be found; and it can readily be surmised that these places were exploited selectively.

Sketch of supply areas and spatial logic One can in fact distinguish several supply areas and, in a way, several types of hinterland. The first supply area is the arsenal town. Necessary small-scale material is obtained here. As an example one can take Le Havre, for which a tariff is available for the price of goods and types of work for the last months of 1691 and the year 1692.10 This very circumstantial document details the prices of dozens, even hundreds, of goods. But in total the arsenal made use of just sixteen merchants, and had eight artisans working for it. Of the sixteen merchants, fifteen are said to be „from Le Havre“, and surprisingly only the wood merchant, Charles Violette, was from Guerville in BasseNormandie. As for the others, if we identify the specialities of some of them, such as Franc¸ois Daussy, glazier, or David Le´corne´, probably a gunsmith, most of them appear to be ironmongers with some kind of speciality, such as Catherine Beuze, who supplied a large range of objects in tin, or Jacques Marie, from whom bunting, thread, oil, paint, etc. were bought. Some of them even offered a kind of after-sales service.

9 This calculation cannot be readily extended to the running costs of an arsenal, which includes, for in-

stance, all the administrative personnel.

10 AN, MAR B 3 60, fo 149.

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Pierre Corney, who sold compasses and clocks, also had a contract for „retouching the compasses“, while Franc¸ois Daussy supplied window-glass and lead and was also contracted to clean the windows. However, it is clear that these are just minor expenses for an arsenal which thus found an easy way of furnishing itself with smallvalue merchandise, even though it may have been a major customer for these merchants. Larger expenses and supplies necessitated the setting in motion of trade on a much wider scale. Here we really broach the idea of a hinterland. Historians have long been aware of the importance of this question, and yet despite recent contributions11 little is known about the problem of supplying arsenals. The reason is simple: unlike in England, which had a dedicated administrative body (the Navy Board)12, in France there was never an institution specifically responsible for supply, which is why there is no body of sources. Information is fragmentary and widely dispersed, but it can, however, be retrieved from rare arsenal working documents, and particularly from the correspondence between the Secretary of State and the Navy Intendants. Checking various mentions of supply zones makes it possible to outline a cartography. This work has already been done for wood and we here present our initial results. After the town, the second supply zone is the „immediate“ hinterland, or what the geographer Andre´ Vigarie´ 13 denominates as the primitive hinterland (arrie`re-pays fondamental), a very intensively surveyed zone within which the arsenal will have no possible rivals. For Brest this would be the forest of Cranou, for Rochefort the forests of Saint-Jean d’Angle and Rochefort, making up an estimated 900 hectares, and one could add Provence for Toulon, and the forests of Nieppe and Cre´cy for Dunkirk. However, these zones appear very little in the sources, not because they were not exploited, but simply because exploiting them gave rise to no particular difficulties. They were directly or indirectly managed by the arsenal and the state rarely intervened. Beyond, there is a third supply zone for which the notion of hinterland is more questionable. The use of this area was much more selective, because supplies had first been taken from the primitive hinterland. Only rarer goods had to be sought beyond it.

Hinterland, a workable concept? It is necessary to introduce here the notions of a real hinterland and a theoretical hinterland, which are especially pertinent in the case of wood. This is simply a matter of areas which may be requested to supply and others which are exploited effectively, which is why on our map we indicate regions cited with not many more details, while

11 David Plouviez, De la terre a` la mer ... La construction navale militaire franc¸aise et ses re´seaux

e´conomiques au XVIIIe sie`cle, 5 vol., the`se multigr., Universite´ de Bretagne Sud, 2009.

12 See the study by Christian Buchet, Marine, e´conomie et socie´te´: un exemple d’interaction.

L’avitaillement de la Royal Navy durant la guerre de Sept Ans, Paris 1999.

13 Andre´ Vigarie´, Ports de commerce et vie littorale, Paris 1979, particularly pp. 71ff., and p. 91.

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Map 1: French forest exploitation sites by the Royal Navy, 1688–1690 Translation of the legend: re´gion e´voque´e = mentioned region; zones spe´cifie´es = specified area; maˆts = masts Source: AN, MAR, series B2 and B3, years 1688/1689/1690; design: Caroline Le Mao

elsewhere the exploitation sites are explicitly named. The existence of potential reserves is a way of reacting to the great increase in demand in wartime. A national sur-

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vey policy was implemented in the reign of Louis XIV14 resulting in the establishment of exact plans. The memorandum given to Lelarge,15 who was commissioned to visit the forests of Brittany, Anjou, Touraine and Maine, states that below each set of minutes a table of kinds of wood suitable for the navy should be presented, detailing the quantity of trees and the kinds of component that could be made from them (beams, curves, decking and so on). This was all to be accompanied by a map showing the extent of the forests, tracks leading to navigable rivers, and even the rivers themselves. The maps and minutes were brought together in volumes by the episcopal see and the province, with a map of the whole country at the start. Each internal map had to be located in relation to the general map. The King would thus have had at his disposal a clear overview of what the wood-bearing hinterland could be, if only because the operation was still underway in 1688, from which time visits were more targeted and more immediately efficient. Thus, in programming a visit to the woods of Languedoc in 1690, the commissioner was requested to note carefully „the nature and quality of the wood, the use that it could be put to, the places in which it was located, whether they were close to a canal or the Rhone or rivers that flowed into it, its age, what it would cost the King, what would be the cost of transporting it to Agde or Arles, and whether there were businessmen with whom one might negotiate for supplying timber.“16 It is immediately apparent that for this area one criterion is decisive: the question of access to these resources. The map of woodlands clearly shows the major role played by navigable waterways. This is particularly evident in the case of Burgundy,17 where the sites stretch down the length of the Saoˆne. Nowadays the great navigable waterways rarely lead directly to arsenals. Can one therefore state that the area drained by the Rhone constitutes the hinterland of Toulon? One can give a ready affirmative response to this question in so far as timber cut in Burgundy or Franche-Comte´ is specifically destined for Toulon; it arrives at the Rhone estuary and is then loaded onto coasting vessels to reach Toulon. But here we are dealing with what geographers call „transshipment“, from ship to ship, to be eventually unloaded on the quay. But what can we then say about the areas drained by the Garonne and the Loire, whose products end up at Bordeaux18 and Nantes, to then be sent on to Brest, Rochefort or even Toulon? One could refer to these areas as supply basins, but presumably only with difficulty: hinterlands does not seem to us to be applicable, especially as the concept of a „hinterland on water“, which suits coastal towns dependent on and working for a larger port.

14 Michel Deve`ze, La Grande Re´formation des Foreˆts Royales sous Colbert 1661–1680, une admirable

re´forme administrative, Nancy 1962; Chandra Mukerji, The Great Forestry Survey of 1669–1671: The Use of Archives for Political Reform, in: Social Studies of Science 37/2 (April 2007), pp. 227–253. 15 AN, MAR B 2 64, fo, memorandum, Lelarge, 20/04/1688. 16 AN, MAR B 2 75, fo 317, letter, Robert, 12/11/1690. 17 See Arlette Brosselin, La foreˆt bourguignonne: 1660–1789, Dijon 1987; more generally Andre´e Corvol, Foreˆt et marine, Paris 1999; Paul Walden Bamford, Forests and French sea power, 1660–1789, Toronto 1956. 18 On the role of Bordeaux as a supplier to the fighting navy, see Caroline Le Mao, La guerre: un stimulant commercial? Bordeaux et la guerre de la Ligue d’Augsbourg, 1688–1697, in: Histoire, E´conomie, Socie´te´s 1 (2013), pp. 3–17.

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In fact, these ports – Nantes and Bordeaux – do not work for a particular arsenal, for two main reasons. First, some areas are shared zones, which geographers refer to as „the margins of competition“. Timber which Monsieur Saupin takes from

Map 2: Forest exploitation sites by the royal navy in Burgundy, 1688–1690 Translation of the legend: sites d’exploitation mentionne´s = mentioned exploitation sites; voie navigable = navigable way; villes principales = main cities Design: Caroline Le Mao

the Nantes region is also sent to Brest, to Port Louis or to Rochefort. Second, some goods were so specialised and the places that produced them so rare, that they were redistributed among all the arsenals. For instance, tar from the Landes, cargoes of which were put together at Bordeaux, was then sent to Rochefort and Brest, and also to Toulon via the Canal des Deux Mers, and by a forwarding system it could get to

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Le Havre or Dunkirk. A similar system applied to masts from the Pyrenees or the Auvergne, to metallurgical products from Nevers, etc. What is more, the concept of the hinterland should not be employed in the singular: an arsenal has not one but several hinterlands, widely differing according to the merchandise in question, and if one excludes the primitive hinterland, the supply areas are not exclusive, and so the term is highly unsatisfactory. What is more, the urgent demands of war involve a whole system of distribution on a national scale,19 which completely alters the situation to the extent that one rapidly loses track of the goods used in an arsenal. Brest in particular worked with goods originating in part in its hinterland, but mainly sent from other arsenals, which supplied it with hemp, ropes, cannons, timber, foodstuffs, etc. However, even if an arsenal’s supply system cannot be limited to the exploitation of its hinterland, it is nonetheless the case that the connection with supply areas is fundamental to understanding the question of arsenals’ hinterlands.

II. Linking arsenals with their hinterlands

It should first be noted that, oddly, very little is known about the kinds of transportation used to link the primitive hinterland with an arsenal. In general, contracts made with merchants state that goods must be delivered to the arsenal: delivery therefore depended on the supplier, but did not seem to pose a problem. Similarly there was no particular concern about lightweight goods, such as soldiers’ clothing, which could be sent by road. It is very different with heavy goods manufactured far from the arsenal. Whether this is a matter of exploitation „for the economy“,20 that is to say set up by the State, or contracts with merchants, state administration always concerned itself with delivery, or at least with delivery problems. This is known as the topic features in the correspondence, which gives us a better understanding of transportation routes.

Full use of waterways We have already noted the importance of waterways for distant areas, and the problems that arise as arsenals are rarely served by a major river route. These problems exist both in peacetime and during a war, but war causes an increase in the circulation of goods, and this causes problems of volume, of urgency in the need for goods,

19 On these topics, see Caroline Le Mao, Le transport des marchandises de la Marine en temps de guerre:

l’exemple des anne´es 1688–1690, in: Bruno Marnot/Alexandre Fernandez, Les ports de l’Atlantique, de Brest a` la Corogne, PUPS, Paris 2013. 20 On the topic of supply to the economy, see Plouviez, De la terre (see note 11), pp. 152–159.

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and the necessity for rapid transportation. What was bearable before now becomes a troublesome constraint. Conflict therefore means resuming, or making others resume, maintenance work neglected for several years because of a shortage of funds. Attention was focussed on waterway locks, which caused transportation delays everywhere. In June 1689 the condition of the locks on the Saoˆne was widely deplored: they had not only delayed the conveyance of logs the year before, but had rendered these unusable because of the long time that they had spent in fresh water.21 The matter was particularly hard to deal with as obstacles on rivers were the affair of private individuals. Girier, contractor to the King for timber from Franche Comte´, did not hesitate to break down the gates of several locks deemed not to conform to the standard in order to let rafts of logs through, and thereby coming into various conflicts with the Marquis de Terlon.22 Maintenance was also an issue with one of the great works of Louis XIV’s reign, the Canal du Midi.23 In 1690 it was recommended that the banks of the canal should be improved, and large sloping embankments were to be sown with sainfoin or planted with willows to avoid undermining.24 In fact, heavy rains in lower Languedoc washed away the banks of the Canal below Carcassonne, causing delays, if not much damage, and alerting the authorities. Similarly, in June a list of locks needing checks was drawn up and an inspection recommended in order to guarantee the transportation of gunpowder. In addition to these very timely works, several rivers and waterways benefitted during the war by more or less substantial improvements, carried out with two ends in mind: to extend the primitive hinterland while extending the navigability of a route, and to establish a link between an arsenal and a zone of known potential. Works on the Charente25 served the first end: from 1688 the river was the subject of work that involved making it navigable from Angouleˆme up to Livray, or even up to its source at the bridge at Sigoulan.26 The object was to service the Angouleˆme, Limoges and Poitiers regions, which supplied, among other things, cannons, cannon balls, muskets and balls. There was also a wish to make the Isle, a tributary of the Dordogne that leads up to Pe´rigueux, navigable for transporting cannons.27 The works conducted on the Moselle were to link up with the „discovery“ of the wood-bearing tracts of the Vosges, where, according to Louvigny, „there was enough to supply the King with

21 AN, MAR B 2 70, fo 174, letter, Mongey, 13/06/1689. 22 AN, MAR B 2 71, fo 37v, letter, Lafont, 15/02/1689. 23 On this topic it is useful to consult Andre´ Maistre, Le canal des deux-Mers, canal royal du Languedoc,

1666–1810, Toulouse 1998, especially the chapter on commercial activity (pp. 167–185). Similarly see Georges Fre`che, Toulouse et la re´gion Midi-Pyre´ne´es au sie`cle des Lumie`res, Paris 1974, especially pp. 579–616 and above all pp. 617–658. 24 AN, MAR B 3 61, fo 80, letter, Arnoul, 03/05/1690. 25 On traffic on the Charente, see Martine Acerra, Rochefort: l’arsenal, l’eau et les vaisseaux, in: Les marines de guerres europe´ennes, XVIIe-XVIIIe sie`cles, ed. by Martine Acerra/Jose´ Merino/Jean Meyer, Paris 1985, 1998, p. 66. 26 AN, MAR B 2 65, fo 24v, letter, Saint Contest, 15/01/1688. 27 AN, MAR B 2 73, fo 350, 30/03/1690.

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Map 3: Supply areas of the royal navy, 1688–1690 Translation of the legend: re´gion forestie`re e´voque´e = mentioned woodland region; expl. forestie`re spe´cifie´es = specified forestry exploitation; maˆts = masts; chanvre = hemp; ancres = anchors; canons = cannons Source: see map 1; design: Caroline Le Mao

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masts for ten years“.28 After having assessed the quality of the product and the production costs, the question of transport was addressed. In November 1690 an engineer was despatched to determine which works needed to be carried out to improve transportation.29 The difficulty arose from the various bends in the river before Toul. The decision was made to blow up some rocks that were in the river, and to correct the course of a small river at Tarney.30 Similarly, at the other end of France, „the King having been informed that a lot of construction timber could be extracted from the Soule area by compelling the private individuals owning mills on the Maule´on river to make flash-locks on it, and that this would even be necessary for the country“, the minister charged Feydeau du Plessis with seeing what needed doing, and a few weeks later Intendant Bazin de Bezon was charged with putting the project into effect.31 Thus, within the space of three years improvement works were set in motion everywhere, aiming to improve the management of hinterlands and to extend them. At a time when a few weeks can make the difference between success and failure in a naval campaign, there was no hesitation about putting hundreds of men to work in order to minimise transportation delays, and even to put in place mixed solutions in which land routes sometimes played a part.

Increasingly complex and multimodal routes In point of fact, waterways are not enough to ensure the transportation of heavy goods, but they are the first choice. Being at war makes for a change in their profitability threshold. In other words, if in peacetime certain regions of production were abandoned because of transport costs, increased urgency and requirements leads to a reconsideration of certain options. Roads, generally rejected, are sometimes re-evaluated, because they are perhaps safer than sea transport, or because there are no other solutions and there is an unequivocal need for the supply material to which they lead. This fosters complex and multimodal routes on small, medium and large scales. On the small scale, we have the instance of the Pyrenean masts. During the War of the League of Augsburg, long before the making of the Way of the Masts, which was dug out with a crowbar along 1.2 kilometres of cliff-face in the eighteenth century, improvement works were carried out for exploiting the masts from the Aure valley further east. As the Pyrenees is one of the few regions in France from which quality masts can be obtained, the Commissioner of the Navy, Arnoul, was despatched to the Aure valley to report on the area. All obstacles seemed to be concentrated there: rocks and huge stones, a lack of water throughout the winter, no path on some sections of the route and a single one on others. A plan was accordingly made for the winter of 1690: the construction of four locks and of spaces where the equipment could be manoeuvred, repair of the roadway by a team of fifty men, and elimination of rocks in 28 AN, MAR B 3 60, fo 106, letter, Louvigny, 13/10/1690. 29 AN, MAR B 2 74, fo 68v, letter, Louvigny, 18/11/1690. 30 AN, MAR B 3 60, fo 97, letter, Louvigny, 04/10/1690. 31 AN, MAR B 2 73, fo 108, 23/01/1690 and fo 96v, 15/03/1690.

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the stream. Beside the men employed on the road, one hundred others were recruited to direct the masts, as well as 160 „ragiers“, who were specialists in raft-work.32 This work had just one objective: to gain six weeks before and after the snow-melt, so that the masts from the Pyrenees might be delivered to Bordeaux, or even Rochefort, for the end of April or beginning of May. On the medium scale we can revert to the previously mentioned case of the Moselle. The objective was to transport masts from the Vosges to the arsenal at Le Havre. The modifications made to the Moselle allow rafting as far as Toul, but from there one had to take a land route. The Saint-Dizier option was rejected very quickly as so large a convoy by land would make the cost excessive. They chose Ligny, because it was closer and because of the sloping routes between Toul and Ligny. From there one takes the river Bar, which flows into the Marne, and this enables one to reach Le Havre.33 The road thus acted as a link between the two waterways, the Moselle and the Marne, a connection completed 150 years later with the Rhine-Marne Canal. Sometimes the routes adopted were on a national scale. The case of Dunkirk is very interesting because in peacetime the hinterland of this arsenal in fact extended into provinces not under French rule. The declaration of war therefore cut off part of the arsenal’s hinterland, for even if it was possible to infringe on trade prohibitions, the risks and the additional costs entailed led to a redrawing of supply routes, making the intendant come up with novel solutions. In the spring of 1689 Dunkirk was short of cannons, which at that time Patoulet bought in Holland or even in England. The Intendant proposed to obtain them by the following route: cannons made in the foundries of Angouleˆme were delivered to Rochefort along the Charente; from there they went to Nantes, without too much risk or cost, to take the Loire, the Briare canal, and then the Seine to reach Le Havre, where frigates would go to fetch them. He deemed it a long but safe route, and paradoxically it made it possible to obtain goods at a lower rate than in Holland, which was close but presented costs and risks that were too high.34 This was the solution that the Minister adhered to when he gave his instructions to Be´gon on June 26. The connection between arsenals and their hinterlands, or at least their supply areas, is sometimes very difficult to determine, to the point that accessibility very largely delimits the supply areas. Indeed, one consequence of the war was to reorder priorities: from the time when the question of cost was primary and masts from the Northern lands were less expensive and of better quality than French ones, the ready availability of the resource mattered much more than its price. Starting from this point, the requirements of the arsenal towns contributed to reshaping the hinterlands, and the Secretary of State for the Navy put in place a policy for managing the supply areas, or at least the ways to manage them, which can be classified into three categories: intensification of exploitation; preserving and reserving resources; creation.

32 AN, MAR B 3 61, fo 189, report, Arnoul, 18/10/1690. 33 AN, MAR B 2 74, fo 82v, letter, Louvois, 23/11/1690. 34 AN, MAR B/3/58, fo 91, 20/06/1689.

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III. Better management of hinterlands

Increasing the quantities In response to the arsenals’ increased needs, the first thing to do was to increase the quantities without really changing the structure of the system. The principle may be simple, but it presents various problems in practice. The first lies in anticipating requirements. It has to be said that even when fighting began in the War of the League of Augsburg, the royal administration was still poor at estimating what they might need, and in the arsenals this was translated into contradictions in orders. It can therefore be said that in October 1688 the tendency was still to limit expenses. If, as the King wished,35 they reduced the orders in Brest of cloth for flags to what was strictly necessary, which was very inconsequential, the orders given to Vauvre´, Intendant for the navy at Toulon, were altogether different. The transmission of wood from Burgundy and Franche-Comte´ was reduced, on the pretext that because of the war and the importance of the fitting out to be done, new constructions were no longer a priority, and demand must, consequently, be limited.36 In another letter, the Secretary of State for the Navy stated, „Since I gave you the order to think of providing yourself with the Northern goods that you might need for the next two years, I have come to the conclusion that we would not find any greater difficulty in securing this supply next year rather than this, and with easily taken precautions there might be less risk; and on this principle I have calculated that it would be satisfactory if you were to commission le Sieur Gautier to purchase goods necessary for one year“.37 The same order was sent to Louvigny for Le Havre, Desclouzeaux for Brest, Be´gon for Rochefort, and lastly to Mauclerc. Thus, one instruction halved the anticipated orders for Northern goods, which it would prove completely impossible to buy a few months later. This had its repercussions in the hinterlands, for what could not be bought abroad had to be produced, whether it was hemp, tar, or Northern masts. Intensification of the requirements was accompanied by an intensification of production, which was achieved with the help of motivational measures. To motivate the Breton producers, a minimum price was guaranteed for the purchase of hemp: „His Majesty wishes to contribute in all ways to the increase in the cultivation and trade in hemp in Brittany“.38 The tariff, fixed at 125s the quintal in July, was revised upwards in November to 135s. However, intensification has its limits, and in some cases it resulted in reserves being exhausted. This is particularly true for saltpetre39 within the first few months of the conflict, to the extent that France had no other recourse but to

35 AN, MAR B 2 66, fo 259, letter, Desclouzeaux, 16/10/1688. 36 AN, MAR B 2 67, fo 273v, letter, de Mucie, 16/10/1688. 37 AN, MAR B 2 67, fo 267v, letter, de Vauvre´, 12/10/1688. 38 AN, MAR B 2 64, fo 148, order, 06/07/1688. 39 On this topic, see Fre´de´ric Naulet, L’artillerie franc¸aise. 1665–1765: naissance d’une arme, Paris,

CFHM, 2002; idem, La ferme des poudres et salpeˆtres. Cre´ation et approvisionnement en poudre en France (1664–1765), available on http://www.stratisc.org/Naulet_TDM.htm.

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obtain supplies from abroad, especially from Italy. Likewise, the resources of some forests were exhausted; it was not that there was no more wood, but there was none fit for the navy. The forests of Provence had to be abandoned around 1690, and at the same time the forests of Burgundy could supply only curved timber.40 Intensification had to be accompanied by a policy of conservation and extension, or of renovation of the hinterlands.

Preservation and reservation Preservation of a hinterland has two aspects: resources have to be conserved, so that they are not exhausted and are given time to recover, but they also have to be preserved, or rather reserved, for the King and his sole benefit. Protection measures clearly concern timber. Colbert’s work to protect French forests is well known, as is the importance of his decree concerning waters and forests. A reading of the correspondence of Intendants for the Navy reveals that the application of the decree was far from perfect. In some cases certain Intendants are being suspected of damaging the King’s forests,41 and in others it is a matter of „one’s fear that the King will forbid use of those he owns and will fell in others for his own purposes and there will be considerable felling in order to stock huge quantities of staves, [...] wood for burning and other uses“,42 while in Provence the damage done by goats which „graze on the buds as they emerge“ is stressed.43 Despite the measures taken in 1688,44 in November 1689 the owners were again deploring the trouble these animals caused in the forests of Provence,45 and in February 1690 there is a „decree requiring several communities in Provence to get rid of their goats“.46 Other protection measures are noted for the forests of the Loire, the Vosges, and for Burgundy, Bresse, Bugey,47 etc. Most commonly, however, the preservation of hinterlands worked simply by appropriation, to the exclusive benefit of the King. In some areas, the war only served to reinforce this tendency. This was the case for woodland reserves, since the decree concerning waters and forests, whose provisions are recapitulated in the Navy Decree in 1689, provided that the King reserved for himself trees suitable for naval construction located close to the seashore or the course of navigable rivers. Owners wishing

40 AN, MAR B 3 61, fo 269, letter, Robert, 29/08/1690. 41 AN, MAR B 2 69, fo 194, letter, Be´gon, 23/03/1689 : „the King has been told that you are having the

timber from the forest of Rochefort sold, and that by your order large numbers of trees are cut down, which does the forest a lot of damage“. 42 AN, MAR B 3 56, fo 58, letter, Vauvre´, 30/03/1689. 43 AN, MAR B 2 75, fo 73, decree which orders several communities in Provence to control their goats 15/02/1690. 44 AN, MAR B 3 56, fo 212, letter, Vauvre´, 24/07/1688: mention of a Parliamentary decree concerning banishing goats from the woods. 45 AN, MAR B 2 71, fo 293v, letter, Vauvre´, 17/11/1689. 46 AN, MAR B 2 75, fo 73, decree which orders several communities in Provence to control their goats 15/02/1690. 47 AN, MAR B 2 67, fo 338, letter, Mucie, 18/12/1688.

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to fell were in fact obliged to declare so beforehand, and a Navy Commissioner was then despatched to the site to ascertain whether any trees might be of use to the King and to mark them if appropriate. The war had the effect of extending this kind of measure to other resources. Pre-emption and requisition orders are seen to multiply, and their terms were increasing stringent. This was the case with hemp, for instance. In February 1688 the King, through the Secretary of State, reprimanded Desclouzeaux, because „His Majesty does not approve your proposal to give to the merchant with whom you last dealt an order to purchase preferentially one hundred thousand of hemp48 in the market, or from the merchants who have it [...] I am pleased to explain to you that if need be he prefers to pay more for his hemp than to make use of such an expedient, which can only be contrary to trade, and those to whom one gives this kind of order never fail to abuse it; so you must stipulate that in all markets you will only entertain for the supply of hemp those who undertake to buy it simultaneously with other merchants with no preference“.49 But in the autumn, „His Majesty, needing a large quantity of hemp for the refitting which he has ordered at the port of Brest“ allowed it to be „acquired in the markets of the towns of Lannion, Tre´guier, Paimpol and others in Brittany in preference to all others whom he forbids to buy it until the aforesaid Sieur Desclouzeaux is certain of“ the quantity of 400 thousands of hemp.50 At the same time, similar orders were sent to Commissioner Lombard for the Tonneins region, to Louvigny for Bayeux, and also to the Auvergne. For several other products, pre-emption became requisition. In February 1689,51 when the conflict was only just beginning, an order was given to various navy intendants and commissioners to seize from Berthelot and his clerks all available gunpowder, including that for shooting game; the order specified that the seizure should take place everywhere at the same time so that the clerks would not be able to conceal what they had available. The King could, however, only take resources which were available, which meant that there was a need to increase these.

Prospecting and creating Another way of extending the hinterlands is „discovering“ new resources by means of a prospecting policy. This was in fact sometimes carried out even before the conflict, as was seen in the reports of forest inspections, leading to renovation of the woodbearing hinterland. In 1690, with the wood of Provence almost exhausted, they were in the course of turning to that of Languedoc, deemed suitable for use, even though the census was not yet sufficiently advanced.52 Similarly, in December 1690 „the need to preserve the wood of Franche-Comte´ for construction of the ships which the King

48 The „thousand“ („millier“) was normally used as an equivalent of 1,000 pounds or 10 quintals. 49 AN, MAR B 2 65, fo 121, letter, Desclouzeaux, 21/02/1688. 50 AN, MAR B 2 64, fo, order, Desclouzeaux, 07/10/1688. Desclouzeaux is Navy Intendant at Brest. 51 AN, MAR B 2 69, fo 38, letter, Be´gon, 04/02/1689. 52 AN, MAR B 3 61, fo 332, letter, Robert, 29/10/1690; MAR B 2 75, fo 317, letter Robert, 12/11/1690.

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wanted built at Toulon, and to replace that of Bordeaux and Provence, which was becoming scarce“ prompted a visit to the forests of the Loire, which seems to have been most fruitful. The administration department also sought to exploit the lands recently conquered by the King in the East of France, and in particular the woodlands between the rivers Sambre and Meuse. In addition to this, prospecting for minerals was also encouraged. The navy needed coal, cargoes of which were becoming scarce, as the bulk of it had previously come from England. In 1688 Clairambault, ControllerGeneral of the Navy, was commissioned to seek coal-mines in Brittany,53 and the mission seems to have been successful as a few months later he said that he had found one close to Saint-Brieuc. Also of interest are the resources of the Auvergne, reputed to be as good as the English mines and therefore suitable for large works such as ships’ anchors54. Besides this, state intervention led to the „invention“ of a hinterland. This was not carried out simply by finding resources that were present in the land but unexploited, as in the cases of mines and forests, but of encouraging production and creating new products. The most telling case is that of tar.55 France was in fact largely dependent on tar from the North for naval fitting out, and attempts to launch national tar production from the 1670s remained somewhat disappointing. With the war limiting access to foreign resources, now scarce and prohibitively expensive, production in the Landes again found ministerial favour. The administration was aware that in 1688 tar manufacture in the Bordeaux Landes was on the point of collapse: the tar from there was still not sufficiently fine to use for ropes, because it did not penetrate the hemp, but simply made it black; „and since it would be good to keep such an establishment for the kingdom“, Lombard was instructed to improve the product to the extent of making the Landes product as good as that from the North.56 There was likewise an attempt to encourage similar establishments at Bayonne57 and in Provence.58 In September 1689 this policy of incentives continued; in a detailed letter to the Intendant in Guyenne, Seignelay emphasises the virtually insurmountable difficulty of obtaining from the North the great quantity of tar and pitch needed for the arsenals. It was necessary to encourage those who had ovens in the Landes of Bordeaux to set them working, and those with land close to this kind of establishment to do the same. Bazin de Bezon could assure them of an immediate take-up „as much through the large quantity that I shall have bought, as by the purchases which the outfitters and merchants will make“. If the proprietors were not in a state to make the advances necessary for these establishments, the Intendant would see whether 53 AN, MAR B 2 64, fo 214, order, Clairambault, 25/10/1688. 54 AN, MAR B 2 74, fo 130v, letter, de Vaubourg, 25/07/1690. On this topic, see Jacques Gay, Six mille´-

naires d’histoire des ancres, Paris 1997.

55 On this topic, we draw on Robert Aufan/Franc¸ois Thierry, Histoire des produits re´sineux landais,

Arcachon 1990; Francis Loirette, Aux origines d’une vieille industrie landaise: la manufacture du goudron a` l’e´poque de Colbert, Auch 1960; Jacques Sargos, Histoire de la foreˆt landaise, du de´sert a` l’aˆge d’or, Bordeaux 1997. 56 AN, MAR B 2 65, fo 303v, letter, Lombard, 05/05/1688. 57 AN, MAR B 2 70, fo 420, letter, La Boulaye, 26/11/1689. 58 AN, MAR B 2 71, fo 324v, letter, de Vauvre´, 15/12/1689.

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they could be put in contact with Bordeaux merchants and deal with these merchants to obtain a large quantity of tar and pitch. „If this succeeds the French will become perceptibly less dependent on that of the North and [...] Bordeaux and the Landes will attract all the money which now leaves the kingdom for the purchase of these goods“.59 An ambitious wager indeed, but one that was almost won, since a memorandum prepared in 1690, which aimed to summarise the state of supply, mentions that France had been short of tar and pitch the previous year because of prohibitions in Holland and England, but that year, thanks to orders made in the Landes of Bordeaux and around Bayonne, the navy would be able to fulfil its requirements.60 And in fact, in November France was able to disregard a cargo of Northern tar arriving at Lisbon,61 even though the order had been made by the King a few months previously. The country had attained a state of self-sufficiency, not only in quantity but also in quality, even if only temporarily.62 At the end of this investigation we would like to emphasise two conclusions. The first is that the concept of a hinterland is too narrow to comprise all of the ways in which arsenals were supplied. In peacetime imports are essential to the functioning of an arsenal, and the hinterland supplies only a part of its requirements. In wartime, supply from abroad can be assumed to diminish – how much remains to be assessed – to the benefit of national supplies, but the map of hinterlands becomes blurred to the extent that it becomes difficult to assign the exploitation of an area to any one particular arsenal. The primitive hinterlands do indeed stay fairly stable, but in the end they only supply a limited part of the provisions, and above all, the system which is established can only be understood on a national scale, because of redistribution from one arsenal to another according to the urgency of the situation as well as the reserves in some and the shortages in others. Even the Ponant-Levant distinction, while being one of the most workable, becomes blurred, because of the role played by the Canal du Midi, for example, or the competition that could take place between Toulon and Le Havre for the forests of the Vosges. And what can be said of vessels that left Toulon or Rochefort partially fitted out and whose equipping was finished while they were on route? The second conclusion is that war profoundly and perhaps lastingly alters schemes for supply. There is one thing that does not change. The primitive hinterland remains the same, except for Dunkirk, to the point that war, by dramatically increasing requirements, can lead to phenomena of over-exploitation and exhaustion that are still poorly assessed, but are perhaps repairable as in the case of the forests of Provence, which could no longer supply Toulon. Besides, war, which limited imports from abroad, because the shipments were too scarce and expensive, added to

59 AN, MAR B 2 70, fo 118, letter, de Bezons, 18/09/1689. 60 AN, MAR B 3 60, fo 143, memorandum, 1690. 61 AN, MAR B 2 75, fo 317, letter, Robert, 12/11/1690. 62 This at least is what one deduces from the work by Christian Huetz de Lemps, who notes the feeble-

ness of Bordeaux export of tar and pitch. Christian Huetz de Lemps, Ge´ographie du commerce de Bordeaux a` la fin du re`gne de Louis XIV, Paris 1975, p. 274.

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the pressure on the French production. In some cases this could be an opportunity. It prompted the development of transport infrastructures and the commencement of works that might have been neglected in other times. It occasioned extensive prospecting, enabling new deposits of resources to be discovered. It also enabled the utilisation of national productions that had hitherto been neglected, whether because setting them up was initially more expensive than buying foreign products – due to the establishment of infrastructures which were still there after the war helped to correct this handicap – or because they were of poorer quality than foreign products, and war augmented the effort to achieve quality. Can it be said that this modification of the state of affairs was permanent? It has to be stated that the good fortune of Landes tar was only temporary and that masts from the North regained favour once the war ended, but it is nevertheless true that for some individuals who knew how to seize their chance during the war, plenty of good business opportunities remained.

¨ LKERUNG UND RAUM STADTBEVO Die soziale und ra¨umliche Vera¨nderung der Prager Altstadt im 14. Jahrhundert von Martin Musı´lek

Der 13. Januar 1350, ein Mittwoch, war ein bedeutender Tag in der Prager Stadtgeschichte. Der bo¨hmische Ko¨nig Karl IV. erschien auf dem Altsta¨dter Rathaus und ernannte den neuen Stadtrat.1 Die Besonderheit dieses Augenblicks bestand aber nicht in der Anwesenheit des Ko¨nigs, denn der Herrscher bestellte den Stadtrat bereits 1344 und auch vier Jahre spa¨ter noch perso¨nlich.2 Bemerkenswert war vor allem die Zusammensetzung der Personengruppe, die sich eingefunden hatte, um von nun an die Stadt zu regieren. Nur zwei Mitglieder des neuen Stadtrates geho¨rten dem alten Patriziat an. Unter den u¨brigen elf Ratsherren waren ein Kra¨mer und neun Handwerker. Es handelte sich also nicht um die u¨bliche Erweiterung der traditionell herrschenden Schicht, sondern das Jahr 1350 stellt eine wirkliche Wende dar. Zum ersten Mal in der Geschichte der Stadt ergriff eine Bevo¨lkerungsgruppe die Macht, die hauptsa¨chlich aus reichen Handwerkern und nicht unvermo¨genden Kaufleuten bestand, also eine Gruppe, die man heute wohl als sta¨dtischen Mittelstand bezeichnen wu¨rde.3 1 Liber vetustissimus Antiquae Civitatis Pragensis 1310–1518, hg. v. Hana Pa´tkova´, Prag 2011, fol. 90b,

157b; vgl. Jaroslav Meznı´k, Praha pˇred husitskou revolucı´ [Prag vor der hussitischen Revolution], Prag 1990, S. 47–48, 254. 2 Liber vetustissimus, (wie Anm. 1), fol. 152r, 155v. 3A ¨ hnlich Jaroslav Meznı´k, Pˇrevrat na Stare´m Mˇestˇe prazˇske´m roku 1350 [Der Umsturz in der Prager Altstadt im Jahre 1350], in: Prazˇsky´ sbornı´k historicky´ 1 (1964), S. 7–20. Aus der neuesten Literatur zur sozialen Stratifizierung der Stadtbevo¨lkerung ist zu nennen: Martin Nodl, Elity v cˇ esky´ch a moravsky´ch pozdnˇe stˇredovˇeky´ch mˇestech jako badatelsky´ a interpretaˇcnı´ proble´m [Die Eliten in bo¨hmischen und ma¨hrischen Sta¨dten im Spa¨tmittelalter als Forschungs- und Interpretationsproblem], in: Documenta Pragensia 22 (2004), S. 23–49. Von der großen Anzahl deutschsprachiger Studien seien die folgenden Beispiele angefu¨hrt: Dietrich Denecke, Soziale Strukturen im sta¨dtischen Raum: Entwicklung und Stand der sozial-topographischen Stadtgeschichtsforschung, in: Die Sozialstruktur und Sozialtopographie vorindustrieller Sta¨dte, hg. v. Matthias Meinhardt/Andreas Ranft (Hallische Beitra¨ge zur Geschichte des Mittelalters und der Fru¨hen Neuzeit 1), Berlin 2005, S. 129. Zur sozialen Struktur der deutschen Sta¨dte vgl. Erich Maschke, Soziale Gruppen in der deutschen Stadt des spa¨ten Mittelal¨ ber Bu¨rger, Stadt und sta¨dtische Literatur im Spa¨tmittelalter, hg. v. Josef Fleckenstein/Karl ters, in: U Stackmann (Abhandlungen der Akademie der Wissenschaften in Go¨ttingen, Philologisch-Historische Klasse Folge 3/Nr. 121), Go¨ttingen 1980, S. 127–145. Einen anregenden Ansatz zum Thema Stratifizierung der Stadtbevo¨lkerung bietet am Beispiel der Stadt St. Gallen um 1411 auch Willi Schoch, Die Bevo¨lkerung der Stadt St. Gallen im Jahre 1411. Eine sozialgeschichtliche und sozialtopographische Untersuchung (St. Galler-Kultur und Geschichte 28), St. Gallen 1997, S. 41–44, 55–95.

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¨ nderungen in der Zusammensetzung des Stadtrats fanden Die tiefgreifenden A Mitte des 14. Jahrhunderts ihren natu¨rlichen Niederschlag auch in den Transaktionen von Vermo¨gen und Macht, die im Rahmen einzelner Gruppen der sta¨dtischen Gesellschaft erfolgten. Im Falle der Prager Altstadt, des reichsten und zugleich bedeutendsten Stadtteiles, sind fu¨r das 14. Jahrhundert vier Stadtbu¨cher erhalten. Eine Untersuchung der Vermo¨genstransaktionen innerhalb der Stadt ermo¨glicht nur das bislang wenig genutzte Gerichtsbuch mit den Kaufeintra¨gen („Kniha soudnı´ s trhovy´mi za´pisy“), das auch als „Liber judiciorum“ oder „Liber contractuum“ bezeichnet wird (Stadtarchiv Prag, Handschrift Nr. 987).4 Das Buch wurde zwischen den Jahren 1351 und 1367 gefu¨hrt. Es ist vor allem deshalb bedeutend, weil es das erste u¨berlieferte Stadtbuch ist, aus dem sich ein relativ geschlossenes und systematisches Bild der Ha¨user in der Altstadt und ihrer Eigentu¨mer gewinnen la¨sst. Neben verschiedenen mehr oder weniger strittigen Gescha¨ften, die vor dem Stadtgericht verhandelt wurden, nahm man im Gerichtsbuch auch Eintra¨ge vor, die den Ha¨usermarkt betrafen.5 In vielen Fa¨llen wurden die Eintra¨ge zum Hauserwerb um genauere topographische Angaben erga¨nzt. Meistens erfahren wir den Namen mindestens eines oder auch beider Nachbarn, gegebenenfalls des Besitzers des gegenu¨berstehenden Hauses; in einigen Fa¨llen wird die Lage des Objekts in Bezug auf den Standort der Kirche oder der Badeanstalt charakterisiert, also des typischen Gutes der Kirche, des Adels oder des Herrschers. Die Quelle liefert uns nicht nur Nachrichten u¨ber die Ha¨user, die im Untersuchungszeitraum zum Marktobjekt wurden, sondern informiert zusa¨tzlich auch u¨ber viele andere Ha¨user und deren Eigentu¨mer. Obwohl dem Buch keine „harten“ Fakten zu entnehmen sind, mit deren Hilfe sofort eine soziale Differenzierung der Einwohnerschaft durchgefu¨hrt werden ko¨nnte, und sich auch die Raumgliederung der Altstadt anhand dieser Quelle nur teilweise ermitteln la¨sst, kann eine Angabe dieser Quelle durchaus mit Gewinn fu¨r eine Analyse der gesellschaftlichen Struktur verwendet werden. Sie nennt na¨mlich insgesamt 1755 Stadtbu¨rger (95 Prozent aller Eigentu¨mer), die in dieser Zeit in der Stadt ein unbewegliches Gut kauften bzw. verkauften oder eines besaßen. Wenn wir aufgrund der bisherigen Einscha¨tzungen in der Fachliteratur davon ausgehen, dass die Altstadt Mitte des

4 Josef Trika ˇ Staromˇestska´ kniha soudnı´ z let 1351–1367 [Das Altsta¨dtische Gerichtsbuch von 1351 ˇ c,

ˇ bis 1367], in: Prazˇsky´ sbornı´k historicky´ 29 (1996), S. 5–58; vgl. Mira Kremlickova ´ , Staromˇestske´ soudnı´ knihy pro dluhy pod 10 kop z let 1370–1391 a 1400–1449 [Die Altsta¨dtischen Gerichtsbu¨cher fu¨r die Schulden unter 10 Schock Groschen 1370–1391 und 1400–1449], ungedr. Diss. Prag 1952. 5 Stadtarchiv Prag, Hs. 987, fol. 165r–222v. Bereits Mitte des 19. Jahrhunderts erschien diese Agenda in der topographischen Edition von Va´clav Vladivoj Tomek, Za´klady stare´ho mı´stopisu Prazˇske´ho 1. Stare´ Mˇesto [Grundzu¨ge der alten Topographie Prags 1. Altstadt], Prag 1866. Der Verfasser ordnete die publizierten Eintra¨ge auch nach topographischen Aspekten; die Ergebnisse dieser Arbeit bildeten dann die Grundlage fu¨r die topographischen Kapitel von Tomeks monumentaler ‚Geschichte der Stadt Prag‘. Sein Werk hatte aber – abgesehen von wenigen Ausnahmen – rein deskriptiven Charakter. Tomek wa¨hlte nur manche Ha¨user aus und ihre vornehmlich bedeutenden Eigentu¨mer, ohne die einzelnen Erwa¨hnungen sachlich oder chronologisch zu hierarchisieren, dem entspricht auch das selektive und ziemlich statische Bild von Prag, das aus seinen Untersuchungen hervorging. Va´clav Vladivoj Tomek, Dˇejepis mˇesta Prahy 1 [Geschichte der Stadt Prag 1], Prag 21892, S. 223–235; Va´clav Vladivoj Tomek, Dˇejepis mˇesta Prahy 2 [Geschichte der Stadt Prag 2], Prag 21892, S. 133–220.

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14. Jahrhunderts etwa 10 000 Einwohner za¨hlte, liefert uns das Gerichtsbuch Informationen u¨ber jeden fu¨nften Einwohner.6 Es waren diejenigen, die sich fu¨hrend am politischen und wirtschaftlichen Leben der sta¨dtischen Gesellschaft beteiligten.

Diagramm 1: Zahl der Hausgescha¨fte in der Prager Altstadt 1351–1366

Zwischen 1351 und 1366 wurden in das Buch insgesamt 766 Haus- oder Hofverka¨ufe eingetragen, bei denen der Ka¨ufer oder Verka¨ufer eindeutig als Bu¨rger identifiziert werden konnte (Diagramm 1). Im Durchschnitt fanden ja¨hrlich 48 solcher Gescha¨fte statt. Wenn wir die weiteren, im Mittelalter u¨blichen Formen der Hausu¨bertragungen – d. h. besonders den Pfandverfall zugunsten des Gla¨ubigers – noch hinzurechnen, handelte es sich um insgesamt 924 Transaktionen von dem einen auf einen anderen Eigentu¨mer. Dabei blieben unentgeltlicher Verzicht, Schenkung oder einfacher Erbfall unberu¨cksichtigt, wa¨hrend drei Fa¨lle von Haustausch aufgenommen wurden, ¨ bersicht als Verkauf zweier Ha¨user gelten. Im Untersuchungszeitraum die in der U 1351 bis 1366 kam es also ja¨hrlich im Durchschnitt zu 58 Haustransaktionen (Diagramm 2). Wenn wir davon ausgehen, dass das Buch wahrscheinlich nicht alle Haus-

6 Karl Beer, Zur a¨lteren Bevo¨lkerungsstatistik Prags und einiger anderer Sta¨dte Bo¨hmens, in: Mittei-

lungen des Vereines fu¨r Geschichte der Deutschen in Bo¨hmen 58 (1919), S. 74–87; Frantisˇek Graus, Mˇestska´ chudina v dobˇe pˇredhusitske´ [Die sta¨dtischen Armen im vorhussitischen Zeitalter], Prag 1949, S. 116; Frantisˇek Sˇmahel, Die Hussitische Revolution 1 (Monumenta Germaniae Historica Schrifˇ ten 43), Hannover 2002, S. 332–335; Frantisˇek Hoffmann, Stˇredovˇeke´ mˇesto v Cecha ´ ch a na Moravˇe ˇ [Die mittelalterliche Stadt in Bo¨hmen und Ma¨hren], Prag 2009, S. 311; Petr Cornej, 30. 7. 1419: Prvnı´ prazˇska´ defenestrace. Krvava´ nedˇele uprostˇred le´ta [Der erste Prager Fenstersturz. Ein blutiger Sonntag in der Mitte des Sommers], Prag 2010, S. 31, 45. Zu dieser Frage allgemein Eduard Maur, Za´klady historicke´ demografie [Die Grundzu¨ge der historischen Demographie], Prag 1983, S. 37–40.

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Diagramm 2: Hauska¨ufe in der Prager Altstadt 1351–1366

Diagramm 3: Kauffrequenz der Altsta¨dter Ha¨user 1365–1366

gescha¨fte erfasste, la¨ge die tatsa¨chliche Zahl der Transaktionen noch ho¨her.7 Von den insgesamt 1157 im Buch genannten Altsta¨dter Ha¨usern wechselten innerhalb von 16 7 Unserer Aufmerksamkeit entziehen sich offensichtlich die Hausverka¨ufe, die von weniger vermo¨gen-

den Stadtbewohnern geta¨tigt wurden; sie gaben sich wohl mit einer mu¨ndlichen Besta¨tigung der Vera¨ußerung oder mit dem Kauf vor Zeugen zufrieden. Im Gerichtsbuch sind daru¨ber hinaus nicht alle Vera¨nderungen im Besitz der Altsta¨dter Liegenschaften verzeichnet, die den sta¨dtischen Eliten geho¨rten. Fu¨r 1361 wird als Besitzer des Hauses Nr. 402/I Dietrich Plafus (daz haus, in dem ich wone) genannt. Im Gerichtsbuch ist aber fu¨r 1364 als erster Eigentu¨mer Peter von Taus verzeichnet. Es la¨sst sich jedoch

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Jahren mehr als die Ha¨lfte ihre Eigentu¨mer.8 Bei den meisten Ha¨usern kam es nur einmal zum Eigentu¨merwechsel, bei einigen la¨sst sich dieser Prozess jedoch zwei- oder sogar dreimal beobachten (Diagramm 3). Obwohl die Beschaffenheit des Gerichtsbuches mit den Kaufeintra¨gen und der eigentliche Zweck seiner Fu¨hrung es im Grunde nicht erlaubten, bei der Aufzeichnung der Daten topographische Aspekte zu beru¨cksichtigen, ermo¨glichen die Eintra¨ge eine genaue Lokalisierung der erwa¨hnten Ha¨user (Diagramm 4). Von den 1157

Diagramm 4: Lokalisierung der Ha¨user in der Prager Altstadt nach dem Altsta¨dter Gerichtsbuch 1351–1366

angefu¨hrten Ha¨usern konnten bislang 34 Prozent mit Sicherheit lokalisiert werden, eine wahrscheinliche Lokalisierung gelang bei weiteren 54 Prozent. Im Fall der mit hoher Wahrscheinlichkeit lokalisierten Ha¨user wissen wir, an welcher Straße bzw. an welchem Platz sich das Haus befand. Bisher sind wir aber nicht in der Lage, die genaue Abfolge der Ha¨user an der Straße oder auf dem Platz genau zu bestimmen. Aus den gesammelten Daten ko¨nnen keine pra¨zisen Schlussfolgerungen abgeleitet werden. Trotz mo¨glichst komplexer Bearbeitung bleiben die Daten unvollsta¨ndig und in ihrem Aussagewert begrenzt. Eine genaue soziale Einordnung aller erwa¨hnten Einzelpersonen wie auch die Bestimmung ihres tatsa¨chlichen Vermo¨gensvolumens bzw. der Zahl der Ha¨user in ihrem Besitz ermo¨glicht die Quelle nicht. Wir mu¨ssen davon ausgehen, dass im Gerichtsbuch nicht alle Haustransaktionen genannt

nicht ausschließen, dass der betreffende Vorgang einem nicht genau lokalisierten Geba¨ude zuzuordnen ist oder dass die Besitztransaktion auf anderem Wege erfolgte (z. B. durch Erbgang); Regesta diplomatica nec non epistolaria regni Bohemiae VII/3 (1360–1361), hg. v. Bedˇrich Mendl/Milena Linhartova´, Prag 1958, Nr. 964, S. 575; vgl. Tomek (Hg.), Za´klady 1 (wie Anm. 5), S. 131. 8 Tatsa¨chlich war die Zahl der Altsta¨dter Ha¨user wahrscheinlich kleiner. Mo¨glicherweise wurden bei unsicher lokalisierten Ha¨usern mehrere Erwa¨hnungen eines einzigen Hausverkaufs nicht korrekt beurteilt. Wenn der Verka¨ufer oder der Ka¨ufer bzw. beide Parteien nur mit dem Vornamen bezeichnet wurden, ist das Haus kaum pra¨zise zu lokalisieren. Die Angabe von 1157 Ha¨usern sollte daher als Anna¨herungswert gelten.

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Abb. 1: Der Altsta¨dter Ring im 14. Jahrhundert Historischer Stadtplan nach Va´clav Vladivoj Tomek, 19. Jahrhundert

¨ berdies fehlt ein andesind, die im Untersuchungszeitraum durchgefu¨hrt wurden. U res Quellenkorrektiv (z. B. Steuerbu¨cher), so dass nicht festzustellen ist, wie lange die betreffenden Personen ihre Besitztu¨mer behielten.9 Betont werden muss, dass wir nur diejenigen Ha¨user in unsere Analyse einbeziehen, die entweder im Untersuchungszeitraum vera¨ußert wurden oder deren Eigentu¨mer zufa¨llig bei der genauen Bestim9 Fu¨r die Prager Altstadt stammen die a¨ltesten Steuerbu¨cher vom Ende der 1420er Jahre. Gegenu¨ber den

a¨lteren Stadtbu¨chern erfassen sie die Stadt in den Wirren der hussitischen Kriege, wo es in allen gesellschaftlichen Schichten der sta¨dtischen Bevo¨lkerung zu einem grundlegenden sozialen Wandel kam. Zur Edition der Altsta¨dter Bu¨cher: Bernı´ knihy Stare´ho Mˇesta prazˇske´ho (1427–1434) [Steuerbu¨cher der Prager Altstadt (1427–1434)], hg. v. Hana Pa´tkova´, Prag 1996.

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mung des Standortes der verkauften Ha¨user Erwa¨hnung fanden. Bei der Interpretation dieser Quelle muss auch beachtet werden, dass darin fast ausschließlich die wohlhabenden sta¨dtischen Schichten vorkommen. Bis auf seltene Ausnahmen entziehen sich Mitglieder der a¨rmeren, niederen Schichten der Altsta¨dter Gesellschaft jeder Evidenz.10 Trotz der angefu¨hrten Vorbehalte bin ich der Ansicht, dass die im gezeigten Schema angedeuteten Entwicklungstendenzen prinzipiell dem tatsa¨chlichen Zustand entsprechen. Die polnische sozialtopographische Forschung bewies in der ju¨ngsten Zeit u¨berzeugend, dass in manchen Sta¨dten die Hauseigentu¨mer u¨berraschend schnell wechselten.11 Anscheinend findet sich ein a¨hnliches Pha¨nomen fu¨r den kurzen Untersuchungszeitraum von nur 16 Jahren auch in der Prager Altstadt, wie die Ergebnisse der sozialtopographischen Studie belegen, die im Zentrum der Stadt – am Altsta¨dter Ring – durchgefu¨hrt wurde. Wenn wir die Angaben der Steuerbu¨cher aus den 1430er Jahren als Grundlage nehmen, standen dort insgesamt 54 Ha¨user.12 Im Hinblick auf die Exklusivita¨t der hier befindlichen Baugrundstu¨cke kann vorausgesetzt werden, dass sich ihre Zahl bereits Mitte des 14. Jahrhunderts stabilisierte (Abb. 1).13 Im Gerichtsbuch werden insgesamt 38 Gescha¨fte genannt, die Ha¨user am Altsta¨dter Ring betreffen, wobei manche Ha¨user mehrere Male verkauft wurden. Da keine Quellen erhalten sind, mit deren Hilfe sich die soziale Stellung der Hauseigentu¨mer bestimmen la¨sst, kann man sie im Rahmen einer Analyse sinnvoll nur in folgende Gruppen unterteilen: Ratsherren (Personen, die zwischen 1351 und 1366 mindestens einmal im Stadtrat saßen), Ratsgeschlechter (die Verwandtschaft dieser Ratsherren), Ratshandwerker (Personen, die nachweislich ein Gewerbe ausgeu¨bt hatten und zugleich nach 1351 im Stadtrat saßen) und Handwerker (Diagramm 5). Wenn wir die Struktur der Hauseigentu¨mer am Altsta¨dter Ring na¨her betrachten, stellen wir fest, dass dort zu Beginn des Untersuchungszeitraums die Ratsherren und die Ratsgeschlechter mehr als fu¨nfzig Prozent aller nachgewiesenen Ha¨user besaßen. Die Handwerker und die Gewerbetreibenden, denen es gelungen war, in den Stadtrat aufzusteigen, hielten weniger als 15 Prozent der Ha¨user. Interessanterweise waren einige Ha¨user im Besitz von Repra¨sentanten der bedeutenden Adelsgeschlechter Leipa und Wartenberg. Es wa¨re also falsch anzunehmen, dass sich die Ha¨user im Zentrum der Stadt stabil in der Hand der fu¨hrenden Patrizierfamilien befanden. Die Ha¨user wurden nicht nur innerhalb eines Geschlechts, zwischen den ein10 Vgl. die sowohl methodisch als auch im Hinblick auf die verwendeten Quellen hervorragende und

immer noch nicht u¨berholte Darstellung von Graus, Mˇestska´ chudina (wie Anm. 6); dazu auch Karl Bosl, Das Problem der Armut in der hochmittelalterlichen Gesellschaft, in: Sitzungsberichte der ¨ sterreichischen Akademie der Wissenschaften, Philosophisch-historische Klasse 294 (1974), S. 3–29; O Bronisław Geremek, Geschichte der Armut. Elend und Barmherzigkeit in Europa, Mu¨nchen 1991; ¨ berleben in der Not 1450–1850, Frankfurt/Main Martin Rheinheimer, Arme, Bettler und Vaganten. U 2000. 11 Martin Nodl, Polsky´ koncept studia socia´lnı´ topografie stˇredovˇeke´ho mˇesta [Der polnische Ansatz im Studium der Sozialtopographie der mittelalterlichen Stadt,] in: Mediaevalia Archaeologica 1 (1999), S. 307. 12 Vgl. Pa´tkova´ (Hg.), Bernı´ knihy (wie Anm. 9). 13 U ¨ bernommen aus Mapy stare´ Prahy k letuo m 1200, 1348 a 1419 [Die Landkarten des alten Prag in den Jahren 1200, 1348 und 1419], hg. v. Va´clav Vladivoj Tomek, Prag 1892.

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zelnen Zweigen eines Geschlechts oder zwischen verschiedenen Geschlechtern verkauft, sondern auch an reich gewordene Handwerker vera¨ußert. Im Lauf der 16 Jahre des Untersuchungszeitraums ging das Hauseigentum in insgesamt sieben Fa¨llen von Ratsherren oder Ratsgeschlechtern auf Handwerker u¨ber. Der zahlenma¨ßige Vor-

Diagramm 5: Vergleich der Sozialstruktur der Hauseigentu¨mer am Altsta¨dter Ring zwischen 1351 und 1366

rang der Handwerkerka¨ufe war tatsa¨chlich sogar noch gro¨ßer, denn gerade zu dieser Zeit erwarb Andreas der Leinweber am Altsta¨dter Ring ein Haus von den Herren von Wartenberg.14 Manche Ha¨user wurden damals nur unter den Handwerkern oder Ratshandwerkern verkauft. Vier weitere Hauseigentu¨mer, bei denen die Zuordnung zu einer der Kategorien nicht gelang, waren zudem ho¨chstwahrscheinlich Gewerbetreibende. Der Fall des Arztes Hertwig, der 1358 das Haus Nr. 482 kaufte, ist ein weiterer Beleg fu¨r die la¨ngst bekannte Tatsache, dass erfolgreiche Mediziner in der sta¨dtischen Gesellschaft eine bedeutende Position einnahmen.15 Diese Feststellung gewinnt noch an Bedeutung, wenn wir bedenken, dass es sich um die prestigetra¨chtige Stadtmitte handelte, wo sich alle wichtigen Ereignisse des sta¨dtischen Lebens abspielten und wo auch das Altsta¨dter Rathaus – das Zentrum der Stadtverwaltung – stand (Abb. 2).16

14 Tomek (Hg.), Za´klady 1 (wie Anm. 5), S. 19. Das Haus Nr. 605 wurde 1365 von dem Altsta¨dter Patri-

zier Enderl Rupert, Pfarrer der Marienkirche vor dem Teyn, verkauft; Tomek (Hg.), Za´klady 1 (wie Anm. 5), S. 24. 15 Tomek (Hg.), Za´klady 1 (wie Anm. 5), S. 28. 16 Pla´n Stare´ho Mˇesta prazˇske´ho z roku 1729 (Pla´n mlyna´rˇ e Va´clava Josefa Vesele´ho) [Plan der Prager Altstadt von 1729 (Der Plan des Mu¨llers Va´clav Josef Vesely´)], in: Josef Teige (Hg.), Sonderdruck der ˇ Casopis Spoleˇcnosti pˇra´tel starozˇitnostı´ cˇ esky´ch v Praze 18, Prag 1910.

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Obwohl das Gerichtsbuch nur begrenzte Mo¨glichkeiten zum Vergleich bietet, ermo¨glichen die darin enthaltenen Angaben zumindest die Identifizierung prestigetra¨chtiger und weniger prestigetra¨chtiger Stadtviertel. Wenn wir den Wandel der

Abb. 2: Der Altsta¨dter Ring in der ersten Ha¨lfte des 18. Jahrhunderts Stadtplan von Wenzel Joseph Vesely´

Sozialstruktur des Platzes „Na Krechta´ch“ und bei St. Johann betrachten, wurden von den zwo¨lf zwischen 1351 und 1366 verwirklichten Hauska¨ufen elf von Handwerkern, meist Barbieren und Gerbern, vorgenommen. Auch bei Wenzel, dem Schwiegersohn des Jeschek, der sich 1360 in diesem Stadtviertel ein Haus kaufte, darf man die Ausu¨bung eines Altsta¨dter Gewerbes annehmen. Die Analyse von Hauska¨ufen

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an anderen Pla¨tzen im Areal der Prager Altstadt ergibt das gleiche Bild.17 Obwohl es nicht gelang, alle Ka¨ufer bzw. Verka¨ufer den einzelnen Schichten der sta¨dtischen Gesellschaft zuzuordnen, handelte es sich wohl zumeist um Handwerker oder kleine Gewerbetreibende. Die wohlbekannten Namen der Repra¨sentanten fu¨hrender Patrizierfamilien finden sich na¨mlich nicht. In den Fa¨llen, in denen ein Repra¨sentant der sta¨dtischen Elite als Eigentu¨mer nachgewiesen werden kann, wurde die betreffende Liegenschaft in der Regel nicht zum dauerhaften Aufenthalt, sondern zu anderen Zwecken genutzt. Denn a¨hnlich wie in anderen mittelalterlichen Sta¨dten befanden sich die repra¨sentativen Adressen im Zentrum der Stadt am Altsta¨dter Ring oder in seiner Na¨he (Kleiner Ring, Teyn, Zeltnergasse/Celetna´), am Gallusmarkt und versta¨ndlicherweise auch in der Melantrichgasse/Melantrichova und der Eisengasse/ Zˇelezna´, die bis heute die natu¨rlichen Verbindungslinien der beiden Pla¨tze bilden. Anhand des untersuchten Quellenmaterials ließen sich in den Handwerkervierteln keine gro¨ßeren Vermo¨gensschwankungen feststellen, anders als dies manche Forscher bislang vermuteten.18 Ha¨ufige Hausverka¨ufe gab es auch nach 1366, als die Eintra¨ge im Gerichtsbuch endeten. Unter den Hauseigentu¨mern findet sich im beginnenden 15. Jahrhundert nur ein Bruchteil der Eigentu¨mer und ihrer Nachkommen, die in den 1350er und 1360er Jahren im Gerichtsbuch mit den Kaufeintra¨gen verzeichnet sind.19 Alle angefu¨hrten Tatsachen lassen erkennen, dass die Verlagerung der Macht, die mit den personellen Vera¨nderungen in der Zusammensetzung der Stadtra¨te verbunden war, sich auch in einem Wandel der sozialen Situation und der Eigentumsverha¨ltnisse widerspiegelt. Der Umstand, dass bereits zu Anfang des 15. Jahrhunderts unter den Hauseigentu¨mern die Handwerker vorherrschend waren, du¨rfte belegen, dass es sich bei den angesprochenen Vera¨nderungen nicht um einen momentanen Zustand, sondern vielmehr um einen Entwicklungstrend handelte.20 Eine der Hauptursachen dieses Trends mag in der allgemein bekannten Tatsache liegen, dass die Oberschicht der sta¨dtischen Gesellschaft nicht homogen war. Manche Geschlechter starben aus, andere verloren ihr Vermo¨gen, erlebten einen sozialen Abstieg oder sie verließen die Stadt und ließen sich auf dem Land nieder.21 Bezeichnenderweise finden sich im Gerichtsbuch Eintra¨ge u¨ber 17 Personen, die aus der Stadt entlassen werden wollten

17 Zum Marktplatz nahe der St. Gallus-Kirche vgl. Martin Musı´lek, In Novo foro residentis. Socio-

topograficka´ analy´za Havelske´ho trzˇisˇtˇe ve 14. stoletı´ [In Novo foro residentis. Eine sozialtopographische Analyse des St. Gallus-Marktes im 14. Jahrhundert], in: Martin Musı´lek, Havelske´ mˇesto prazˇske´ ve stˇredovˇeku. Historie – Archeologie – Stavebnı´ historie [Die Prager Gallusstadt im Mittelalter. Geschichte – Archa¨ologie – Baugeschichte], Prag 2012, S. 42–71. 18 Nodl, Polsky´ koncept (wie Anm. 11), S. 311. 19 Tomek (Hg.), Za´klady 1 (wie Anm. 5). 20 Vgl. Tomek (Hg.), Za´klady 1 (wie Anm. 5); Jaroslav Meznı´k, Na´rodnostnı´ slozˇenı´ pˇredhusitske´ Prahy [Die nationale Struktur Prags vor der hussitischen Revolution], in: Jaroslav Meznı´k. Tva´rˇ sta´rnoucı´ho stˇredovˇeku [Das Antlitz des altwerdenden Mittelalters], hg. v. Toma´sˇ Borovsky´/Martin Wihoda/ David Kalhous/Demeter Malat’a´k, Bru¨nn 2008, S. 244–276. o 21 Jaroslav Meznı´k, Venkovske´ statky prazˇsky´ch mˇesˇt’anu v dobˇe pˇredhusitske´ a husitske´ [Die Landˇ gu¨ter der Prager Bu¨rger im vorhussitischen und hussitischen Zeitalter], in: Rozpravy Ceskoslovenske ´ akademie vˇed 75/2 (1965), S. 12–27.

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und dann weiterhin auf ihren Landgu¨tern siedelten.22 Die sta¨dtischen Eliten hatten Mitte des 14. Jahrhunderts allma¨hlich die Stadt verlassen, und die dadurch freigewordenen Ha¨user wurden von anderen Bu¨rgern gekauft, die vielfach der sta¨dtischen Mittelschicht zuzurechnen waren. Sie lebten nicht mehr vom Handel, sondern von ihrer Handwerkerta¨tigkeit. Fu¨r die reichen Handwerkermeister war von großer Bedeutung, dass sie dank der Zunftbewegung in der ersten Ha¨lfte des 14. Jahrhunderts in der Stadt eine starke Stellung einnahmen. Fu¨hrten sie als Einzelpersonen ihre Gescha¨fte, verfu¨gten sie in der Gemeinde nur u¨ber minimale Macht und konnten u¨berhaupt nicht daran denken, sich mit den Angeho¨rigen der fu¨hrenden Patriziergeschlechter zu messen. Gegen unbedeutende wirtschaftliche Zugesta¨ndnisse an die kleinen Handwerker wurden sie aber allma¨hlich zu Repra¨sentanten der einzelnen Handwerkerzu¨nfte und damit eines nicht unbedeutenden Teils der sta¨dtischen Bevo¨lkerung. Dies verbesserte ihre politische Stellung und ließ ihre Ambitionen steigen. Obwohl der Stadtrat einverstanden war, dass die Fu¨hrung der Handwerkerorganisationen nur aus Mitgliedern eines bestimmen Handwerks gewa¨hlt werden sollte, lag dieses Auswahlrecht weiterhin beim Rat. Versta¨ndlicherweise wurden von den sta¨dtischen Bu¨rgern diejenigen gewa¨hlt, die dem Rat am na¨chsten standen, d. h. die reichen Meister.23 Viele vermo¨gende Handwerker waren zu dieser Zeit erheblich reicher als manche der Patriziergeschlechter. Dies zeigt sich auch daran, dass bestimmte Handwerker Ha¨user am Altsta¨dter Ring kauften. Allein Seidl, der Kra¨mer, besaß nach Angaben des Gerichtsbuchs in der Altstadt sechs Ha¨user und einen Laden. Lev, der Schneider, hatte ebenfalls sechs Ha¨user, und sein Reichtum ermo¨glichte es ihm, ein Landgut in Bˇechovice nahe Prag zu erwerben – damit stellte er unter den Bu¨rgern keine Ausnahme dar.24 Der Erwerb großer Besitztu¨mer ging Hand in Hand mit einem Auf¨ bernahme von Ratsherrensitzen und zum stieg zur Macht, der sich zum einen in der U anderen in dem Bemu¨hen zeigte, es im aufwendigen Lebensstil und in der Repra¨sentation den alten Patriziergeschlechtern gleichzutun. Die reichsten Handwerker kauften damals ihre ersten Landgu¨ter, und Mitte des 14. Jahrhunderts tauchten allma¨hlich die ersten Siegel von Altsta¨dter Handwerksmeistern auf. Ihr Gebrauch ergab sich als spontane und autonome Konsequenz aus der Entwicklung des sozialen Status einer Schicht der sta¨dtischen Gesellschaft, die um die Festigung ihrer Stellung bemu¨ht war.25 Beispielweise im Jahre 1361 verkauften Johann, der Goldschmied, und sein Bruder Peter dem Meister und dem Konvent des Prager Spitals Rechte an der Mu¨hle

22 Trika ˇ Staromˇestska´ kniha soudnı´ (wie Anm. 4), S. 41–53. Die edierten Angaben ko¨nnen um einige ˇ c,

weitere Informationen erga¨nzt werden, die im a¨ltesten Altsta¨dter Buch belegt sind. Bereits 1339 verließ Welfl (Wolflinus in Turri), vielleicht einer der So¨hne des Nikolaus vom Turm, die Stadt. Ein Jahr spa¨ter verließ auch Smil Fridinger von Bˇechovice genannt Sˇtˇedronˇ die Stadt; Liber vetustissimus (wie Anm. 1), fol. 15v, 86r. 23 Meznı´k, Praha (wie Anm. 1), S. 49–57. 24 Stadtarchiv Prag, Hs. 987, fol. 223; vgl. Josef Teige (Hg.), Archiv cˇ esky´ 26 (1909), S. 11. o 25 Martin Musı´lek, Mˇestske´ elity ve sluzˇba´ch Lucemburku [Stadteliten im Dienst der Luxemburger], ˇ in: Lucemburkove´. Ceska ´ koruna uprostˇred Evropy [Luxemburger. Die bo¨hmische Krone in Europas Mitte], hg. v. Lenka Bobkova´/Frantisˇek Sˇmahel/Pavlı´na Masˇkova´/Robert Novotny´, Prag 2012, S. 461–463.

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im Dorf Slivenec. Beide Goldschmiede ha¨ngten der Urkunde ihre Siegel an, auf denen ein durch einen ungewo¨hnlichen gabelfo¨rmigen Schnitt geteilter Schild zu sehen war. Ihre Verwandtschaft wurde nicht nur durch die Intitulatio, sondern auch durch die leicht modifizierte Trennlinie in Peters Siegel besta¨tigt (Abb. 3).26

Abb. 3: Siegel der Goldschmiede Johannes und Peter von 1361

Es ist nicht zu bezweifeln, dass der Erwerb eines prachtvollen Steinhauses im Herzen der Stadt von den Zeitgenossen als Symbol fu¨r den Aufstieg des Ka¨ufers zu Reichtum und Macht empfunden wurde. Obwohl im Gerichtsbuch nur bei 10 Prozent der Ha¨user auch der Kaufpreis angegeben wurde, betrug der Wert der pra¨chtigen Ha¨user am Ring offensichtlich zwischen 150 und 200 Schock Groschen und u¨berstieg wesentlich den Wert von Liegenschaften an der Peripherie der Stadt.27 Die Ansehnlichkeit der Bu¨rgerha¨user mit ihren wirtschaftlichen Nebenra¨umen wird durch archa¨ologische Ausgrabungen und bauhistorische Forschungen besta¨tigt. Bis heute sind an der Su¨dund Ostseite des Altsta¨dter Rings bei einzelnen Ha¨usern die Eingangsha¨lse in die Kellerra¨ume oder auch das aufwendige Mauerwerk der ersten Stockwerke erhalten.28 26 Nationalarchiv Prag, Sammlung: RKˇ ˇ r, Inv.-Nr. 302; RBM VII, Nr. 1059, S. 638f. Es gibt mehrere Belege

dafu¨r, dass manche Prager Handwerksmeister eigene Siegel verwendeten. Siehe dazu Michal Fiala, o Heroltske´ figury ve znacı´ch mˇesˇt’anu Stare´ho Mˇesta prazˇske´ho v dobˇe pˇredhusitske´ [Die Heroldsfiguren in den Wappen der Bu¨rger der Prager Altstadt], Heroltska´ roˇcenka 1989, Prag 1989, S. 37f. o 27 Vgl. Jiˇr´ı Carek, ˇ Pla´n rozlozˇenı´ domu podle hodnoty v pˇredhusitske´ Praze [Der Plan der Verteilung der Ha¨user nach ihrem Wert im vorhussitischen Prag], in: Prazˇsky´ sbornı´k historicky´ 6 (1971), S. 101–105; ˇ Dˇejiny Prahy [Geschichte der Stadt Prag], hg. v. Josef Jana´cek, Prag 1964, S. 135–136. 28 Zusammenfassend dazu Milada Radova´-Sˇtikova´, Pˇr´ıspˇevky k ota´zce nejstarsˇ´ıch cˇ esky´ch zdˇeny´ch

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Das Gerichtsbuch mit den Kaufeintra¨gen erfasst fu¨r einen relativ kurzen Zeitabschnitt von 16 Jahren den dynamischen Wandel der sta¨dtischen Gesellschaft. Der ha¨ufig vorkommende Hausverkauf auch in den prestigetra¨chtigen Vierteln der Prager Altstadt belegt, dass die meisten Bu¨rger keine besonders enge Beziehung zu ihrem Elternhaus besaßen. Fu¨r die soziale und wirtschaftliche Entwicklung der Stadt war jedoch viel wichtiger, dass die oft vorkommenden Hausverka¨ufe Repra¨sentanten aller sozialen Schichten die Mo¨glichkeit boten, in die attraktiven oder handwerklich spezialisierten Stadtviertel vorzudringen. Sogar Neuanko¨mmlinge hatten dadurch die Mo¨glichkeit, sich in der Stadt ein Haus zu kaufen, das Stadtrecht anzunehmen und so zu vollwertigen Mitgliedern der sta¨dtischen Gemeinde zu werden. Der mittelalterliche Mensch empfand zwar die soziale Topographie der Stadt, in der er lebte, als festen Zustand, besonders wenn er in die Stadt zugezogen war. Im Lauf der Zeit wurden den Einwohnern jedoch auch die eintretenden Vera¨nderungen bewusst. Um die Ursachen des allma¨hlichen Wandlungsprozesses in der Altsta¨dter Gesellschaft zu kla¨ren, der als Ergebnis des Machtkampfes zwischen einzelnen sozialen Schichten in der Stadt gilt, ist das Gerichtsbuch mit den Kaufeintra¨gen wenig nu¨tzlich. Doch kann man mit Hilfe der darin enthaltenen Informationen zumindest teilweise den Verlauf dieses Prozesses erfassen. Mitte des 14. Jahrhunderts waren bestimmte Teile der Mittelschicht so weit fortgeschritten, dass sie die Herrschaft in der Stadt u¨bernehmen konnten, falls ihnen der Herrscher dabei behilflich war. Dazu kam es tatsa¨chlich, als Karl IV. im Januar 1350 im Altsta¨dter Rathaus den alten Patriziergeschlechtern die Macht u¨ber die Stadt entriss, um sie anschließend den Repra¨sentanten der Mittelschicht zu verleihen. Das Gerichtsbuch mit seinen Kaufeintra¨gen, das zwischen 1351 und 1367 gefu¨hrt wurde, erfasst in dem relativ kurzen Zeitabschnitt von 16 Jahren den dynamischen Wandel der Stadtgesellschaft. Den an der neuen Zusammensetzung der Stadtra¨te im Jahr 1350 erkennbar werdenden und von Besitz- und sozialen Vera¨nderungen begleiteten Machtwechsel konnte Jaroslav Meznı´k bereits in den 1960er Jahren u¨berzeugend belegen. Eine der Hauptursachen dieses Trends ist in der Tatsache zu sehen, dass die Oberschichten der sta¨dtischen Bevo¨lkerung nicht homogen waren. Manche Geschlechter starben aus, andere verloren ihr Vermo¨gen oder ließen sich auf dem Land nieder. Bezeichnenderweise liefert uns gerade das Gerichtsbuch Eintra¨ge zu

o

domu [Beitra¨ge zum Problem der a¨ltesten bo¨hmischen Mauerha¨user], in: Zpra´vy pama´tkove´ pe´cˇ e 70/6 (2010), S. 383–386. Eine hervorragende Typologie der Stadtha¨user in Mittelbo¨hmen erarbeitete Milena ˇ Hauserova´, Vy´voj stˇredovˇeke´ho mˇestske´ho obytne´ho domu ve stˇrednı´ch Cecha ´ ch [Die Entwicklung des sta¨dtischen Wohnhauses in Mittelbo¨hmen im Mittelalter], ungedr. Diss. Prag 1988. Zur fru¨hmittelalterlichen Architektur und ihrem Vergleich mit der Entwicklung im Ausland besonders detailliert Zdenˇek Dragoun/Jiˇr´ı Sˇkabrada/Michal Tryml, Roma´nske´ domy v Praze [Romanische Ha¨user in Prag], Prag 2002. Zu den Aussagemo¨glichkeiten der bauhistorischen Forschung fu¨r die Geschichte einzelner Stadtha¨user beispielsweise Michael Rykl, Goticke´ cihelne´ domy cˇ p. 150, 151 a 153/I v Karlovˇe ulici na Stare´m Mˇestˇe prazˇske´m [Gotische Ziegelha¨user: Nr. 150, 151 und 152/I in der Karlsstraße der Prager Altstadt], in: Habilitaˇcnı´ pˇredna´sˇky 22 (2007), S. 2–40. Zur Bauform als einem mo¨glichen Wegweiser fu¨r die soziale Stellung des Eigentu¨mers vgl. Karsten Igel, Zur Sozialtopographie Greifswalds um 1400. Der Greifswalder liber hereditarum (1351–1452), in: Sozialstruktur und Sozialtopographie (wie Anm. 3), S. 236–237.

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17 Stadtbu¨rgern, die die Stadt verließen und in Zukunft auf ihren Landgu¨tern resi¨ hnlich wie in anderen mitteleuropa¨ischen Sta¨dten des Mittelalters verliedierten. A ßen die Angeho¨rigen der sta¨dtischen Elite Mitte des 14. Jahrhunderts allma¨hlich die Stadt, und die freigewordenen Ha¨user wurden von den sta¨dtischen Mittelschichten gekauft. Diese trieben keinen Kaufhandel mehr, sondern lebten von ihrer handwerklichen Ta¨tigkeit. Das Gerichtsbuch mit den Kaufeintra¨gen (Stadtarchiv Prag, Manuskript Nr. 987), das zwischen 1351 und 1367 gefu¨hrt wurde, erfasst in dem relativ kurzen Zeitabschnitt von 16 Jahren den dynamischen Wandel der Stadtgesellschaft. Sehr ha¨ufig vorkommende Hausverka¨ufe in den repra¨sentativen Vierteln der Prager Altstadt bezeugen, a¨hnlich wie im Fall einiger polnischer Sta¨dte, eine ganz lose Beziehung der meisten Bu¨rger zu ihrem Geburtshaus. Aus der Sicht der sozialen und wirtschaftlichen Entwicklung der Stadt ist fu¨r uns jedoch die Erkenntnis viel wichtiger, dass die ha¨ufigen Hausverka¨ufe den Repra¨sentanten aller Schichten der Stadtbevo¨lkerung die Mo¨glichkeit boten, in die attraktiven und handwerklich spezialisierten Viertel der Stadt vorzudringen. Daru¨ber hinaus besaßen auch Neuanko¨mmlinge die Mo¨glichkeit, in der Stadt ein Haus zu kaufen, das Stadtrecht anzunehmen und dadurch zu vollwertigen Mitgliedern der sta¨dtischen Gemeinde zu werden. Anhand der Eintra¨ge im Gerichtsbuch la¨sst sich unschwer der Machtwechsel in der Zusammensetzung der Stadtra¨te um 1350 belegen. Damals wurden die sta¨dtischen Eliten durch das Eingreifen des Herrschers von Angeho¨rigen der sta¨dtischen Mittelschicht ersetzt, wobei dieser Wandel auch von Besitz- und sozialen Vera¨nderungen begleitet wurde. Dabei handelte es sich nicht um einen momentanen Zustand, sondern vielmehr um einen Entwicklungstrend, wie die Tatsache belegt, dass zu Beginn des 15. Jahrhunderts die Handwerker unter den Hauseigentu¨mern deutlich u¨berwogen. Eine der Hauptursachen dieses Trends war die fehlende Homogenita¨t der Oberschicht der sta¨dtischen Bevo¨lkerung. Manche Geschlechter starben aus, andere verloren ihr Vermo¨gen oder sie ließen sich auf dem Land nieder. Bezeichnenderweise liefert uns gerade das Gerichtsbuch Eintra¨ge zu 17 Stadtbu¨rgern, die die Stadt verließen und in Zukunft auf ihren Landgu¨tern residierten. Die sta¨dtischen Eliten verließen Mitte des 14. Jahrhunderts allma¨hlich die Stadt, und ihre freigewordenen Ha¨user wurden von anderen Bu¨rgern gekauft, die vielfach der Mittelschicht entstammten. Diese Bu¨rger trieben keinen Handel mehr, sondern lebten von ihrer handwerklichen Ta¨tigkeit.

English Abstract

The court book with the order entries (Prague City Archives, Manuscript No. 987), that was managed between 1351 and 1367, records the dynamic change of urban society within a relatively short period of 16 years. House sales in prestigious quarters of the Old Town of Prague, which were quite frequent during this time, bear witness to a loose connection of the majority of the inhabitants with their birth house, similar to the case of several Polish cities. However, from the perspective of the social and

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economic development of the city, it is of greater importance that the frequent house sales offered representatives from all social stratums of urban society the opportunity to advance in the attractive and craft specialized quarters of the city. Moreover, newcomers also had the possibility to buy a house in the city and accept the municipal law, which further meant that they could become full members of the urban community. Due to the entries in the court book, a change of power in the composition of the city councils around 1350 can easily be verified. At the time, the urban elites were replaced by members of the middle class through the intervention of the monarch, whereby this change was also accompanied by ownership and social changes. This was not a momentary state, but rather a developing trend, proven by the fact that, in the early 15th century, the clear majority of the house owners were craftsmen. One of the main causes of this trend was the missing homogeneity of the upper class of the urban population. Some families died out, others lost their assets or moved to the countryside. Significantly, it is precisely this court book that provides us with entries about 17 citizens that left the city and chose to settle on their estates in the country. In the middle of the 14th century, the urban elites gradually left the city and their vacant houses were bought by other citizens which were mostly members of the middle class. These citizens were no longer interested in purchase and sale, but made a living from their handicraft activities.

THE SPATIAL DEVELOPMENT OF STOCKHOLM, 1860–2010 by Lars Nilsson

On the eve of Stockholm’s industrialisation in the mid-19th century, a majority of the city’s inhabitants still lived in the Old Town, which is from the medieval period. Here, in the most central blocks of the city, population density exceeded 55,000 people per km2. In the more remote parts of the administrative area, people lived much more sparsely. In fact, not very far from the city centre, the landscape quickly gained more of a rural character than an urban one. At the same time, Stockholm started to grow after a long period of stagnation. The number of inhabitants rose from 100,000 in the late 1850s to 300,000 in 1900. This meant that the population density rapidly increased in the formerly rather sparsely built periphery of the city, and especially in the northern outskirts. Generally, population density trebled between 1860 and 1900, from around 3,000 to around 9,000 people per km2. Some districts of the city became more or less completely full of people and buildings, but with considerable variations between the parishes. The Old Town was still the most densely populated parish. However, a peak was reached around 1880, and thereafter population density started to decline. Another centrally located parish, Klara, soon followed the same path. On the south side, the increase was lower than in the northern districts (Graph 1). To acquire more space for further expansion, after long negotiations, the city authorities annexed the rural parishes of first Bra¨nnkyrka in 1913 and then Bromma in 1916, located south and west of Stockholm respectively. The annexed municipalities covered an area of more than 100 km2, compared to the city’s 32–33 km2. After these two annexations, Stockholm had a great deal of empty space for future expansion. Later, in 1949, a new major annexation process followed when Spa˚nga parish, along with Ha¨sselby borough, became parts of the city. All these annexed areas have been labelled as the Outer City of Stockholm (Maps 1 and 3).

The Outer City

The building of the Outer City began on a large scale in the early 1930s. It followed a planning strategy known as „Stad i Park“ [City in Park], or the „Stockholm Style“, which was part of the Modernist movement and also the Swedish welfare programme.

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Previously, parks had mostly been seen as a complement to the built-up urban structure. In the 1930s, however, the idea was that the urban fabric should be imbedded in the landscape. Very strict building regulations were issued. For example, buildings

Graph 1: Population density, Stockholm, 1860–1910 Note: Population density = population per km2

were not allowed to be higher than the trees, and building plans were always to be adjusted to follow the terrain. Initially, the consideration given to the countryside was almost extreme. In addition, the various neighbourhoods were clearly separated from each other by forests and green belt areas.1 Health issues were also given high priority. Tenants were to have access to daylight from two directions, for example. This was quite different from living in the Old Town, where the interiors of the housing were more or less devoid of daylight. The outer city of Stockholm was mainly built for the middle and working classes. The ambition to preserve the natural surroundings was combined with an active social democratic housing policy, including public control over land use and urban planning. The public influence was further strengthened by the Building Act of 1947. After a series of purchases of the large estates, the city itself owned much of the land in Bromma and Bra¨nnkyrka parishes. The majority of the various neighbourhoods 1 This section on the outer city is mainly based on Lars Nilsson, The Stockholm Style: a model for the

building of the city in parks, 1930s–1960s, in: The European City and Green Space, ed. by Peter Clark, Ashgate 2006, pp. 141–158.

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were built by non-profit making public firms that were more or less controlled by the city council. Cooperatives and the self-build movements organised by the city were also involved, together with private firms. The State provided very generous loans and rent subsidies to the non-profit making public firms and the cooperatives. Private construction firms were not offered the same favourable conditions, which resulted in the building programme mainly being public-financed. Many of the buildings were council blocks with flats to rent. Rental regulations were issued during the Second World War, and a public agency organised the distribution of flats between the tenants in the housing queue. The first neighbourhood built according to these modern planning ideals was Traneberg, in Bromma parish, soon followed by Hammarbyho¨jden in Bra¨nnkyrka parish. They were both located at some distance from the city centre. The inhabitants were expected to live and enjoy the natural surroundings in these suburban districts and commute to their workplaces, often located in the inner city. Shops and services of all kinds, restaurants, cafe´s, pubs, cinemas, theatres and other entertainment facilities were also mainly localised to the city centre. No metro existed yet in Stockholm. Buses and trams were the only public transport that was on offer. Many people preferred to cycle from their homes in the outer city to their centrally located workplaces.2 However, the urban scale soon needed to be increased, not least for economic reasons. Shopping and service centres were therefore often built in neighbourhoods constructed in the late 1940s, and buildings on the periphery of the area were permitted to be more than three or four storeys high. Such buildings were definitely higher than the trees. As previously, public transport comprised buses and trams. In the 1950s the scale increased further, as in the famous district of Va¨llingby in the north-west of the Stockholm administrative area, relatively far from the city centre (Map 1). The annexation of Spa˚nga parish in 1949 made it possible to initiate the construction programme. To some extent, the natural surroundings were also at this point being spared, and rocks and trees were not always moved from the site. Like the neighbourhoods from the 1940s, a service and shopping centre was built in Va¨llingby. In addition, a metro line linked Va¨llingby to central Stockholm. The trip took about 40–45 minutes. Va¨llingby was known as an ABC city and was inspired by the New Towns of the United Kingdom.3 The city planners of Stockholm developed the New Town concept and relaunched it as a Swedish concept. Stockholm received an international reputation for its progressive urban planning. A great number of city planners and politicians from all over the world visited Va¨llingby to get an impression of how the neighbourhood worked in practice. The inhabitants of Va¨llingby were expected to do their shopping in their own centre and work there and in the surroundings. The number of workplaces in the immediate vicinity was, however, restricted. Therefore, for many, commuting to the city centre was the only realistic option.

2 Martin Emanuel,Trafikslag pa˚ undantag [Traffic as exception], Stockholm 2012, pp. 59–60. 3 A stands for work (arbete), B for living (bostad), and C for services (centrum).

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The City in Park strategy had almost been abandoned by the late 1960s and early 1970s, following the introduction of what was known as the Million Programme. Housing shortage was one of the most pressing political issues. Population forecasts indicated extensive growth continuing up to the end of the century and even beyond. In light of this situation, the Swedish government decided to build one million apartments over a 10-year period, starting in the mid-1960s. This ambitious building programme, which covered the whole of Sweden, not only the capital, was assumed to require highly rational and efficient modes of production. The natural surroundings could no longer be given same consideration as before. Most of the new buildings were erected on empty spaces in the outskirts of the urban area where the advantages of large-scale housing production could best be utilised. However, the same types of buildings can also be found at more central sites. The construction of Outer Stockholm that began in the early 1930s was completed around 1970, and since then most people have lived in the outer city. In 1930 only around 15 per cent of the population lived in the outer parts of Stockholm, and no less than 85 per cent in the inner city. In 1950, after the annexation of Spa˚nga and Ha¨sselby, the proportions had changed to 43 and 57 per cent. Later in the 1950s, the percentage for the outer city surpassed that of the inner city. In around 1980 only one third of the population was registered as residing in the inner city (Graph 2).

Graph 2: Proportion of inhabitants living in Inner and Outer Stockholm, 1920–2010

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Renaissance for the inner city

In the final decades of the 20th century, focus shifted back to the inner city. After an entirely unexpected period of population decline, contrary to all forecasts, starting around 1960, a new phase of expansion began in the late 1970s, and since then population growth has been strongest in the inner city. The demographic balance thus shifted once again in favour of the inner city. After decades of decline, population density in the inner city has started to increase. On average, the population has risen from around 6,600 to 9,200 people per km2 between 1980 and 2010. Among the central parishes, the increase has been greatest on the south side and less pronounced in the east. Taking the inner and outer cities together, population density has risen from 3,500 to around 4,600 people per km2 in the same period (Graphs 2 and 3).

Graph 3: Population density, Stockholm, 1960–2010 Note: Population density = population per km2

Parallel to this new population trend, new town planning strategies were devised, known as New Urbanism. These new ideas marked a return to 19th-century ideals of high-rise buildings in a dense and compact form. Inward expansion has been preferred instead of outward, as previously. It has been possible to implement these postmodern ideas in the empty spaces that emerged in many inner-city sites in the aftermath of deindustrialisation in the 1960s and 1970s. These sites were previously used for manufacturing, shipping, storage, railway stations and similar activities. New

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neighbourhoods have been built in these old industrial and harbour areas. Some examples are the South Station District, the Hammarby Water Front Area, and the Northern Hammarby Harbour (Map 2). The regeneration of the South Station area in the central part of the south side of the city began in the 1980s. Until that time, this valuable land was mainly used as a shunting area for goods trains. It was an unpleasant neighbourhood but the land was very attractive for other purposes. After years of discussion, a deck was finally built over the open track area, providing the city authorities with more valuable land for further expansion. An area plan was approved in 1984, including 3,000 flats in 6 to 8storey buildings with access to parks and open spaces with gardens. The new South Station building was linked to Medborgarplatsen square, with its market hall, shops and cinemas, by an attractive public footpath, partly through a pleasant park area.4 The Hammarby Waterfront Area was the biggest housing project in Stockholm of the 1990s. It is located just south of the south side of the city but still in the parish of Sofia, and close to the administrative border between the municipalities of Stockholm and Nacka. Previously, it had been a harbour district, combined with an industrial site for small-scale manufacturing. The new buildings have been erected close to the edge of the quay, which is mainly reserved for pedestrians. The planners were partly inspired by modernism and the waterfront areas built in the 1920 and 1930s. A tramway line connects the Hammarby Waterfront area with the metro system; there is also a ferry link to the city centre, and the South link motorway system passes by the neighbourhood.5 On the opposite side of the water is another former industrial and harbour area, Northern Hammarby Harbour, which was also regenerated in the 1980s and 1990s and became a popular residential district. Former industrial sites in the outer city have later been regenerated in the same manner. Annedal, straddling the administrative border between Stockholm and Sundbyberg in the north-west of the Stockholm administrative area, is such a site. The first buildings were erected in 2010/2011, and the construction of the whole area is planned to be completed in 2016. Concurrent with these restructuring processes, former working-class areas have been taken over by well-established individuals from the middle and upper classes.6 This is particularly evident on the south side of Stockholm,7 which, especially its eastern part, was long characterised by specifically working class culture. In the 18th century, the blocks around Nytorget (Map 2) were a hub for Stockholm’s textile manufacturing industry. Most of the production took place in small cottages, but one of

4 Magnus Andersson, Stockholm’s Annual Rings: A glimpse into the Development of the City, Stock-

holm 1998, pp. 225–227.

5 Andersson, Stockholm’s Annual Rings (see note 4), pp. 233–235; Peter Lundevall, Stockholm – den

planerade staden [Stockholm – The planned City], Carlssons 2006, p. 195. 6 See for example Elisabeth Lilja, Den segregerade staden: Tre kvarter i Stockholms innerstad [The seg-

regated City: Three blocks of the Inner City of Stockholm], Stockholm 2011.

7 Lars Nilsson, From textile manufacturing to cultural services: The post-industrial transformation of

the south side (So¨dermalm) of Stockholm, unpublished conference paper 2010.

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295

largest enterprises in Sweden at that time, Barna¨ngens textile manufacturers, was located close by.8 Small factories for producing various goods and shops for daily provision were still quite common in the 1930s, and no less than 17 alehouses could be found around the square. A male-oriented culture linked to work and the pub dominated in this area. Despite this, the majority of the inhabitants were women. The former working-class popular culture of the south side reached its peak in the 1930s. New lifestyles were gradually developing, which were further accentuated after the war. But even as late as the 1950s and 1960s, elements of the old working class atmosphere were still observable.9 Today the south side is one of the most prestigious neighbourhoods in Stockholm. The area has gradually been taken over by cultural services, dynamic business clusters and creative professions. The influx of the cultural elite and new urban lifestyles has consequently changed the demographic structure and the urban atmosphere. The old, beer-drinking, blue-collar workers have been replaced by middle class people with quite new habits, preferring wine and cafe latte, and organic food. Most popular is what is known as the SoFo district, which refers to the quarters south of Folkungagatan (Map 2). Besides deindustrialisation and other structural changes, an important factor that has contributed to the gentrification and transformation of the inner city of Stockholm is the abolition of the rental regulations that formerly existed for council flats in the early 1970s. This reform opened up a new market for apartments. It became possible, on a wider scale than before, to buy and sell apartments instead of renting them. Increasing numbers of apartments were offered on the open market. The demand was high, and so prices rose quickly. Many people could not afford to live on the south side and in other parts of the inner city any longer. New groups of people moved in, and the population structure changed as well as the urban culture. The local authorities have encouraged and facilitated this development, for example by selling off publicly owned flats.

Spatial segregation

The City in Park concept, from the welfare period, has been accused of causing segregation, polarisation, and most of the social inequalities and problems Stockholm faces today. Instead of separating neighbourhoods from each other, the ambition of postmodern urban planning has been to integrate suburbs with each other and with 8 Klas Nyberg, Ko¨pes Ull, Sa¨ljes Kla¨de: Yllemanufakturens fo¨retagsformer i 1780-talet Stockholm [The

Purchase and Sale of Wool. Company forms in wool and worsted yarn trade in Stockholm in the years of 1780], Uppsala 1992, p. 96. 9 Mats Franze´n, Den folkliga staden: So¨derkvarter i Stockholm mellan krigen [The popular Town: The southern Parts of Stockholm between the two World Wars], Arkiv 1992.

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the inner city, following the proponents of the New Urbanism. Green belts have, for example, been seen as obstacles to integration policies, not as possibilities in this area. To get an idea of how spatial segregation may actually have developed in Stockholm, I have calculated a classic segregation index, indicating for each parish how much a certain variable deviates from the city average.10 A low value means that the variable is close to this average. In this case, the index is based on voting behaviours in Stockholm from 1921 to 2010. For each parish, I have registered the share of votes for the labour parties and the non-labour parties respectively. By using only two categories, I have tried to avoid problems arising from the changing number of parties. In the 1920s, only four parties took seats in the city council. During later periods, the number has occasionally been as many as nine.11 The Social Democrats was the leading labour party and also dominant in Swedish politics during most of the 20th century. The various communist parties and other labour parties to the left of the Social Democrats have normally received less than 10 per cent of the vote in Stockholm. Initially, the conservatives and the liberals made up the non-labour parties. In the final decades of the 20th century, new parties entered the political scene in Stockholm: first, the Centre Party (a former agrarian party), followed by the Christian Democrats, the Stockholm Party, the Green Party, the New Democrats, and the Sweden Democrats. The number of parishes has also increased. In 1920 the Stockholm administrative area included sixteen parishes, of which fourteen were located in the inner city. By the end of period, there were fifteen inner city parishes and twelve in the outer city, making a total of twenty-seven (Map 1).12 The general trends in Stockholm have been followed by calculating the mean value for each respective year. For the period 1921–1970, the material comes from the elections to the lower chamber of the Swedish Parliament.13 In that period there were only marginal differences between the local and the national elections. From the 1970s, local elections deviated increasingly from the national ones. One reason is the establishment of local parties only participating in local elections. The Stockholm Party is such an example. Furthermore, non-Swedish citizens resident in Sweden have been allowed to vote in local elections but not in elections to Parliament. I have therefore followed the local elections from 1973 onwards.14 In any case, the general trends should be the same, irrespective of the material. 10 Half of the absolute difference between respective distribution, parish by parish, divided by 1 minus

the proportion of all city inhabitants residing in the area.

11 Ylva Waldemarsson/Kjell O ¨ stberg, Att styra en stad: Kommunalpolitiken 1850–2002 [The Govern-

ment of a City – Local Politics 1850–2002], in: Staden pa˚ vattnet, Del 2: 1850–2002 [The Town by the water’s edge. Part 2: 1850–2002], ed. by Lars Nilsson, Stockholm 2002, pp. 147–148. 12 Lars Nilsson, Stockholmarna bor och arbetar [Living and Working in Stockholm], in: Staden pa˚ vatt˚ rsbok fo¨r Stockholm 2012 (2012), table 4.9. See also Map 1. net (see note 11), pp.16–17; Statistisk A 13 Lars Nilsson, Stockholm i siffror 1850–2000 [Stockholm in Numbers 1850–2000] (Historisk ta¨tortsstatistik 3, Stads- och kommunhistoriska institutet), Stockholm 2002, pp. 114–127. 14 Nilsson, Stockholm i siffror 1850–2000 (see note 13) pp. 128–136; Lars Nilsson, Stockholms stads politiska geografi 1948–2006 [Political Geography in Stockholm], in: Stockholms lokalpolitik under 1900-talet [Stockholm in Local Politics in the 20th century], ed. by Anders Gullberg/Sven Lilja, ˚ rsbok fo¨r Stockholm 2012 (2012), table 13.2. Stockholm 2008, pp. 148–149; Statistisk A

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For Stockholm in general, the segregation index (mean value) shows a tendency to decline up until the 1970s, but since then, segregation has been increasing (Graph 4). Most parishes registered higher or stable figures in 2010 compared to 1976, and lower indexes in the 1960s than in the 1920s (Table 1 and 2). Naturally, however, there are also parishes developing in the opposite direction.

Graph 4: Segregation Index for Stockholm, 1921–2010

The south side and the east side of the city were previously the most segregated parts of Stockholm (Map 1). As discussed above, the south side was a poor area dominated by the working class and consequently had a high proportion of Social Democratic votes. The Communist parties were also rather well represented. In the parish of Sofia, for example, more than three out of four voters supported the labour parties in 1921. In Stockholm on average, about half of the voters supported the labour parties. The east side, on the other hand, was an upper-class district, and consequently the conservative party won many votes in the elections. In 1921 over sixty per cent of voters in the Oscar and Hedvig Eleonora parishes preferred the conservative party.15 Over the years the south side has been transformed from the most segregated to the least segregated area of Stockholm. The index for Sofia parish has continued to fall throughout the entire period of 1921 to 2010 (Tables 1 and 2). Nowadays, voting behaviours on the south side are representative of Stockholm in general to a large extent. The labour parties received 25–30 per cent of the votes in the 2010 local election, and the conservative alliance that governed Stockholm received 45–50 per cent.16

15 Nilsson, Stockholm i siffror 1850–2000 (see note 13), p. 114. 16 Statistisk A ˚ rsbok fo¨r Stockholm 2012 (2012), table 13.2.

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The east side has preserved its upper class profile, and the level of segregation has not changed very much over the years. It is still one of the most segregated parts of Stockholm, dominated by the upper classes (Tables 1 and 2). In the 2010 local elections, for example, more than 60 per cent of the voters in Hedvig Eleonora parish supported the conservative party, with only seven per cent supporting the labour parties. If finally we look at Bra¨nnkyrka parish, which was mainly built in the modernist period (1930s–1960s), we find the most increasing tendencies in Ska¨rholmen (Map 1, Table 2). Ska¨rholmen was established as a parish of its own in 1969; before that, it had been a part of Ha¨gersten since 1957. Up until the 1990s, the index for Ska¨rholmen resembled more or less the mean value for Stockholm. Since then, however, the index has sharply increased and in 2010, Ska¨rholmen was one of the most segregated parishes in Stockholm. More than half of the population (55 per cent) voted that year for the labour parties, compared to an average of only 30 per cent for Stockholm as a whole. The lower classes, who vote for the labour parties, have consistently settled in the outskirts of Stockholm, mainly in the southern periphery. In the early 19th century, the south side constituted these outskirts. Continuous growth has meant that the urban area has widened geographically. The former periphery has been invaded by postindustrial central functions, and new outskirts have sprung up at a greater distance from the city centre, but with the same characteristics as previously.

Conclusion

During the welfare period of modernist urban planning, known as „Stad i Park“ [City in Park] or the „Stockholm Style“, combined with an active social democratic housing policy, spatial segregation measured in terms of voting behaviours seems to have declined substantially. In those days, urban planning was closely integrated with the building of the welfare state. The outer city was mainly built for the working class and the lower middle class and financed by public means. Postmodernist town planning measures were introduced in the late 20th century to cope with what were assumed to be serious social problems caused by modernist planning. At the same time, housing policy took a new direction as decided upon by the social democratic government. The former public control of urban land and the housing market was successively abandoned. Apartments became to greater extent private property and could be bought and sold on the open market. The combination of postmodern urban planning and a free housing market seems to have resulted in increasing divisions between the parishes. The spatial transformation of Stockholm has been most obvious on the south side of the city. Together with the east side, the south side, and above all its eastern parishes profiled by the lower classes, were previously among the most segregated districts in Stockholm. The rise of Stockholm as a post-industrial city by the end of the 20th century resulted among other things in the city centre being extended southwards.

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The influx of post-industrial central functions, combined with a new housing policy, has completely changed the economic and demographic structure of the south side. This part of Stockholm came more and more to resemble the city on average. In past local elections, people residing on the south side have voted in ways similar to those of Stockholm residents in general. The lower classes, who support the labour parties, have instead settled in the „new periphery“ of the city’s administrative area, as well as in the suburbs. In the local elections held between 2002 and 2010, high index values have been noted for Ska¨rholmen, Kista and Spa˚nga, all of which are located in the outer city. The east side, dominated by the upper classes, has remained a highly segregated area throughout the period. The parish of Va¨sterled in western Stockholm has also kept its upper class character, and the segregation index has been fairly stable, maintaining a reasonably high level.

Map 1: Stockholm’s Congregations

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Lars Nilsson

Map 2: The South Side of Stockholm

Map 3: Stockholm’s Inner and Outer City

City centre Nikolai Klara Jakob Johannes North side Adolf Fredrik Gustav Vasa Matteus East side Hedvig Eleonora Oscar Engelbrekt South side Maria Ho¨galid Katarina Sofia West side Kungsholm Sankt Go¨ran Essinge Outer City: South Bra¨nnkyrka Enskede Skarpna¨ck Ha¨gersten Farsta

Parishes 2.8 16.9 22.8 3.7 20.9 9.2 1.0 30.5 28.9 16.1 11.1 13.5 25.2 6.9

23.7

21.0 8.9 2.1

31.0 28.7 14.9

9.4

13.3 25.0

8.2

23.5

1924

0.4 18.6 26.8 4.9

1921

23.7

7.1 13.0

0.8 16.8 15.3 23.4

27.0 27.8 16.3

19.1 10.6 0.3

6.0 12.4 20.7 1.6

1928

25.4 14.3

9.7 11.6

1.6 17.1 14.3 17.3

28.1 29.8 18.1

21.8 8.6 0.9

8.9 10.5 16.6 0.2

1932

23.3 12.6

12.0 12.1

2.4 16.3 14.9 18.1

27.8 30.4 16.6

20.0 9.6 0.9

6.5 9.4 16.7 0

1936

22.5 14.2

11.9 11.0

3.5 16.5 15.3 18.1

27.3 29.8 15.3

17.8 7.4 0.1

2.8 7.8 15.3 0.9

1940

23.2 12.5

13.0 9.7

5.6 17.2 16.0 19.1

27.9 30.5 15.4

19.2 8.4 0.0

3.4 7.2 14.0 1.6

1944

16.7 7.0

12.1 7.1

4.5 13.9 12.3 14.3

24.1 27.8 12.6

17.4 8.2 0.2

0 9.0 13.0 2.5

1948

Tab. 1: Segregation index for voting behaviours, parishes of Stockholm, 1921–1970

12.6 7.5

12.1 6.6

1.6 11.7 9.9 12.0

24.6 26.8 11.6

17.2 9.2 2.2

1.7 8.6 11.2 3.9

1952

10.1 4.9 6.9 14.1 11.6

11.4 5.7 4.1

3.0 11.7 9.9 13.0

23.3 25.8 11.4

16.1 8.3 2.3

4.0 8.3 11.1 3.9

1956

10.0 6.6 9.9 15.7 10.4

12.1 5.5 4.5

3.0 12.8 11.6 13.7

24.4 27.4 10.7

16.7 7.8 2.9

2.5 5.3 11.9 5.3

1960

10.0 7.4 10.6 13.9 8.6

11.9 4.0 3.2

1.5 11.3 10.8 12.7

26.1 27.0 14.4

18.1 9.5 3.2

5.1 5.6 11.2 6.9

1964

9.5 7.6 11.4 11.0 8.7

12.0 2.9 3.8

1.6 8.4 10.3 10.7

25.8 26.2 13.7

15.6 8.0 4.0

3.8 5.7 11.5 6.3

1968

9.3 9.5 12.2 12.9 9.6

8.0 6.0 6.2

4.4 9.9 12.5 11.8

21.9 22.9 7.9

12.3 3.8 1.1

1.4 1.2 8.7 4.8

1970

The spatial development of Stockholm, 1860–2010

301

16.8

Mean value

14.8

9.5

14.2

0.9

14.3

6.8

12.6

6.6

14.2

6.4

13

5.0

12.1

3.5

10.6

11.8

2.7

9.1

4.8 16.5 4.0

3.8

10.0

3.8 19.4 0.7

5.0

9.5

2.9 20.0 1.2 0.3

5.0

8.4

2.8 19.0 1.6 1.3

5.5

8.0

4.3 17.4 1.8 2.1

5.9 4.9

Source: Lars Nilsson, Stockholm i siffror 1850 2000 (Historisk ta¨tortsstatistik, 3, Stads- och kommunhistoriska institutet), Stockholm 2002, pp. 114–127 (Tables 89–102)

Note: Elections to the Parliament’s second chamber

18.6

Vanto¨r Ska¨rholmen Outer City: West Bromma Va¨sterled Spa˚nga Ha¨sselby

302 Lars Nilsson

City centre Nikolai Klara Jakob Domkyrko Storkyrko Johannes North side Adolf Fredrik Gustav Vasa Matteus East side Hedvig Eleonora Oscar Engelbrekt South side Maria Ho¨galid Katarina Sofia West side Kungsholm Sankt Go¨ran Essinge Outer City: South Bra¨nnkyrka Enskede Skarpna¨ck

Parishes 16.6 7.3 12.1

11.7 15.6 10.8 5.9 27.9 26.9 14.7 0.0 5.3 8.1 6.9 14.3 0.4 0.5 6.6 7.3 12.3

10.9 15.2 9.6 5.1 26.8 27.0 15.0 1.7 6.4 9.1 8.4 13.0 1.0 3.1 7.5 7.9 11.7

1976

17.1 7.4 8.3

1973

8.0 7.7 13.9

16.6 2.2 1.2

0.8 4.3 5.1 5.6

28.9 27.9 16.8

16.2 14.3 9.5

15.2

15.2 6.1 15.9

1979

8.4 10.3 15.2

16.4 3.5 4.1

0.4 3.6 4.3 4.3

30.0 28.8 18.3

17.1 13.8 11.2

15.4

17.2 11.8 13.9

1982

9.1 9.8 13.7

16.7 5.4 5.1

0.7 3.2 3.7 3.2

29.0 26.2 17.4

15.8 14.2 12.7

15.8

15.2 16.1 20.5

1985

9.0 8.9 13.6

15.9 6.4 6.5

2.3 3.0 3.8 3.2

28.8 26.8 18.7

15.3 13.8 13.0

15.3

13.0

1988

8.4 8.2 12.5

12.9 6.8 7.0

1.9 2.6 4.3 4.4

24.9 22.9 16.9

12.2 12.9 12.0

13.4

11.1

1991

9.9 7.9 14.3

15.5 8.2 10.1

1.8 1.2 2.3 2.4

28.5 26.1 21.4

15.2 15.8 15.2

16.5

14.7

1994

Tab. 2: Segregation index for voting behaviours, parishes of Stockholm, 1973–2010

8.3 6.1 12.8

15.3 10.2 11.7

2.0 2.5 5.0 3.4

25.9 23.0 19.6

13.9 13.1 14.3

14.6

13.6

1998

6.7 6.9 14.5

16.4 10.5 11.8

5 5.3 6.4 3.1

29.0 25.1 19.4

14.1 13.7 14.2

16.0

11.8

2002

5.4 4.3 11.3

14.1 8.9 12.9

1.5 2.1 2.4 1.7

23.6 19.9 15.7

13.7 12.8 13.3

15.6 7.8 14.2

2006

1.2 3.7 9.9

14.1 10.8 13.6

0.0 0.9 1.3 4.0

22.8 19.2 16.1

12.8 12.8 13.4

14.7

14.0

2010

The spatial development of Stockholm, 1860–2010

303

7.7

0.0 22.6 6.1 2.0 2.5

1.6 21.0 0.5 1.0

8.1

8.8 8.0 6.1 7.7

10.0 7.2 5.2 4.3

Source: see note 13.

Note: Local elections to the city council

Mean value

Ha¨gersten Farsta Vanto¨r Ska¨rholmen Outer City: West Bromma Va¨sterled Spa˚nga Ha¨sselby Va¨llingby Kista 9.4

0.8 23.7 7.4 1.6 1.3 11

9.2 9.7 7.8 10.1

10.6

0.3 24.6 9.5 1.4 1.0 11.7

8.3 10.4 8.9 10.8

11.0

0.4 22.7 9.1 0.7 0.1 10.8

8.2 11.2 9.3 12.0

11.1

0.4 21.8 10.4 1.2 0.4 11.7

7.2 11.8 10.1 12.3

10.6

1.6 19.3 12.2 3.4 0.3 10.6

5.9 10.5 8.9 11.9

14.1

2.5 21.2 16.6 0.6 1.5 18.3

5.7 13.8 12.3 16.6

13.0

4.4 20.4 16.2 1.5 2.7 18.7

5.8 13.2 9.9 17.6

12.6

6.4 22.1 15.0 0.4 2.7 17.2

6.0 13.0 11.3 18.0

11.9

5.2 17.6 16.9 2.4 3.7 21.6

2.5 11.9 11.3 20.9

12.8

6.0 17.4 20.8 4.1 3.3

0.9 12.3 15.0 25.7

304 Lars Nilsson

GREEN SPACE AND THE CITY by Peter Clark

In my paper here I want to say, firstly, what is distinctive about the conceptual and methodological strategy of urban historians; and then, secondly, show how that strategy is applied in one major subject of European city history – the study of the evolution of urban green space from the 19th century to the present time; looking in turn at the factors shaping its development, the many different types of green space that emerged in the period, and finally at the role of different actors in that process – among them, professional architects, politicians, developers, voluntary groups and local residents. One distinctive feature of urban history is that it has always been interdisciplinary. In the past it had important inputs from sociologists – including before and after the Second World War from the Chicago School – and from geographers, such as David Harvey in the United States and Brian Robson in Britain. More recently, there has been the growing influence and impact on urban history of art and architectural historians and the first signs of a new discourse with environmentalists and ecologists.1 Another important feature of urban history is that, at its best, it considers developments over the long dure´e. This is hardly surprising, indeed surely necessary given that the European urban order is historically embedded in the past, with many bigger European cities and towns established by the high Middle Ages, and even in the later developing European regions such as Scandinavia the urban network of small towns was largely in place by the 17th century. Only by taking long periods of study can we identify both the important continuities and the decisive shifts in urban development.2 At its heart, urban history is concerned with three key relations. The first is the relationship between urban communities – whether at the local or regional level in the functioning of networks of neighbouring towns, at the national level in the formation

1 For a general discussion of the importance of interdisciplinarity for urban history see Peter Clark, Eu-

ropean Cities and Towns 400–2000, Oxford 2009, pp. 9–10; Cf. Robert Park/Ernest Watson Burgess/ Roderick D. MacKenzie, The City, Chicago 1925; David Harvey, Social Justice and the City, Baltimore 1973; Brian T. Robson; Urban Analysis, Cambridge 1973; Urban Ecology, ed. by Jari Niemela¨/ Ju¨rgen H. Breuste, Oxford 2011. 2 Clark, European Cities (see note 1), chapter 2; Edith Ennen, The Medieval Town, Amsterdam 1979; Regional Integration in Early Modern Scandinavia, ed. by Finn-Einar Eliassen/Jørgen Mikkelsen/ Bjørn Poulsen, Odense 2001.

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of urban hierarchies, or at the international level as in the evolution of networks of world port cities and the international ranking of global financial capitals. Shaping this relationship since early times has been the important force of urban rivalry. In the Middle Ages North Italian cities fought pitched battles from their rivals as they sought to gain trade and territory; in recent years competition has been equally fierce, though happily nonviolent, over the award of the Olympic Games or other sports championships to rival cities. At the same time, inter-urban competition has always been offset by emulation and some measure of cooperation – evinced by the medieval German town leagues and the present day consortia of European cities that are busy lobbying the European Union over urban policy.3 A second key relationship for urban historians is that between the city and its host society. Here of course one thinks of the umbilical link between a town and its rural hinterland – of vital economic, demographic and political significance in much of Europe until the later 19th century. But another strand in this connection with the wider world is the often uneasy, tense relationship with rulers and states. Across Europe princes and kings established a multiplicity of towns in the Middle Ages and afterwards, and the expanding power and ambitions of states has presented major opportunities but also serious challenges for civic leaders.4 In recent times, great stress has been put on the impact on cities of a globalising economy, but there can be no doubt that international commercial influences have been powerful on European cities since the Middle Ages.5 The final relationship that concerns urban historians is between the demographic, economic, social, political and cultural functions of towns – often in tension with one another. Thus we discover that demographic growth does not necessarily entail economic growth and the consequent economic deficit frequently creates major social problems. In the same way cultural change and innovation may often occur in times of economic crisis or transformation. In sum then, the methodological approach of Europeans urban historians needs to be interdisciplinary, concerned with long term trends, and, above all, comparative – concerned with cities and urban networks reacting with one another. In the rest of this paper I want to illustrate some of these themes and issues through the prism of research I have been working on (in collaboration with Finnish and overseas colleagues) since 2000 on green space and the European city. So far two books have been published out of this research work: „The European City and Green Space: London, Stockholm, Helsinki and St Petersburg 1850–2000“, edited by Peter Clark (2006) and „Green Space, Sport and Recreation in the European City“, edited by Peter Clark, Marjaana Niemi and Jari Niemela¨ (2009); and these books illustrate in more detail some of the arguments of this paper. As we shall see, the subject of urban green

3 Clark, European Cities (see note 1), pp. 9–10, 365–356. 4 Wim Blockmans/Marjolein ’t Hart, Power, in: Oxford Handbook of Cities in World History, ed. by

Peter Clark, Oxford 2013, pp. 422–435; see also Cities and the Rise of States in Europe AD 1000 to 1800, ed. by Charles Tilly/Wim Blockmans, Oxford 1994. 5 Saskia Sassen, Cities in a Global Economy, London 2000; Janet L. Abu-Lughod, Before European Hegemony: The World System A. D. 1250–1350, Oxford 1989.

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space raises fundamental questions not only about the urban environment, but about power, social networking, planning and culture in the modern European city.6 Of course, ideas of green space are not new in the modern city. Notions, if not the precise terminology, of the green city go back to the 17th century, and probably earlier. In the 1660s the English regional city of Norwich was described as „either a city in an orchard or an orchard in a city, so equally are houses and trees blended in it“. Around the same time, foreign visitors to Dutch cities drew attention to their treelined canals and other verdant spaces. But it was in the 19th century that references to green spaces in the city multiplied, at a time when „natural“ green space – orchards, fields and wasteland – began to disappear under the pressure of development. Now the stress was on the need to create planned or designed green space. References to the necessity for „zones of open country“ around London appear in the 1820s and „green corridors“ in the 1880s.7 When Zagreb in Croatia was redeveloped in 1887/89 the city planned an elaborate arrangement of public edifices and parks with the aim of creating ‘a green horse-shoe’ for the city; and similar phrases can be found in other cities across Europe.8 By the late 1920s London County Council published a map depicting all the main open spaces coloured in green.9 However the concept of a green city or park city seems to come into vogue in the late 20th century: it would be interesting to know when it first appeared. Until quite recently there has been little historical research on urban green space in aggregate. True, numerous studies have appeared on parks, particularly ornamental parks, and garden suburbs, along with a scattering of pieces on allotment gardens, sports grounds and the like.10 But since the 1970s ecologists have shown how important it is to see green spaces not in isolation but as linked up, connected areas: after all, birds and mammals, even amphibians do not distinguish parks, golf courses and private gardens but move between them11! Awareness of green space has also grown as a result of disputes and public mobilization in recent decades over the redevelopment of parks, garden suburbs, green belt and the like: as we will see, green space like all urban space has always been heavily contested. Finally one side effect of the civic marketing of „green cities“ has been to highlight the need for creating a better understanding of why, how and when the green landscape of modern cities has emerged.12 Of the many factors shaping the development of green space in the modern European city, particularly the West European city, one of the most important in the early 19th and early 20th centuries was the densification of population areas in old city areas, 6 For my 2011–12 project on Green Space Issues and the Metropolitan City funded by the Ur-

ban research and Metropolitan Cooperation Programme see http://greenspaceissues.wordpress.com [27. November 2012] 7 The European City and Green Space: London, Stockholm, Helsinki and St Petersburg 1850–2000, ed. by Peter Clark, Aldershot 2006, p. 1. 8 Clark, European Cities (see note 1), p. 325. 9 London County Council, Statistics 32 (1926–1927), p. 146. 10 For some of this literature see Clark, European City and Green Space (see note 7), pp. 5ff.; also Greening the City: Urban Landscapes in the 20th Century, ed. by Dorothe Brantz/Sonja Du¨mpelmann, London 2011, passim. 11 Niemela¨/Breuste, Urban Ecology (see note 1), passim. 12 Clark, European City and Green Space (see note 7), p. 68 et passim.

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creating intense pressure on open space.13 By the First World War densification had reached a ceiling in many cities and towns, and suburbanization and decentralisation began to accelerate – later in Mediterranean cities than elsewhere. Suburbanization took the pressure off green space in central areas but moved the focus of contestation more to the periphery. After the 1990s, re-urbanization led to renewed pressure on open space in central cities.14 Since the 19th century urbanization trends have not only generated pressure on existing open space, notably from developers, but they have frequently led to new ideas about designed green space. In the 19th century growing public, especially middle-class, fears about epidemic disease as a result of urban densification and the need for improved public health contributed to the hygienic argument for public parks. The middle classes also saw parks as a way of controlling and educating the hordes of working class people who crowded into cities. In this way urbanization generated a social discipline argument for urban green space.15 Another major factor contributing to the expansion of urban green space in the modern city was the growth of municipal government from the 19th century, with much bigger bureaucracies and greater financial resources than in the past. The provision of parks and other green spaces was often linked to the major infrastructure improvement of central cities. The growth of new civic parks departments, sports departments and later planning departments all promoted the design and maintenance of new green spaces. Already from the late 19th century cities competed with one another in park and boulevard design, which they saw as demonstrative of urban if not cosmopolitan status.16 The growth of urban planning departments was closely linked to the rise of international planning movements from the end of the 19th century, movements that were themselves a response to the acute problems of housing and traffic congestion spawned by the rapid urbanization of the late 19th century. One of the most important was the town and country planning movement launched by Ebenezer Howard in the 1890s. Drawing on American as well as European ideas, Howard promoted ideas of self contained garden cities, structured by nature. The first to be realised was Letchworth Garden City (1903), set in benign countryside, its houses surrounded and embraced by private gardens. Advanced by European societies, international conferences, publications and professional visits, Howard’s ideas spread quickly across Europe as far as Soviet Russia, though in virtually all cases they were implemented not as garden cities but as leafy garden suburbs.17 Another major planning movement was the International Modernist Movement which developed in the interwar period – 13 Andrew Lees/Lynn Hollen Lees, Cities and the Making of Modern Europe 1750–1914, Cambridge

2007, p. 59ff.

14 Lees/Lees, Cities (see note 13), p. 150; Clark, European City and Green Space (see note 7), pp. 18–19. 15 Clark, European City and Green Space (see note 7), p. 17 et passim, 41–43. 16 Clark, European Cities (see note 1), p. 337ff.; Clark, European City and Green Space (see note 7),

p. 19 et passim.

17 Clark, European City and Green Space (see note 7), pp. 19–20; Anthony Sutcliffe, Urban planning

in Europe and North America before 1914, in: Urbanisierung im 19. und 20. Jahrhundert, ed. by Hans Ju¨rgen Teuteberg, Ko¨ln 1983, pp. 441–473.

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similarly mobilising through conferences, publications, exhibitions, site visits and the like. Here the vision was less one of installing the town in nature, than of incorporating nature – in the form of greenery – into the urban grand design, a panoramic design which was ruled by geometric spaces and high rise buildings and deliberately emptied of historical reference. In the 1930s Stockholm’s Functionalist adaption of Modernist ideas created modestly-scaled apartment blocks in new green suburbs such Hammarbyho¨jden and Traneberg (which also incorporated some of Howard’s ideas), but after the 2nd World War large-scale Modernist-style housing estates were parachuted onto the periphery of many European cities, with nature often represented by mechanically levelled green or muddy areas between tower blocks.18 After the First World War states increasingly enacted urban planning laws and from the 1940s these were applied by expanding planning departments led by Modernist architects. Here Patrick Abercrombie’s County of London Plan (1943) with its mathematically calculated provision of open space for new housing developments had major influence across European cities.19 If international planning movements had an important effect on urban green space, so too did the rise of sport. Organized competitive sports such as cricket and horse-racing began in England during the 18th century but three developments occurred after the 1850s. Firstly, new competitive sports emerged in Britain, including football, hockey, athletics, golf, lawn-tennis and cycling, almost invariably run by middle-class organisations. Secondly, a number of the new sports (together with older ones like cricket) spread from the elite classes to ordinary townspeople: for example, at Battersea Park in South London in 1904–5 about 70,000 people played tennis, 22,000 cricket, and 16,000 football. The third development was that the new sports spread quickly across the Channel to other European cities. Paris had athletics clubs by the 1880s and football clubs the following decade; German cities soon boasted rowing, cycling and alpine clubs among others, just as St Petersburg acquired clubs for tennis, hockey, rowing and skating. Many of these sports, particularly ball games, used extensive open space.20 Old parks were converted, at least in part, into sports grounds and new recreation fields were opened. In addition private provision was widespread, including golf courses, private tennis courts, and company sports grounds. In the late 20th century new trends in sport including the growth of more individualistic recreations like orienteering, the decline of organised amateur sports, and the fashion for expensive sports such as golf have all had important effects on the development of urban recreation and green areas as we show in the book „Green Space Sport, and Recreation in European Cities“.21 18 Helen Meller, European Cities 1890–1930s: History, Culture and the Built Environment, London

2001; Lars Nilsson, The Stockholm Style, in: Clark, European City and Green Space (see note 7), pp. 144–145. 19 Patricia L. Garside, Politics, Ideology and the issue of open space in London 1939–2000, in: Clark, European City and Green Space (see note 7), pp. 68ff. 20 Peter Borsay, A History of Leisure: The British Experience since 1500, Basingstoke 2006; Peter Clark/Salla Jokela/Jarmo Saarikivi (eds.), Nature, Sport and the European City: London and Helsinki 1880–2005, in: Brantz/Du¨mpelmann, Greening the City (see note 10), pp. 116–119. 21 Sport, Recreation and Green Space in the European City, ed. by Peter Clark/Marjana Niemi/Jari Niemela¨, Helsinki 2009, pp. 11–17, 21–22 et passim.

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From the 1960s environmental and ecological groups began to have a growing impact too. Initially they sprang up in reaction to the aggressive redevelopment of urban green areas by Modernist planners and developers – for instance Kungstra¨dga˚rten in Stockholm or Puu-Ka¨pyla¨ in Helsinki. From the 1970s ecologists like Herbert Sukopp in Berlin began to pioneer ideas about biotopes, green space, and urban planning, virtually inventing the concept of urban ecology.22 Two other factors need mention: the land market and transport changes. Since the 19th century green space has been an important commodity of the land market. As we have noted, development pressure on open space has been a recurrent challenge for cities and their residents. At the same time, the land market sometimes works in favour of green space. In the 19th century urban developers frequently gave land for public parks in order to enhance the value of their nearby housing schemes, while in the late 20th century local residents, aware of the high property values derived from proximate green spaces such as golf courses, became vocal defenders of open spaces in cities.23 As for transport, the spread of public transport in cities from the later 19th century contributed significantly to growing lower-class access to and use of parks and recreation areas. However, the rise of private transport in the 20th century presented major challenges: traffic pressure spawned road schemes and car parks consuming significant volumes of open space, while growing car use from the 1960s led to the displacement of leisure activity from older inner city parks and recreation grounds to the urban periphery and beyond – including in the Nordic countries the growing use by town residents of summer cottages in the countryside. Certainly it has contributed to the growing diversity of urban and urbanised green spaces.24 Turning then to the different types of urban green space, my second theme, it is important to stress that „green space“ is often a misnomer in the European city. Much of the open space I have been talking about is often not very green – certainly not in the blazing heat of a Mediterranean city in summer or in the long cold winters of Nordic cities. Quite often urban „green space“ space is yellowy grey, streaky white, or muddy brown. Again we should not forget that in addition to land space, European cities often have important areas of blue space (rivers and sea), and green-blue space (marshlands) which likewise have come under important pressure from developers and planners in recent times.25 One important type of green space in 19th century cities was natural open land or wasteland, such as the commons in and around many British cities. Much of the

22 Clark, European City and Green Space (see note 7), pp. 108–109, 214–220; Jens Lachmund, The Mak-

ing of an Urban Ecology: Biological Expertise and Wildlife Preservation in West Berlin, in: Brantz/ Du¨mpelmann, Greening the City (see note 10), pp. 204–228. 23 Clark, European City and Green Space (see note 7), p. 22 24 Clark, European City and Green Space (see note 7), p. 22. 25 On seasonality see Niko Lipsanen, The seasonality of green space: the case of Uutela, Helsinki c. 2000, in: Clark, European City and Green Space (see note 7), pp. 229–236. See also the paper by Dorothee Brantz (Berlin): „Berlin’s Green Spaces and the Question of Seasonality from 1945 to the Present“ at the international workshop on Green Space and the City, Tva¨rminne, Finland, November 2012. For urban blue space see e. g. Urban Rivers: Remaking Rivers, Cities, and Space in Europe and North America, ed. by Ste´phane Castonguay/Matthew D. Evenden, Pittsburgh 2012.

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modern period saw the development or mastering of this natural land, at best turning it into parks, more often into built-over space. But in the later 20th century industrial decline and transport changes in cities has frequently led to a renaissance of natural wasteland both in brownfield sites and alongside railway lines.26 Among the early designed green spaces in European cities were tree-lined boulevards – from the late 17th century often built on site of old town fortifications. In the mid 19th century Georges-Euge`ne Haussmann’s remodelling of central Paris involved the large-scale construction of boulevards and these became an influential exemplar across Europe, the Middle East and South America.27 Another early type of urban green space were parks. In the 17th and 18th centuries royal parks in capital cities like London and Stockholm were increasingly opened up to the citizenry, but from the 1840s civic parks became widespread. Often these were ornamental, closely regulated by the authorities and mainly intended as fashionable promenades for the bourgeoisie and places for the education in good manners of the better-dressed lower orders. As we remarked earlier, cities competed in the provision of elaborate, well-kept central parks as a marker of cosmopolitan urbanity. But from the end of the 19th century parts of old parks were converted into recreation areas and new more popular People’s Parks, neighbourhood parks and specialist sports parks were created by town councils. As already noted, there was a major growth of municipal sports facilities in the 20th century.28 City councils were important suppliers of green spaces in modern cities, but there were other providers too. From the 19th century hospitals often had extensive gardens as did burial grounds, frequently run by private companies. After the First World War new schools were increasingly constructed with large green spaces including sports grounds.29 Recreation grounds and sometimes gardens were also sponsored by private companies in the inter-war era, as fresh air and exercise was seen by their management as vital for improved labour productivity. Thus the Fiat Company in Turin established sports facilities for its workers in the late 1920s and 1930s, at a time when municipal provision there was minimal. In the later 20th century private firms, sometimes international corporations have been heavily implicated in the construction of golf courses around major European cities such as Berlin.30 Another different type of green space in modern European cities was the allotment garden. Here the main stimulus seems to have come from North German cities 26 Clark, European City and Green Space (see note 7), p. 43 et passim. 27 Lees/Lees, Cities (see note 13), pp. 185ff.; Mercedes Volait/Mohammad Al-Asad, Middle East, in:

Clark, Oxford Handbook of Cities in World History (see note 4), pp. 608–609. 28 Hazel Conway, People’s Parks: the Design and Development of Victorian Parks in Britain, Cambridge

1991; Catharina Nolin, Till stadsbornas nytta och fo¨rlustande. Den offlentiga parken i Sverige under 1800-talet, Stockholm 1989; and idem, Stockholm’s urban parks: meeting places and social contexts, in: Clark, European City and Green Space (see note 7), pp. 111ff.; also Clark/Niemi/Niemela¨, Sport, Recreation and Green Space (see note 21), passim. 29 Clark, European City and Green Space (see note 7), p. 2 et passim. 30 Fulvia Grandizio, Green Space and Sport in Italian Cities in the 20th Century: the Example of Turin, in: Clark/Niemi/Niemela¨, Sport, Recreation and Green Space (see note 21), pp. 97ff.; Christiane Eisenberg/Reet Tamme, The Golf Boom in Germany 1980–2006, in: Clark/Niemi/Niemela¨, Sport, Recreation and Green Space (see note 21), p. 171.

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in the late 19th century, spreading to Danish, Swedish and thence Finnish cities before and after the First World War. Garden societies also spread the idea elsewhere in European cities. In Britain, where the idea may date back to the 18th century, the gardens were invariably without cabins or living places, and mostly for growing vegetables, but in Finland for instance the so-called colonial gardens around Helsinki have quite elaborate small houses with lighting and other facilities, and the garden plots are given over to a luxuriant display of flowers as well as vegetables.31 The interwar era also saw two significant developments on the urban periphery. With mounting car use and traffic congestion new road schemes started – autobahns in Germany and ring-roads in Britain. While the North American model boasted parks alongside new roads and beltways, European roads made do with green verges. More significant was the piece-meal creation in the 1930s by the London County Council of the London green belt, to try and control urban decentralisation. In fact, development leapfrogged the greenbelt, but its survival to the present day, protected by local house-owners and other interest groups, has maintained a green oasis in the outer London suburbs; and the example has been copied in some form in other European cities.32 One last type of green space needs mention, although there is a negligible historical (compared to gardening) literature: private gardens. While late 19th century villas for the better-off usually had extensive walled or private gardens, working class tenement houses rarely had more than small strips of land for flowers or vegetables (often none at all). But the garden city movement had an important influence on new middle and lower class housing after the First World War with the growing provision of decent sized fenced gardens even for council houses and other kinds of social housing. In the late 20th century housing development (as distinct from apartment construction) almost invariably included garden areas which now comprise one of the major forms of green space in many European cities. Construction companies see small gardens as creating significant added value for their properties.33 This take us to the final section of this lecture, the actors, the main groups – professionals, politicians, developers, voluntary groups, and users – who designed or shaped urban green space in the late 19th and 20th centuries. For much of the period architects and planners had a decisive influence. Often closely linked through professional clubs, publications, networks and shared ideas, from the late 19th century they actively promoted particular configurations of urban green space – after the Second

31 Katri Lento, The role of nature in the city: green space in Helsinki 1917–60, in: Clark, European City

and Green Space (see note 7), pp. 195ff.

32 Brantz/Du ¨ mpelmann, Greening the City (see note 10), pp. 96, 99; Clark, European City and Green

Space (see note 7), pp. 62ff.

33 Private domestic gardens have been surprisingly neglected by researchers until recently. The Sheffield

project on biodiversity produced some important publications: Ken Thompson/Kevin C. Austin/ Richard M. Smith/Phlip H. Warren/Penny G. Angold/Kevin J. Gaston, Urban domestic gardens (I): Putting small-scale plant diversity in context, in: Journal of Vegetation Science 14 (2003), pp. 71–78. At Helsinki 2011–12 Anna Ojala carried out an important comparison of the impact of urban infilling on private gardens in Helsinki and Vantaa as part of the project on Green Space Issues and the Metropolitan City funded by the Urban Research and Metropolitan Cooperation Programme.

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World War for instance designing large, often disfunctional complexes of Modernist housing surrounded by extensive, barren playing fields and lawns. They were able to get many of their ideas implemented partly because of their status as prophets of Modernity but also because of their close, sometimes too close relationship with local politicians. Politicians were often hand in glove not only with architects but with private developers.34 Before the Second World War most construction companies were small, often local businesses, but with the building boom after the war, linked to new industrial building techniques, construction companies grew rapidly in size, turning into national and even international corporations with almost unlimited influence. Regrettably, the major topic of the construction industry has been largely ignored by economic historians. So we know very little about it, except that we can see its impact on the ground in the later 20th and early 21st century city in the pressure on suburban green space, the infilling of private garden plots, the conversion of hospital and school lands for housing estates, and much else. From the late 1960s the cosy alliance of planners, politicians, and developers was challenged by the rise of ecological and other voluntary groups, concerned at the redevelopment of green space and related environmental issues. Conservation and environmental organisations of some kind can be traced back to the late 19th century, but often they had close links with professionals and planners. The new ecological and resident bodies after the 1960s often comprised outsiders, but by the 1980s councils increasingly sought to incorporate them into the political and planning process. Since then they have become more and more insiders, linked to conventional party politics, such as the Green Party, and more detached from the actual users of green space.35 Our last and largest set of actors, the users of green space, often have a different view of green space than those described above. Quite often they may want to use green space in more traditional and informal ways than the authorities would like. But it is difficult to generalize. The problem is that there are many different types of users with different needs: women, young people, retired people, immigrants, residents with and without cars. Recent studies of green space users suggests that their perception of and use of green space is highly variable, with important seasonal and temporal differences. It is hardly surprising therefore that attempts by city planning authorities to consult with local residents as required by changes in the planning law in some countries in the 1990s tend to be little more than cosmetic exercises.36 To sum up, the study of green space raises important issues about many aspects of European city in the modern and contemporary period. Three are of particular significance. The first is the extent to which cities pursue their own policies and the extent to which they emulate one another. The second is the relationship within cities of different types of space – the degree of competition, the changing priorities. The last is the relationship between the different interest groups and the public: in other words, who really runs the city? 34 Lento, The role of nature (see note 31), pp. 201–203. 35 Marjaana Niemi, Politics, professionals and publics: conflicts over green space in Helsinki,

c.1950–2000, in: Clark, European City and Green Space (see note 7), pp. 207ff. 36 Niemi, Politics, professionals and publics (see note 35), pp. 224ff.

INDEX DER ORTS- UND PERSONENNAMEN

¨ rtlichkeiten wurden lediglich in der von den Verfassern verwenOrtsnamen und O deten Namensform aufgenommen. Gleiches gilt fu¨r die Personen; in einigen Fa¨llen wurden Vornamen auf die im Deutschen gebra¨uchliche Form vereinheitlicht. Aachen 168, 169 Adalbertstor (Aldegundistor) 53 Burtscheider Tor 50 Abercrombie, Patrick 309 Adjud 79 Agde 238, 242, 248, 257 Agen 241 Agnita 89 Aiud 92 Alba Iulia 95 Albarracı´n 223, 229 Alcala´ de Guadaira 220 Alexander VI., Papst 232 Alfons I., Kg. v. Arago´n 229 Alfons V., Kg. v. Arago´n 229, 232 Alfons VIII., Kg. v. Kastilien 224 Alfons X. d. Weise, Kg. v. Kastilien 227 Alfons XI., Kg. v. Kastilien 227 Altenburg Burgtor 52 Amlaı´b Conung (Olaf d. Weiße), Kg. v. Dublin 202 Amlaı´b Cuara´n (Olaf Sihtricson), Kg. v. Dublin 202 Amsterdam 236, 241 Andreas d. Leinweber 280 Angers 242 Angouleˆme 260, 263 Annagassan 200 Annesley, Sir Francis 157 Arles 238, 257 Armagh 152, 156–159, 204 Church of the Repository 156 Grey (Franciscan) Friary 158 Presbyterian Church 158 Priory of Culdees 156, 157 SS. Peter and Paul, Abbey 156–158 St. Brigid 156 St. Malachy 158 St. Mark 158

St. Patrick (Cathedral) 156, 158 Tempul na Ferta 156 Wesleyan Methodist meeting house 158 Asculf Mac Torcaill, Kg. v. Dublin 56 Ashmead, George 38 A¸tel 92 ´ th Cliath 198 A Athlone 45, 48 Connaught Gate 55 Dublin Gate 51 Athos-Klo¨ster 86 Augsburg 10, 23, 142 Auma 142, 143 Marienkirche 142 Nikolaikirche 142 ´ stı´ nad Labem) 173 Aussig a. d. Elbe (U Avignon 168, 248 ´ vila 219, 220, 224 A Be´jar 219, 224 Bac˘au 79 Baden 48 Brucktor 53 Fischertor 55 Frauentor 52 Herzogstor 52 Spitaltor 54 Wiener Tor 51 Baia 79–81, 85, 106 Baia de Arie¸s 91 Baia Mare 92 Baldoyle 204 Ballaly 206 Bandon 45 Baraolt 90 Barbastro 229 Barcelona 230–231, 233 Bautzen 146 Bayeux 266 Bayonne 239, 243, 267, 268

316

Index der Orts- und Personennamen

Beaucaire 248 Bˇechovice 283 Beheim, Hans Sebald 9, 23 Belfast 45 Benaguasil 232 Berlin 15, 132, 310, 311 Bern 226 Bilbao 226 Bistri¸ta 67, 70, 72, 74, 89, 92, 93, 98, 101 Black, Jeremy 34, 38 Blaye 243 Bloch, Marc 4, 5, 18 Bodkin, Christopher, Ebf. v. Tuam 152 Bologna 10, 23, 48 Porta Ravegnana 51 Bonn 169 Bordeaux 236, 238–244, 246–249, 254, 257, 258, 263, 267, 268 Boston 7, 20 Boto¸sani 80 Bourdieu, Pierre 3, 5, 17, 19 Bourg 243 Bourgneuf 242 Bradford 192 Bradford, Samuel 34 Bra¸sov 66, 67, 73, 89, 92–94, 99, 102 Braudel, Fernand 5, 18, 19 Bray 45, 213 Brega 206 Bregenz 46 Brescia 10, 23 Breslau (Wrocław) 54 Marientor 54 Neutor (Brama Nowa) 57 Nikolaitor 54 Russisches Tor (valva Ruthenica, Brama Ruska) 58 Brest 239, 251, 255, 257–259, 264, 266 Bristol 36–38, 208 Britton, John 190, 191 Bruck a. d. Mur 48, 59, 61, 63 Grazer Tor 61 Grazer Viertel 59 Leobner Viertel 59 Mitterviertel 60 Schiffviertel 60 Wiener Tor 51, 61 Wiener Viertel 60 Bru¨x (Most) 174 Bruneck 142, 144 Breite Straße 142 Nikolaikirche 142 Bruno, Bf. v. Brixen 142 Buda 92 ˇ Budweis (Ceske ´ Budˇejovice) Krumauer Tor 50

Schweinitzer Tor 50 Wittingauer Tor 50 Budynˇe nad Ohˇr´ı (Budin a. d. Eger) 176 Virgin Mary of the Snow 176 Bukarest 78, 79, 85, 86 Burgos 222, 227, 228, 233 Buti, Gilbert 246 Buz˘au 80 Co´rdoba 219, 220 Cabezo´n 227 Calatayud 223, 229 Caˆlnic 98 Cambrils 230 Caˆmpulung 79, 80 Canterbury 190 Cap Franc¸ais 248 Carcassonne 260 Carrickfergus 45, 48 Spittal Gate 54 Watergate 50 Caˆr¸ta 96 Caulfield, Sir Toby 157 ˇ Cesky ´ Brod (Bo¨hmisch Brod) 176, 181 Most Holy Trinity 176 Chambers, Robert 190 Chaucer, Geoffrey 191 Chicago 305 Christaller, Walter 12, 26 Cigales 227 Cincu 65, 69, 89, 91 Cirencester 190 Cisn˘adie 89, 91, 94, 98, 99 Clairac 241 Clondalkin 202 Clonmacnoise, Kloster 198 Cluj 67, 72, 73, 89, 91–93, 101, 102 Colbert, Jean Baptiste, Finanz- u. Marinemin. v. Frankreich 241, 265 Corneille, Pierre 251 Cosgrove, Denis 36, 38, 39 Cotnari 85 Coventry 34, 35 Craiova 85 Cre´cy 255 Cremona 51 Crevillent 230 Cric˘au 92 Cromwell, Thomas 160 Cualu 200 Cuenca 220 Cullera 231 Curtea de Arge¸s 79 Daniel (O’Donnell), William, Ebf. v. Tuam 154

Index der Orts- und Personennamen Danzig 128, 134 Daroca 223, 229 Davies, Sir John 157 Dear, Michael 40 Derrida, Jacques 31–33 Dieppe 243 Domnall Mo´r Ua Briain 160 Donnchadh Carbreach O’Briain 160 Dowdall, George, Ebf. v. Armagh 157 Downpatrick 45, 48 Nun’s Gate 53 Downs, Roger M. 7, 21 Drake, Francis 188 Dublin 45, 48, 151, 157, 197–215 Bridge Gate 54 Christ Church Cathedral 204–206 Dam’s Gate 53 Dolphin’s Barn 202, 208 New Gate 58 Oxmantown 208 St. Andrew’s 206 St. Audoen’s Arch 53 St. Kevin’s 206 St. Martin’s 206 St. Mary’s Abbey 205, 206 St. Michael’s Gate (Nordtor, Gillemeholmoc Gate) 56 St. Michan’s 206 St. Olaf’s 206 St. Patrick’s Cathedral 212 St. Patrick’s Gate (St. Nicholas’ Gate, Asculf’s Gate) 56 St. Werburgh’s 206 Wood Quay 202, 208 Duiblinn, Monastery 198, 200 Dundalk 45, 48, 49 North Gate (Lower Water Gate, Bridge Gate) 54 Seatown Gate 50 Dunkerque 238, 243, 251, 255, 259, 263, 268 Edinburgh 39, 191 Edward III., Kg. v. England 214 Eggenburg 48 Kremser Tor 51 Lederertor 55 Eisenstadt 46 El Espinar 221 El Grado 229 El Puig 231 Elbing 127–136 Alter Markt 127, 128, 132 Altstadt 129, 130 Am Altmarkt 134 Bo¨ttcherstraße 128, 132 Brotmarkt 127, 133

317

Bru¨ckstraße 128, 132 Fischerstraße 127, 128 Heiliggeiststraße 127 Holzmarkt 132 Neuer Markt 130, 132–134 Neustadt 129, 130 Rathaus 127, 128, 132 Ringplatz/Marktplatz 128 St. Nicolai 128 Tuchhallen 127 Elboeuf 248 Elche 230 Elisabeth I., Kgn. v. England 160 Ennen, Edith 10, 24 Enns 48, 61 Frauentor 52 Schmiedtor 55 Wiener Tor 51 Eugen IV., Papst 102 Febvre, Lucien 4 Ferdinand III., Kg. v. Kastilien 228 Fethard 45 Flix 230 Floci 79 Florenz 9, 23, 106 Flower, Jonathan 190 Flusser, Vile´m 8, 21 Flusty, Steven 40 Foucault, Michel 4, 8, 18, 21, 31, 33, 47 Frankfurt a. M. 169 Freistadt 48 Bo¨hmertor 54 Gunczentor (Linzer Tor) 58 Spitaltor 54 Friedrich I. Barbarossa, Ks. 56 Friedrich II. d. Gr., Kg. v. Preußen 130, 131, 134 Friesach 48 Fuchs, Michael Gottlieb 134 Fuenteovejuna 220 Fulk de Sandford, Ebf. v. Dublin 212 Galway 152 Gandı´a 232 Gaˆrbova 98 Gennep, Arnold van 5, 19 Genua 236 Ge´za II., Kg. v. Ungarn 94 Glendalough, Abbey 206, 208, 212, 214 Gnesen 135, 136 Go¨rlitz 141, 142, 145, 146 Franziskanerkloster 142 Landhaus 142 Nikolaikirche 142 Obermarkt 142

318

Index der Orts- und Personennamen

Peterskirche 142 Rathaus 142 Untermarkt 142 Gojau (Ka´jov) 177 Goldenkron (Zlata´ Koruna), Kloster 170 Graz 46, 48, 63 Burgtor 52 Judentu¨rl 56 Greceanu, Eugenia 79 Grigore Alexandru Ghica, Fst. d. Moldau 119 Gruber, Karl 76 Gue´rande 242 Guerville 254 Hainburg 48 Burgtor 52 Fischertor 55 Ungartor 54 Wiener Tor 51 Halifax 192 Hall in Tirol 48 Absamer Tor 50 Milser Tor 50 Unteres Thaurer Tor (Heiligkreuztor) 54 Hamburg 236 Hammarbyho¨jden 309 Hammond, John 214 Harley, J. Brian 31–36, 38, 39 Harvey, David 305 Haussmann, Georges-Euge`ne 311 Heinrich II., Kg. v. England 208 Heinrich IV., Kg. v. England 214 Heinrich VIII., Kg. v. England 151–153, 157, 158, 160, 165 Heinrich II., Kg. v. Kastilien 228 Heinrich IV., Kg. v. Kastilien 224, 225 Heinrich v. Neuhaus (Jindˇrich of Hradec) 169 Heinrich, Hzg. v. Villena, S. v. Kg. Ferdinand I. v. Arago´n 232 Helsinki 306, 310, 312 Herculaneum 189 Herodot 3, 17 Herrnhut 48 Hertwig, Arzt in Prag 280 Ho¨xter Brucktor 54 Klaustor 52 Petritor 52 Hohenfurt (Vysˇsˇ´ı Brod), Kloster 170 Honfleur 236 Horn 48, 49 Wiener Tor 51 Horsˇovsky´ Ty´n 176 St. Anne 176 Hospitalet 230

Howard, Ebenezer 308 Hubbard, Phil 30 Ia¸si 78, 79, 83, 86, 105–121 Banu Church 118, 119 Beilic 109 Beilic Market 113, 115, 116 Boto¸sani road 110 Cattle Market 109, 110, 113, 115 Fish Market 109, 110 Flour Market 109, 110 Flour Market Street 110 Flour Suburb 110 Golia’s Street 110 Hay Market 109, 110 Higher Marketplace’s Street 110 Hotin road 110 Imperial road (Gala¸ti road) 110 Large Market 109 Main Street 83 Marketplace 83 Metropolitan Church 117, 119 New Marketplace (High Marketplace) 107, 109, 110, 112 Old Caravanserai 110 Old Fish Market 113 Old Marketplace (Lower Marketplace) 83, 107, 109, 110, 112 Old Salt Market 109 Old Street 83, 110 Red Street 113 Russian Street 83, 109 Salt Market 110 Salt road 110 St Elijah 118, 119 St Friday 115 St Friday Market 112, 115 St Friday Street 83, 110, 112, 113, 116 St George 118 St John 118 St John Chrysostom 109 St Lazarus 109 St Pantelimon 110 St Parascheva (St Friday) 110, 119 St Spyridon Market 114, 115 St Theodore Market 112, 113 Talpalari Church 118, 119 Tartarie road 110 Three Hierarchs Church 117 Ighiu 92 Iglau (Jihlava) 53, 174 Frauentor 53 Kreuztor 53 Piernitzer Tor 59 Spitaltor 53, 59 Ile d’Yeu 238, 246

Index der Orts- und Personennamen Innsbruck 46, 48 Ipswich 191 Irishtown 58 Jakob I., Kg. v. Arago´n 231 Je´rica 232 Jersey City 7, 20 Jerusalem 86 Josˇt of Rozˇmberk (Jobst v. Rosenberg) 169 Johann II., Kg. v. Arago´n 231 Johann v. Luxemburg, Kg. v. Bo¨hmen 169 Johann Za´polya, Kg. v. Ungarn 97 Johanna d. Wahnsinnige, Kgn. v. Kastilien u. Arago´n 227 Johannes XXII., Papst 168 Johansen, Paul 147 John III of Rosenberg 173 Johns, W. H. 34 Joseph II., Ks. 165 Judenburg 48, 49 Burgtor 52 Judentu¨rlein 56 Kamenz 146 Karl I. d. Gr., Ks. 169 Karl IV., Ks. 168, 169, 273, 285 Karl V., Ks. 225 Karl I. Robert v. Anjou, Kg. v. Ungarn 91 Kells 45, 48 Dublin Gate 51 Kelly, Oliver, kath. Ebf. v. Tuam 154 Keussen, Hermann 48 Kildare 45, 48 White Gate 53 Kilkenny 45, 48 Black Freren Gate 54 St. James’s Gate 54 St. John’s Gate 54 St. Patrick’s Gate 54 Troy’s Gate 58 Watergate 50 Kirwan, Francis, kath. Archidiakon v. Tuam 154 Klagenfurt 46, 48, 49, 60 Franziskanerviertel 60 Jesuitenviertel 60 Kapuzinerviertel 60 Krainer Viertel 60 Oberes Tor 49 St. Veiter Viertel 60 Stadtpfarrviertel 60 Villacher Viertel 60 Vo¨lkermarkter Viertel 60 Klosterneuburg 48 Fischertor 55 Wassertor (Schlagbru¨ckentor) 53

319

Weitgassentor 58 Wiener Tor 51 Ko¨ln 46–48 Alte Ehrenpforte (Westtor) 59 Eigelsteintor 59 Friesentor 55 Hahnenpforte 56 Hochtor (Su¨dtor) 59 Lyskirchenpforte 53 Markttor 57 Nechelskaulenpforte 56 Severinstor 53 Walmansgassenpforte 56 Ko¨nigsberg 132, 134 Konstantin Mavrokordatos, Fst./Gospodar d. Walachei u. d. Moldau 109 Korneuburg 48, 61 Wiener Tor (Bisamberger Tor, Hafnertor) 51, 55 Kosˇice 93 Krakau 93 Krems a. d. Donau 48 Halltor (Helltor) 57 Steiner Tor 50 Wiener Tor (Brucktor) 51, 53 ˇ Krumau (Cesky ´ Krumlov, Bo¨hmisch Krummau) 50, 168–173, 177, 178 Clarissian sisters convent 170 Minorite monastery 170 St Vitus 169–172 Kulm (Chełmo) 59, 128 Brama Sukiennicza (Tuchmachertor, Wollwebertor, Osttor) 55 Fischertor (Fischerpforte, Furta Rybacka) 50, 55 ´ Thorner Tor (Brama Torunska, Heiligengeisttor) 53 Wassertor (Gemaltes Tor) 58 Kutna´ Hora (Kuttenberg) 178 Corpus Christi 173 St. Barbara 173 La Palma 230 La Pobla de Vallbona 232 La Rochelle 238–241, 243 Laa a. d. Thaya 48 Bo¨hmertor 54 Bru¨dertor 52 Ladislaus V. Postumus, Kg. v. Bo¨hmen u. ¨ sterreich 102 Ungarn, Ehzg. v. O Laibach Judenviertel 143 Kreuzkirche 143 Neuer Markt 143 Nikolaikirche 142 Laibach (Ljubljana) 142, 143, 145

320

Index der Orts- und Personennamen

Lambay Island 204 Lannion 266 Lauban 146 Lavedan, Pierre 76 Le Havre 236, 239, 240, 242, 246, 247, 249, 251, 253, 254, 259, 263, 264, 268 Le Poer Trench, Power, Ebf. v. Tuam 154 Lefebvre, Henri 3, 17, 29, 30, 33, 34, 36, 38, 39 Leicester 189 Leipa, Adelsfam. 279 Leipzig 142 Leixlip 202 Lelarge 257 Leoben 48, 63 Brucker Tor (Bruggertor) 61 Burgtor 52 Jakobstor 54 Leo´n 228 Letchworth 308 Lev d. Schneider, in Prag 283 Levoˇca 93 Lewes, Thomas 153 Libourne 242 Ligny 263 Limerick 48, 152, 160–165, 200 Augustinian Friary 161 Bridge Gate 54 County Prison 162 Dominican Priory 161 Grey (Franciscan) Friary 160, 161 John’s Gate 53 Lunatic Asylum 162 Mungret Gate 50 Municipal Cemetery 162 New Gate (Abbey Gate) 58 Newtown Perry 162 St Mary 161 St. John 160, 161 St. John County Hospital 162 St. Mary (Cathedral) 160 St. Mary’s Priory of the Fratres 160 St. Michael 160 St. Munchin 160, 161 St. Nicholas 160 St. Peter’s Priory 160 St. Saviour’s (Dominican) Priory 160 Thomond Gate 54 Watergate 50 Limoges 248, 260 Lindenowski, Johann Christian 130, 132 Linz (Donau) 46, 48, 49 Lissabon 268 Little Bray 214 Livray 260 Lleida 230

Lobel, Mary 34 Lodi 48, 49, 51, 63 Kaisertor (Porta imperialis) 56 Porta Cremonensis 51, 61 Porta Papiensis 51, 61 Lo¨bau 146 Lomagne 243 London 106, 152, 247, 306, 307, 309, 311, 312 Londonderry (Derry) 45 Longares 229 Lorenc, Vile´m 76 Lorient 238 Los Angeles 7, 20 Lotrioara 102 Loughlinstown 204 Louvigny, Jean Charles de Landas, Gf. v., Festungsingenieur 260, 264, 266 Ludwig XIII., Kg. v. Frankreich 251 Ludwig XIV., Kg. v. Frankreich 239, 241, 242, 251, 257, 260 Ludwig XVI., Kg. v. Frankreich 248 Ludwig I. d. Gr., Kg. v. Ungarn 91, 92 Lu¨beck Holstentor 54 Lumisden, Andrew 187 Lynch, Kevin 7, 20, 21 Lyon 248 Mac Gilla Mo-Cholmo´c’s, Stammesfu¨hrer in Dublin 56 Ma¨hrisch Tru¨bau (Moravska´ Tˇrebova´) 181 Ma´el Sechnaill II., Kg. v. Dublin 54 Mainz 168 Malachy, Ebf. v. Armagh 156 Marchegg 48 Groißenbrunner Tor 50 Ungartor 54 Wiener Tor 51 Marennes 243 Margarethe, M. v. Woiwode Petru I. d. Moldau 81 Marı´a de Luna, Gem. v. Kg. Martin I. v. Arago´n 232 Maria, Kgn. v. Ungarn 91 Marseille 236, 238, 239, 242, 246–248 Martin I., Kg. v. Arago´n 232 Matthias I. Corvinus, Kg. v. Bo¨hmen u. Ungarn 91 Maynooth 45 Mazuela 227, 228 Media¸s 89, 92, 99, 103 Meznik, Jaroslav 285 Michael Sturdza, Fst./Gospodar d. Moldau 118 Miercurea Sibiului 89, 91 Miramar 230

Index der Orts- und Personennamen Mircea Ciobanul, Fst./Woiewode d. Walachei 85 Monbazillac 241 Montauban 243 Morvedre 231, 232 Mullingar 45, 48 Murad II., Sultan d. Osmanen 96 Nacka 294 Nalb 61, 63 Nantes 236, 238, 240–244, 246, 247, 249, 257, 258, 263 Napoleon I., Ks. d. Franzosen 165 Ne´rac 243 o Neuhaus (Jindˇrichuv Hradec St John the Baptist (Minorite monastery church) 175 o Neuhaus (Jindˇrichuv Hradec) 179 Nevers 254, 259 Newtown Pery 160 Nieppe 255 Nocrich 89, 91 Norwich 307 Nu¨rnberg 9, 23, 142, 220, 226 O’Friel, Arthur, kath. Ebf. v. Tuam 152 ´ Maolalaidh (O’Mullaly), William, Ebf. v. O Tuam 153 O’Shaughnessy (Sexton), Fam. 160 Olmos de Valdesgueva 228 Olt 102 Or˘as¸ tie 89–91, 95–99 Orle´ans 243, 247

321

Planitz, Hans 10, 24 Plasencia 219, 224 Platon 10, 23 Plessis, Feydeau du 262 Ploie¸sti 85 Pobla d’En Bellvis 232 Poitiers 260 Pole, Reginald, kath. Ebf. v. Canterbury 152 Pompeji 186, 189 Pont-Audemer 248 Port Louis 251, 258 Portillo 228 Portrane 204 Posen 127, 128 Prado 227 Prag 61, 93, 169, 173, 180 Altstadt 273–287 Altsta¨dter Rathaus 280, 285 Altsta¨dter Ring 278–284 Cattle Market (Charles’s Square) 169 Corpus Christi (Neustadt) 173 Eisengasse 282 Gallusmarkt 282 Kleiner Ring 282 Melantrichgasse 282 Neustadt 76, 169, 178 Platz „Na Krechta´ch‘“ 281 Spital 283 St. Johann 281 Teyn 282 Zeltnergasse 282 Pred, Allan 31 Quedlinburg 48

Paimboeuf 236, 243 Paimpol 266 Pale 214 Pampliega 227, 228 Paris 170, 238, 240, 242, 243, 247, 251, 309, 311 Paterna 232 Pauillac 243 Pavia 51 Pen˜aflor 227 Pedro-Luis Borgia, Hzg. v. Gandı´a 232 Pe´rigueux 260 Peter I., Kg. v. Kastilien 228 Peter IV., Kg. v. Arago´n 229, 231 Petru I., Fst./Woiewode d. Moldau 82 Philipp II,. Kg. v. Spanien 5, 19, 226 Philipp IV., Kg. v. Spanien 225 Piacenza 51 Pickles, John 32–34, 39 ˇ 174 Pilsen (Plzen) Pirenne, Henri 145–147, 217 Pite¸sti 80

Radstadt 48, 49 Raimund Berengar IV., Gf. v. Barcelona, Gem. v. Kgn. Petronella v. Arago´n 229 Rathturtle 206 Rauda, Wolfgang 76 Regensburg Emmeramtor 52 Ostentor 49 Renedo 227 Retz 48, 63 Nalber Tor 50, 51, 61 Richborough 190 Richelieu, Armand-Jean du Plessis, duc de, Erster Minister v. Frankreich 251 Riehl, Wilhelm Heinrich 9, 22 Robson, Brian 305 Rochefort 239, 251, 255, 257, 258, 263–265, 268 Rodrigo Jime´nez de Rada 228 Rogel, Hans 10, 23 Rojas 227

322

Index der Orts- und Personennamen

Rom 185–188, 193 Roman 79, 80, 82, 85, 106 Roman I., Fst./Woiewode d. Moldau 82 Rosenberg, Adelsfam. 169, 172, 177 Rothenburg 220 Rottenmann 48, 49 Burgtor 52 Spitaltor 54 Rotterdam 236 Rouen 236, 240, 242, 247–249 Rupea 89, 91 Rupert, Enderl, Pfarrer der Marienkirche vor dem Teyn in Prag 280 Rybacka (Rybaki) 50 Sabadell 230 Sables-d’Olonne 246 Said, Edward 4, 18 Saint-Brieuc 267 Saint-Dizier 263 Saint-Malo 238, 239, 243 Saint-Nazaire 242 Saint-Tropez 238 Sainte-Croix-du-Mont 241 Salzburg 46, 48 Sancho IV., Kg. v. Kastilien 227 St. Petersburg 306, 309 St. Po¨lten 46, 48, 49, 60 Holzviertel 60 Klosterviertel 60 Kremser Tor 51 Ledererviertel 60 Marktviertel 60 Oberes Tor (Wilhelmsburger Tor, Linzer Tor) 51 Wiener Tor 51 Sankt Veit a. d. Glan 48, 60 Burgviertel 60 Pfarrviertel 60 Vierzehn-Nothelfer-Viertel 60 Zwo¨lf-Boten-Viertel 60 Saragossa (Zaragoza) 229–230, 233 Sa´toraljau´jhely 49 Sauternes 241 Scarlat Callimachi, Fst./Gospodar d. Moldau 113 Scheia ¸ 85 Schwa¨bisch Hall 220 Schweinitz (Trhove´ Sviny) 50 Schwerin 48 Sebe¸s 67, 68, 70–72, 89–91, 94–99, 101–103 B˘algrad Gate 97 Blacksmiths’ Tower 97 Dominican monastery 95, 96 Field Gate (Weißenburgertor) 97 Grand Square 95

Herrengasse 97 Jakobigasse 97 Large Square 71 Lesser Square 95 Lower Gate 97 Malum prandium (Gießhu¨bel) 95 Petersdorferga¨ßchen 97 Petre¸sti Gate 97 Rathhausplatz 97 Schulga¨ßchen 97 Schulplatz 97 Shoemakers’ Tower 97 Sikulorum Gasse (Lucian Blaga Street) 95 Small Square 71 St Mary 95, 96 Szekler Gasse 97 Tailors’ Tower 97 Upper Gate 97 Segovia 219–221, 225 Seidl d. Kra¨mer, in Prag 283 Se`te 238, 242, 248 Sevilla 219, 220 Sexton, Edmond 160 Sibiu 65, 66, 89–94, 96–99, 101–103 Altemberger House 103 Avram Iancu Street 101, 102 Faurului (Blacksmiths) Street 101 Grand Square 94, 101–103 Haller House 103 Hecht House 102 Huet Square 102 Lesser Square 94, 101–103 Lower Town 99 Lutsch House 103 N. B˘alcescu Street 101 Nineth of May Street 101 St Mary 102 Town Hall 102 Sighi¸soara 67, 70, 73, 75, 89–92, 94, 96–99, 101, 103 Church on the Hill (St Nicholas) 76 Citadel 97, 99 Citadel district 98 Citadel Square 99, 100 Clock Tower 99, 100, 103 Dominican monastery 99 Fortress Square 75 Furriers Street 100 Gate Tower 99 Joiners Street 100 Lower Town 75, 99, 100 Marketplace Square 75 Museum Square 100 School Street 99

Index der Orts- und Personennamen Square Hermann Oberth (Marktplatz) 99, 100 St Nicholas 98, 99 Tinkers Street 100 Town Hall 100, 103 Sigismund, Ks. 91, 96, 103 Sigoulan 260 Simancas 227 Simmel, Georg 2, 16 Siret 79, 81, 106 Church Holy Virgin 81 Dominican Friary 81 Franciscan Friary 81 Sjoberg, Gideon 30 Slivenec 284 Soja, Edward W. 1, 8, 15, 22 ¨ denburg) 45, 49 Sopron (O Hinteres Tor 49 Vorderes Tor 49 Soria 219, 220 Speed, John 34 Stea, David 7, 21 Stegen 142 Stein a. d. Donau 48 Kremser Tor 50, 51 Steyr 48, 57 Ennstor 50 St. Gilgentor 52 Stockholm 31, 289–304, 306, 309–311 Bra¨nnkyrka 289–291 Bromma 289–291 Folkungagatan 295 Ha¨gersten 298 Ha¨sselby 289, 292 Hammarby 294 Hammarbyho¨jden 291 Hedvig Eleonora 297, 298 Kista 299 Klara 289 Medborgarplatsen 294 Nytorget 294 Oscar 297 Ska¨rholmen 298, 299 Sofia 294, 297 Spa˚nga 289, 291, 292, 299 Traneberg 291 Va¨llingby 291 Va¨sterled 299 Strakonice 173 Suceava 79, 80, 82, 106 Sukopp, Herbert 310 Sundbyberg 294 Swords 204, 212 T˘almaciu 101 Tara 204

323

Taˆrgovi¸ste 79, 84 Marketplace 84 St Mary 84 Taˆrgul Jiului 85 Tarney 262 Terrassa 230 Teruel 223, 229 Thomas de Burgo 160 Thompson, James 189 Thorn 128 Thukydides 3, 17 Toarcla 68 Toirrdelbach Ua Conchobair (Turlough Mo´r O’Connor), Kg. v. Irland 152, 206 Toledo 219 Tolman, Edward C. 7, 20 Tonneins 266 Toul 262, 263 Toulon 239, 251, 255, 257, 258, 264, 267, 268 Toulouse 243, 248 Tours 248 Traneberg 309 Tre´guier 266 Trim 45, 48 Athboy Gate 50 Bridge Gate 54 Dublin Gate 51 Navan Gate 50 Water Gate 50, 54 Trotu¸s 79, 85 Tuam 152–156 Holy Trinity, Abbey 152, 153, 156 St Mary (Cathedral) 152, 154 St. Brigid’s Hospital 152 St. John’s Priory 152, 153, 156 Temple Jarlath 152, 156 Templenascreen 152–154 Tudela de Duero 227 Tulln 48 Frauentor 52 Wiener Tor 51 Turin 311 Turner, Victor 5, 19 Turnu Ro¸su 102 Ulm 220 Urban IV., Papst 168 Va´clav of Miliˇcı´n 169 Valence 248 Valencia 230–233 Valladolid 227, 228, 233 Vasile Lupu, Fst./Woiwode d. Moldau 109 Vaslui 85 Vˇcelnice 179 Velvary 180

324

Index der Orts- und Personennamen

Venedig 93, 142, 218, 251 Vidal de la Blache, Paul 4, 18 Vigarie´, Andre´ 255 Villach 48, 49, 60 Kaiser-Heinrichs-Viertel 60 Kunigundenviertel 60 St. Jakobsviertel 60 St. Margaretenviertel 60 Vin¸tu de Jos 91 Viscri 98 Vitruv 10, 23, 187 Vlad II. Dracul, Fst. d. Walachei 96 Vladislav (II.), Kg. v. Bo¨hmen u. Ungarn 99 Waidhofen a. d. Thaya 48 Bo¨hmertor 54 Waidhofen a. d. Ybbs 48 Warschau 128 Waterford 200 Weitra 48 Wellbeloved, Charles 188 Wels 48 Lederertor 55 Trauntor 50 Wenzel s. a. Va´clav Wenzel IV, Kg. v. Bo¨hmen 173 Wenzel, Schwiegersohn d. Jeschek, in Prag 281 Wien 24, 46, 48, 49, 51, 53, 63, 93 Burgtor 52 Ka¨rntner Tor 55 Ka¨rntnerviertel 60 Neutor 57 Peilertor 56 Pyberstor 56 Rotenturmtor 58 Salztu¨rl 57 Schottentor (Porta Scotorum) 52 Schottenviertel 60

Stubenviertel 60 Ungartor 54 Werdertor 50 Widmertor (Witmarkttor) 57 Widmerviertel 60 Wiener Neustadt 48, 60 Deutschherrenviertel 60 Dreifaltigkeitsviertel 60 Liebfrauenviertel 60 Minderbru¨derviertel 60 Neutor (Fleischhackertor, Vischacher Tor, Fischauer Tor) 57 Ungartor 54 Wiener Tor 51 ¨ sterreich bzw. Innero¨sterWilhelm, Hzg. v. O reich 93 William de Burgh, Governor of Limerick 152 Wilson, Daniel 190, 191 Winchester 190 Windgate 202 ˇ 50 Wittingau (Tˇrebon) Wodderspoon, John 191 Wolf Dobrohost v. Ronsˇperk (Rammsberg) 176 Woodstown 200 Wright, Thomas 190, 191 Ybbs a. d. Donau 48 Burgtor 52 Wiener Tor 51 York 188, 189, 192 Zadar 92, 93 Zagreb 307 Zittau 146 Znaim (Znojmo) 61 Zwettl 48 Kremser Tor 51

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