Embodiments of Power: Building Baroque Cities in Europe 9780857450500

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EMBODIMENTS OF POWER

AUSTRIAN AND HABSBURG STUDIES General Editor: Gary B. Cohen, Center for Austrian Studies, University of Minnesota Volume 1 Austrian Women in the Nineteenth and Twentieth Centuries: Cross-Disciplinary Perspectives Edited by David F. Good, Margarete Grandner, and Mary Jo Maynes Volume 2 From World War to Waldheim: Culture and Politics in Austria and the United States Edited by David F. Good and Ruth Wodak Volume 3 Rethinking Vienna 1900 Edited by Steven Beller Volume 4 The Great Tradition and Its Legacy: The Evolution of Dramatic and Musical Theater in Austria and Central Europe Edited by Michael Cherlin, Halina Filipowicz, and Richard L. Rudolph Volume 5 Creating the “Other”: Ethnic Conflict and Nationalism in Habsburg Central Europe Edited by Nancy M. Wingfield Volume 6 Constructing Nationalities in East Central Europe Edited by Pieter M. Judson and Marsha L. Rozenblit Volume 7 The Environment and Sustainable Development in the New Central Europe Edited by Zbigniew Bochniarz and Gary B. Cohen Volume 8 Crime, Jews and News By Daniel Mark Vyleta Volume 9 The Limits of Loyalty Edited by Laurence Cole and Daniel L. Unowsky Volume 10 Embodiments of Power: Building Baroque Cities in Europe Edited by Gary B. Cohen and Franz A.J. Szabo

EMBODIMENTS OF POWER Building Baroque Cities in Europe

d Edited by

Gary B. Cohen and

Franz A.J. Szabo

Berghahn Books NEW YORK • OXFORD

First edition published in 2008 by Berghahn Books www.berghahnbooks.com ©2008 Gary B. Cohen and Franz A.J. Szabo All rights reserved. Except for the quotation of short passages for the purposes of criticism and review, no part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system now known or to be invented, without written permission of the publisher.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Embodiments of power : building baroque cities in Europe / edited by Gary B. Cohen and Franz A.J. Szabo. -- 1st ed. p. cm. Includes bibliographical references. ISBN 978-1-84545-433-3 (hardback : alk. paper) 1. City planning--Europe--History. 2. Power (Social sciences)--Europe--History. 3. Power (Social sciences)--Austria--History. 4. Architecture, Baroque--Europe. 5. Architecture, Baroque--Austria. 6. Cities and towns, Renaissance. 7. Sociology, Urban--Europe. 8. Sociology, Urban--Austria. I. Cohen, Gary B., 1948- II. Szabo, Franz A. J. HT131.E55 2008 303.3094--dc22 2008008507 British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

Printed in the United States on acid-free paper ISBN: 978-1-84545-433-3 hardback

CONTENTS

d List of Illustrations

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Notes on Contributors

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Acknowledgements

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Introduction: Embodiments of Power: Building Baroque Cities in Austria and Europe Gary B. Cohen and Franz A.J. Szabo

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1. Embodiments of Power? Baroque Architecture in the Former Habsburg Residences of Graz and Innsbruck Mark Hengerer

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2. Baroque Comes for the Archbishops: Wolf Dietrich von Raitenau, Johann Ernst Count Thun, and Their Ideals of “Modern Art” and Architecture Roswitha Juffinger

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3. Religious Art and the Formation of a Catholic Identity in Baroque Prague Howard Louthan

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4. Prague, Wrocław, and Vienna: Center and Periphery in Transformations of Baroque Culture? Jiří Pešek

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5. Representation of the Court and Burghers in the Baroque Cities of the High Road: Kraków, Wrocław, and Dresden in a Historical Comparison Jan Harasimowicz

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6. From Protestant Fortress to Baroque Apotheosis: Dresden from the Sixteenth to the Eighteenth Century Barbara Marx 7. A Tale of Two Cities: Nuremberg and Munich Jeffrey Chipps Smith

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8. Searching for the New Constantine: Early Modern Rome as a Spanish Imperial City Thomas Dandelet

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9. The Zodiac in the Streets: Inscribing “Buon Governo” in Baroque Naples John A. Marino

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10. A Setting for Royal Authority: The Reshaping of Madrid, Sixteenth–Eighteenth Centuries David Ringrose

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Bibliography

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LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

d Figure 1.1

Figure 1.2 Figure 1.3 Figure 1.4 Figure 1.5

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Figure 1.9

Graz, the Landhaus, official meeting place of the estates of Styria. Built 1557–64 by the architect Domenico dell’Allio (photo by Mark Hengerer). Graz, view towards west, copper engraving by Andreas Trost, 1699 Graz, view from the south, copper engraving by Matthaeus Merian, 1649. Graz, mausoleum of Ferdinand II, built 1614–33 by the architect Pietro de Pomis (photo by Mark Hengerer). Graz, Webersperg Palace, view of the courtyard from the east, showing early Renaissance elements over older construction (photo by Mark Hengerer). The baroque façade, at 12 Sackstraße, was built ca. 1710, probably inspired by the palaces of Wildenstein and Attems. Graz, Wildenstein Palace on the Paulustorgasse, built about 1602, additional floor and new façade 1702–03 by an unknown craftsman/artist (photo by Mark Hengerer). Graz, Attems Palace on the Schloßbergplatz/Josef-Kai; view to the Schloßberg (castle hill) with Uhrenturm (clocktower) in upper left. Attems Palace was built ca. 1702–15 by Count Ignaz Maria von Attems, integrating parts of an older construction. The Uhrenturm is a remaining part of the citadel (photo by Mark Hengerer). Graz, late baroque burgher building with stone portal, built 1765–70, probably by the architect Joseph Hueber, integrating an older construction; a Brauhaus (brewery) from 1650 to 1900 (photo by Mark Hengerer). Innsbruck, Goldene Dachl (The Golden Roof, referring to the small roof above the oriel), late fifteenth century, built by the Hofbaumeister Niclas Türing; paintings, by Jörg Kölderer, ordered in 1500 (photo by Mark Hengerer).

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Figure 1.10 Innsbruck, Hofgasse, looking east; left, part of the Hofburg, the south façade built by Johann Martin Gumpp the Younger (1754–1756); center, the cupola of the south roundel (1766) in the backround, where once stood the famous Wappenturm (photo by Mark Hengerer). Figure 1.11 Innsbruck, Troyer Palace, on the Maria-Theresien-Straße, reshaped by the Baron Troyer about 1680; façade by the architect Johann Martin Gumpp the Elder (photo by Mark Hengerer). Figure 1.12 Innsbruck, Maria-Theresien-Straße, view towards the north. The Goldene Dachl is visible in the center of the photo, at the head of the street, on the lowest building. Spitalkirche on the left and Stadtturm on the right (photo by Mark Hengerer). Figure 1.13 Innsbruck, Maria-Theresien-Straße, view towards the south: Triumphal Arch for Emperor Charles VI by the architect Konstantin Walter (1765), decoration by Balthasar Moll (1775). Left, the palace of David Wagner the Younger, Count Sarnthein, finished before 1686, probably by the architect Johann Martin Gumpp the Elder, incorporating older construction (photo by Mark Hengerer). Figure 1.14 Innsbruck, Gumpphaus, on the Kiebachgasse; originally three older houses, remodeled by the architect Johann Martin Gumpp the Elder, probably early 1680s (photo by Mark Hengerer). Figure 2.1 Salzburg on the Salzach, view from the northwest, looking upstream. The Festungsberg with its fortification is in center right, with the Mönchsberg on the right center edge. The right bank settlement is on the left edge of the picture (photo by Oskar Anrather). Figure 2.2 The baroque center of Salzburg. The University Church is in the center left (dark roof and dome), with the north-facing façade on the left. The cathedral with its west-facing façade is above and to the left of it (photo by Oskar Anrather). Figure 3.1 Jan Jiří Bendl, figures on the façade of the Jesuit church of St. Salvator (Clementinum). Figure 3.2 Jan Jiří Bendl, figure of St. Peter, from a set of apostles carved for the confessional booths in the Jesuit church of St. Salvator. Figure 3.3 Jan Tanner, genealogical illustration from his Via sancta, showing St. Wenceslas as progenitor of sixty emperors and kings.

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Jan Jiří Bendl, first free-standing statue of St. Wenceslas, 1662; for the residence of the cathedral provost. Figure 3.5 Jan Jiří Bendl, equestrian statue of St. Wenceslas, formerly in Wenceslas Square. Figure 3.6 St. Vitus, patron of Bohemia, with three lions (Charles Bridge). Figure 3.7 St. Francis Xavier, proclaiming the gospel to a savage who is bowing at his feet. Formerly on the Charles Bridge. Figure 3.8 Repentant rabbi on the Vincent Ferrer monument (Charles Bridge). Figure 3.9 Corner of Old Town Bridge Tower; indecorous couple identified as an earthy Luther and a lusty Katherina von Bora. Figure 4.1 Volprecht van Ouden-Allen, veduta of Prague, 1670s. View downstream to the northeast with the Charles Bridge over the Vltava in the center and Castle Hill to the left. Figure 4.2 Volprecht van Ouden-Allen, veduta of Vienna, 1670s. View from the west with the city fortifications featured in the center, the Hofburg complex within the walls on the right, and the Danube flowing in from left center. Figure 5.1 Kraków, Royal Castle on Wawel Hill (fourteenth–fifteenth centuries), eastern view. From Jan K. Ostrowski, Kraków (Warsaw: Wydawn. Artystyczne i Filmowe, 1992), fig. 66. Figure 5.2: Kraków, Royal Castle on Wawel Hill, Renaissance courtyard with arcades. From Ostrowski, Kraków, fig. 67. Figure 5.3 Wawel Cathedral, Interior of the Sigismund Chapel (1519– 1533). From Ostrowski, Kraków, fig. 89. Figure 5.4 Kraków, Town Square, Cloth Hall (1556–1560) from the southeast. From Ostrowski, Kraków, fig. 100. Figure 5.5 Kraków, Jesuit Church of SS. Peter and Paul (1597–1639), Grodzka Street façade. From Jacek Purchla, Cracovie au coeur de l’Europe (Kraków: Międzynarodowe Centrum Kultury Kraków, 2001), fig. 96. Figure 5.6 Kraków, Missionaries’ church in Stradom (1719–1728), façade before a fronton and attic were added above the side sections. From Ostrowski, Kraków, fig. 163. Figure 5.7 Wrocław, St. John the Baptist’s Cathedral. Interior of St. Elizabeth’s Chapel (1680-1700). From Harasimowicz, ed., Atlas architektury Wrocławia, 2 vols. (Wrocław: Wydawnictwo Dolnośląskie, 1997–1998), vol. 1, fig. 1e. Figure 5.8 Wrocław, Premonstratensian Church of St. Vincent; interior with Baroque altarpieces, paintings, and stalls (second half of the seventeenth century). Painting by Adalbert Woelfl from 1869. From Harasimowicz, Atlas architektury Wrocławia, vol. 1, fig. 17b.

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Wrocław, the building of the former Kaiserkammer (after 1701), northern view. From Harasimowicz, Atlas architektury Wrocławia, vol. 1, fig. 115. Wrocław, Jesuit Church of the Holy Name of Jesus (1689–1734), southeastern view. From Harasimowicz, Atlas architektury Wrocławia, vol. 1, fig. 52a. Wrocław, main building of the Jesuit University (1728– 1736), Leopoldine Hall, western view. From Harasimowicz, Atlas architektury Wrocławia, vol. 1, fig. 175c. Wrocław, former residence of Prussian kings (1751– 1846), southern view. Archival photograph, 1880. From Harasimowicz, Atlas architektury Wrocławia, vol. 1, fig. 114d. Wrocław, Evangelical-Reformed Court Church (evang.reform. Hofkirche) (1746–1750), northeastern view. From Harasimowicz, Atlas architektury Wrocławia, vol. 1, fig. 55a. Dresden, Palais im Großen Garten (1678–1683), view from the town’s side. Archival photograph from 1937. From Fritz Löffler, Das alte Dresden: Geschichte seiner Bauten, 6th ed. (Leipzig: VEB E. A. Seemann, 1982), fig. 130. Dresden, Zwinger (1710–1719), Crown Gate (Kronentor), crowned with four gilded eagles and Polish royal crown. Archival photograph. From Löffler, Dresden, fig. 188. Dresden, Moritzburg Hunting Castle (1723–1736), southern view. Archival photograph from 1933. From Löffler, Dresden, fig. 212. Dresden, Evangelical Holy Cross Church (evang. Kreuzkirche) (1764–1792), southern view. Archival photograph. From Löffler, Dresden, fig. 287. View of Dresden from the north. Engraving. Matthäus Merian, Topographiae Superioris Saxoniae, 1650. Matthäus Daniel Pöppelmann, drawing for the new gunpowder tower. Pen and ink, watercolor, ca. 1714. Dresden, SLUB, Ms. L4/29. Electoral Palace at Dresden, south entrance with Torhaus portal. Engraving, Weck, Der Chur. Fürstlichen… Residentz… Vorstellung, 1680. Dresden, SLUB, Deutsche Fotothek. C. H. Fritzsche, Electoral Palace. View from the Zwinger area to the west wing of the palace, 1709. Watercolor, 1710. Dresden, Kupferstichkabinett. Deutsche Fotothek (Richter). Eastern city gate, the Pirnisches Tor, erected in 1590–91. Engraving. Weck 1680. Dresden, SLUB. Deutsche Fotothek. Antonio Averlino called Filarete, miniature copy of the Capitoline statue of Marcus Aurelius. Bronze, 1465. Dresden, Grünes Gewölbe. Deutsche Fotothek.

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Hendrik Goltzius, Marcus Curtius. Engraving from the series Roman Heroes, 1586. Illustration taken from Hendrick Goltzius, Hendrik Goltzius 1558–1617: The Complete Engravings, Etchings, Woodcuts, ed. W. L. Strauss (New York: Abaris Books, 1977), 393. Riding Hall, façade. Detail of engraving. Weck 1680. Dresden, SLUB. Deutsche Fotothek. Ground plan of the palace area, with Riding Hall, Shooting Gallery, Comedy House, Palace, and Stables; end of seventeenth century. Dresden, SHStA, Karten und Risse, Schrank VIII, Fach 2, no. 29. Constantin Erich, plan of west bastion system, with seventeenth-century Riding Hall and Shooting Gallery shortened to create supplementary space for the orangerie arcade; 1710. Detail of the west area. Dresden, SHStA, OHMA, P, Cap. I.A. 31. Matthäus Daniel Pöppelmann, ground plan for the Royal Palace. Pen and ink, ca. 1709. Dresden, SLUB, Ms. L4/2. Matthäus Daniel Pöppelmann, plan for the Royal Palace. Bird’s-eye view from the east integrating the old palace with four sixteenth-century winding staircases heightened to towers, and arcade gallery leading to the Stables. Pen and ink, watercolor, ca. 1709–10. Dresden, SLUB, Ms. L4/11. Matthäus Daniel Pöppelmann, portal of the Royal Palace, eastern front, 1711. Formerly Dresden, Sächsisches Hauptstaatsarchiv. Deutsche Fotothek. Jean-Joseph Vinache, model for the equestrian statue of August II. Bronze, 1728–30. Dresden, Grünes Gewölbe. Dresden, TU Dresden, Institut für Kunst- und Musikwissenschaft. Bernardo Bellotto, view of Dresden with the Catholic court church as seen from the opposite riverside. Oil, 1747. Dresden, Staatliche Kunstsammlungen, Gemäldegalerie Alte Meister. Zacharias Longuelune, plan for bridgehead buildings for entrance to Altendresden. Pencil, 1727–1732. Dresden, SHStA, OHMA, P, Cap. IV. 37. Carl Heinrich Jacob Fehling, Festival of Saturn staged in the grounds of Plauen by August II in 1719. Engraving. Dresden, Kupferstichkabinett. Deutsche Fotothek. Matthäus Daniel Pöppelmann, Royal Palace, plan for the eastern façade. Pen and ink, watercolor, ca. 1711. Dresden, SLUB, Ms. L4/4.

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Figure 6.19 Festival architecture, Carousel of the Four Elements, held in the Zwinger, 1719. Pen and ink, watercolor. Dresden, Kupferstichkabinett. Deutsche Fotothek (Hüttel). Figure 6.20 Matthäus Daniel Pöppelmann, drawing for a tower portal. Pencil, ca. 1713–14. Dresden, SLUB, Ms. L4/24. Figure 6.21 Zacharias Longuelune, ground plan for Royal Palace and museum galleries. Pen and ink, watercolor, ca. 1730. Dresden, SHStA, OHMA, P, Cap. I.A. 60a. Figure 6.22 After Zacharias Longuelune, ground plan of palace area from the western fortification to the New Market with Frauenkirche. Colored graphite, ca. 1730. Dresden, SHStA, OHMA, P, Cap. I.A. 34. Figure 7.1 Symbolic representation of Nuremberg’s government, colored drawing, late sixteenth century. Nuremberg, Stadtbibliothek, Abt. Sammlungen. Figure 7.2 Wenzel Hollar, plan of Nuremberg, engraving, c. 1657. Nuremberg, Germanisches Nationalmuseum. (Letters and numbers added by author.) Figure 7.3 Nuremberg, interior of St. Egidienkirche, engraving/etching. From Christoph Melchior Roth, Abbildungen aller Kirchen, Klöster, und Kapellen in Nürnberg (Nuremberg, 1756). Figure 7.4 Johann Ulrich Kraus (after Johann Andreas Graff), view of the interior of St. Sebaldus, engraving, 1693. Nuremberg, Germanisches Nationalmuseum, Sp. 9067. Figure 7.5 Johann Troschel (after Lorenz Strauch), West façade of the Nuremberg Rathaus, engraving, 1621. Nuremberg, Germanisches Nationalmuseum, Sp. 1528. Figure 7.6 Jakob Wolff the Elder, Pellerhaus, 1602–07. Photo 1935. Nuremberg, Hochbauamt-Bildstelle. Figure 7.7 Matthäus Merian the Elder, plan of Munich (modified to show early eighteenth-century appearance). From Wolfgang Braunfels, Die Kunst im Heiligen Römischen Reich (Munich: C.H. Beck, 1979). I, fig. 145. Figure 7.8 Johann Smissek, St. Michael’s Church and the Jesuit College in Munich, etching, ca. 1644–50. Munich, Stadtmuseum. Figure 7.9 Interior, St. Michael’s Church in Munich, 1583–97. Figure 7.10 Hubert Gerhard and others, Virgin and Child of the Apocalypse Column, Munich, 1593 and ca. 1638, woodcut by Marc Anton Hannas (after Jacob Custos), after 1641. Munich, Stadtmuseum. Figure 7.11 Michael Wening, Residenz, St. Kajetan’s Church (top center), and View of Munich from the Northeast, ca. 1700, engraving, after Wolfgang Braunfels, Die Kunst im Heiligen Römischen Reich. I, fig. 165.

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Figure 7.12 West façade of the Residenz in Munich, completed by 1619. Figure 7.13 Plan of the first upper floor of the Residenz in Munich, after Samuel John Klingensmith, The Utility of Splendor, Plan B. Figure 7.14 Garden façade, Schleissheim Palace, 1701–1848. Figure 8.1 Old St. Peter’s and Vatican Palace ca. 1533. M. van Heemskerck: Inventio Urbis, figure 9. Figure 8.2 Statue of King Philip IV of Spain in Santa Maria Maggiore, Rome, ca. 1700. Figure 8.3 Giulio Romano and others, The Donation of Constantine, Room of Constantine, Vatican palace. Figure 8.4 Antonio Tempesta, Detail of the Vatican, 1593, Frutaz, Piante di Roma, II, pl. 269. Figure 9.1 Antonio Bulifon, The Most Faithful city of Naples (1685). The parade route from the Castel Nuovo to S. Giovanni a Mare follows the first main street inside the city wall east of the Castel Nuovo along the shore. (Route marked by black and white dotted line.) Figure 9.2 Felicity, the first of the twelve virtues of viceregal government. Francesco Orilia, Lo Zodiaco, over, idea di perfettione di prencipi (Naples, 1630). (Orilia, 13). Figure 9.3 Ephemeral arch constructed in Piazza della Sellaria (Orilia, 362). Figure 9.4 Comestible arch of ham, salami, and cheese constructed at the Porta del Caputo (Orilia, 456). Figure 9.5 Vigilance, the last of the twelve virtues of viceregal government (Orilia, 463). Figure 9.6 Viceroy Duke of Alba crushing two Furies (Orilia, 291). Figure 9.7 Sebeto, the mythical god of the river running under the city of Naples (Orilia, 392). Figure 9.8 Partenope, mythical Siren founder of the city of Naples (Orilia, 344). Figure 10.1 Approaches to Madrid and the Alcazar Palace, early seventeenth century. Figure 10.2 Paseo del Prado and Plaza de Cibeles, late eighteenth century. Figure 10.3 Madrid, ca. 1610, with axis for royal processions and midsixteenth-century limits. Figure 10.4 Entrance of Charles of England, 1623. Figure 10.5 The Buen Retiro Palace, ca. 1640. Figure 10.6 Madrid, Map of 1771 (A), with ceremonial route and royal structures. Top left: Royal Palace; top center: Cibeles and Alcalá; top right: Buen Retiro Palace; bottom left: Plaza Mayor; bottom center: Casa de Correos; bottom right: Real Aduana.

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Figure 10.7 Madrid, Map of 1771 (B). Top center: Estanque in Retiro Gardens; right side: project of Paseo del Prado; top left: Plaza de Cibeles looking south; bottom left: Bridge to Casa del Campo gardens; bottom center: Paseo de Delicias. Figure 10.8 Madrid, Map of 1771 (C). Top left: Puerta de San Vicente; top right: Palacio de Benevente and Cibeles; bottom left: Puerta de Ambasadores; bottom center: Prado Museum; bottom right: Entrance to Royal Botanical Gardens.

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NOTES ON CONTRIBUTORS

d Gary B. Cohen is Director of the Center for Austrian Studies and Professor of History at the University of Minnesota, Twin Cities. He teaches modern central European social and political history and has published numerous articles and essays as well as two books in these areas, The Politics of Ethnic Survival: Germans in Prague, 1861–1914 (1981; rev. 2nd ed., 2006), and Education and Middle-class Society in Imperial Austria, 1848–1918 (1996). Thomas Dandelet is an Associate Professor of History at the University of California, Berkeley. He has published extensively on Spanish and Roman history, with a focus on the sixteenth through eighteenth centuries. Jan Harasimowicz is a Professor of the History of Art and Culture at the University of Wrocław. He has published widely on Polish art and general art history from the sixteenth to the eighteenth century, the historiography of art, collectorship, and artistic patronage. His publications include Mors janua vitae (1992); Kunst als Glaubensbekenntnis. Beiträge zur Kunst- und Kulturgeschichte der Reformationszeit (1996); Atlas architektury Wrocławia, 2 vols., (1997–1998); Encyklopedia Wrocławia (Wrocław, 2000, 2nd ed. 2001, 3rd ed. 2006); Po obu stronach Bałtyku. Wzajemne relacje między Skandynawią a Europą Środkową. [On the opposite sides of the Baltic Sea: Relations between Scandinavian and Central European Countries], 2 vols. (Wrocław, 2006). Mark Hengerer, Dr. phil., is Research Assistant at the Department of History and Sociology, University of Konstanz, Germany. He is author of: Kaiserhof und Adel in der Mitte des 17. Jahrhunderts. Eine Kommunikationsgeschichte der Macht in der Vormoderne (2004); editor of Macht und Memoria. Bestattungskultur europäischer Oberschichten in der Frühen Neuzeit (2005); and co-editor of Adel im Wandel. Oberschwaben von der Frühen Neuzeit bis zur Gegenwart (2006), and Im Schatten der Macht. Kommunikationskulturen in Politik und Verwaltung 1600– 1950 (2008). Currently, he is preparing a book about early modern seaports.

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Roswitha Juffinger, an art historian, is director of the Residenzgalerie Salzburg, which has presented the Old Master Collection of the Land Salzburg since 1985. She has written numerous articles on art history in the museum’s exhibition catalogs, and has also published on the history of collections, most recently on the Viennese aristocratic Czernin collection. She is currently a member of a research team working on the former residence of the archbishops of Salzburg, financed by the Austrian Academy of Sciences. In this project she focuses on the reconstruction of the archbishops’ collections of paintings. Howard Louthan is an Associate Professor in the History department at the University of Florida. Among his publications is The Quest for Compromise (Cambridge, 1997), a study of religious accommodation at the imperial court in late sixteenthcentury Vienna. He is finishing an examination of the Counter-Reformation in Bohemia during the seventeenth and early eighteenth centuries. John A. Marino teaches at the University of California, San Diego, and specializes in the history of the city and countryside of early modern Naples. His publications include Pastoral Economics in the Kingdom of Naples (1988); and five edited or co-edited books: Good Government in Spanish Naples (1990), Early Modern History and the Social Sciences: Testing the Limits of Braudel’s Mediterranean (2002), Early Modern Italy 1550–1796 (2002), A Renaissance of Conflicts: Visions and Revisions of Law and Society in Italy and Spain (2004), and Spain in Italy: Politics, Society, and Religion, 1500–1700 (2007). Barbara Marx is a Professor of Italian Cultural History at the Technical University of Dresden. Her extensive writings include books and articles on Italian renaissance art, architecture, and literature, as well as studies of art and architecture in early modern Dresden. Jiří Pešek is Professor of Modern History and holds the chair for German and Austrian Studies at the Institute of International Studies, Faculty of Social Sciences, Charles University in Prague. His main research interests lie in the fields of urban and cultural history as well as the history of education and German-Czech relations from the sixteenth to the twentieth centuries. His main publications include Měšťanská vzdělanost a kultura v předbělohorských Čechách 1547–1620 [Burghers’ education and culture in pre-White Mountain Bohemia] (1993), Od aglomerace k velkoměstu. Praha a středoevropské metropole 1850–1920 [From agglomeration to great city: Prague and Central European metropoles] (1999), and an edited volume with Christoph Cornelißen and Roman Holec: Diktatur— Krieg—Vertreibung. Erinnerungskulturen in Tschechien, der Slowakei und Deutschland seit 1945 (2005). David Ringrose is Professor Emeritus of History at the University of California, San Diego, where he began teaching in 1974. His research interests include early

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modern Spain, urban history, and the history of European interaction with other societies in the age of expansion (1400–1700). His most recent books are Spain, Europe, and the “Spanish Miracle,” 1700–1900 (1996, 2000 [paperback]) and Expansion and Global Interaction, 1200–1700 (2001). His current book project is entitled Europeans Abroad, 1400–1700: Strangers In Not So Strange Lands. Jeffrey Chipps Smith is the Kay Fortson Chair in European Art at the University of Texas at Austin. He specializes in German and Netherlandish art, 1400–1700. His recent books include Sensuous Worship: Jesuits and the Art of the Early Catholic Reformation in Germany (2004); The Northern Renaissance (2005); The Art of the Goldsmith in Late Fifteenth-Century Germany: The Kimbell Virgin and Her Bishop (2006); and the introduction to Erwin Panofsky, The Life and Art of Albrecht Dürer (1943/2005). Franz A.J. Szabo is director of the Wirth Institute for Austrian and Central European Studies and Professor of Austrian and Habsburg History at the University of Alberta in Edmonton, Canada. He has published widely in Europe and North America, including a prize-winning book, Kaunitz and Enlightened Absolutism, 1753–1780 (1994)

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

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he chapters in this volume are revised and expanded versions of selected papers from an international conference of scholars in Minneapolis in September 2003 organized by the Center for Austrian Studies at the University of Minnesota and the Wirth Institute for Austrian and Central European Studies at the University of Alberta. Scholars came from Austria, the Czech Republic, Germany, Poland, the United Kingdom, Canada, and the United States to participate in remarkably stimulating discussions of what made the baroque era a unique moment in the development of European cities. Such a gathering was only possible thanks to the generous support of the Austrian Cultural Forum, New York; the European Studies Consortium; the McKnight Arts and Humanities Endowment; the Wirth Institute and the endowment fund of the Center for Austrian Studies; the University of Minnesota’s College of Liberal Arts Scholarly Events Fund, Humanities Institute, Weisman Art Museum, Office of International Programs, Center for German and European Studies, Institute for Global Studies, Center for Early Modern History; and the Departments of Art History, Cultural Studies and Comparative Literature, French and Italian, German, Scandinavian, and Dutch, and Spanish and Portuguese. At the Center for Austrian Studies, the Center editor Daniel Pinkerton, executive secretary Barbara Krauss-Christensen, and conference coordinator Tiffanne Hastings managed the logistics of the original conference with great skill and efficiency. In preparing this volume, graduate assistants at the Center, Arnold Lelis and Joshua Kortbein, worked with great care and patience in formatting the individual chapters, assembling the manuscript for submission, corresponding with authors, and dealing with corrections. Daniel Pinkerton worked to assure the best possible quality for the images presented in the volume. The editors are particularly grateful to Marion Berghahn and her colleagues at Berghahn Books for their splendid work in copyediting and publishing this book. Gary B. Cohen Franz A. J. Szabo Minneapolis and Edmonton, November 2007

INTRODUCTION Embodiments of Power: Building Baroque Cities in Austria and Europe

d Gary B. Cohen and Franz A.J. Szabo

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any cities in continental Europe were radically transformed during the baroque era. From the middle of the seventeenth century through the middle of the eighteenth century, urban centers of government and trade grew in many countries, as absolutist states consolidated their power and economies recovered after the multiple crises of the early seventeenth century. In the Austrian Habsburg lands and many other European realms, newly reforged alliances of crown, church, and nobility expressed both their power and a new sense of order in the ostentatious construction of great royal palaces, church edifices, and noble residences in the major cities.1 Architectural design, paintings, frescoes, and other decorations of the new palaces and churches displayed most visibly the ruling constellations of power, but other modes of cultural expression in the cities, such as religious and state celebrations, theater, and literary activity, also represented the political realities in new styles and functions.2 More was involved in transforming Europe’s great cities during the late seventeenth and early eighteenth centuries, however, than merely a new consolidation of state authority and domestic political relationships after the seventeenthcentury crises. The face of the great cities was transformed also in lands such as the predominantly Protestant Dutch Netherlands, which did not develop absolutist government or experience the Catholic Reformation. The economic functions, social structures, and cultural life of many larger cities across the continent were transformed as part of larger processes of development and expansion in European society and in the European and world economies. The remarkable changes in the face, functions, and size of the great cities after the 1640s and 1650s may have been most imposing in lands where Catholic dynasties such as the Austrian and Spanish Habsburgs, Wittelsbachs, and Bourbons consolidated absolutist rule

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and sponsored, in varying degrees, the Catholic Reformation; but in many ways similar urban transformations occurred in other territories such as Protestant Saxony, parts of the Scandinavian lands, and Peter the Great’s Russia as well. Conventional historical wisdom argues that the royal capitals and other major administrative centers were rebuilt in what became a distinct baroque era of architecture that expressed the new, more centralized constellations of state authority, the heightened powers over society of central governments and established churches, and the strength of growing commercial economies. Baroque style is typically seen as the preferred mode that many monarchs, Catholic churchmen, and noblemen found for displaying their power: an art and architecture characterized, as the American historian Richard S. Dunn put it in a popular textbook, “by magnificence, theatricality, energy, and direct emotional appeal.”3 The Austrian historian Ernst Wangermann, in discussing the great architectural monuments built during this era in the Habsburgs’ Austrian and Bohemian crown lands, concluded that “all these buildings were in one way or another allegories of the wealth and power of the church and the nobility.”4 Whether they were the imperial capitals of Vienna, St. Petersburg, and Madrid; the papal seat of Rome; capitals of territorial states such as Prague, Dresden, and Munich; great archiepiscopal seats such as Olomouc (Olmütz) and Salzburg; or the emerging world trade center of Amsterdam, baroque cities were built or rebuilt as embodiments of power. The foundations of a baroque style in the visual arts were firmly laid in Rome in the late sixteenth century and are generally credited to two painters: Michaelangelo Merisi, known as Caravaggio (1573–1610), and Annibale Carracci (1560– 1609). But perhaps the seminal work of this style was architectural—the great Jesuit church in Rome, Il Gesù, executed by Giacomo Vignola and Giacomo della Porta between 1575 and 1584. Widely regarded as the most influential church design in the past four centuries,5 it inspired a host of imitations and elaborations. The baroque style in architecture and urban design developed within a few decades thereafter and took hold in many parts of western and central Europe, especially after the end of the Thirty Years’ War. Major structures in this style continued to be erected through the middle of the eighteenth century. For example, in Dresden, as we shall see, King Augustus II in the 1720s was still refashioning the royal palace, the Zwinger, and the adjacent plazas and embankment to befit the capital of a great state. In the Vienna of Emperor Charles VI, Johann Bernhard Fischer von Erlach and his son Joseph did not finish the great Karlskirche until 1739. While the new architecture and urban design of the baroque tended to embody ostentatiously new constellations of power, it did so with a new, highly expressive sensibility and an emotive rhetoric. The tendency in the thought of this era for a philosophy of experience to replace neoplatonism found analogs in the arts and architecture. New open and straight streets, plazas, and monumental buildings expressed not only the increased power of states and rulers, but also the emotional theatricality of the other arts in this period.6 Literature, painting,

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and sculpture in this era portrayed a life that focused on external representation and display.7 Indeed, thinkers and artists of the baroque conceived the world as a stage, where all acted out their assigned parts; and many scholars point to Pedro Calderón’s El Gran Teatro Mundo of 1645 as epitomizing the spirit of this age.8 As the contributors to this volume show, the new streets, plazas, and palaces were often literally used as stages for public displays of power by sovereigns, established churches, and the nobility. The chapters in this volume demonstrate that there is much that is right in the conventional views of baroque architecture and urban design. Many absolutist monarchs and powerful prelates did undertake ambitious construction projects, which aimed at transforming the face of their capitals and major administrative centers to express their power, glory, and aspirations. Wealthy nobility and burghers also often undertook construction in the style and spirit of the baroque era. When we look closely at the developments and results in each major city, though, we find that a complex of factors and agents was at work in determining the shape and character of each urban center. The reconstruction of cities in this era followed many models with no common recipes, and the outcomes varied considerably. Design, architecture, and cultural life in the baroque cities did express visibly the constellations of power, which were created and expressed by state and ecclesiastical institutions, nobility, and influential burghers. Yet even in the most absolutist states, power was always a negotiated commodity. Monarchs in the baroque era had to negotiate their power with nobility and powerful churchmen, and at times with burgher elements as well.9 The changing faces of the great cities in this era typically resulted from the composite efforts of sovereign princes, church leaders, and resident nobility, along with wealthy merchants and manufacturers, whether working in tandem or independently of each other. Inevitably, the constructed environment of each city, its everyday life, and cultural functions and expressions reflected the interests and needs of all the major urban stakeholders. The interests and goals of those stakeholders were influenced not only by the great political developments, but also by short-term and long-term changes in trade and manufacture, demographic shifts, and the gradual reordering of urban social structures and relationships. The transformation and development of European cities during the baroque era must be examined, then, through a broad, interdisciplinary investigation of the political, economic, social, cultural, and architectural processes that shaped the urban centers. Along with the political aspirations of the great and powerful and the needs and interests of the various urban social elements, the face and character of Europe’s great cities in the baroque era were also shaped by each city’s specific topographic and historical realities, and by the particular artistic and architectural modes that the rulers and inhabitants of each city found available and attractive at critical times of building and development. Just how much space for building was left by major rivers, mountains, and fortifications made a great difference. For instance, more open space relatively close to the city centers and principal royal residences

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was available in Prague and Madrid than in Vienna’s inner city; this open space offered particularly good opportunities for the building of great new baroque palaces and gardens in the Bohemian and Castilian capitals, while Vienna’s various new suburban palaces (Gartenpalais) had to be located outside the inner city. The Protestant Reformation effectively removed the Catholic Church as a major force in construction in Nuremberg and in Dresden—at least until the Wettin electors converted to Catholicism in the eighteenth century—leaving the initiative largely to burgher elements in the former city and to the Saxon monarchs in the latter. Those who did build in the late seventeenth and early eighteenth centuries also had to decide on the styles for new structures, where to find architects, and how much of the old to retain in the process, particularly if a given city had a large Gothic and Renaissance architectural inheritance. Among the prince-archbishops of Salzburg, for instance, where there were strong commercial, intellectual, and artistic ties to Italy and the papacy, the preference for Italian styles and architects was obvious. Many of the sovereign princes, prelates, and aristocrats who undertook new construction were engaged in competitive displays of their power and wealth. The desire to emulate or trump competitors or co-equals near and far affected decisions to engage either domestic or imported architects and artists. With the importation of artists and architects—and fashions—from elsewhere, important international impulses entered into the development of the cities, adding yet another important dimension to the making of each baroque city. The chapters in this volume represent a selection of the papers, in revised and expanded form, which were presented at an international conference entitled “Embodiments of Power: Building Baroque Cities in Austria and Europe,” held in Minneapolis in September 2003, and sponsored by the Center for Austrian Studies at the University of Minnesota and the Wirth Institute for Austrian and Central European Studies at the University of Alberta. The ten chapters offered here analyze from various disciplinary perspectives the development of a range of European cities that experienced significant transformations during the baroque era. The strongest focus is on cities in the lands of the Austrian Habsburgs— Vienna, Graz, Prague, and Wrocław (Breslau) before 1742—and of the Spanish Habsburgs—Madrid, Rome, and Naples; but our authors also examine the Wittelsbach capital Munich, the Wettin capital Dresden, the old Jagiellonian capital of Poland, Kraków, archiepiscopal-ruled Salzburg, and the imperial free city of Nuremberg. The book begins with Mark Hengerer’s chapter examining the development of two former seats of the Austrian Habsburgs, Graz and Innsbruck, during the late seventeenth and early eighteenth centuries, showing how the interests and purposes of the Habsburg sovereigns, nobility, Catholic Church, and burghers all helped shape the constructed urban environment. Hengerer questions easy characterizations of agency and representation in the baroque transformation of European cities: he argues that many agents contributed in varied ways to developing and transforming the cities, each communicating their own interests and mes-

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sages through what was a changing language of design and decoration. Baroque style was often a favored mode or, better, a vocabulary, but it was used selectively and frequently combined with pre-existing design elements, always subject to local economic, social, political, and topographic circumstances. Hengerer goes on to suggest a longer-term pattern of change in the modes and functioning of public communication and the representation of public values as, increasingly during the eighteenth century, impersonal institutions such as laws, ordinances, and policies replaced the interactions and communications of a hierarchically ordered corporate society as the preferred means for expressing and representing state power. Most towns, however, were not yet able to sustain such an impersonal political culture and tended to conserve to a considerable degree the older “faceto-face communication and ritualized forms of locally embedded interaction.” In a city such as Salzburg during the seventeenth century, one authority, the prince-archbishop, tended to predominate over all other interests, and the topography sharply limited available space. Here, as Roswitha Juffinger describes it, new construction projects and the style of architecture and decoration tended to express more consistently a single imprint than in cities where there was a greater plurality of active interests. The archbishops of the seventeenth century initially chose Italian architectural and decorative styles to express their vision of governance for the city and surrounding territory. Local nobility and burghers could not effectively compete with them, and the archbishops preferred compliant Franciscans and Capuchins over Jesuits and Dominicans in order to minimize the potential for challenges to the archbishop’s will from within the church establishment. The topographic constraints of river and mountains abetted the efforts of the archbishops to refashion the city according to a single vision: the confined space of the city proper could be easily dominated by the great new churches, cloisters, and plazas built or sponsored by the archbishops. Prague, too, was greatly transformed in the seventeenth and early eighteenth centuries, thanks to a great extent to the Habsburg victory over the Bohemian Estates and the Protestant forces in the empire during the Thirty Years’ War, and the ensuing campaigns for re-Catholicization. The chapters by Howard Louthan and Jiří Pešek demonstrate, however, that the new architecture, art, and public decoration of Prague after the Thirty Years’ War by no means meant the simple imposition of a uniform baroque style expressing the power and glory of the Habsburgs and the Catholic Church. As Louthan recounts the process, a new Catholic confessional art indeed developed on a large scale, but the baroque religious art often included significant native Bohemian elements. Patronage by Prague’s burgher elements faded during the baroque era, replaced to a great extent by the Catholic Church, its religious orders, and the nobility. Nonetheless, the Habsburg crown, the Prague archbishops, the major monasteries and convents, and the resident Bohemian aristocrats proved capable of pursuing diverse interests even while still affirming in various ways the triumphs of the Catholic Church and the ruling dynasty. Jiří Pešek places Prague in a broader context by comparing its development to that of Vienna and Wrocław in the century after the Thirty Years’ War, showing

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that there were no clear, simple lines of hierarchy and dependence among the great cities of central Europe. In the seventeenth and early eighteenth centuries, these three cities were the largest and most densely populated of any in the Habsburgs’ Alpine and Bohemian crown lands, but they had very different trajectories in the long-term development of their political, economic, and social standings. Vienna began to grow rapidly as the seat of the Austrian Habsburgs and the capital of their emerging Danubian monarchy, soon surpassing in size and glory the Bohemian capital. Still, many of the same great Bohemian aristocrats who built palatial residences in Vienna also constructed new residences or renovated old ones in Prague, and the Habsburgs added to the grandeur of the Prague Castle. Wrocław continued to have considerable economic importance as a trading, financial, and manufacturing center for Silesia, but it steadily lost political significance. Pešek also reminds us that, whatever submission and cooperation the Habsburg sovereigns expected from the Church and the aristocracy after the Thirty Years’ War, frictions were still possible as the various Catholic prelates and great noblemen pursued their differing interests. The clash of the Prague archbishop with the Jesuits over the control of the Prague University before 1654—despite support for the latter by the Habsburg emperor—was hardly a unique occurrence. The chapters of Jan Harasimowicz, Barbara Marx, and Jeffrey Chipps Smith also offer telling analyses of the sharply contrasting experience of major central European cities during the baroque era. Harasimowicz analyzes the contrasting development of three important cities on central Europe’s old medieval High Road: the historic Silesian capital, Wrocław; the capital of Jagiellonian Poland, Kraków; and Saxony’s capital after the mid-sixteenth century, Dresden. In the Middle Ages, south German burgher culture put its stamp on construction, architecture, and decoration in all three cities; but the Protestant Reformation and its aftermath as well as shifting princely tastes and priorities caused strong divergences among the three after the sixteenth century. Much of the medieval architectural base survived in Wrocław and Kraków until the late eighteenth century, but the electors of the Wettin dynasty’s Albertine branch made determined efforts to refashion the palace complex in Dresden and its associated churches into a baroque showplace affirming their dominion over the city and Saxony. Like the Jagiellonian kings in Kraków back in the sixteenth century, the Wettins in Dresden during the late seventeenth and early eighteenth centuries relied heavily on Italian styles and architects. Still, there remained a strong duality, sometimes even contention, between the electors’ initiatives and those of burgher interests in developing the city’s constructed environment. Architecture and the artistic communities in Munich and Nuremberg, as Smith depicts them, developed in sharply contrasting ways during the baroque era. In Nuremberg, the building initiatives and artistic patronage of the Holy Roman Emperors and Catholic religious orders largely ended with the Protestant Reformation. The Thirty Years’ War contributed further to the city’s political and artistic decline. A wealthy patriciate controlled the city council and local government, and it was left to individual families to take the initiative in building new

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churches and renovating older ones. In contrast, the unification of Upper and Lower Bavaria in 1505, the growing ambitions of the Wittelsbach dukes to make Bavaria a great state, and their alliance with the Catholic Church in combating Protestantism led to the strong growth of Munich from the sixteenth century onward. The Wittelsbachs and the Church may have been responsible for most of the great architectural and artistic initiatives in Munich during the late sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, but others, including noblemen and burghers, also contributed significantly. The volume concludes with chapters on three cities dominated or governed by the Spanish monarchy during the baroque era: Rome, Naples, and Madrid. Thomas Dandelet tells the story of the great revival and building boom experienced by the city of Rome during the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries as it recovered from the 1527 sacking by the forces of Emperor Charles V. The kings of Spain supported and in many ways led this development through their financial aid to the papacy, military protection, and patronage; but the influx of travelers, military, administrators, and aristocrats from Spain, as well as migrants from other parts of Italy and elsewhere, helped fuel and sustain the process. The sixteenth and seventeenth centuries became the great era of palace construction in Rome, a process to which popes, Spanish ambassadors, and resident noble families all contributed. In the process, the city recovered from the crisis situation of the 1520s and became, over the next one hundred and fifty years, the largest urban capital in Europe, functioning as not only the seat of the papacy, but also, in Dandelet’s view, as, de facto, one of the great Spanish imperial cities. The Spanish ruled Naples under a viceroy from 1503 to 1707, and in the midseventeenth century it was, in terms of population, the second largest city in western Europe. The Spanish monarchy worked to shape in its own interests not only government but also culture and everyday life in Naples during the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, but John Marino’s analysis of popular festivals and processions between the late 1620s and 1660s shows how Spanish rule and its local representatives were integrated into the elaborate ceremonial life of an early modern city. The representatives of the Spanish crown literally took their place alongside the native elites and general populace in these observances—and, indeed, had to be integrated in them if Spanish rule was to take root and be effective. David Ringrose’s chapter takes us to the center of the early modern Spanish empire, Madrid, and traces the stages of development in the making of a royal and imperial capital. He reminds us how modest and unimpressive were the royal installations in the early sixteenth century, the heritage of constant royal travel and the peripatetic character of court functions for the Castilian monarchy in previous centuries. The crown took much initiative in developing the great palaces, gardens, royal monuments, and ceremonial sites that arose in Madrid over the succeeding three centuries, but the process involved and, indeed, required a continuing communication and interaction with the major social elements in the city. If the royal capital was to help advertise and legitimize the crown’s authority with grandiose festivals, processions, and monuments, such display, as Ringrose

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points out, was a form of propaganda that had to communicate with, engage, and involve its intended audiences in the city. This, of course, was as true for Europe’s other baroque capitals and major administrative and commercial centers as it was for Madrid. However determined the monarchs might be in trying to reshape the great cities to display and represent their power, they had to build the cities in collaboration and communication with the clergy, resident nobility, merchants, and master artisans, and even at times with the underclasses. In cities like Nuremberg, where there was no absolutist territorial prince at work and no dominant Catholic Church, construction, renovation, and development were even more a matter of cooperation and often complex trade-offs. The great baroque monuments that were constructed, which their builders wanted to be the subject of wonder and admiration then and in the future, resulted from processes of extended negotiation, the only way, in fact, that power could be expressed and realized.

Endnotes 1. On baroque architecture in Austria, see the recent Hellmut Lorenz, ed., Barock, vol. 4 of Geschichte der Bildenden Kunst in Österreich (Munich: Prestel, 1999). See also Günter Brucher, Barockarchitektur in Österreich (Cologne: DuMont, 1983). On the baroque more generally in central Europe, see Thomas DaCosta Kaufmann, Court, Cloister, and City: The Art and Culture of Central Europe, 1450–1800 (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1995); and Eberhard Hempel, Baroque Art and Architecture in Central Europe: Germany, Austria, Switzerland, Hungary, Czechoslovakia, Poland. Painting and sculpture: seventeenth and eighteenth centuries; architecture: sixteenth to eighteenth centuries (Baltimore: Penguin Books, 1965); see also Oldrich J. Blažíček, Baroque Art in Bohemia, trans. Slavo Kadecka (Feltham: Hamlyn, 1968). 2. Hubert Ch. Ehalt, Ausdrucksformen Absolutistischer Herrschaft: Der Wiener Hof im 17. und 18. Jahrhundert (Vienna: Verlag für Geschichte und Politik, 1980). 3. Richard S. Dunn, The Age of Religious Wars, 1559–1715, 2nd ed. (New York: W. W. Norton, 1979), 223. 4. Ernst Wangermann, The Austrian Achievement, 1700–1800 (London: Thames and Hudson, 1973), 40. 5. William Fleming, Arts and Ideas, 6th ed. (New York: Holt, Rinehart and Winston, 1980), 261. 6. On the innovations in streets and plazas, see Lewis Mumford, The Culture of Cities (New York: Harcourt, Brace and Company, 1938), 94–113. The baroque sense of theatricality, see Barbara Borngässer and Rolf Toman, “Introduction,” and Wolfgang Jung, “Architecture and City in Italy,” in Rolf Toman, ed., Baroque: Architecture, Sculpture, Painting (Königswinter: Könemann, 2004), 7–75. 7. See Günter Treffer, Das Zeitalter des Barock, ed. Hans Schaumberger (Vienna: C. Brandstätter, 1990), 7–8. Cf. Giulio Carlo Argan, The Europe of the Capitals, 1600–1700 (Geneva: Skira, 1964). 8. See Borngässer and Toman, “Introduction,” in Toman, ed., Baroque, 7. 9. The classic study of this process in the Habsburg Monarchy remains R. J. W. Evans, The Making of the Habsburg Monarchy, 1550–1700: An Interpretation (Oxford: Clarendon, 1979).

Chapter 1

EMBODIMENTS OF POWER? Baroque Architecture in the Former Habsburg Residences of Graz and Innsbruck

d Mark Hengerer

Introduction Having overcome the political, religious, and economic crisis of the Thirty Years’ War, princes in central Europe started to reconstruct their palaces and build towns as monuments of power. Baroque residences such as Karlsruhe combine the princely palace with the city, and even the territory, and were considered paradigms of rule in the age of absolutism.1 In Austrian Vienna, both the nobility and the imperial family undertook reshaping the city as a baroque residence only after the second Ottoman siege in 1683. Despite the Reichsstil of Emperor Karl VI, the baroque parts of the Viennese Hofburg and the baroque summer residence of Schönbrunn were executed as the style itself was on the wane, and were still incomplete in the Enlightenment period.2 It may be stated, then, that the complex symbolic setting of baroque Viennese architecture reveals the complex power relations between the House of Habsburg and the nobility, who together formed a sort of “diarchy,” so that the Habsburgs did not exercise absolutist rule.3 Additionally, it cannot be overlooked that the lower nobility and burghers, though hardly politically influential, imitated the new style, which was of course by no means protected by any sort of copyright.4 For all these reasons, reading baroque cities as embodiments of power5 is problematic. Such a project is faced with a phenomenon situated between complex actual power relations and a more or less learned discourse on princely power and

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architecture (which was part of the art realm as well), and princes, noblemen, and citizens inspired to build in the baroque style.6 Moreover, most baroque cities, as physical locations, had a history that revealed inherited symbolic settings through which different groups of actors had represented themselves throughout the years. Not only did the prince and the nobility leave their mark on the urban landscape, but church and citizens did so as well. Thus, the embodiment of power in architecture was necessarily a process of change dependent on other elements of political culture, as well as on topographical conditions, the concept of honor, change in other cultural spheres, and the dissemination of style. This raises the question as to what extent a phenomenon as complex as the baroquization of a town can be fully understood by means of an actor-centered approach, that is, by looking only at, for example, those individuals who ordered or carried out the architectural changes. The most problematic cases of baroquization by far are those in which a city lost its function as a residence and thereby its significance as a primary stage for the representation of power relations. In the seventeenth century, this is exactly what happened in Graz and Innsbruck, both of which nevertheless underwent a process of partial baroquization comparable to other central European cities. It is the aim of this article to portray this process in these two cities and to ask, to what extent can this be understood as an embodiment of power?

Power Relations in Early Modern Austria The scholarship of recent decades has caused the field to revise its concept of the absolutism of princely power in the seventeenth and the first half of the eighteenth century. In 1980, Hubert Christian Ehalt not only interpreted the ceremonial of the Habsburg dynasty and its reshaping of Vienna as a baroque residence as forms of expression of absolutist rule, but he also emphasized the central architecture of Schönbrunn and the renovation of the Hofburg castle, interpreting these phenomena as intended instruments of Habsburg power.7 Aloys Winterling later showed that the efforts of the Electors of Cologne to hold a magnificent court, and to create a distinctive personal image for themselves by erecting splendid palaces in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, was not primarily a reflection of their political function. More importantly, it underlined their personal dignity and asserted their equality with the other princes of the Holy Roman Empire.8 In their studies of Austrian Habsburg rule, Robert J. W. Evans and Jean Bérenger, in contrast with the then dominant understanding, emphasized the relative weakness of the dynasty, which they claimed was very much dependent on the cooperation of the noble elite that dominated the provinces and estates. Thus, since the power to rule was based on a compromise (Herrschaftskompromiß ) centered on spheres of influence and mutual recognition, political rule was, in effect, exercised by a “diarchy.”9 Current research has highlighted some of the different dimensions within which this coordination of

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princely and noble interests took place, such as the court. This interpretation locates the power of rule within a complex process of communication.10 Within this changed setting, the interpretation of baroque art as an instrument of power has necessarily been modified. The nobility’s investment in baroque art is now rather seen as an important element of an “economy of honor.”11 During this period of cooperation and limited power, a conceptual, institutional, military, and bureaucratic modernization took place that enabled the emperors, from the mid-eighteenth century on, to carry out bureaucratic centralization by abolishing the provincial administration traditionally controlled by the nobility. Thus, as of the mid-eighteenth century, the Crown was able to exert a more direct influence over local and urban subjects. Whereas both court- and locally-based power relations have been the focus of research in recent years, the regional and provincial levels have suffered from scholarly neglect, leaving us relatively underinformed on how political power was exerted away from the large residential centers, above all in the eighteenth century.12

Representation of Power This complex change in the distribution of power was linked with a change in the forms through which power came to be represented. In the seventeenth century, power’s execution and representation were still closely linked to interaction-based forms of communication within and between all the different social strata—for example, at the ceremonialized court, in the form of coronations or homages both of noblemen and burghers. The eighteenth century, in contrast, tended to marginalize the relevance of these expressions, which by this time also were partly abolished, relying instead on the power of less personal forces such as laws. The modern state, perceived by some as a machine, found a new conceptualization as a territorial entity with a public sphere, rather than as a hierarchical melange of persons and privileges.13 Urban political culture developed in a slightly different manner. Despite the influential change in the paradigmatic concept of state power, in the early modern period most towns were hardly capable of generating and maintaining an independent public sphere. Instead, they conserved the relevance of face-to-face communication and ritualized forms of locally embedded interaction. Additionally, the towns’ material and structural heritage kept different layers of historical development and former arrangements or representations of power visible for longer periods, reaching back to more distant periods. The persistence of representations of power over time within changing surroundings presented a challenge to the persistence of symbolic meaning. Power has a semiotic dimension: force must be related to the use of signs in order to be attributed to elements of a political system and thus to be understood as power.14 Thus, political strategies are perceived by means of their symbolic representations. However, since signs and symbols—be they actions, rituals, or monuments—

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have a distinct semiotic and material structure,15 it is evident that the relationship between power relations and the symbolic representations that enable us to perceive them may take on different forms. An example of a concordance might be the attempts of princes to imbue their architectural blueprints and estates with expressions of their power, for example, the plans for imperial palaces such as Schönbrunn. Others might be the series of palaces of noblemen, statehouses of the estates (Landhäuser) in provincial capitals, and the town halls of the burghers (figure 1.1). Furthermore, one has to consider time within the framework of power relations and their symbolic representation. Some symbols, rituals, and monuments may have lost their meaning and thereby indicate social change, whereas others preserve their communicative function. This observation is of some relevance for our purpose. Urban space preserves monuments without being able to preserve their exact status in earlier processes through which meaning was constructed; this may explain why princes were so fond of rituals.16 Baroque artists saw this problem and were aware of using a fashionable style available to everybody and anybody. Therefore, their designs included long-lasting, meaningful elements intended to incorporate a capacity for political representation that would survive the ages. Elements such as perspectives, sheer size, degree of perfection, and sophistication would thus suggest, to those able to decipher the monuments of the town in the intended manner, the specific points of view these viewers should adopt in order to interpret the manifold signs and symbols preserved and presented in such urban spaces as convincing representations of meaning.

Figure 1.1. Graz, the Landhaus, official meeting place of the estates of Styria. Built 1557–64 by the architect Domenico dell’Allio (photo by Mark Hengerer).

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Dimensions of Analysis To achieve an understanding of how baroque cities were constructed as embodiments of power, we would, therefore, have to create a polydimensional frame of analysis that would consider both the process of renovating an existing city structure, as well as the process of perceiving a city. One would have to combine an analysis of the actors, their purposes, cultural heritage, and forms of expression, their material resources and relevant stages, with an analysis of the different nets of signs and symbols producing different layers and dimensions of meaning in the urban space. Because all of these were strengthened, changed, or challenged by innovation, one would additionally have to take into consideration the manner in which intended perceptions of the towns were created through different types of media.17 Such an analysis exceeds what is possible in the limited framework of this article. However, I will try not to neglect completely the perceptual dimension, while concentrating on the different forms of representation of the relevant social actors—princes, noblemen and estates, church and burghers—within their complex, dynamic, and processual symbolic setting. In the following, I will discuss the baroquization of two major Austrian cities, Graz and Innsbruck. They are of special interest for the baroque period in Austria because, in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, they were both capitals of larger territories with resident Habsburg princes, the Inner Austrian prince residing in Graz, and the prince of the Tyrolean branch of the Habsburg dynasty residing in Innsbruck. Both cities lost this status at the outset of the baroque period. In the case of Graz, it was the death of Emperor Matthias in 1619 and the extinction of the imperial lineage that brought the Inner Austrian Habsburg prince Archduke Ferdinand, later Ferdinand II, from Graz to his imperial residence in Vienna. In the case of Innsbruck, it was the death of Archduke Ferdinand Franz in 1665 that put the Habsburg Tyrolean territories into the hands of the imperial house, at the time presided over by Emperor Leopold I. Due to this loss of status, we are able to observe the dynamics of baroquization in cities on the periphery of the Habsburg monarchy vacated by their resident Habsburg princes, who are often considered to have been the primary driving forces in the process of baroquization.

Graz and Innsbruck Graz and Innsbruck had many other characteristics in common (figure 1.2). Both occupied primarily one bank of a river (the Inn and the Mur) but were developing suburbs on the other side. With long medieval traditions, both had served as imperial residences for some time in the late Middle Ages: Graz under the reign of Emperor Friedrich III, Innsbruck under the reign of Maximilian I. Finally, in both towns, important monuments testified to the strong impact the Habsburg imperial dynasty had had on the shape of the town during the late

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Figure 1.2. Graz, view towards west, copper engraving by Andreas Trost, 1699.

medieval period. Both cities had late medieval Hofburgen (castle districts), and in both towns great mausoleums were erected: in Graz by Ferdinand II for himself, his first wife, and their descendants, in Innsbruck by Ferdinand I for Maximilian I, intended as a monument to the entire Habsburg dynasty at the same time.18 Both towns contained noble houses or residences, in both towns diets were held, both towns had experienced an early and sustained re-Catholicization in the sixteenth or seventeenth century, and both hosted several monasteries but not a bishop. Ferdinand II had made efforts to install a bishop in Graz in 1626,19 but in vain; only in the seventeenth century was Innsbruck’s main town church able to gain its independence from the influential prelate of Wilten, who resided close to the city. Aside from these similarities, there also were important differences in the development of the two towns. In the case of Graz, there was, above all, the Ottoman threat against which strong defense systems were reinforced over and over, both for the town and the citadel with its princely garrison; Innsbruck, on the other hand, while it did have some fortifications, did not have a citadel or garrison.20 Second, Graz had many more inhabitants than Innsbruck, with about 15,000 in the late seventeenth century.21 Third, Tyrol featured an exceptional constitution according to which the peasants formed an estate, thus limiting the power of the Tyrolean nobility, which held minor economic power and was less prominently represented in Vienna than the Inner Austrian nobility. Furthermore, the Inner Austrian estates, backed by their important role in the wars against the Ottoman Empire in the sixteenth century, had stood up for their religious autonomy and developed a high degree of solidarity within the estates. This was expressed by an outstanding Landhaus architecture as early as the sixteenth century, whereas the Tyrolean nobility, already uniformly Catholic at the time, did not build their Landhaus until the eighteenth century, at which juncture it was too late to attempt to preserve the limited autonomy of the estates.22

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Graz: The Prince Though Ferdinand II had given up Graz as his residence after his succession to the imperial throne, the dependent town retained dominant features of the Habsburgs’ princely rule, which manifested itself above all in Renaissance style. The first thing any traveler who came to Graz would have seen was the strong Renaissance citadel on the mountain at the foot of the Mur valley, protecting the city (figure 1.3). Entering the city, he would have passed through gates that were mainly Renaissance structures. The outer Sacktor in the north was built in 1625 as a two-story Renaissance gate with a rustica portal showing an imperial eagle, the arms of Austria and Styria, and an inscription mentioning the prince and the year: “FERDINANDUS II. ROM. IMP. S. AVG”.23 The eastern gate, the Paulustor, the most important Renaissance gate in the German parts of the former Roman Empire, was erected between 1585 and 1614. It, too, bore princely coats of arms and inscriptions,24 as did the pre-Renaissance southern gate, the Eisernes Tor (Iron Gate).25 Other older, much less representative gates followed at varying intervals. These gates hardly referred to the prince, but rather to earlier functional needs of defense. From the perspective of the inside of the town, only the citadel made a substantial contribution to the organization of urban space. Within the town, the streets had developed mainly in reaction to the topographical conditions established by the river Mur and the mountain and the two strata of the town—the lower town on the bank of the river Mur and upper town in the east, thus giving it an irregular physical geometry. Other dominant

Figure 1.3. Graz, view from the south, copper engraving by Matthaeus Merian, 1649.

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architectural marks of princely rule were rare. Those that existed were also, above all, Renaissance structures; lacking critical mass, they could not establish a central focus in the city. Instead, they were all located at the edges of the town, mostly situated in the northeast and not directly related to the topographically dominant intersections of the streets that connected the city gates. The court of the Hofburg, erected by Emperor Frederic III from 1438 onwards and enlarged by Maximilian I in Gothic style, was closed on the street side by Ferdinand I by means of a Renaissance portal that was quite similar to the city gates. The last early modern enlargements were carried out before 1620, once again in Renaissance style.26 Close to the castle lay the magnificent mausoleum of Ferdinand II, erected in late Renaissance Mannerist style with some baroque elements (figure 1.4). Although it was not a secular edifice but a church, it was decorated with images of the imperial crown and a cross.27 The Paulustorviertel, a quarter built in 1578 together with the new northern gate to the northwest of the castle, was representative of the princes’ rule. It was the most regularly designed quarter of the town and included space for a large square, the Karmeliterplatz, a long straight street, as well as a number of Renaissance and baroque edifices. It was remote from the center and dominated by the architectural efforts of monasteries and noblemen. The Hofgasse also, though under the jurisdiction of the prince, was not dominated by secular princely architectural representation,28 let alone baroque architecture. There, one could find some princely administration buildings, but they were, as was the case with those located in the lower town, by no means outstanding or representative, even though they were later given a restrained baroque shape.29 When, in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, Habsburg emperors visited the city, nothing of this setting was changed. Although the Hofburg was given a very moderate restoration for Leopold I in 1673 and was decked out with ephemeral baroque art in honor of Emperor Charles VI in 1728, Emperor Josef II preferred to sleep at an inn during his visit to Graz.30 The town, having lost its function as a residence, was not a relevant stage for the type of representation that would justify renewed and ostentatious investFigure 1.4. Graz, mausoleum of ments in contemporary art that we Ferdinand II, built 1614–33 by the find in Vienna. However, Habsburg architect Pietro de Pomis (photo by rule was nonetheless represented in the Mark Hengerer).

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symbolic setting of the town—in the very striking form of the clearly marked and still active devices of defense and in the more remote form of remembrance of the period of the Habsburg residency.

Graz: The Church Because the outstanding success of Catholicism in the Austrian territories was primarily due to the support of the Habsburg dynasty, the magnificent late Renaissance and baroque churches and monasteries of Graz could be seen as representative monuments of dynastic power. Religious representation, both architectural and ephemeral, was therefore ambiguous. Thus, the very tight net created by the many ecclesiastical buildings of Graz complemented the symbolic setting of the prince’s earlier, secular representation dating to the Renaissance period, even though the princely family had not been its decisive benefactors.31 In contrast to the prince’s local efforts, ecclesiastical architectural innovation did not decrease after 1620, when the Jesuits had already put their stamp on the quarter that lay around the Domkirche and the mausoleum south of the Hofburg. The Jesuit Konvikt, their collegium, which soon contained a gymnasium and, from 1585 on, the Jesuit university that received its own edifice in 1607–09, all were impressive Renaissance structures that were then partially reshaped in baroque style.32 For instance, from 1762 on, the Konvikt was fundamentally transformed to reflect a rich and representative baroque style. Its portal is the most important late baroque example of its kind in Graz, revealing the closeness of religious and political representation in the ecclesiastical buildings of Graz. Personifications of religion and science sit at both sides of the entablature; in the middle, two angels hold a portrait of Archduke Charles II above a large inscription “RELIGIONI / ET / BONIS ARTUBUS”.33 The collegium kept its external Renaissance appearance, though the portal, situated directly next to the university’s Renaissance portal, was remodeled to reflect baroque style in 1692–94, and a baroque bell tower was added in 1718. The interior underwent greater change, some rooms receiving representative baroque ornamentation, for example, the important Prunkstiege (state staircase).34 Along with the Jesuits, several ecclesiastical orders settled in Graz, especially in the first half of the seventeenth century, and deepened the network of ambiguous religious representation. The Capuchins and the Carmelites founded monasteries in the Paulusvorstadt,35 while the Augustinian eremites resided in the heavily trafficked Sporgasse that connected the lower and the upper town.36 The Carmelite cloister, built 1647–54, was also situated at the periphery of the (lower) town,37 whereas the Franciscan order settled in the center of the secular burghers’ quarter in the lower town near the western Mur gate, and erected a dominant bell tower there in 1636.38 On the other side of the Mur, the Order of St. Clare availed itself of the former Protestant school, and on the same side of the river, even closer to the important bridge, the Minorites founded a monastery with a magnificent church.39

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Later, almost all edifices were ornamented with baroque pieces of art and often redesigned in baroque style. The same is true for the many Gothic churches that were often subjected to a far-reaching baroquization as well—for example, the town parish church in the important Herrengasse.40 Many of these churches and cloisters served as burial sites for both the nobility and burghers, who had their epitaphs and monuments built in fashionable baroque style as was appropriate for the rich. In addition, they donated many pieces of art in this style to the churches. In sum, the highly developed and rich baroque Habsburg Catholicism persistently interspersed the urban landscape with monuments of baroque style, thereby emphasizing its ecclesiastical power.41 Therefore, it is no wonder that the first baroque façade on a secular building in Graz appeared on the St. Lambrechter Hof, which was then owned by a prelate (1665–1674).42

Graz: The Nobility After the Ottoman siege of Vienna in 1683, it was primarily the nobility that was eager to represent its status through new magnificent baroque palaces.43 In Graz, the situation was different for many reasons that are, nevertheless, instructive for our understanding of the impact of power relations on the dynamics of baroquization. In the period between the consolidation of the Habsburg rule in the hereditary territories in the first half of the seventeenth century and the state reforms of Maria Theresa from 1748, princely rule was based on cooperation between the regionally and locally influential nobility and the dynasty. Graz remained the capital of Inner Austria and hosted a special privy council, a regiment, and chambers of finance and war,44 all of which were dominated by the Inner Austrian nobility. Graz was, thus, still an important, albeit regional, power market. However, the imperial court represented the location of choice for the more ambitious and mighty noblemen, as it was of higher relevance for social integration, social mobility, and social reproduction within the ruling noble society of the Habsburg Monarchy. Significantly, some of the many Inner Austrian noble families who possessed houses or palaces in Graz as early as the sixteenth and early seventeenth century had become integrated into the imperial court earlier, especially under the reign of Emperors Matthias and Ferdinand II. They had been promoted to higher ranks, had married into the new noble elite of the Erblande, who often possessed residences in Vienna, and had thus transcended their regional roots before about 1650, all the while still maintaining properties in Graz.45 For the others, posts in the Inner Austrian administration were appropriate to their regional ambitions and represented a basis from which they could strive for better careers in Vienna as well as a resource for gaining influence within courtly society. Thus, many noble families with lands in Inner Austria kept a footing in the provincial capital of Graz, while they were integrated into the Emperor’s court at Vienna as well.46 Thus, we see that the political significance of noble palaces in Graz was complex. When baroque architecture was at the height of its popularity, a network of

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Renaissance houses or palaces remained.47 Nevertheless, the city’s most successful courtiers were engaged primarily in Vienna. All at once, Graz found itself left behind,48 considered by its nobility as a basis for careers in imperial service, a sufficient forum for noble existence between administrative office and country life, or perhaps merely the location of some old family property. The nobility’s adoption of the baroque style developed remarkably slowly. Clearly, noble families here could retain their Renaissance palaces, making some few adaptations to baroque style, without any risk of damage to their social position. The overwhelming majority of noble palaces in Graz visibly retained their basic Renaissance structures, although most of them underwent some moderate form of baroquization.49 Such changes were very often restricted to a limited set of elements of the edifice such as the portal, the façade, the balcony, the stairwell, stuccatura (decorative plasterwork), or a statue of the Virgin Mary. From a visitor’s perspective, most relevant for the town’s appearance were the façades of its structures, often altered in a property owner’s first step towards baroque architecture. From about 1660 to 1765, every few years we find a new baroque façade covering the earlier face of a house.50 Nonetheless, many palaces retained their Renaissance portals and sometimes their Renaissance windows, as was the case for the very influential Saurau family’s palace.51 Others, having adapted important baroque elements, kept their Renaissance courts;52 yet others preserved their Renaissance façades but installed a baroque portal (figure 1.5).53 Baroque

Figure 1.5. Graz, Webersperg Palace, view of the courtyard from the east, showing early Renaissance elements over older construction (photo by Mark Hengerer). The baroque façade, at 12 Sackstraße, was built ca. 1710, probably inspired by the palaces of Wildenstein and Attems.

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elements such as stairs and stuccatura often followed the first baroque elements after a longer period.54 Within this clearly quite noncompetitive framework, we do indeed find other stimuli to the process of innovation. In 1689, after the retreat of the Turks, an area between the modern defense system and the ancient medieval town wall in the southern lower town was given by the estates to regionally and locally influential noblemen, among them the Landeshauptmann Stubenberg, an Inner Austrian regimental councilor (Rindsmaul), and the Generaleinnehmer and Kriegszahlmeister Stubenberg. Four large and impressive baroque palaces were soon erected close to each other; however, by 1691, the Landeshauptmann, the most powerful of this group, had already sold his palace.55 The next representative baroque building was erected by a homo novus, Johann Josef Count Wildenstein, who, starting as an officer in the administration, had attained the office of the vice-Statthalter in Styria and of Landeshauptmann in Görz and, thus, sought to represent his new status and power as best he could. Between 1702 and 1710–15, he had built a grand baroque façade—with twentytwo columns in colossal order in fifteen axes—close to the northern Paulustor (figure 1.6). However, this façade only covered a palace already one hundred years old at the time, thus hardly more than moderately modernizing it with some elements of baroque style. Later, his wife’s inheritance of one of the newly built baroque palaces mentioned above allowed Wildenstein to move. He decorated this residence with a new portal carried by atlantes, which was as unique for Graz as had been the façade of his other palace.56

Figure 1.6. Graz, Wildenstein Palace on the Paulustorgasse, built about 1602, additional floor and new façade 1702–03 by an unknown craftsman/artist (photo by Mark Hengerer).

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The Wildenstein palace, and particularly its façade, seemed to have represented a challenge to some of the noblemen in Graz. In 1702, when the Wildenstein palace got its roof, Ignaz Maria Count Attems, a councilor of the Hofkammer, started to build a highly prestigious palace in the important Sackstraße in the northwestern part of the town, towards which purpose he demolished six houses (figure 1.7). His family was locally and regionally well established, but not of any special relevance in Vienna. Two sides of the palace were visible from the street, one of them a monumental portal with a balcony. Probably because the count himself, a passionate amateur architect, took an active part in the design of the palace, some problems arose with proportions so that, with its roof in the burgher style, the Attems palace can hardly compete with the more sophisticated contemporary edifices in Vienna, though it is the greatest baroque palace of Graz.57 From the art historian’s point of view, such baroque palaces elude categorization and are seen as “modal exceptional forms.”58 Even if this thorough baroquization revealed more an interest in representing decent decorum (as reflected in the then-fashionable style) than personal power

Figure 1.7. Graz, Attems Palace on the Schloßbergplatz/Josef-Kai; view to the Schloßberg (castle hill) with Uhrenturm (clocktower) in upper left. Attems Palace was built ca. 1702–15 by Count Ignaz Maria von Attems, integrating parts of an older construction. The Uhrenturm is a remaining part of the citadel (photo by Mark Hengerer).

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(with the exception of Count Wildenstein), it should encourage us to consider the palaces of some of the most influential nobility. The Breuner family, for example, was both of importance in Vienna and of overriding significance in Styria, producing three Landeshauptleute in the eighteenth century, as well as other office holders. The family palace in the prominent Herrengasse, dating from the sixteenth century, was a three-wing structure constructed around a very large court of a three-story Renaissance arcade. Built by an Inner Austrian councilor of war from the noble Teuffenbach family, it came to the Breuner family in the seventeenth century. After being raised to the rank of a count, a Breuner, then president of the chamber of finance, introduced some moderate modernization and a new fountain. In 1730, Carl Adam Count Breuner became Landeshauptmann, following Carl Weikart Breuner in this office, and in that very year he had the Herrengasse wing remodeled as a baroque palace with a façade, a stairwell, stuccatura, etc. In 1747, this house was estimated to be one of the most expensive palaces in Graz.59 Another family holding important offices in Inner Austria were the Sauraus, influential primarily in Styria. Their main possession was a four-wing Renaissance structure at the head of the Sporgasse, which connected the lower and upper town. It had Renaissance arcades and a dominant Renaissance portal; later, the Renaissance façade was partially renovated to feature some baroque elements, as was the portal, which was given baroque iron lattices at its top. Around 1700, a baroque stairwell was added in the courtyard, as were smaller architectural elements inside; in the 1720’s, baroque stucco was introduced. A baroque pavilion with frescos was erected in the garden in 1740, and, from 1775 on, followed an early classicist rebuilding of the inner rooms.60 We can find a further example in the influential Trauttmansdorffs, a branch of which family held some of the highest offices at the Viennese court, enabling them to acquire possessions in Bohemia and southern Germany. Their palace, located in the Bürgergasse, was rebuilt around 1615–20 in Renaissance style with two portals. Around 1720–25, the façade was partially redesigned in baroque style, primarily via modifications to the windows and the introduction of a statue of the Virgin Mary.61 The combination of the representative new baroque design with the conservation of representative Renaissance elements can be observed for a number of the palaces in the possession of the Herberstein family, who were influential in Vienna as well, and who also held prestigious castles in the Styrian countryside. A two-floor Renaissance palace with arcades dating to ca. 1560 was given partial baroque form around 1730, at which time it was owned by Seifried Count Herberstein, an Inner Austrian councilor of war. Before it was sold in 1739, a stairwell (albeit a wooden one) was added, as were new baroque doors.62 In 1764, the Herbersteins were able to acquire a Renaissance palace in the Paulustorgasse next to the former nuntiatura. They added a baroque façade to the palace before 1770, while retaining its only slightly modernized Renaissance portals.63 The former nuntiatura itself, situated at the edge of the Paulustorgasse and the Karmeliter-

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platz, was purchased by Johann Maximilian Count Herberstein in 1636. When it was joined to a neighboring house, it underwent very little remodeling in baroque style, retaining its Renaissance façade and arcades.64 The same can be said for a palace in the Stempfergasse, purchased in 1738 by Herberstein, which combined late Gothic elements, Renaissance arcades, and Tuscan columns.65 Similarly, the house in the prestigious Herrengasse, a former residence of an archduke, had a fresco façade that most likely was conserved when the Herbersteins acquired it in 1640. In 1712, a new stairwell was added and, at about the same time, the Renaissance arcades were slightly altered before the house was sold to a burgher in 1739.66 Only two family palaces were more substantially baroquized, one around 1700 under the ownership of a Countess Herberstein, who initiated a baroque reconstruction of several houses, with a new baroque façade, a stone stairwell, and baroque stucco ceilings added around 1710–20.67 The most prestigious Herberstein palace, in the important Sackstraße, was inherited from the princes of Eggenberg in 1754. Their former town palace was immediately remodeled inside with a baroque court, an ostentatious stairwell, staterooms, stucco, and chimneys. Thus, it seems that the Herbersteins were all eager to represent, finally, their leading status in Graz adequately. The façade, however, retained its late Renaissance style; and the Renaissance portal was only slightly modernized.68 If we analyze the actions of holders of the most important offices in the Inner Austrian administration, we see that only a very small number of them personally conducted renovations in baroque style to their properties in close temporal relation to their acquisition of those offices.69 Since these different paths of baroquization do not positively correlate with actual distinctions of social status or to events such as acquisitions of houses or titles, it may be useful to look at a smaller social unit, as well. The neighborhood turns out to be relevant for the dynamics of baroquization. Streets, as physical locations, often established a network of very close relationships. In the Sackstraße, for example, we find a Trautmansdorff palace with a Renaissance façade and an Eggenberg palace on the other side of the street with a very similar façade. In 1640, two new portals were added to the Eggenberg palace. In the early 1660s, several noble and burgher residences were given baroque stairs and stucco ceilings. Only in 1676 did the Khuenburg (later Mersperg) palace, within sight of the Eggenberg and Trautmansdorff palaces, receive a moderate baroque façade and interior. Subsequently, other baroque portals were added along the street, but the dominant Renaissance façades were retained, thus securing a certain stability of appearance. Only when the great Attems palace was erected about 1705 did the Khuenburg palace on the other side of the street respond with a new baroque portal equipped with a balcony. The burgher house next door to the Attems palace was given a baroque façade in 1715 that was then copied by a member of the lower nobility on the other side of the street. In the 1750s, an Eggenberg heir greatly modernized the family palace, but only the interior; the Attems followed suit by buying their neighbors’ house and furnishing it with a new interior as well. This example demonstrates that, even if a copy in every detail was not possible, responding to a neighbor’s modifications

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within a street was another important factor in the development of the city as a whole.70 For the most part, such innovations soon elicited a response in kind, thus reintegrating the innovators back into the social sphere. In summary, even at the end of the eighteenth century, the average noble palace in Graz showed a mix of Renaissance structures and baroque elements, primarily in the form of interior and exterior elements, the latter often on the street side. In some cases, an intensive adaptation of baroque architecture obviously served as a means of representing a family’s power within the hierarchy of Styria. However, in many cases it did not, but was, rather, a concession to decorum that was evidenced by the fashionable architectural style, which concession reflected nothing more than an interest in maintaining a position within a particular social group. Entirely new structures or the fundamental remodeling of older ones in baroque style were not necessary for this purpose. Renaissance arcades in particular were considered desirable or even representative, as they could mark a noble family’s long heritage. The architectural representation of the limited power a noble family could exercise within Styria did not have to present a monumental challenge to its economic resources, as was the case in Vienna. This moderate “economy of honor” reflected the provincial character of the Graz power market, leading us to the conclusion that the nobility’s contribution to baroque Graz was relevant and, if we assess the appearance of the town, quite considerable.

Graz: The Burghers The weak local administration in Graz was dependent on the Habsburg princes and on the Inner Austrian regime, even in questions of detail. The magistrates, though not members of a Patriziat, were elected to lifetime terms and were often, at the same time, members of the regime and middle-class burghers, whereas the wealthy avoided the burden of the offices during the period in question. Members of the community aired complaints about the mode of election, corruption, and the cliquish maneuverings of the magistrates. Nor was the town wealthy.71 The town hall, although prestigiously situated on the main square in the lower town, was, until 1803, a modest Renaissance building.72 Even while local powers did not force a baroque remodeling of this structure, everyone was well aware of its eminent position in the social life of Graz’s burghers. This is made evident by the choice of the town hall for Count Tattenbach’s execution as a conspirator in the Hungarian rebellion of 1671, the quarrels about the magistrates’ ranks in the Corpus Christi procession, and the form of smaller monuments such as the magistrates’ clock of 1714.73 During the century after the already difficult period of the Thirty Years’ War, the citizens of Graz had to cope with major problems. There followed decades of plague and dysentery leading to a massive loss of population, not to mention the wars against the Ottoman Empire with the destruction of much of the southern suburbs, which were sacrificed to the benefit of a glacis. Nor was the economy

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flourishing.74 However, many property owners reworked old medieval and renaissance structures, using primarily baroque stucco façades superimposed over the street side of older structures. Outstanding examples are two burgher residences with late Gothic arbors dating to the early fifteenth century at the main square (Hauptplatz) that were given façades featuring decorative stucco—acanthus leaves with elements of mussels and flowers—about 1680–85. The responsible artisan was probably from northern Italy, as were many other masons in Graz in that period who created influential geometrical stucco facades.75 Other elements, however, such as portals, windows, roofs, or gables on the street side and, above all, interior elements of the house, such as the courtyard and arcades, often were changed hardly at all, thus retaining the dominance of the architectural style used at the time of a house’s initial construction. Therefore, it would seem inappropriate to interpret these modifications as representations of political power. Only a few houses owned by burghers were substantially redone in baroque style, making these barely distinguishable from the baroque palaces of the nobility. One example is a brewer’s house in the important Sporgasse, featuring an impressive portal with a relief including St. Johannes Nepomuk in the place where the coats of arms would have been situated in noble houses (figure 1.8). Because the architect had also been commissioned by noblemen, he was able to construct a façade and stairwell that could have satisfied noble expectations.76 The most prestigious burgher palace in Graz—indeed, probably more prestigious than the average noble palace—was built on the main square around 1710 by a trader and banker. It has eleven axes, colossal pilasters, and, again, a relief with a religious scene instead of the coats of arms above the first floor.77 This use of religious iconography in place of symbols of power clearly reveals that even exhaustive Figure 1.8. Graz, late baroque burgher investments in a current architec- building with stone portal, built 1765–70, ture could not, in the end, over- probably by the architect Joseph Hueber, come the social gaps between the integrating an older construction; a Brauhaus estates. Even if the style could mark (brewery) from 1650 to 1900 (photo by Mark distinctions of honor and ambi- Hengerer).

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tion or even (economic) power, it had to accommodate certain definite symbols of (political and legal) power, the use of which was the exclusive privilege of the nobility. Seen from another perspective, the large number of baroque religious icons to be found in the burgher houses, primarily reliefs and statues of saints, tightened the already strong network of religious baroque art in Graz.78

Innsbruck: The Prince In Innsbruck, Habsburg rule could rely neither on strong fortifications nor on a citadel defending the city to make its influence felt through the city’s appearance. In contrast to Graz, Habsburg monuments dominated the geographical and social center of the town—the marketplace—in the form of two major buildings. The former residence of Duke Frederick, from 1420, which served as an architectural focus point, was situated opposite the main street and ornamented by the oriel with a portrait of King and Emperor Maximilian I, along with late Gothic coats of arms, reliefs, paintings and, above all, its famous golden roof (figure 1.9).

Figure 1.9. Innsbruck, Goldene Dachl (The Golden Roof, referring to the small roof above the oriel), late fifteenth century, built by the Hofbaumeister Niclas Türing; paintings, by Jörg Kölderer, ordered in 1500 (photo by Mark Hengerer).

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Figure 1.10. Innsbruck, Hofgasse, looking east; left, part of the Hofburg, the south façade built by Johann Martin Gumpp the Younger (1754–1756); center, the cupola of the south roundel (1766) in the backround, where once stood the famous Wappenturm (photo by Mark Hengerer).

The appearance of this most representative building was barely modified even after the prince moved to the new Hofburg in the northern quarter of the town before 1500, using the elder residence as a financial office.79 Within view of this building and towards the east, stood a tower, part of the old city wall, which was representatively ornamented to reflect Maximilian I’s rule through the coats of arms of his Austrian possessions. This medieval tower was integrated into the southern side of the new Hofburg in 1766 (figure 1.10).80 Opposite this tower in the western side of the axis stood the so-called Regimentshaus, which hosted important departments of the archduke’s administration. It consisted of five medieval houses located on the western side of the square that had been unified in the sixteenth century. A restoration in 1690–92 followed damage due to an earthquake, at which point it was given a representative baroque façade.81 The quarter in which the court commissioned the greatest number of buildings lay north and east of the old tower. It consisted of the late medieval Hofburg built in Gothic and Renaissance style. In 1628, Archduke Leopold V’s plans to demolish this old-fashioned structure were thwarted by the fact that he could not afford to have it rebuilt. In the sixteenth century, the building had gradually

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lost its function as a residence; the princes preferred, above all, the nearby castle of Ambras, which housed a famous art collection,82 as well as the small Ruhelust palace in the court garden.83 From 1754 onwards, it was transformed to reflect baroque style for use by the administration. The unexpected death of Emperor Francis Stephen in 1765 in this very building inspired Empress Maria Theresa to have it restored as a representative monument to this emperor and the imperial family.84 Another part of this complex was, as in Graz, the court church. Though it housed a cenotaph, it was built for Maximilian I as a sepulchral church in late Gothic style, to which Emperor Ferdinand I added a Renaissance portal. The Habsburg dynasty is glorified in its interior through the famous Renaissance bronze statues it contains. Some other elements of the interior were gradually restored or added in baroque style, for example the stucco ceiling, some of the altars, paintings, and the organ.85 Next to the court church stood a Franciscan monastery that was renovated in baroque style in 1696 and made into the Jesuit community’s residence (Stift). It was a Renaissance building with a large courtyard that was rebuilt in 1688, and then gained a monumental baroque façade connecting it to the more modest façade of the court church.86 In this northern and remote area at a bend in the river Inn lay other court buildings, which, due to their remoteness, did not influence the town, even if they did feature baroque elements.87 Thus, before 1766, the most important and lasting monuments representative of Habsburg presence, the Golden Roof and Maximilian I’s cenotaph, retained their original late Gothic and Renaissance character. In 1650, a mass was read in the presence of the Archduke in front of the Golden Roof while an image of the Virgin Mary was carried from the Hofburg to the Church of St. Jacob on a triumphal chariot; this indicates the unbroken representative function of the ensemble.88 The very modest impact that architectural modernization had on Innsbruck reflected both Tyrol’s relatively weak political and economic position and potential and, additionally, the fact that the symbolic presence of these outstanding and unique monuments would, in many respects, have been difficult to challenge. After the extinction of the Tyrolean branch of the Habsburg dynasty, the governors who resided in Innsbruck in 1678–1690 (Karl von Lothringen) and 1707–1717 (Karl Philipp von Neuburg), did not, therefore, substantially change the town’s focus on its zenith as the main residence of Emperor Maximilian I.

Innsbruck: The Church As in Graz, the Church received explicit support and financial backing from the Habsburg archdukes and emperors. The most important princely foundation, the Hofkirche, containing the representative cenotaph of Emperor Maximilian I and joined to the Franciscan monastery, dated to the Gothic and Renaissance periods, but even this church was, to a certain extent, redone in baroque style.89 Other

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dominant structures, in particular the Jesuit church and their collegium, were, to a great extent, rebuilt in the early baroque period. Whereas some earlier archdukes had been buried in the “silver chapel” of the original court church90 or in the Gothic Propsteipfarrkirche St. Jacob,91 the later archdukes, in parallel to their remodeling efforts, erected a crypt in the Jesuit church from 1635 on.92 Although earlier structures all over town—and their interiors, above all—were vested with baroque elements in the seventeenth century, it was the eighteenth century that brought about the domination of the baroque style in the appearance of the town’s churches, a phenomenon that moved to the center from the periphery. From 1700 on, the church and monastery of the Ursulines were built in baroque style with the support of Emperor Leopold I’s sister, the wife of the provincial governor.93 In 1698, the magistrate decreed the reconstruction of the Spital church on the same street, later Maria Theresa Street, consecrated in 1705.94 Almost two decades later, in 1717, after damage caused by two earthquakes in 1670 and 1689 that led to the removal of the tower and bells, the burghers’ main church, St. Jakob in the center of the town, was demolished; its reconstruction as a great baroque church lasted until 1724.95 In the same period, the baroque church of St. John was built in the Innrain quarter.96 Somewhat later, in 1751, the prelates of Wilten followed, erecting the magnificent baroque church at the site of the old pilgrimage church near the town. This church became the ecclesiastical center of northern Tyrol97 and proved that, in Tyrol, baroque architecture reached its highpoint in Church edifices.98

Innsbruck: The Nobility Johanna Felmayer has stated that secular baroque architecture in Innsbruck was, to a great extent, limited to the alteration of medieval houses. The late medieval appearance of the secular elements of the town hardly changed, but this appearance was modified by some baroque façades that belonged, in general, to houses or palaces of noble ownership.99 Most of these palaces lay outside the narrow, old medieval center of the town, the most important of them being situated in the very large street at the main road leading to the south. This street had, from about 1700 on, already exerted a strong influence on the city’s architecture due to the presence of the baroque monastery of the Ursulines, the Spital church, and the two columns dedicated to St. Joseph and St. Anne.100 Though a part of the town since 1517,101 this street was a preferred place of residence for members of the princely administration, but was not fully lined with houses until the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, so that there was at this time some street-side property remaining for the construction and reconstruction of representative edifices in the new style. The first baroque palace in Innsbruck, following models of the palaces of Genoa and showing nine axes to its street-side, was erected by Count Fugger of Kirchberg-Weissenhorn in 1679.102 Other regionally important and influential families followed. In 1681, a Baron Troyer erected a smaller baroque palace with

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Figure 1.11. Innsbruck, Troyer Palace, on the Maria-Theresien-Straße, reshaped by the Baron Troyer about 1680; façade by the architect Johann Martin Gumpp the Elder (photo by Mark Hengerer).

six axes (figure 1.11).103 In 1686, there followed a baroque palace with fourteen axes on its street side, built by a councilor of the Regiment, David Wagner, who was raised to the rank of count in 1681.104 Several noble families followed who substantially reshaped elder structures in baroque style.105 The estates made a significant contribution to the baroque appearance of this large street. They had given up their house in the medieval center in 1666 and moved to a palace in this street, which was then in the possession of the Kapellmeister Antonio Cesti. In the early 1720s, a new building was erected at this site after the earlier one had been demolished in 1724. The large baroque palace with eleven axes on the street side and a risalit with a highly representative stairwell and a chapel, the interiors of which were all ornamented with baroque elements, was the most important secular baroque building in Innsbruck.106 At the time of the construction of this palace, the political role of the estates had experienced a long decline as a consequence of dynastic centralism that stood in sharp contrast to their representative new palace. Nevertheless, the estates still represented the ruling elite of Tyrol. Appropriately enough, given the fact that the nobility, once again, had a limited impact on the introduction of baroque style into the town’s architectural landscape, this street with the strongest baroque

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appearance forms an almost linear extension of the main street of the medieval center of the town. Thus, its spatial focus remained on the Golden Roof and extended to its conclusion at the triumphal arch commemorating the visit of Emperor Francis Stephen to Innsbruck in 1765 (figures 1.12 and 1.13). Thus, the only quarter characterized by emphatic noble representation in the form of baroque architecture was framed by monuments of princely rule. Houses in noble possession in other parts of town were generally—and most probably to a higher degree than in Graz—modernized with elements of baroque architecture. This was accomplished in a more representative fashion by means of large baroque façades in the case of two edifices that lay quite close to the court’s structures,107 and to a minor degree in the case of three houses or palaces owned by noble families located in the street that connected the intersection of today’s Maria Theresa Street and Herzog Friedrich Street with the court area.108 Several houses in the medieval center of the town owned by noblemen of minor social status were modernized as well, but mostly by means of a very few modest baroque elements, such as medallions with saints, baroque stairs, lattices, and frames around Gothic portals superimposed onto existing façades.109 This did nothing to alter the late Gothic character of the center. Thus, it is remarkable that the outstanding palace of the noble and powerful Trautson family in this part of town, built in late Gothic and early Renaissance style and ornamented with reliefs and coats of arms, was not redesigned. Instead, the Trautsons built a new palace in Maria Theresa Street.110 Although we have found evidence of a stronger correlation between the Innsbruck nobility and consistent efforts of baroquization than in Graz, this social

Figure 1.12. Innsbruck, Maria-Theresien-Straße, view towards the north. The Goldene Dachl is visible in the center of the photo, at the head of the street, on the lowest building. Spitalkirche on the left and Stadtturm on the right (photo by Mark Hengerer).

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Figure 1.13. Innsbruck, Maria-Theresien-Straße, view towards the south: Triumphal Arch for Emperor Charles VI by the architect Konstantin Walter (1765), decoration by Balthasar Moll (1775). Left, the palace of David Wagner the Younger, Count Sarnthein, finished before 1686, probably by the architect Johann Martin Gumpp the Elder, incorporating older construction (photo by Mark Hengerer).

group’s impact on the town was less vigorous than there. Fewer noble families maintained residences in Innsbruck, despite the fact that both Styria and Tyrol demonstrated a similar political status in respect to their degree of dependence on the imperial administration. Innsbruck hosted a privy council, a Regiment, and a chamber of finance as well. However, Tyrol was divided in two parts by the Alps and had, with Brixen and Trient, two towns with a bishop and, with Bozen and Meran in the south, alternative urban and political centers. While Graz competed with Vienna and the local noble residences, Innsbruck was confronted with these towns, all of which lay at an even greater distance than those Inner Austrian towns with central functions such as Klagenfurt and Marburg. Furthermore, starting in the seventeenth century, the Tyrolean nobility was under stronger economic pressure than its counterpart in Graz. Very few of its houses could compete with the dimensions of the larger palaces in Graz, not to mention Vienna. Nonetheless, the local social elite was well equipped with baroque houses.111

Innsbruck: The Burghers The number of burgher households in Innsbruck in the seventeenth century was lower than that of noble ones or those associated with the princely administration.112 Consequently, they were of minor relevance for the modernization of the

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town’s appearance. Economic and demographic development had been stagnant since the sixteenth century; one hundred years later, Innsbruck had less than six thousand inhabitants.113 It is significant that the local community did not realize the plan of the most influential local architect, Gumpp, to redesign the façade of the Gothic town hall, despite the fact that it had crowned the city tower next to the town hall with a new tower helmet during the Renaissance period.114 Instead, the town preferred to pay for the new baroque church of St. Jacob. The town’s medieval center kept its Gothic appearance, despite the introduction of many small baroque elements such as window lintels. Furthermore, most of the burghers who built houses in its new quarters seldom invested in prestigious ornamentation. However, burgher houses in these newer quarters, which were dominated by noble baroque palaces, modestly imitated the new style, mainly because the masons managed to combine earlier elements, such as the characteristic oriels, with baroque elements.115 In particular, the Innrain quarter consisted mainly of baroque houses that adopted the style of the dominant Ursuline church and monastery and the church of St. John.116 Some exceptions in the medieval town throw light on the burghers’ efforts to represent their social position through architecture. It was probably the cashier of the mint of Hall who had his Gothic house covered with rich stucco, thereby producing a quite unique mix of stylistic elements.117 The Gumpp family, which sired Innsbruck’s leading architects, redesigned its Gothic residence in the old center using baroque elements that restructured the façade and integrated

Figure 1.14. Innsbruck, Gumpphaus, on the Kiebachgasse; originally three older houses, remodeled by the architect Johann Martin Gumpp the Elder, probably early 1680s (photo by Mark Hengerer).

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the Gothic oriels, adding a medallion with a picture of the Virgin Mary (figure 1.14).118 As was the case in Graz, many other burgher houses exhibited baroque medallions or statues of saints or other objects of religious veneration,119 thereby closing the gap to the contemporary popular forms of expression, all of which reflected the successful Habsburg Counter-Reformation.

Conclusion Our survey of the introduction of baroque architectural style in Graz and Innsbruck, both of which are towns generally regarded as stylistically dominated by Renaissance and Gothic elements, has allowed us to glimpse an elusive phenomenon. Having left both residences and consolidated their ruling position in both territories mainly through the loyal regional noble elite, the Habsburg emperors relied on ephemeral events to represent their political power to the residents of these towns during their very rare visits there. They did not reshape—or did so only to a very small extent—earlier Gothic, Renaissance, or late-Renaissance monuments. Instead, they seem either to have neglected the potential for innovation or, alternatively, to have trusted the symbolic validity of those forms which had in previous eras appropriately expressed their power. We find that tradition was a powerful alternative to innovation in that very field of architectural representation as well. The case of Innsbruck, in particular in the period before 1765 when alterations were undertaken on the Hofburg in response to Emperor Francis Stephen I’s sudden death, demonstrates this ambiguous relationship between innovation and tradition. Above all, Innsbruck with its baroque Regimentshaus and the Gothic Golden Roof in the center, which create a dominant axis for the viewer, indicates this tension more clearly than does Graz with its ever-menacing fortress. The Hofburg, in both cases neglected after the period of imperial residency, was of very little use for the purpose of any renewed representation of political power. The case of Graz, however, indicates more clearly than Innsbruck the strong link between dynastic power and the Catholic Church, which allows us to attribute the very intense efforts towards magnificent baroque ecclesiastic architecture to the power of the dynasty. In both towns, the Church was quite fond of both the construction of new baroque structures as well as the vigorous alteration of older ones to meet the demands of the new fashion. At the same time, it was able to stimulate the support of other dominant social entities: the dynasty, the nobility, and the burghers. Acting as sponsors, each of these social groups inscribed themselves into ecclesiastical symbolic space—through their crypts, monuments, and epitaphs, their donations, inscriptions, and other forms of participation. The sketch of the nobility’s activities in Graz and Innsbruck has highlighted the relevance of different stages of noble activity to the intensity of baroque innovation. Both towns kept their function as power markets, but, to a limited extent, both were stages between Vienna, country seats, and, for many noblemen

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of both territories, other important towns such as Klagenfurt or Brixen. The differences in spatial relations—with Graz being closer to Vienna than Innsbruck is, and with the Alps as a barrier between Innsbruck and both Vienna and the southern parts of Tyrol—had an impact on the presence of the nobility in these towns. Innsbruck represented a more attractive location for the politically active elements of the nobility, whereas nobles tended to choose Graz as a permanent second urban residence. Significantly, in both towns a majority of the nobility adapted the appearance of their property to the demands of the new style. Neither Graz nor Innsbruck developed a large and dominant noble quarter like the one in Vienna. Graz tended to do even less than Innsbruck to develop separate noble quarters, making the maintenance of a distinction between nobility and burgher a topic of more urgent relevance in Graz than in Innsbruck. However, an interpretation of this adaptation of baroque style as an embodiment of political power, albeit convincing with respect to a representative function regarding other social strata, must also take account of the complexity of this process for the nobility itself. In the eighteenth century, the nobility undertook nothing more extensive than restorations of their houses, which were generally executed in baroque style, so that any innovation that arose in the process necessarily came from the state-of-the-art techniques employed by the artisans commissioned to do the job. It is this very material background that contributed to ensuring a certain conformity of style among the noble elites. The distinctive function of baroque style among the noble elites was, therefore, necessarily related to material manifestations of conspicuous consumption or mere expressions of being up-to-date. In these two towns, as we have seen, the more influential and powerful noble families had a greater tendency to invest in modern architecture. Nonetheless, I am reluctant to conclude that a clear correlation existed, and instead prefer to emphasize the fact that many members of the elite, especially in Graz, shared a common problem with the prince: that of inherited palaces often featuring quite elaborate and representative architecture. In such cases, families preferred to adapt some elements of their houses, mainly in the interior and parts of the façade. These blended elements referred to their ancestors’ achievements in the Renaissance era and to that era as the great period of the noble estates in Austria, and, moreover, to the fitting continuation of that powerful, awe-inspiring, and legitimizing family tradition. However, the local neighborhood was an important element too, contributing to stagnation as well as to innovation within the context of this limited process of the introduction of baroque style. In contrast to the situation in Graz, in Innsbruck the residences of the nobility were realized to a lesser degree in distinct Renaissance palaces and were less stable in terms of locality. The enlargement of the town in the sixteenth and seventeenth century increased the space available for new structures to a greater extent than was the case in Graz, which is why we find relatively more completely baroque palaces here than in Graz, despite the fact that the Inner Austrian nobility enjoyed a better political and economic situation than their Innsbruck peers.

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In both towns, the burgher community suffered from a political and economic situation that was quite weak. Whereas the estates dominated by the nobility had highly representative palaces—the Landhäuser—neither Graz nor Innsbruck had baroque town halls. In Graz, however, wealthy burghers took a more active part in the process of creating baroque streets and squares, and were able to build façades and even palaces that could have competed at an equal level with those of the nobility, if they only could have adopted coats of arms instead of statues of saints. Even if in a modest way, the street sides of many burgher houses in decentralized Graz were adorned with some elements of baroque style, so that the appearance of the town was more modern than the central quarter of Innsbruck. In both towns, however, a large number of burghers vested their houses with baroque signs of Catholic piety. These findings show that the development of baroque architecture in Graz and Innsbruck can, to a certain extent, be understood as a modest embodiment of power. Such an understanding, however, must also take into consideration that the difference between earlier styles and the new one is, with respect to power, neither the only nor the dominant relevant distinction. Rather, this function of the baroque architecture is limited to a particular situation of social reproduction specific to the nobility. For the Habsburg emperors, Graz and Innsbruck were not stages upon which they were obliged to perform in this mode of representation. From their central perspective in the new territorial state, they may have found it sufficient to rule over, rather than within, the semiotic space of the peripheral towns. In these provincial regions there was no need to restructure the view from the top of the hierarchy in accordance with fancy (and expensive) absolutistic architecture. Meanwhile, the most relevant factors affecting the nobility’s building choices—interest in the theory of architecture, a currently appropriate form of representation, the numbers and locations of relevant social settings, or simply following a neighbor’s example—all influenced the appearance of the towns. At the same time, the nobles were also strongly linked with spaces and discourses other than urban space. It is, therefore, doubtful to what extent, if at all, the creation, adaptation, and perception of any single structure was linked to that of the towns as a whole or in their separate parts; thus, baroque style had—according to the multifarious specific situations—very different meanings and functions, from the mere application of the state of the art used by craftsmen, to the flaunting of decent maintenance of an expressive heritage, to the ostentation of rank and dominance. The symbolic systems of references of these two larger entities were polycentric and polydimensional. The reading of baroque towns as embodiments of power would, therefore, profit from an additional approach that would reconstruct the settings in discourse and in media that organized the creation, adaptation, and perception of these towns.120

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Endnotes 1. Karlsruhe is famous, but the geographical spaces of smaller towns now are being reinterpreted as symbols of power as well: M. Bisping, “Stadtplanung als politische Interpretation eines geographischen Raumes: Carlsburg und Bremerhaven,” in Politische Räume: Stadt und Land in der Frühneuzeit, ed. Cornelia Jöchner (Berlin: Akademie Verlag, 2003), 45–65. For earlier periods, see plans for ideal cities in W. Neuber, “Sichtbare Unterwerfung: Zu den herrschaftsstrategischen Raumvorstellungen in frühneuzeitlichen Idealstadtentwürfen und Utopien,” in Jöchner, Politische Räume, 1–22. 2. Elisabeth Lichtenberger, Die Wiener Altstadt: Von der mittelalterlichen Bürgerstadt zur City: Kartenband (Vienna: Franz Deuticke, 1977), 98–142; Wolfgang Pircher, Verwüstung und Verschwendung: Adeliges Bauen nach der Zweiten Türkenbelagerung (Vienna: F. Deuticke, 1984); Friedrich B. Polleroß, “Adlige Repräsentation in Architektur und Bildender Kunst vom 16. bis zum 18. Jahrhundert in Österreich: Literatur- und Forschungsüberblick,” Opera Historica 2 (1992): 49–59; Polleroß, “Tradition und Recreation: Die Residenzen der österreichischen Habsburger in der frühen Neuzeit (1490–1780),” in Majestas, ed. Heinz Duchhardt, Richard A. Jackson, and David J. Sturdy (Cologne: Böhlau, 1998), 91–148; Rouven Pons, Wo der gekrönte Löw hat seinen Kayser-Sitz: Herrschaftsrepräsentation am Wiener Kaiserhof zur Zeit Leopolds I (Egelsbach: Dr. Hänsel-Hohenhausen, 2000); Matthias Müller, “Der Anachronismus als Modernität: Die Wiener Hofburg als programmatisches Leitbild für den frühneuzeitlichen Residenzenbau im Alten Reich,” in Krakau, Prag und Wien: Funktionen von Metropolen im frühmodernen Staat, ed. Marina Dmitrieva and Karen Lambrecht (Stuttgart: Steiner, 2000), 313–29. 3. See Petr Mat’a and Thomas Winkelbauer: Die Habsburgermonarchie 1620 bis 1740. Leistungen und Grenzen des Absolutismusparadigmas, Forschungen zur Geschichte und Kultur des östlichen Mitteleuropa, vol. 24 (Stuttgart: Franz Steiner Verlag, 2006). 4. Cf. Niklas Luhmann, Die Kunst der Gesellschaft (Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp, 1997), 336–40. 5. See the introduction to this volume. 6. The term baroque is quite unclear and gets more and more vague: Stephan Hoppe, Was ist Barock? Architektur und Städtebau Europas 1580–1770 (Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 2003). Attempts to identify the extent of its material content have hardly influenced discussions within the discipline of history; see especially Gilles Deleuze, Die Falte: Leibnitz und der Barock (Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp, 2000). I use the term descriptively, as do the historians of art who developed Österreichische Kunsttopographie and Geschichte der bildenden Kunst in Österreich. Cf. Hellmut Lorenz, ed., Geschichte der bildenden Kunst in Österreich. Bd. 4. Barock. (Munich, London, New York: Prestel, 1999), which does not give an accurate definition of this style. 7. Hubert Ch. Ehalt, Ausdrucksformen absolutistischer Herrschaft: Der Wiener Hof im 17. und 18. Jahrhundert (Munich: Oldenbourg, 1980), 83–113. 8. Aloys Winterling, Der Hof der Kurfürsten von Köln 1688-1794: Eine Fallstudie zur Bedeutung “absolutistischer” Hofhaltung (Bonn: L. Röhrscheid, 1986), 153–56. 9. R. J. W. Evans, Das Werden der Habsburgermonarchie 1550–1700: Gesellschaft, Kultur, Institutionen (Vienna: H. Böhlaus Nachfolger, 1986) and Jean Bérenger, Finances et absolutisme autrichien dans la seconde moitié du XVIIe siècle (Paris: Publications de la Sorbonne, 1975). 10. Karin J. MacHardy, War, Religion and Court Patronage in Habsburg Austria: The Social and Cultural Dimensions of Political Interaction, 1521–1622 (New York: Palgrave, 2003); Andreas Pečar, Die Ökonomie der Ehre: Der höfische Adel am Kaiserhof Karls VI. (1711–1740) (Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 2003); Jeroen Duindam, Myths of Power: Norbert Elias and the Early Modern European Court (Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press, 1995); Mark Hengerer, Kaiserhof und Adel in der Mitte des 17. Jahrhunderts: Eine Kommunikationsgeschichte der Macht in der Vormoderne (Dissertation; Konstanz: Univer-

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17. 18.

19. 20.

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sitätsverlag Konstanz, 2004); Petr Mat’a, Svět české aristokracie (1500–1700) (Prague: Nakl. Lidové noviny, 2004). Pečar, Ökonomie der Ehre. As recent research on these problems has concentrated mainly on the seventeenth century, the decades before the age of the reign of Maria Theresa have been less discussed with respect to the question of power. However, see Eila Hassenpflug-Elzholz, Böhmen und die böhmischen Stände in der Zeit des beginnenden Zentralismus: Eine Strukturanalyse der böhmischen Adelsnation um die Mitte des 18. Jahrhunderts (Munich: Oldenbourg, 1982). For Habsburg representation see Maria Goloubeva, The Glorification of Emperor Leopold I in Image, Spectacle and Text (Mainz: Philipp von Zabern, 2000); Pons, Wo der gekrönte Löw; Franz Matsche, Die Kunst im Dienst der Staatsidee Kaiser Karls VI.: Ikonographie, Ikonologie und Programmatik des “Kaiserstils.” (Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 1981), with annotations from Friedrich B. Polleroß, “‘Des Kaysers Pracht an seinen Cavalliers und hohen Ministern’: Wien als Zentrum aristokratischer Repräsentation um 1700,” in Polen und Österreich im 18. Jahrhundert, ed. Walter Leitsch, Stanislaw Trawkowski, and Wojciech Kriegseisen (Warsaw: Wydawnictwo Naukowe Semper, 2000), 95–116. For the concept of the state and the public sphere, see Barbara Stollberg-Rilinger, Der Staat als Maschine: Zur politischen Metaphorik des absoluten Fürstenstaates (Berlin: Duncker und Humblot, 1986); K. Junge, “Staatlichkeit und Territorialität: Soziologische Überlegungen zum Verhältnis von sozialer Ordnung und deren räumlicher Ortung,” in Grenzenlose Gesellschaft? Verhandlungen des 29. Kongresses der DGS, des 16. Kongresses der ÖGS und des 11. Kongresses der SGS in Freiburg i. Br. 1998, ed. S. Hradil and F. Traxler (Opladen: Leske und Budrich, 1999), 370–86; Andreas Gestrich, Absolutismus und Öffentlichkeit: Politische Kommunikation in Deutschland zu Beginn des 18. Jahrhunderts (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck und Ruprecht, 1994). Luhmann, Kunst der Gesellschaft, 35f., 48. Cf. Hans-Georg Söffner, “Protosoziologische Überlegungen zur Soziologie des Symbols und des Rituals,” in Die Wirklichkeit der Symbole: Grundlagen der Kommunikation in historischen und gegenwärtigen Gesellschaften, ed. Rudolf Schlögl, Bernhard Giesen, and Jürgen Osterhammel (Konstanz: Universitätsverlag Konstanz, 2004), 43. For the relevance of the court ceremonial see Jeroen Duindam, Vienna and Versailles: The Courts of Europe’s Dynastic Rivals, 1550–1780 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2003), 181–219; Pons, Wo der gekrönte Löw, 113–226. For ephemeral art, which belongs to this topic, see Michael Brix, “Trauergerüste für die Habsburger in Wien,” Wiener Jahrbuch für Kunstgeschichte 26 (1973): 208–65. Cf. Rose Marie San Juan, Rome: A City out of Print (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2001). For Graz: Rochus Kohlbach, Die barocken Kirchen von Graz (Graz: Grazer Domverlag, 1951), 67–116 and G. Frodl, “Der Architekt [Giovanni Pietro de Pomis],” in Der innerösterreichische Hofkünstler Giovanni Pietro de Pomis: 1569 bis 1633, ed. Kurt Woietschläger (Graz: Verlag Styria, 1974), 101–38. For Innsbruck: E. Scheicher, “Kaiser Maximilian plant sein Denkmal,” Jahrbuch des kunsthistorischen Museums Wien 1 (1999): 81–117; J. K. Mayr, “Das Grab Kaiser Maximilians I,” Mitteilungen des Österreichischen Staatsarchivs 3 (1950): 467–92; K. Seidl, “Das Maximiliansgrab,” in Kaiser Ferdinand I. 1503–1564: Das Werden der Habsburgermonarchie, ed. Wilfried Seipel (Vienna: Kunsthistorisches Museum, 2003), 243–47. Fritz Popelka, Geschichte der Stadt Graz (Graz: Verlag Styria, 1959), 126. For the citadel in Graz see Wiltraud Resch and Wolfgang Artner, Die Kunstdenkmäler der Stadt Graz: Die Profanbauten des I. Bezirkes: Altstadt: Mit Einleitung über die topographische und architektonische Entwicklung der Altstadt (Vienna: A. Schroll, 1997), lxxix–lxxxii. Popelka, Geschichte der Stadt Graz, 155. For Graz see Josef Wastler, Das Landhaus in Graz (Wien: Verlag von Carl Gerold’s Sohn, 1890), and Resch and Artner, Kunstdenkmäler der Stadt Graz, 217–37. Next to the Landhaus was the estates’ collection of weapons, the Landeszeughaus with a Renaissance façade, an

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23. 24. 25.

26. 27. 28. 29. 30. 31.

32. 33. 34. 35. 36. 37. 38. 39. 40.

41.

42.

43. 44. 45. 46. 47. 48. 49.

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early baroque portal and two major pieces of early baroque sculpture, a Minerva and Mars: Resch and Artner, Kunstdenkmäler der Stadt Graz, 237–42. For Innsbruck see Johanna Felmayer, Die profanen Kunstdenkmäler der Stadt Innsbruck: Altstadt--Stadterweiterungen bis zur Mitte des 19. Jahrhunderts (Vienna: A. Schroll, 1972), 347–80. See Thomas Winkelbauer, Ständefreiheit und Fürstenmacht: Länder und Untertanen des Hauses Habsburg im konfessionellen Zeitalter (Vienna: Ueberreuter, 2003), 2:39–55, for a brief sketch of Habsburg history in Tyrolia and Styria in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. Resch and Artner, Kunstdenkmäler der Stadt Graz, 458. Resch and Artner, Kunstdenkmäler der Stadt Graz, 425. Resch and Artner, Kunstdenkmäler der Stadt Graz, 6f. regarding the iron gate. For a discussion about the western Mur gate, see Resch, Kunstdenkmäler der Stadt Graz, 375; and Popelka, Geschichte der Stadt Graz, 568f., and illustration 91. Resch and Artner, Kunstdenkmäler der Stadt Graz, 275f. Frodl, “Der Architekt.” Resch and Artner, Kunstdenkmäler der Stadt Graz, 252f. Ibid., 455f. and esp. 522f. (mint). Resch and Artner, Kunstdenkmäler der Stadt Graz, 275f. See Rochus Kohlbach, Der Dom zu Graz: Die fünf Rechnungsbücher der Jesuiten (Graz: Grazer Domverlag, 1948); Rochus Kohlbach, Die gotischen Kirchen von Graz (Graz: Grazer Domverlag, 1950); Kohlbach, Die barocken Kirchen; G. Brucher, “Die Entwicklung barocker Kirchenfassaden in der Steiermark: I. Teil,” Kunsthistorisches Jahrbuch Graz 5 (1970): 33–76. Resch and Artner, Kunstdenkmäler der Stadt Graz, 61–84. Ibid., 63. Ibid., 68–79. Ibid., lxvi, 335, 411f. Ibid., lxvi. Ibid., 11f. Ibid., lxvi. Kohlbach, Die barocken Kirchen, 49–66. Horst Schweigert, “Zur Frage der ehemaligen barocken Innenausstattung der Stadtpfarrkirche in Graz: Der plastische Schmuck der Kanzel und des Chorgestühls—ein Werk Philipp Jakob Straubs,” Historisches Jahrbuch der Stadt Graz 6 (1973): 89–117. See for example the important columns in the Herrengasse and the Karmeliterplatz, for the Virgin Mary and the holy trinity; Resch and Artner, Kunstdenkmäler der Stadt Graz, 9, 348–50. Wiltraud Resch, “Grazer Barockpalais: Ihre Stellung im überregionalen Kontext,” in Barock: Regional—Interregional, ed. Götz Pochat and Brigitte Wagner, Kunsthistorisches Jahrbuch Graz (Graz: Akademische Druck- und Verlagsanstalt, 1993), 305f. The architect was a mason from the Grisons, who had studied in Italy and knew the relevant artists such as Vitruvius, Vignola, Palladio, Serlio, and Rubens (Palazzi di Genova). Lichtenberger, Wiener Altstadt; Pircher, Verwüstung und Verschwendung; Pečar, Ökonomie der Ehre, 276–92. V. Thiel, “Die innerösterreichische Zentralverwaltung 1564–1749: II: Die Zentralbehörden Innerösterreichs, 1625–1749,” Archiv für österreichische Geschichte 111 (1930): 497–670. This was especially the case with members of the families Dietrichstein, Eggenberg, Herberstein, Kollonitsch, Stubenberg, and Trauttmansdorff. Hengerer, Kaiserhof und Adel, 544ff. Resch, “Grazer Barockpalais,” 305; another example is the Lengheim palace (Resch and Artner, Kunstdenkmäler der Stadt Graz, 87f.) and the Schwarzenberg palace (ibid., 84–7). See for example Resch, “Grazer Barockpalais,” 309. Ibid., lxvi–lxxi.

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50. For example, Herrengasse 7, 1660–70, Conduzzi (Resch and Artner, Kunstdenkmäler der Stadt Graz, 202f.); Raubergasse 10 and 12, 1665–74, St. Lambrecht, Leslie (ibid., 445–52); Sackstr. 18, 1675–90, Khuenburg (ibid., 512–16); Karmeliterplatz 6, 1680–90, Prandegg (ibid., 342–6); Sporgasse 11, 1690, Rottal (ibid., 593–5); Glockenspielplatz 5, 1697, probably Herberstein, later Schrattenbach (ibid., 138–40); Bürgergasse 6, 1710–20, Herberstein (ibid., 90–2); Bürgergasse 5 and 5a, 1615–20 and 1720–25, Trauttmansdorff (ibid., 88–90); Mehlplatz 1, 1725–30, Inzhagi (ibid., 363–6); Stempfergasse 1, 1730–35, ThurnValsassina (ibid., 637–9); Herrengasse 9, 1730–42, Breuner (ibid., 205–9); Sackstr. 14, 1730, Kellersperg (ibid., 483–6); Hofgasse 8, 1751, Lamberg (ibid., 261–6); Stempfergasse 3, 1742, Kazianer (ibid., 639–41); Paulustor 4, 1770, Herberstein (ibid., 415f.); see E. Mischan, Die Fassaden des barocken Bürgerhauses und Palais in Graz von 1670–1740 (Dissertation, Universität Graz, 1971), as well. 51. Resch and Artner, Kunstdenkmäler der Stadt Graz, 87f., 613–22. 52. Three out of many examples: the palaces of the Conduzzi, Breuner, and Kollonitsch in the Herrengasse 7 and 9 (ibid., 202–9) and Schmiedgasse 21 (ibid., 572–8). 53. For example, the palace Herberstein-Eggenberg, ibid., 490–9. 54. See for example the Saurau palace, ibid., 613–22. 55. Resch, “Grazer Barockpalais,” 306f.; Resch and Artner, Kunstdenkmäler der Stadt Graz, 146–56. 56. Resch, “Grazer Barockpalais,” 309–11; Resch and Artner, Kunstdenkmäler der Stadt Graz, 417–20. 57. Resch and Artner, Kunstdenkmäler der Stadt Graz, 400–512. Schweigert, “Zur Frage der ehemaligen barocken Innenausstattung,” 344f. states that the architect Andreas Stengg was involved in the work as well. 58. Resch, “Grazer Barockpalais,” 315, with reference to Brucher. 59. Resch and Artner, Kunstdenkmäler der Stadt Graz, 205–9. 60. Ibid., 613–22; Resch, “Grazer Barockpalais,” 313f. 61. Resch and Artner, Kunstdenkmäler der Stadt Graz, 90–2. 62. Ibid., 644–6. 63. Ibid., 415f. 64. Ibid., 336f. 65. Ibid., 642–4; for two other houses in the possession of the family in the same street, see ibid., 641 and 648. 66. Ibid., 195–8. 67. Ibid., 46–8. 68. Ibid., 490–9. 69. See Thiel, “Die innerösterreichische Zentralverwaltung,” lists of office holders, combined with data from Resch and Artner, Kunstdenkmäler der Stadt Graz. Examples of closer connections are the Landeshauptmann Stubenberg (ibid., 146–8); the new baron Webersberg (ibid., 474); Johann Gundaker Herberstein (ibid., 415); Corbinian Count Saurau as Statthalter (ibid., 428); Ludwig Count Saurau as Geheimer Rat (ibid., 614); Dismas Count Attems as Geheimer Rat (ibid., 511); Cerroni as court chancellor (ibid., 528, probably adding the baroque lattices); the vice-president of the Hofkriegsrat Lengheim (ibid., 87, 149); and Jakob Count Leslie (ibid., 446–52). 70. Resch and Artner, Kunstdenkmäler der Stadt Graz, 455–538. 71. Popelka, Geschichte der Stadt Graz, 372–84. 72. Resch and Artner, Kunstdenkmäler der Stadt Graz, 164–71. 73. Popelka, Geschichte der Stadt Graz, 149. 74. Ibid., passim, esp. 178. 75. Resch and Artner, Kunstdenkmäler der Stadt Graz, 180–3. 76. Ibid., 597–600.

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77. Ibid., 171–3. 78. Ibid., passim, and, for example, six illustrations for only the Schmiedgasse: illustration 871, 873, 874, 875, 877, 882. 79. Johanna Felmayer, Die profanen Kunstdenkmäler, 102–31. From 1498 until 1775, the house hosted the financial administration. 80. Heinrich Hammer, Die Paläste und Bürgerbauten Innsbrucks: Kunstgeschichtlicher Führer durch die Bauwerke und Denkmäler (Vienna: Ed. Hölzel, 1923), 59, 60; Johanna Felmayer et al., Die Kunstdenkmäler der Stadt Innsbruck: Die Hofbauten (Vienna: A. Schroll, 1986), 60, 63, 65. 81. Felmayer, Die profanen Kunstdenkmäler, 62–97, 84. 82. Felmayer, et al., Die Kunstdenkmäler der Stadt Innsbruck, 509–623. 83. Ibid., 65. For Ruhelust, see ibid., 626-39. See also p. 219 of Elena Taddei, “Anna Caterina Gonzaga und ihre Zeit: Der italienische Einfluss am Innsbrucker Hof,” in Heinz Noflatscher and Jan Paul Niederkorn, ed., Der Innsbrucker Hof. Residenz und höfische Gesellschaft in Tirol vom 15. bis 19. Jahrhundert, Archiv für Österreichische Geschichte 138 (Vienna: Verlag der Österreichischen Akademie der Wissenschaften, 2005), 213–240. 84. Felmayer, et al., Die Kunstdenkmäler der Stadt Innsbruck, 65–76. 85. Ibid., 237–326; Scheicher, “Kaiser Maximilian.” 86. Felmayer, et al., Die Kunstdenkmäler der Stadt Innsbruck, 306–26. 87. Ibid., 473–507. 88. Johanna Felmayer et al., Die sakralen Kunstdenkmäler der Stadt Innsbruck: Teil I: Innere Stadtteil (Vienna: A. Schroll, 1995), 14f. 89. Ibid., 237–326. 90. Archduke Ferdinand II of Tyrolia, Philippine Welser; ibid., 13. 91. Intestines of Archduke Ferdinand II of Tyrolia and Philippine Welser, and the corpse of archduke Maximilian III; ibid., 13. 92. Archduke Leopold V with his family; ibid., 278–331, 302, 303. 93. Ibid., 350–7. 94. Ibid., 332–49. 95. Ibid., 1–101. 96. Ibid., 358–95. 97. M. Fingernagel-Grüll, K. Schmid, B. Schneider, J. Franckenstein, R. Rampold, and W. Palme-Comploy, Die sakralen Kunstdenkmäler der Stadt Innsbruck: Teil II: Äussere Stadtteile (Vienna: A. Schroll, 1995), 1–53. 98. Georg Mühlberger, “Absolutismus und Freiheitskämpfe (1665–1814),” in Geschichte des Landes Tyrol, Vol. 2, ed. Josef Fontana, P. W. Haider, W. Leitner, Georg Mühlberger, Rudolf Palme, O. Partelli, and J. Riedmann (Bozen: Athesia/Innsbruck: Tyrolia-Verlag, 1986) 352. 99. “Der barocke Profanbau beschränkt sich in Innsbruck vorwiegend auf die Umgestaltung mittelalterlicher Häuser, wodurch ihm die Großzügigkeit freier Planung fehlt, das im wesentlichen unveränderte Stadtbild aber durch die barocke Fassadengestaltung und deren reichen Stukkoschmuck belebende Akzente erfährt … Ausnahmen bilden einige Palastbauten von Johann Martin und Georg Anton Gumpp, wie das Palais Taxis … und das Landhaus;” Felmayer, Die profanen Kunstdenkmäler, 66. 100. Ibid., 318. 101. Ibid., 317. 102. Ibid., 380–8, 381. 103. Ibid., 340–6. 104. Ibid., 388–91. 105. Ibid., 404–11 (Wolkenstein-Trapp), 326–30 (Lodron), 318 (Hormayr and Trautson), 337 (Spaur), 398–402 (Khünigl).

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106. Ibid., 347–80. 107. Ibid., 451–60 (Wolfsthurn, Tannenberg-Enzenberg palace), 425–7 (Spaur), 428–34 (Pfeifersberg palace). 108. Ibid., 304–6 (Manicor, Coreth, Triangi), 301–3 (Hörwarth). 109. Ibid., 266–70, 269 (Königsegg, Sarnthein), 227–9 (Imhof ), 229–35 (Sulz, Zech), 293f. (several proprietors), 296f., 299 (Stral). 110. Ibid., 181–90, 318. 111. Cf. Mühlberger, “Absolutismus und Freiheitskämpfe,” 308ff., 319, 339, 373. Also see M.A. Chisholm, who stresses the importance of Trento for the tyrolian nobility in the sixteenth century. “A Question of Power: Count, Aristocracy and Bishop of Trent. The Progress of Archduke Ferdinand II into the Tyrol in 1567,” in Noflatscher and Niederkorn, Der Innsbrucker Hof, 351–423. Cf. Marcello Bonazza, Il fisco in una statualità divisa. Impero, principi e ceti in area trentino-tirolese nella prima età moderna (Bologna: Il Mulino 2001). Johann Sebastian Franz Schenk Freiherr von Stauffenberg (University of Konstanz) is preparing a dissertation pertinent to Innsbruck: “Die Stadt im Staat—der Staat vor Ort. Stadtgemeinde und territorialstaatliche Administration in der Frühen Neuzeit” (working title). Furthermore, a relevant book with very interesting new perspectives has now been published: Rudold Schlögl, ed., Interaktion und Herrschaft. Die Politik der frühneuzeitlichen Stadt, Historische Kulturwissenschaft 5. (Konstanz: UVK-Gesellschaft, 2004). 112. Ibid., 344. 113. Felmayer, Die profanen Kunstdenkmäler, 23. 114. Ibid., 144f. 115. Especially in the Maria-Theresien-Straße: ibid., 317ff. 116. Ibid., 307–17. 117. Ibid., 163–72. 118. Ibid., 222–5. 119. Ibid., 153, 227, 315, 491f. 120. M. Sandl, “Bauernland, Fürstenstaat, Altes Reich: Grundzüge einer Poeteologie politischer Räume im 18. Jahrhundert,” in Jöchner, Politische Räume, 148.

Chapter 2

BAROQUE COMES FOR THE ARCHBISHOPS Wolf Dietrich von Raitenau, Johann Ernst Count Thun, and Their Ideals of “Modern Art” and Architecture

d Roswitha Juffinger

T

he archbishops of seventeenth-century Salzburg were, like the protagonist of Willa Cather’s novel, Death Comes for the Archbishop,1 ambitious, energetic in the attempt to achieve their goals, and long-lived.2 Salzburg’s archbishops in general came from families of Europe’s lower aristocracy. Once elected, they had the power and the financial means to rule to their hearts’ delight. They were able to favor what they considered contemporary art and architecture, and, due to their changing concepts of art, influence the architectural development of Salzburg’s capital city, also named Salzburg. One of the essential characteristics of states ruled by church dignitaries is the fact that the position is not hereditary, which favored nepotism; and radical changes were only possible if the archbishop lived long enough. Salzburg’s rulers of the seventeenth century were, for the most part, blessed with longevity. The first in our list of long-lived archbishops is Wolf Dietrich von Raitenau, elected in 1587. He radically altered the city through his Renaissance-oriented vision of Salzburg as a “modern” Italian city north of the Alps. After a brief review of the work of archbishops Marcus Sitticus von Hohenems and Paris Count Lodron, which will bring us to the middle of the seventeenth century, and then a short summary of the second half of the century, focusing on Guidobald Count Thun, we will conclude with a discussion of Guidobald’s half brother, archbishop Johann Ernst Count Thun, and his “anti-Italian” vision of art, which started Johann Bernhard Fischer von Erlach’s career. Thun was elected archbishop exactly

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one hundred years after Wolf Dietrich von Raitenau, whose election provides our starting point. Salzburg’s geographical position north of the Alps, enclosed between the river Salzach and the half-circle of mountains called Festungsberg and Mönchsberg, was ideal for a settlement (figure 2.1) that, from the seventh century, was a stronghold of Roman Catholic Christianization. Its unique position favored the development of a prosperous community based on trade and mining, which remained the two sources of wealth in the economy of the independent state up to the seventeenth century. The state and the city were at the intersection of two highly important trade routes. The north-south route over the Tauern region of the Alps linked Venice to German cities such as Munich, Augsburg, and Nuremberg. Expensive and

Figure 2.1. Salzburg on the Salzach, view from the northwest, looking upstream. The Festungsberg with its fortification is in center right, with the Mönchsberg on the right center edge. The right bank settlement is on the left edge of the picture (photo by Oskar Anrather).

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exclusive goods, including spices, silks, velvet, glass, and ebony from northern Italy and the orient, traveled along this route to the north. Goods such as grain, iron, fur from as far away as Russia, and textiles—linen or woolen cloth, for example—came to the south on this route. Along the southeast to northwest, from Styria to Bavaria and western Germany, iron from Leoben in Styria was traded for linen and wool textiles from Flanders and western Germany. Over the course of the seventeenth century, these traditional trade routes gradually lost their importance due to the shifting of the world market from the Mediterranean Sea to the Atlantic. In one crucial example of this shift, Antwerp took over Venice’s former role as the European center of the spice trade.3 The names of the territory, city, and river all include the term Salz (salt), indicating the importance to them of the mining and export of salt. This enterprise started in Celtic times, and salt has continued to be one of the basic export items of Salzburg up to modern times.4 The Alpine region was also rich in gold, silver, copper, and arsenic, and, to a lesser extent, gems such as emeralds. All of these commodities, needless to say, added to Salzburg’s wealth.5 The population of the independent state subsisted largely on farming and mining; the city dwellers, on trading. The city had nine thousand inhabitants around 1600, and this population doubled in the course of two hundred years. The enormous financial resources of the city in the Middle Ages are evident in Salzburg’s role as a cultural center. Signs of that role include the construction of a gigantic Romanesque cathedral, started in 1181, and outstanding works of art, such as the world-famous illuminated manuscripts from the Benedictine monasteries of St. Peter and the Nonnberg—wonderful examples of these artifacts are now kept in the Pierpont Morgan Library and the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York.6 In 1587, twenty-seven-year-old Wolf Dietrich von Raitenau was elected archbishop of Salzburg. His father’s family belonged to the lower aristocracy around Lake Constance; his mother was grandniece of Pope Pius IV, and sister of Cardinal Marcus Sitticus and Jakob Hannibal Altemps. The financial and diplomatic skills of Marcus Sitticus made him one of the wealthiest cardinals of the second half of the sixteenth century in Rome, while Jakob Hannibal accumulated a fortune fighting in the Netherlands against the Protestant movement. Wolf Dietrich’s career clearly depended on these two uncles. His family ties are also the basis for his Italian “taste.” During Wolf Dietrich’s twenty-five-year rule, the architectural layout and structure of the city changed to an extent never matched before or since. Wolf Dietrich’s “ideal” of a city was focused on Italian art. Its conceptual ideal was realized in representative buildings on large streets, and spacious squares highlighting the importance of the city’s most prominent architecture: the archbishop’s residence and his cathedral. Two Italian architects—first, Vincenzo Scamozzi, and then Santino Solari—created the city’s new design. The city’s natural boundaries are clearly defined by the river and the city’s mountains. The medieval city was characterized by extremely narrow streets, one major east-west throughway, and two smaller squares used as market spaces. The

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lack of land for expansion in Salzburg resulted, around 1600, in the demolition of at least one-third of the preexisting medieval buildings in the city, including the most important monuments: the Romanesque cathedral, the archbishop’s own residence,7 and the city’s cemetery, located between them. As a consequence, the city center was under construction for almost half a century. The consequences of Wolf Dietrich’s demolition campaign were substantial.8 The city’s parish church, dedicated to Mary, with a Romanesque nave and the exquisite late Gothic choir (known today as the Franciscan Church), functioned as a substitute for the demolished cathedral for almost thirty years. New street systems were built, allowing for additional east-west traffic routes inside the town. The demolitions allowed the creation of major city squares, the Residenzplatz, Domplatz and Kapitelplatz, which accorded with the ideals of city planning developed in Italy during the sixteenth century. Although open spaces for construction were so limited inside the city boundaries, the Benedictine monastery of St. Peter’s owned a large area in the center of town, and was using it as pasture. Wolf Dietrich managed to trade this pasture, which played a decisive role in the development of the city later on, for land outside of the city center. In this area, Wolf Dietrich built his stables—today used as the main lobby of the Festival House. In addition to his ambitions in architecture, Wolf Dietrich took a decisive stand in his responsibilities concerning the Counter-Reformation. He refused to allow the Jesuits and Dominicans to settle on his territory for fear of their influence on his rule. Instead, he invited the Franciscans and Capuchins into the country, built monasteries for these orders, and entrusted them with the tasks of Counter-Reformation. The idea of villegiatura and a villa suburbana also starts with Wolf Dietrich. He lived with his mistress, Salome Alt, and their children, either in the section of the archbishop’s residence north of St. Mary’s, or in the Altenau, the summer resort built on the right bank of the Salzach. The Altenau was dedicated to Salome, and this illustrates that feature of all Roman Catholic states ruled by Church dignitaries, including the Vatican: nepotism. Since the position was not hereditary, all of the archbishops of Salzburg in the baroque period could not resist the temptation to spend a considerable amount of the state’s income for private purposes, adding to the well-being and glorification of their families. Eventually, the Altenau was renamed Mirabell, and altered by Wolf Dietrich’s short-lived successor, Marcus Sitticus of Hohenems (1612–1619).9 Marcus Sitticus is mainly known in connection with a few architectonic landmarks: the beginning of the construction of the cathedral and his villegiatura buildings, Schloss Hellbrunn, Emslieb, and Emsburg. All three lie south of Salzburg and are still connected to the city by an avenue of chestnut trees. Schloss Hellbrunn and its gardens are rare examples of manneristic architecture preserved in its original state, and include an open-air opera stage and a zoo. Since 1990, studies have been published of Hellbrunn, coinciding with the significant restoration of the palace and garden sculptures.10

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Archbishop Paris Count Lodron (1619–1653), is immortalized in Salzburg’s history through his positive role in the Thirty Years’ War (1618–1648). He renewed and enlarged the fortifications on Salzburg’s fortress, the Hohensalzburg, and fortified the Mönchsberg and Kapuzinerberg. These substantial defensive measures, together with Paris Lodron’s diplomatic abilities in keeping Salzburg neutral, saved the country from Protestant invasions throughout the Thirty Years’ War. For obvious reasons, little was built in the city in this period. Lodron continued and finished the construction of the cathedral,11 and—again demonstrating nepotism’s importance—had two palaces built for his family on the right bank. No wonder that he constructed heavy fortifications for this part of town: he was protecting family property as well as the property of the city’s inhabitants! The founding of the university in 1622 can be considered another outstanding decision made during Lodron’s rule.12 By the second half of the seventeenth century, most of the areas of demolition left by Wolf Dietrich had been given a function and an architectonic structure. Paris Lodron’s successors, Guidobald Count Thun (1654–1668) and Max Gandolph Count Kuenburg (1668–1687), also granted their architectural commissions to Italian artists, calling on Giovanni Gaspare Zuccalli (Zugalli) and Giovanni Antonio Dario.13 Zuccalli’s Theatine Church of St. Maximilian’s (1685– 1700), known today as Kajetaner Church, became another landmark in Salzburg’s baroque “skyline.” Guidobald Thun was twenty-seven years older than his half-brother Johann Ernst Thun. Due to the fame of Johann Ernst, historians have tended to overlook the importance of Guidobald’s artistic aims, declaring his commissions in art to be exclusively the product of his need for self-aggrandizement, resulting from his high political ambitions.14 Loss of capital in the first half of the seventeenth century, including in the territory of Salzburg, was due mainly to the Thirty Years’ War. Later, the first major expulsion of some one thousand Protestants from the territory of Salzburg in 1684–85, followed in 1732 by catastrophic measures under Archbishop Leopold Anton Firmian (1727–1744), contributed to further losses. Especially in the Alpine mining areas of Salzburg, the Protestant population decreased considerably after the expulsions, causing a noticeable lack of labor.15 One hundred years after Wolf Dietrich, Johann Ernst Count Thun (1687– 1709) was elected archbishop. His concept of an “ideal” city was at least as decisive for Salzburg as Wolf Dietrich’s vision of a “modern” Italian city north of the Alps. Thun engaged Johann Bernhard Fischer von Erlach and thus gave the city its unique architectonic “finish.” The tragedy of an enormous rock avalanche in 1669, which ruined the western part of the city, enabled Johann Ernst Thun to replace the demolished church in this area with Fischer von Erlach’s Church of St. Mark’s for the monastery of St. Ursula (known as the Ursulinen Kirche). On the right bank, inside the Lodron fortification line, Fischer von Erlach built the Trinity Church and the seminary building for the training of priests. Outside the city, he built Schloss Kleßheim and St. John’s.

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Fischer von Erlach was also given the opportunity to build a new church for the university on the very ground that Wolf Dietrich had traded from St. Peter’s Benedictine monks one hundred years earlier. The University Church has a unique position in the setting of the town of Salzburg (figure 2.2). On the left side of the river, all churches are oriented east-west, with their main façades in the west, with only two exceptions: the Theatine Church, with its façade in the southeast, and the University Church, which dominates the landscape. Fischer von Erlach positioned the façade of this church in the north. The panoramic view of the city seen from the right side of the river, then, shows to full advantage this magnificent architectonic solution; and the viewer is confronted with the breathtaking baroque ideas of Fischer von Erlach—all due to a simple twist of the building’s axis. Art history research in the past ten years has continuously focused on Fischer von Erlach and his Salzburg archbishop, Johann Ernst Thun.16

Figure 2.2. The baroque center of Salzburg. The University Church is in the center left (dark roof and dome), with the north-facing façade on the left. The cathedral with its west-facing façade is above and to the left of it (photo by Oskar Anrather).

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Endnotes 1. Willa Cather, Death Comes for the Archbishop (New York: Modern Library, 1927). 2. A special bibliography follows this chapter’s survey of Salzburg as an independent state ruled by archbishops in the seventeenth century. The bibliography focuses on the scholarly research of the last two decades in this field. 3. Gerhard Ammerer, “Die Wirtschaftsgeschichte der Stadt Salzburg: Die frühe Neuzeit von Wolf Dietrich bis zur Säkularisation,” in Chronik der Salzburger Wirtschaft (Salzburg: Karona Grafik, 1988), 126–51. 4. Heinz Dopsch, Barbara Heuberger, and Kurt W. Zeller, Salz: Salzburger Landesausstellung, Hallein, Pernerinsel, Keltenmuseum, 30. April–30. Oktober 1994 (Salzburg: Salzburger Landesausstellungen, 1994). 5. Fritz Gruber and Karl-Heinz Ludwig, Salzburger Bergbaugeschichte: Ein Überblick (Salzburg: Universitätsverlag A. Pustet, 1982). 6. Heinz Dopsch, Roswitha Juffinger, and Valentin Kunnert, St. Peter in Salzburg: das älteste Kloster im deutschen Sprachraum: 3. Landesausstellung, 15. Mai–26. Oktober 1982 (Salzburg: Salzburger Landesregierung, Kulturabteilung, 1982). 7. Hans Tietze, assisted by the Salzburg historian Franz Martin, published the first and only extensive documentation of the building and the art collections of the former archbishop’s residence in 1914, that is, during the time of the Austro-Hungarian monarchy, when the building was still in use by the Hapsburg family: Hans Tietze, “K. u. k. Winterresidenz,” in Die Profanen Denkmale der Stadt Salzburg, Österreichische Kunsttopographie, vol. 13 (Vienna: A. Schroll, 1914), 1–56. In July of 2006, Gerhard Ammerer and Ingonda Hannesschläger from the University of Salzburg, Walter Schlegel from the Bundesdenkmalamt, and the author of this contribution started a project to document and further research the building complex of the Salzburger Residenz (2006–2009), the results of which should appear in a scholarly monograph of a scope appropriate to this prominent building in Salzburg: Bau-, Ausstattungs- und Kulturgeschichte der ehemaligen fürsterzbischöflichen Salzburger Residenz vom 16. Jahrhundert bis 1803—scheduled for 2010. 8. Ulrike Engelsberger and Franz Wagner, Fürsterzbischof Wolf Dietrich von Raitenau, Gründer des barocken Salzburg: 4. Salzburger Landesausstellung, 16. Mai–26. Oktober 1987 im Residenz-Neugebäude und im Dommuseum zu Salzburg (Salzburg: Salzburger Landesregierung, Kulturabteilung, 1987). 9. Mirabell owes its final enlargement (between 1710 and 1727) to Johann Lukas von Hildebrandt’s design. 10. Robert Bigler, Schloss Hellbrunn, Wunderkammer der Gartenarchitektur (Vienna: Böhlau, 1996); Robert Bigler, “Schloss Hellbrunn in Salzburg und seine Grotten: Studien und Beobachtungen zu ihrer Geschichte und Restaurierung,” Barockberichte: Informationsblätter des Salzburger Barockmuseums 14/15 (1997): 505–46. 11. Ingeborg Wallentin, “Der Salzburger Hofbaumeister Santino Solari (1576–1646): Leben und Werk aufgrund der historischen Quellen,” Mitteilungen der Gesellschaft für Salzburger Landeskunde 134 (1994): 191–310; Wolfgang Lippmann, Der Salzburger Dom 1598–1630: Unter besonderer Berücksichtigung der Auftraggeber und des kulturgeschichtlichen Umfeldes (Weimar: VDG, 1999). 12. Peter Keller, Johannes Neuhardt, Reinhard R. Heinisch, Erich Marx, Reinhard Gratz, and Heidi Pinezits, eds., Erzbischof Paris Lodron (1619–1653): Staatsmann zwischen Krieg und Frieden (Salzburg: Dommuseum zu Salzburg, 2003). 13. Hans Ramisch, “Drei Fürstbischöfe aus dem Hause Thun-Hohenstein als Mäzene barocker Kunst: Guidobald, Erzbischof von Salzburg (1654–1668), Wenzeslaus, Bischof von Passau (1664–1674) und Johann Ernst, Erzbischof von Salzburg (1687–1709),” Barockberichte: Informationsblätter des Salzburger Barockmuseums 31 (2001): 30–41.

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14. The author of this essay is preparing a contribution on Guidobald Count Thun’s eminent role in commissioning important works of art, for the forthcoming symposium on Johann Heinrich Schönfeld, to be held at the Bibliotheca Hertziana, Rome, scheduled in 2007–2008. 15. Friederike Zaisberger and Alfred Winter, eds., Reformation, Emigration: Protestanten in Salzburg, Ausstellung 21. Mai–26. Oktober 1981, Schloss Goldegg, Pongau, Land Salzburg (Salzburg: Salzburger Landesregierung, Kulturabteilung, 1981). 16. Friedrich B. Polleroß, ed., Fischer von Erlach und die Wiener Barocktradition (Vienna: Böhlau, 1995); Barockberichte: Informationsblätter des Salzburger Barockmuseums 18/19 (1998). Peter Keller and Peter Prange convened the symposium, “Johann Bernhard Fischer von Erlach (1656–1723). Ein Österreichischer Architekt in Europa” in Salzburg, Austria from 30 June–1 July, 2006.

Editor’s Note: The following items have been suggested by the author in addition to the works cited in the endnotes, which are listed in the collective References section in the back of this volume.

Additional Bibliography: G. Ammerer and A. St. Weiß, eds., Die Säkularisation Salzburgs 1803. Voraussetzungen— Ereignisse—Folgen. Veröffentlichungen des Internationalen Forschungszentrums für Grundlagen der Wissenschaften Salzburg, vol. 11, Frankfurt/Main—Berlin—Bern— Bruxelles—New York—Oxford—Wien, 2005. G. Brucher, ed., Die Kunst des Barock in Österreich. Salzburg–Wien, 1994. Domkapitel zu Salzburg, ed. 1200 Jahre Erzbistum Salzburg—Dom und Geschichte. Festschrift. Salzburg, 1998. H. Dopsch and H. Spatzenegger, eds., Geschichte Salzburgs, Stadt und Land, 8 vols. Salzburg, 1980–1991. G. Friedl, “Die Grabendächer.” In Bauformen der Salzburger Altstadt, vol. 1. Salzburg, 1993. K. H. Ludwig and F. Gruber, Gold- und Silberbergbau im Übergang vom Mittelalter zur Neuzeit: Das Salzburger Revier von Gastein und Rauris. Wien, 1987. H. Lorenz, ed., Geschichte der Bildenden Kunst in Österreich, vol. 4: Barock, München, 1999. E. Marx and P. Laub, eds., Die Neue Residenz in Salzburg—Vom “Palazzo Nuovo” zum Salzburg Museum. Jahresschrift des Salzburger Museums Carolino Augusteum 47– 48/2001–2002. Salzburg, 2003. Meisterwerke Europäischer Kunst—1200 Jahre Erzbistum Salzburg. Dommuseum zu Salzburg 2.5.—26.10.1998. Salzburg, 1998. C. Rohr, ed., Barocker Geist und Raum: Die Salzburger Benediktineruniversität. Beiträge des Internationalen Symposions in Salzburg, 3.–5.10.2001. Salzburg, 2003. Barockberichte: Informationsblätter des Salzburger Barockmuseums. Salzburg: Eigenverlag des Salzburger Barockmuseums. 1. No. 5/6: “Der sogenannte Toskanatrakt. Studien und Beobachtungen zur Ausstattungsgeschichte der Salzburger Residenz” (1992), 149–220.

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2. U. Fürst and P. Prange, “Der ‘Prospectus Interior’ der Salzburger Kollegienkirche auf dem Dedikationsstich von 1707—Eine singuläre Raumdarstellung und ihre Grundlagen in der barocken Druckgraphik,” in no. 24/25 (1999), 446–445. 3. R. R. Heinisch, “Die politische und wirtschaftliche Situation Salzburgs unter Erzbischof Johann Ernst—Der Rahmen für das Wirken Fischers von Erlachs,” in no. 18/19 (1998), 88–91. 4. R. R. Heinisch, “Hexenwahn—Protestantenverfolgung—Absolutismus. Zur politischen Situation Salzburgs in der Wirkungszeit des H. I. F. Biber,” in no. 8/9 (1994), 274–280. 5. P. Husty, “Christi Himmelfahrt—zu den Hochaltarbildern im Salzburger Dom,” in no. 31 (2001), 53–58. 6. M. Koller, “Zur Farbigkeit der Salzburger Bauten des Johann Bernhard Fischer von Erlach,” in no. 18/19 (1998), 77–87. 7. A. Kreul, “To convert a place into a state of mind—Gordon Matta-Clark und Johann Bernhard Fischer von Erlach,” in no. 18/19 (1998), 128–133. 8. J. Kronbichler, “Jakob Zanusis Arbeiten für die Kajetanerkirche in Salzburg,” in no. 31 (2001), 126–136. 9. K. Läufer, “Anmerkungen zu den Salzburger Altargemälden Johann Heinrich Schönfelds,” in no. 16/17 (1998), 23–28. 10. K. Läufer, “Zum Forschungsstand der Zeichnungen Johann Heinrich Schönfelds,” in no. 20/21 (1998), 204–209. 11. F. B. Polleroß, “Pro Deo & Pro Populo – Die Barocke Stadt als ‘Gedächtniskunstwerk’ am Beispiel von Wien und Salzburg,” in no. 18/19 (1998), 149–168. 12. P. Prange, “Vom Entwurf zum Schaubild—Zu Architekturzeichnungen Johann Bernhard Fischers von Erlach,” in no. 20/21 (1988), 272–276. 13. W. Seitter, “Schwierigkeiten mit dem Barock,” in no. 18/19 (1998), 125–127. 14. D. Skamperls, “Der Alexanderzyklus der Erzbischöflichen Winterresidenz in Salzburg. Ikonographie und Baugeschichte der Prunkräume des Fürsterzbischofs Franz Anton Graf Harrach,” in no. 28 (2000), 569–608. 15. K. Uetz, “Beobachtungen zur Baugeschichte der Salzburger Kollegienkirche,” in no. 18/19 (1998), 92–116. 16. F. Wagner and B. von der Heiden, “Berichte. Wenig beachtete Meisterwerke der Barockmalerei in Salzburg. I. Sandrarts und Škrétas Altarbilder im Salzburger Dom,” in no. 8/9 (1994), 306–311. Mitteilungen der Gesellschaft für Salzburger Landeskunde, www.landeskunde.at: 1. O. Baumann, “Wolf Dietrich von Raitenau, De Principe—Text, Übersetzung, Kommentar,” in no. 137 (1997), 131–197. 2. G. Helm, “Pfaffinger: Über die Selbständigkeit der Kopie—Eine Untersuchung zur stilistischen Eigenständigkeit Joseph Anton Pfaffingers (1648–1758) gegenüber seinem barocken “Vorbild” Michael Bernhard Mandl (ca. 1660–1711) anhand ausgewählter Werkbeispiele,” in no. 133 (1993), 177–224. 3. M. Marquet, “Kaspar Membergers Sintflutzyklus—eine ‘Copie nach Bassano’?,” in no. 135 (1995), 637–688. 4. J. Ramharter, “Zwischen Manierismus und Barock—Jakob Gerold und die Salzburger Skulptur um die Mitte des 17. Jahrhunderts,” in no. 133 (1993), 71–176. 5. B. Wiedl, “Das Goldschmiedehandwerk in der Stadt Salzburg im Spätmittelalter und in der Frühen Neuzeit,” in no. 135 (1995), 497–604.

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6. W. Wohlmayr, “Kaiserbüsten in der Salzburger Residenz,” in no. 141 (2001), 169–181. Salzburg Archiv, Schriften des Vereines Freunde der Salzburger Geschichte, www.salzburger-geschichte.at 1. G. Ammerer, “Zur Steuer- und Finanzpolitik Wolf Dietrichs von Raitenau (1587– 1612),” in no. 2 (1986), 131–146. 2. R. R. Heinisch, “Paris Graf Lodron (1619–1653), Landesfürst zwischen Krieg und Frieden,” in no. 24 (1998), 163–178. 3. H. Schwerdel-Schmidt, “Les Invalides in Salzburg. Fischer von Erlachs St. Johannspital und die Genese des barocken Anstaltsbaus in Österreich und Deutschland,” in no. 28 (2002), 61–84.

Chapter 3

RELIGIOUS ART AND THE FORMATION OF A CATHOLIC IDENTITY IN BAROQUE PRAGUE

d Howard Louthan

T

here are few regions north of the Alps that can match the rich landscape of the Bohemian baroque. Leading an artistic and architectural makeover of unprecedented proportions, a host of painters, sculptors, and craftsmen transformed the Czech kingdom in the seventeenth and early eighteenth centuries. Marian columns, wayside chapels, and pilgrimage complexes, along with new or restored churches, convents, and monasteries sprang up across the region. These monuments, the most visible signs of Bohemia’s new confessional identity, have been the subject of considerable study. From the statuary of Matthias Braun to the architectural production of the Dientzenhofer family, art historians have produced a formidable body of research on this period. In much of this literature, however, there has been a tendency to discuss aesthetic developments in isolation from the historical circumstances in which they are grounded. Though scholars of the Bohemian baroque would certainly acknowledge that the artistic activity of their period was a product of the new religious climate that began with the Catholic victory at White Mountain in 1620, they often have failed to integrate their work into a broader historical narrative. This article is a preliminary exploration of the role and function of religious art in post-White Mountain Prague. Toward this end we will examine two aspects of the artistic and architectural changes that transformed this city during this period. We begin with a consideration of the painter Karel Škréta (1610–1674) and the sculptor Jan Jiří Bendl (ca. 1620–1680). Active in the chaotic years of the mid-seventeenth century, these two artists were instrumental in creating an

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aesthetic vocabulary that was used to express Prague’s new confessional identity. As a window into the baroque transformation of the Bohemian capital and its relevance to a broader program of re-Catholicization, we will continue in the second half of the paper with a consideration of what is arguably Prague’s most famous landmark, the Charles Bridge and its celebrated statuary.

Karel Škréta and Jan Jiří Bendl: The Foundations of a Confessional Art Bendl and Škréta were both raised in the Czech kingdom in the early years of the seventeenth century. Bendl’s father, who was of Swabian extraction, had come to southern Bohemia from Bavaria and worked as a sculptor for the Rožmberk family in the regional centers of Český Krumlov and Jindřichův Hradec before settling in Prague around 1630.1 Škréta had a more distinguished Czech pedigree. His family had moved to Prague from Moravia in the middle of the sixteenth century. His enterprising grandfather had become a citizen of Old Town in 1559 and made a substantial fortune. Škréta’s father worked as a royal clerk, living in a handsome house off Old Town Square where the future painter was born in 1610.2 In 1627, however, this Protestant family was forced to emigrate. The young Škréta would return in 1638 as a Catholic. Though Bendl and Škréta took Czech art in new directions in the course of the seventeenth century, their work has clear links to the earlier Rudolfine period. It seems likely that Škréta was an apprentice in the workshop of Aegidius Sadeler, while the influence of Hans von Aachen and Bartholomäus Spranger is also evident.3 Bendl, for his part, began his training with his father. Both of these artists, however, have been frequently misunderstood. The seventeenth century, especially for painting, is one of the more problematic periods of central European art, and Škréta, in particular, has often been interpreted out of context.4 In the nineteenth century, his work was debated in a narrower nationalist framework, while, in the middle of the twentieth, his paintings were refracted through a simplistic Marxist lens.5 Bendl, in contrast, has been the subject of far less study. Overshadowed by the brilliant careers of sculptors Matthias Braun and Ferdinand Maximilian Brokoff, Bendl’s work a half century earlier is often passed by with little note. The contributions of both these artists, however, take on new significance if they are placed more fully in the context of the CounterReformation, for, more than any other artists of their day, these two helped lay the foundation of Bohemia’s new Catholic art. Though a full discussion of aesthetic reforms discussed at the Council of Trent is beyond the scope of this essay, it is important to note that these issues were debated intensively in Bohemia during the White Mountain period.6 Not unexpectedly, then, the religious themes that these two artists developed were standard features of post-Tridentine iconography and Catholic reform as a whole. Both Škréta and Bendl had trained in Italy and brought this influence back to

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Bohemia. The most obvious feature of their work, when considered together, is didactic. Through his drawings and paintings the prolific Škréta supported specific cults of the church, celebrated the accomplishments of the Jesuits and helped create a Catholic martyrology. Corresponding with the Church’s renewed efforts to strengthen the privilege and prestige of the bishop, a special focus of his work was the elevation and defense of episcopal authority.7 Bendl’s work followed a similar pattern. The sculptor’s most important patrons were the Jesuits, who granted him four different commissions alone on their St. Salvator church in the Clementinum. His second assignment from them was a series of massive figures for the façade of the building (figure 3.1). Above the portal he completed six statues of the church fathers, five of them bishops. Along with Clement, Augustine, Gregory the Great, Ambrose and Jerome, Bendl included St. Adalbert (ca. 957–97), who as Bohemia’s greatest bishop completed the Christianization of this region.8 What most art historians consider his best work, though, was inside the church. One of the least studied features of Catholic art in this period is its place and function in the liturgical context, yet it was precisely in this area that Bendl had his greatest success.9 He first came to the attention of Ferdinand III when the visiting emperor marveled at his wooden pulpit in the Augustinian church of St. Wenceslas in Prague. In 1673, the Jesuits commissioned Bendl to carve a set of

Figure 3.1. Jan Jiří Bendl, figures on the façade of the Jesuit church of St. Salvator (Clementinum).

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apostles for the confessional booths (figure 3.2). Here his work should be viewed in conjunction with the church’s recent reforms of the sacrament of penance.10 A few years later, the Jesuits approached Bendl again, this time for work on the pulpit. Once more, this commission needs to be viewed from a liturgical perspective. The Jesuits had always laid significant stress on sacred oratory. The preaching at St. Salvator’s had developed one of the most popular reputations in all of Prague. For thirty years, the legendary Jiří Plachý had preached here before crowds that often overflowed into the streets. When he was reassigned to the countryside, there was purportedly such a public outcry that the Society was forced to bring him back and allow him to resume his preaching.11 Bendl, whose earlier work at St. Wenceslas had so moved Emperor Ferdinand, must have been seen as the ideal craftsman to create a pulpit that could emotively match and complement the brilliant oratory of Plachý and the other Jesuit fathers. Figure 3.2. Jan Jiří Bendl, figure of St. Peter, from a set of apostles carved for the Of all the concerns to occupy confessional booths in the Jesuit church of Bendl and Škréta, it was their promoSt. Salvator. tion of the Virgin that may have been most significant. The Marian cult has been examined in a fragmentary fashion in the Czech context. There have been recent studies on Marian sodalities, popular devotional images, and pilgrimage patterns.12 No systematic study exists, however, that ties these various strands together and considers their overall importance in the making of a Catholic identity in the Bohemian kingdom. Moreover, art historians have tended to ignore these issues when considering the “high art” of sculptors and painters like Bendl and Škréta. Cutting across a broad range of cultural and intellectual activity, the rapid growth and spread of the Marian cult after the Thirty Years’ War was, however, one of the most important dynamics in Czech society. Catholic apologists had long acknowledged the critical role the Virgin had played in the defeat of the Winter King. An image of the Virgin that had been

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mutilated by Protestant troops had been used by the Carmelite Dominicus a Jesu Maria to rally the Bavarian troops in the campaign that culminated at White Mountain. Mary’s contribution may have been even more significant at the end of the war. In July 1648, the Swedes swept down over Castle Hill into Malá Strana and laid siege to the city. In one of the most celebrated events in Prague’s long history, a citizen militia held out under difficult circumstances until imperial troops relieved the beleaguered capital at the beginning of November. The Jesuits, who had enlisted the students in the municipal defense, credited the Virgin for the miraculous success against the Swedes, and when peace and stability finally returned after the war, there was a virtual explosion of Marian literature and a swift expansion of her cult. It was in this period that the Jesuit antiquarian Bohuslav Balbín wrote a well-known trilogy popularizing Marian pilgrimage routes in Bohemia, Moravia, and Silesia. The promotional efforts of Balbín and others yielded substantial results. The 1657 edition of the Atlas Marianus, a European gazetteer of Marian devotion, listed only two Bohemian shrines. The second edition of 1672 included twenty-six.13 Growth of the Virgin’s cult within the Czech kingdom was bolstered by a broader Habsburg campaign championed by Ferdinand III. New regulations were introduced at the universities in both Vienna and Prague that mandated adherence to the dogma of the Immaculate Conception. More popular devotional literature was also produced in support of this teaching.14 But what may have been the most effective means of doctrinal advocacy was visual. In 1647, the emperor raised a Marian column in Vienna, and back in Prague an imperial committee was organized to oversee the erection of a similar monument. There was some debate concerning the location of the memorial. The Jesuits submitted a petition arguing that it should be placed outside the Clementinum, but in the end, and for very important reasons, Old Town Square was selected.15 Bendl won the commission, and preparatory work of clearing a spot and setting a foundation began in May 1650. By August the task was complete. Standing at sixteen meters, Bendl’s Marian column was the most monumental of his sculptures. He decorated its base with a set of angels battling demons beneath them. At the top stood a gilded figure of the Virgin who triumphantly strode across the prone body of a dragon, a reference to her Immaculate Conception. At the very same time that the column was being completed and raised in August, another important Marian celebration was occurring not more than fifty meters away at the Týn church, Old Town’s most important house of worship. The Palladium of Bohemia, a small metal relief of Virgin and Child, was one of the kingdom’s oldest devotional objects. Various legends had it connected with SS. Cyril and Methodius, Ludmila, Wenceslas, Adalbert, and Procopius.16 It had been removed to Vienna for safety during the war, but was now returning with great pomp and fanfare. Church officials had carefully planned its route from Vienna with frequent stops in major towns along the way. In late August it arrived in Prague where it made a triumphant circuit through the city’s three most important churches: St. Vitus, the complex of Vyšehrad, and the Týn church.17

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This image, saluting Mary as Queen of Bohemia, was complemented in the Old Town church with a new painting for the high altar. The previous year, Karel Škréta completed one of his largest and most ambitious works, an imposing canvas depicting the Assumption of the Virgin. Below in the shadows the disciples have gathered around an empty tomb. Some stare perplexed at the loose grave clothes, while others have turned their gaze towards the heavens where they see Mary in full illumination ascending with the angels. This crescendo of artistic activity as represented in the work of Bendl and Škréta constitutes an important cultural and religious turning point. Thirty years earlier, the events that were staged in Old Town Square were of a very different nature. The execution of 1621, where twenty-seven leaders of the Czech revolt had been put to death, was a ritual of purification.18 Now at the end of the war, rites of punishment were giving way to a celebration of confessional victory represented by the new column. In these three decades, Old Town Square was being carefully transformed from a symbol of resistance to an icon of confessional orthodoxy. The old Utraquist emblems of King George, Bohemia’s “Hussite King,” and the chalice that had hung on the gable of the Týn church had been taken down and replaced by the Virgin and Child. Ferdinand also ordered the removal of the gallows that had been a central feature of the square and a reminder of the recent unrest. The column, as well, took on a life of its own as it became a focal point of new devotional patterns. A copy of the Palladium had been installed in a niche at its base to unite the old pre-Hussite cult with the new form of Marian devotion. At the monument’s formal dedication in 1652, the emperor donated funds to support regular celebrations on Marian feast days, while the Jesuits organized their own series of ceremonies around the monument. There were weekly processions every Saturday during which regular market activities of the square were suspended, and all Jews were forbidden to enter the area.19 Perhaps most importantly, however, this work of Bendl and Škréta in the heart of Old Town became a template for artistic activity across the kingdom. The canvas in the Týn church, the Assumption of the Virgin, reappeared countless times in the many churches and chapels of the region. Škréta returned to this theme at least twice before the end of his career.20 Marian columns were erected in virtually every city and town. Bendl himself executed another such commission for Louny in northwest Bohemia. By the accession of Maria Theresa in 1740, nearly two hundred others could be found across Bohemia and Moravia.21 Prominently displayed in town squares, these public monuments were a type of victory column. There was a distinct apocalyptic character to many of these memorials as well. Standing on a crescent or crushing a dragon, this is the Virgin of St. John’s vision on Patmos. This is the militant Immaculata whose purity was a sign of Catholicism’s definitive triumph over heresy.22 These columns, though, were not only a symbol of Mary’s victory over Bohemia’s heretics. They also spoke to her triumph over nature itself. A substantial number of these memorials were erected to commemorate her protection from the plague, which swept through

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the region in 1680 and 1714.23 The extent to which many Catholics saw these monuments as markers of a new sacred landscape is reflected in the 1661 thesis sheet of future archbishop Johann Friedrich Waldstein. Designed by Škréta, this detailed illustration features an oversized copy of Prague’s Marian column centrally positioned on a map of the European continent. In the heavens are the patron saints of various countries, all paying tribute to the Czech Virgin. Radiating from the column itself are a series of lines indicating the distance from different locations on the continent to the Prague column. From the gondoliers of Venice to the Dutch merchants of the Atlantic, from the hunters of Scandanavia to the grandees of the Iberian peninsula, all of Europe is ineluctably drawn to its new spiritual center in Bohemia.24 One of the great strengths of early modern Catholicism was its ability to adapt to local cultures. Though Škréta and Bendl promoted general concerns of the church such as Marian devotion and penitential piety, there was also a regional side to their work. Bendl’s career underwent a significant shift in this respect. While before 1660 less than 10 percent of his commissions included figures of the kingdom’s patron saints, after this date they appeared in more than 40 percent of his work. Of all these local saints, one in particular came to the fore: Wenceslas.25 Though there was no similar shift in Škréta’s career, Wenceslas was a subject to which he returned frequently. His largest project, in fact, was devoted exclusively to this saint. Sometime before 1644, he completed a massive Wenceslas cycle of thirty-two paintings that highlighted the life and miracles of Bohemia’s saintly prince. Together, Bendl and Škréta developed what became the standard iconography of the Wenceslas cult in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries.26 The two artists memorialized features of the saint’s life that had special relevance for their society. The veneration of Wenceslas was, above all, a cult of the ruler. His relics would figure prominently in the coronation rites. The king would receive the crown of the dead saint and would be knighted with his sword. Thus, by its very nature this was a conservative form of devotion. If, as Peter Burke has argued, Cardinal Borromeo was the prototypical saint of the Catholic Reformation reinforcing a new emphasis on episcopal authority, within Bohemia Wenceslas was his secular counterpart, a reminder of the sacred nature of princely rule. The Habsburgs grasped this point instinctively as reflected in their rivalry with the Winter King, which led to the outbreak of the Thirty Years’ War. While the Calvinist Frederick had little use for Wenceslas and sought to dismantle his shrine in the cathedral, Ferdinand assiduously cultivated the links between himself and his holy predecessor. Catholic writers later claimed that a king’s legitimacy depended on his relationship to “the family of St. Wenceslas.” In his Via sancta, Jan Tanner illustrated through an elaborate genealogical table that the saint’s family had produced twelve emperors as well as five Spanish, thirteen French, fifteen Polish, three English, four Scottish, four Danish, and four Swedish kings (figure 3.3).27 It should not be surprising, then, that in 1631 Ferdinand commissioned Matthias Mayer to paint his family in the company of the duke.

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Figure 3.3. Jan Tanner, genealogical illustration from his Via sancta, showing St. Wenceslas as progenitor of sixty emperors and kings.

In the hands of seventeenth-century hagiographers, the life of Wenceslas became a Fürstenspiegel, a carefully defined model of the ideal prince. Whereas the duke’s early hagiographers highlighted aspects of his life and devotion that corresponded to a monastic ideal, the archetype that was developed by Škréta and others coalesced with a new form of piety embraced by the Habsburgs, the socalled pietas Austriaca.28 Škréta’s cycle, which was reproduced in print form in at least three seventeenth-century biographies of Wenceslas, described in great detail the pious deeds of the saint.29 Apart from standard themes of caring for the poor and orphans, Škréta highlighted a number of scenes that matched the devotional standards of the Catholic Reformation: the promotion of the Eucharist, the practice of pilgrimage, and the translation of relics. These themes were picked up and elaborated by others such as the Viennese court preacher, Abraham a

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Sancta Clara, who in the early eighteenth century again pointed to Wenceslas as the ideal ruler.30 Though in life the duke was a devout and compassionate Catholic prince, in death he became a fierce warrior when the Christian cause was threatened. Škréta depicted Wenceslas’s martyrdom at a point only two-thirds of the way through the cycle. The final nine canvases were devoted to the saint’s afterlife. In scene thirty, pagans gather on a hillside to destroy the rapidly growing Christian community. At this critical juncture the saint appears in the sky riding a white horse. With blasts of thunder and lightning, he kills many of his enemies while scattering the rest.31 Like the cult of the Virgin, devotion to Wenceslas experienced a significant boost in Bohemia at the end of the Thirty Years’ War, for the saint, too, was credited with saving Prague’s Old and New Towns from the Swedes in 1648. In a painting for the Emmaus monastery commemorating the tenth anniversary of this event, Škréta portrayed Wenceslas armed for battle, resolute and determined to drive back the enemy. Bendl also favored the motif of a bold and militant Wenceslas. His first free-standing statue of the saint, executed in 1662, was for the residence of the cathedral provost. Dressed in full armor, Wenceslas selfassuredly surveys his surroundings, while in his right hand he grasps a standard that has been outfitted with the sharp end of a pike (figure 3.4).32 It was Bendl as well who made the first equestrian statue of the saint that stood in what is today Wenceslas Square. Though somewhat ponderous in form, the horse and rider Figure 3.4. Jan Jiří Bendl, first free-standing advance triumphantly against their statue of St. Wenceslas, 1662; for the foes (figure 3.5). This iconography residence of the cathedral provost.

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Figure 3.5. Jan Jiří Bendl, equestrian statue of St. Wenceslas, formerly in Wenceslas Square.

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was later reinforced by a famous legend that developed around this statue, which stood in the square until 1879. At a crucial juncture in a last great battle in the Czech kingdom, the horse and the rider would come alive. Wenceslas would summon his former knights who were lying asleep under Blaník hill and deliver his land from a foreign oppressor.33 Wenceslas was not only a ruler but also a missionary. Here his legend could be read as a parable of seventeenth-century Bohemia. The Christian duke came from a mixed family. While his grandparents, Ludmila and Bořivoj, were the first of Bohemia’s princes to be baptized, his mother, Drahomíra, was a pagan. As Škréta illustrated in the fourth painting of the cycle, Drahomíra was a great enemy of the Christians. She persecuted the new converts and even ordered the murder of her own mother-in-law. Wenceslas endeavored to undo the damage of his mother and foster further Christian expansion. Škréta painted a number of important scenes saluting the young duke’s work as missionary. Wenceslas would demolish the altars of his mother’s priests and replace them with Christian churches. He would also purchase the children of pagan parents and baptize them. The struggle between mother and son reached its climax in one of the most dramatic scenes of the series. Drahomíra has stopped outside a Christian shrine as her coachman, a secret believer, has entered the chapel to receive the sacrament from the priest. As she hurls curses at her servant, the ground suddenly opens beneath her, and at the moment of the host’s elevation, the devil grasps a wheel of her carriage and drags her to hell.34 While Škréta captured this moment on canvas, Bendl and his colleagues memorialized the Wenceslas legend in stone. A cross was erected on the spot of Drahomíra’s demise that supposedly occurred on Loreto square above the Castle. Shortly thereafter, Matthias Braun commemorated the moment more theatrically with a statue depicting her unexpected departure to the netherworld. Bendl would produce a figure of Wenceslas to mark the spot where a procession, led by the duke, miraculously crossed the swollen Vltava (Moldau) on its way to Castle Hill with the sacred remains of the martyred Ludmila.35 The parallels between the medieval legend and the recent past were not lost on Bohemia’s Catholic commentators. Tomáš Pešina drew the comparison between the spouse of the Winter King, Elizabeth of Bohemia, and the godless Drahomíra. The impiety of both women cried out to the heavens, and the divine response that followed fully justified the Catholic cause.36 There was another member of Wenceslas’s family, however, who occupied a slightly different position. Boleslav, the duke’s brother and later murderer, had been baptized a Christian. Unlike Wenceslas, who had been raised by his devout grandparents, Boleslav had remained with his mother and, not unexpectedly, the young prince had been led astray and, in the end, committed the crime for which he is infamously known. It is significant that, though the pagan Drahomíra was damned, Boleslav was not. Škréta, in fact, portrayed Wenceslas as a type of Christ figure, whose personal suffering would ultimately lead to the redemption of his wayward brother and family. In the scene immediately before his death, Wenceslas is warned by a friend

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of Boleslav’s plans. Well aware of his fate, the duke continued on his way and met his end composed and even triumphant. Miraculous events after Wenceslas’s martyrdom would later convince Boleslav of his brother’s sanctity.37 This part of the Wenceslas legend had particular relevance for a society that had been divided so long by confession. Like Boleslav’s son, whom Balbín would praise as one of Bohemia’s great Christian princes, reconciliation and reunion were possible for those who had wandered from the true path of orthodoxy.38

Transforming Space: The Case of Charles Bridge Bendl and Škréta fashioned the iconographic building blocks that would be used by the next generation of artists. This tradition reached its high point in the first decades of the eighteenth century with the work of sculptors Ferdinand Maximilian Brokoff and Matthias Braun, painters Jan Jiří Heinsch and Petr Brandl, and architects Christoph Dientzenhofer and Jan Blažej Santini-Aichel. The structure that may best encapsulate these aesthetic developments is Prague’s most recognizable landmark today, the Charles Bridge and its flanking batteries of saints. In terms of collaborative effort, there is no other baroque monument in Bohemia that can match the Charles Bridge. Though it would become the showplace of Brokoff and Braun, at least seven other artists would produce statues for the span. Škréta would have a hand in one of its earliest monuments, and both Brandl and Heinsch would plan designs that sculptors would later execute. The bridge, though, had a checkered past, and to understand its new significance we need to survey briefly its history, for like Old Town Square, its entire character was transformed in the late seventeenth century. The bridge itself, which did not acquire the name of its builder until the nineteenth century, had been constructed by Charles IV to replace an older structure that had been destroyed by floods in 1342. The new bridge quickly developed a rather dubious reputation. Even before its completion, local felons, often in the hire of a third party, found it a useful place to do away with their enemies. In the late fourteenth century, three important church officials, including a future saint, were hurled from its ramparts.39 The fate of its first monuments also reflected the turbulent nature of this period. Though the stone bridge remained relatively free of decoration in these early centuries, a crucifix had been erected in 1361 to mark the spot where Martin Cink, a priest of the cathedral, had been flung into the river. The cross, which became an informal center of devotion, was first destroyed by the Hussites in 1419. Replaced in the second half of the fifteenth century, it was tossed in the river by a supporter of Elizabeth Stuart. It reappeared for a third time in 1629, only to be shot down by the Swedes in 1648. The bridge acquired other unsavory connotations over time. In its early days it had been used as an official place of execution. Across from the crucifix, a headsman had dispatched local felons where a column of Justice had stood.40 More recently, the impaled heads of prominent Czech rebels who had been executed in

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1621 were grimly displayed on the eastern tower of the span, while in 1648 the bridge actually served as the frontline in the Swedes’ brief but bitter siege of the city. When the invading army finally withdrew, many must have wondered what new tragedy would next unfold on this structure. For Bohemia’s Catholics, the Charles Bridge was thus an apt symbol of a faith that had been under siege for nearly three centuries. Those who worked on the bridge in the late seventeenth and early eighteenth centuries endeavored to transform a site of death, rebellion, and heresy into a space that celebrated the triumph of orthodoxy. The original inspiration for the decoration of Prague’s stone bridge came from Rome and the statues created by Bernini for the Ponte degli Angeli.41 But this relatively modest set of angels over the Tiber was soon surpassed by a virtual army of saints that quickly appeared on the span across the Vltava. The first monument to go up was the crucifix that had been shot down by the Swedes. In 1657, the Bohemian court chancellery decided that a more permanent and dignified memorial should stand in the place of the old wooden cross. They sent Karel Škréta along with a goldsmith to Dresden where they purchased a large bronze replacement from the workshop of Hans Hillger. The first of the statues, John Nepomuk, was raised in 1683. Though two more appeared in the 1690s, it was not until the first decade of the eighteenth century that the saints began arriving in significant numbers. In a frenetic flurry of activity, twenty-four of the original twenty-eight statues were erected between 1706 and 1714. No single individual, institution or religious order dominated this phase of construction. Commissions came from all corners. Of the twenty-eight monuments raised between 1659 and 1714, thirteen were sponsored by individuals, nine by religious orders, and six by other institutions.42 Participation among the orders was particularly wide. The Cistercians, Dominicans, Jesuits, Premonstratensians, Augustinians, Theatines, and Servites were all patrons. These statistics are significant for a number of reasons. In the first place, they reflect a slow but general shift in patronage patterns that had been occurring over the seventeenth century. Bohemia’s towns had been a dynamic center of cultural energy before White Mountain. The deprivations of war and the religious policies of the Habsburgs precipitated their decline. Though the vitality of these towns eventually recovered, the gap they initially left was quickly filled by the church and nobility, who between them redirected the confessional and cultural orientation of the kingdom. The Charles Bridge and its many saints may be the clearest expression of this new trend that was being replicated across the region. Equally important to note is the broad representation of the church. There was no master plan for the bridge, no centralized design of the archdiocese, no secret scheme of the Jesuits. In fact, quite the opposite occurred. Though the city council exercised some regulatory power, there was a certain entrepreneurial spirit to the entire enterprise. The Society of Jesus actually joined the building phase at a rather late stage. In 1709, one of their members described the order’s reluctance to sponsor a monument as a matter of “shameful neglect.”43 Patrons, in the end, competed with each other, as reflected in the statues. The later works

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on the bridge, the dramatic 1710 rendering of St. Luitgard, the 1711 commissions of Loyola and Xavier, the massive 1712 monument of Vincent Ferrer and Procopius, and the riotous 1714 celebration of the Trinitarian order, were increasingly expensive and correspondingly more extravagant.44 When we consider more generally the development of a Catholic culture in Bohemia, especially in the realm of aesthetics, we should not underestimate the importance of rivalry and competition as an engine of growth and expansion. Those who created the statuary on the bridge did so with an audience in mind. The Jesuits were keenly attuned to the issue of audience and noted in 1709 that though most passersby stared with curiosity at the statues around them, it was only Nepomuk and the crucifix that consistently drew forth a pious response from the viewer.45 The design of specific monuments thus became a matter of considerable importance to the Jesuits and others active on the bridge. Contemporary reports indicate that over time their efforts were successful. The bridge became an important locus of popular devotion. Hats were doffed, candles lit, prayers said, and heads bowed. Later in the century an Englishman visiting Prague would note: In every part of the city people are seen kneeling before statues, but especially on the big bridge across the Moldau where there is the greatest crowd of passersby. This bridge is richly decorated by statues of saints, so that the walker must pass them on both sides like two rows of musketeers. Travelers, especially those coming straight from Berlin, will marvel at the piety of the people here, specifically at the burning passion they display before the saints of the bridge.46

More significantly, many of the models on Charles Bridge were replicated across the region. Jan Mayer’s 1708 statue of the apostle Jude leaning on his cudgel helped initiate this saint’s cult in Bohemia and set the pattern for many churches outside Prague. In his dramatic portrayal of the Cistercian nun, St. Luitgard, Matthias Braun evidently drew his inspiration from the graphic work of Johann Christoph Lischka in the monastery of Plasy in western Bohemia. The same theme was repeated by Petr Brandl for the Sedlec cloister in the eastern half of the kingdom. The most famous of these examples is the statue of John Nepomuk. Jan Brokoff’s saint with hands clasping a crucifix to his chest, head slightly askew and eyes clearly fixed on the hereafter, became the prototype for the hundreds of Nepomuks that appeared in nearly every Bohemian village.47 The originality or novelty of the bridge’s statuary was thus a matter of secondary importance. Patrons and artists were more concerned with producing effective and compelling models that could be replicated in other settings as aids to devotion. The Jesuits in particular saw the two rows of saints as a type of outdoor theater. An interesting discussion occurred within the order concerning the design of the Francis Xavier statue. In the creation of this towering memorial with multiple levels and figures, the sources illustrate that the Jesuits utilized their experience with school theater to help compose a design that, from their perspective, would prompt the appropriate pious response from the viewer.48

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Older monuments were also restored and expanded, heightening both their dramatic effect and religious significance. The new bronze crucifix from Dresden was one such improvement, adding a greater sense of dignity and honor to the oldest monument on the bridge. In 1681, Karl Adam Říčanský provided funds for two lamps to remain constantly lit at either side of the cross. At the beginning of the eighteenth century a small Golgotha, complete with skulls, frogs, and lizards, was added to the base of the crucifix.49 The originally modest marker, which had been first intended to commemorate the death of Martin Cink, was being transformed into a more prominent and permanent wayside shrine along this commercial thoroughfare. As work on the statuary drew to a close, the printers took over where the sculptors left off. More than half a dozen books on the new landmark quickly appeared, most of them with a practical religious agenda. Joachim Kamenitzky’s Eigentlicher Entwurff und Vorbildung der vortrefflichen kostbahren und Weltberühmten Prager Brucken (Prague, 1716) was a detailed guide to the structure with a decidedly spiritual orientation. Each chapter contained an edifying biography of the specific saint or saints along with a prayer “so that the physical eye of the viewer when observing the statue would illuminate the inner eye and refresh the spirit.”50 Joannes Müller’s Triginta devotiones ad Christum et Sanctos eius (Prague, 1712) was an aid to quiet meditation and worship across the bridge, an informal type of pilgrimage that could be performed during the bustle of everyday life. Augustin Neuräutter’s magnificent Statuae Pontis Pragensis (Prague, 1714) had no text at all, though his handsome quarto-size illustrations were certainly intended for devotional purposes. Even in the early nineteenth century this literature retained its pious character. W. F. Welleba’s Die beruehmte Prager Bruecke und ihre Statuen (Prague, 1827) helped the passerby decode the often complicated iconography of the statuary.51 The creation of this devotional art leads us to an important observation on the nature of religious painting and sculpture in this period. After Trent, Catholic theologians would argue that it was essential for those who executed ecclesiastical commissions to be fervent believers themselves, for the artist’s work was an important form of worship.52 In the context of central Europe and its fluid confessional landscape, it is difficult at first glance to take this injunction seriously. Scholars have noted how artists effectively trimmed their sails to the shifting winds of religious change. In Augsburg, for example, Protestant engravers produced a significant volume of Catholic images.53 Scholars have made similar arguments about Bohemia. Most have seen Škréta, the former Protestant, as a crass opportunist whose conversion to Catholicism was based primarily on economic considerations. Others have contended more broadly that the art of this period was merely an ideological façade intended to bolster the hegemonic claims of the kingdom’s new Catholic masters.54 Though it would be naive to dismiss these materialist concerns completely, there is significant evidence that suggests we should be careful not to discount the strength of the religious conviction behind this art. Though we lack relevant biographical information, the devotional content of

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Škréta’s art was remarkably consistent from his early paintings of the 1630s, his putative Protestant period, to his final passion cycle. Bendl, who from all accounts was a devout Catholic, made a pilgrimage to the Loreto shrine in Italy and would later work on one of its many replicas back in Bohemia. Contemporary observers commented on the potentially transformative power of religious art. The Jesuit Jan Tanner related the story of a crypto-Protestant artist who had been asked by a local priest to restore a painting of the Virgin and Child. He consented and began the work, but during the project he spoke in blasphemous tones about the image. His painting hand was immediately struck by lightning, though the fire from heaven left the picture untouched. The injured heretic converted on the spot.55 Bohuslav Balbín highlighted the same theme in his biography of the first archbishop of Prague, Arnošt of Pardubice (1344–1364). According to Balbín, it was Arnošt’s encounter with the Virgin of Glatz that changed him from a frivolous adolescent to a serious believer. One day, while daydreaming in church, the boy turned to view the famous image. Mary’s eyes suddenly came to life, confronted the bewildered student, and convicted him of his sin. A chastened Arnošt would henceforth devote himself wholeheartedly to God.56 The images on the bridge seemed to have a special power of their own in this respect. In 1599 Michael Adolf von Althan, a young and ambitious Lutheran noble eager to secure the patronage of Rudolf II, journeyed to Prague to meet the emperor. One day as he was crossing the bridge, he passed the famous crucifix that had become an important center of devotion for the city’s Catholics. As he passed the cross, feelings of anger and scorn rose within him for the “intolerable folly of the Papists.” Stubbornly refusing to doff his hat, the Freiherr urged his horse on, when, according to a Catholic chronicler, a great miracle occurred: Hardly had he passed the image when he saw at the feet of his horse that the bridge had apparently split in two. He believed that he had already fallen into this horrific chasm and abyss that opened to the water. He was shocked, however, to find that he had not been destroyed. After he had recovered, he realized how this danger had arisen. He was immediately sorry for the great dishonor that he had paid to the image of his crucified Savior. He quickly turned around, dismounted from his horse, and knelt before the crucifix honoring the monument with a degree of humility that far outweighed the disrespect he had earlier shown. From there he made his way to the Jesuit college. Although the unexpected guest was first received with astonishment, after his story was told, he was welcomed with joy and thereafter fully instructed in the Catholic faith.57

The most dramatic statement concerning the nature of this devotional art came from the sculptor Jan Brokoff, who had been commissioned to create the model for the Nepomuk statue. Brokoff came to Prague from upper Hungary as an ardent Lutheran. By his own admission he was frequently involved in heated theological arguments with his Catholic colleagues. A turning point came in the early 1680s when he began working on the statue. As Brokoff relates, it was through the many hours he spent carving the saint that “the grace of the Holy

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Spirit shone on me.” He converted in 1682. Whether or not we accept the sincerity of either Brokoff’s testimony or Althan’s account, they tell us a great deal about Bohemia’s Catholic culture. This was a society where religious images were imbued with tremendous spiritual energy. They had the power not only to stir the viewer to contrition but to bring the artist himself to conversion.58 The iconography of the stone bridge reflected many of the major themes of the Catholic Reformation at high tide. The Marian cult, Eucharistic devotion, and an emphasis on martyrs were all part of the program, but these general concerns of the church were balanced with more local themes specific to the Czech context. On the bridge’s eastern tower, a plaque was installed that helped set the tone for the entire space, transforming a casual stroll across the river into a patriotic meditation on the city’s recent past. Commemorating the 1648 siege of the city, this panel urged the traveler to wander slowly across the bridge, remembering the Old Town citizens who fought with “fire and sword” against the Swedish invader.59 This historical moment became indelibly etched into the public memory of the bridge. Kamenitzky’s guide recounts in obsessive detail the events of the fourteen-week siege. During this period the Swedes launched six separate attacks on the bridge, fired 186 shells and spent 12,587 rounds of ammunition in their vain attempts to reach the river’s eastern bank.60 One of the most important features of the siege was the melding of patriotic concerns with religious sentiment. The Jesuits assumed critical positions both militarily and spiritually during the siege. On the night of 26 July, when the Swedes stole down from Castle Hill, it was supposedly Jiří Plachý who rallied a few citizens to man the barricades and hold the bridge until morning and the arrival of reinforcements. When the Jesuits were not coordinating student militias, they were calling the city to repentance. They instituted fasts, led prayer services, and even organized processions of flagellants.61 They also helped sacralize the events of the war, endowing the bridge with a greater sense of sanctity. When a Swedish sharpshooter leveled the crucifix, it was they who took Christ’s intact head to the Clementinum where it remained for many years as a treasured relic.62 There were other reminders of the heroic defense of the bridge. The iconography of the St. Vitus statue is particularly interesting (figure 3.6). The kingdom’s patron saint stands undaunted before three lions cowering before him, likely a reference to both the saint’s bravery before the beasts loosed by Diocletian, and the valor of the Catholic Czechs before the Protestant lion of the north. The figure was funded by Matěj Vojtěch Macht, dean of Vyšehrad. His father had been one of the students on the barricades, and for his service the emperor had granted the family the title Löwenmacht. The siege and the struggle on the bridge awakened a new sense of civic pride that had been absent in Prague since the White Mountain disaster. The events of 1648 produced an entire class of knights whose origins would be forever linked to the legends and stories that developed around the Swedish offensive and attack on the city and bridge. Once victory had been secured, the Habsburgs would raise over 120 families to the noble estate. Each would be granted a coat of arms

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Figure 3.6. St. Vitus, patron of Bohemia, with three lions (Charles Bridge).

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along with a detailed letter recounting the family’s heroism during the siege.63 In many cases the deeds of a specific individual would be visualized for posterity by the new heraldic insignia. The Silesian Georg Hofmann was a member of a student brigade that defended the walls of Prague’s New Town against the Swedes. During one particularly fierce skirmish, shrapnel from a shell ripped through his face, blinding him in the process. For his valor, Hofmann was one of the very first to be ennobled. His coat of arms was decorated by an exploding shell and a man whose eyes were bound by a black kerchief, presumably a reference to his injury sustained in service to the emperor. Even his new title, von Feuerspil, was clearly meant to commemorate the events of 1648.64 In other cases, elevation to the nobility could be a type of redemption for mistakes of the past. The Vratislavskýs were an exile family who had settled in Breslau after White Mountain. One of the sons, Enoch Kliment, returned to Bohemia as an adult, converted to Catholicism and entered the service of Count Rudolf Colloredo. Vratislavský led an energetic defense against the Swedes on his patron’s estate of Frymburk in southern Bohemia, and when Königsmark’s forces would later overrun Prague’s Malá Strana, he held off the advancing troops long enough to allow the count to slip out of his palace and escape across the river. For his loyalty and bravery Leopold I would have him knighted in 1679.65 Families could also develop a proprietorial sense of attachment to specific monuments on the bridge. The most prominent case was the Nepomuk statue. As the story was later recounted, Matthias Wunschwitz was crossing the Charles Bridge one day in 1646 when he saw an image of a cross marking the spot of Nepomuk’s martyrdom. Considering this vision a divine commission, Wunschwitz pledged that his family would do all in their power to propagate devotion to the future saint. True to their word, they would hire Matthias Rauchmiller and Jan Brokoff to execute models for the statue that would be raised on Charles Bridge in 1683. Afterwards, they would sponsor annual ceremonies at the bridge to celebrate the saint’s feast day in lavish fashion. Even their private veneration of Nepomuk had an important public dimension. Once the bronze monument of Nepomuk had been cast, Brokoff’s original statue would be housed in their family chapel. Opened at times to the public, the chapel would become an informal site of pilgrimage with devotees bringing flowers, candles, and other votive gifts.66 If there was a characteristic common to all the monuments on the bridge, it was victory and celebration. As we observed at the outset, the Charles Bridge had a rather ambiguous past. Its history had been marred by the assassinations of priests, the machinations of Protestant queens and the assaults of Swedish soldiers. But the political and religious climate was changing, and these changes were made manifest on the bridge. 1648 was one important turning point. Another moment came in the early 1680s when a bloody peasant revolt was suppressed, and the Turks were turned back at Vienna. The crisis of the early seventeenth century was passing and giving way to a new period of stability. From the Catholic perspective, the Church had been tried and had emerged triumphant.

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A number of the statues were built specifically to celebrate noteworthy events. Brokoff’s Nepomuk commemorated the 300th anniversary of the saint’s martyrdom. The Trinitarian memorial of 1714 marked John of Matha’s death five centuries earlier. And then there were the statues themselves. Two of the tallest monuments on the bridge, the twin towers of Xavier and Loyola, are perhaps the best examples of this new sense of confidence. A theatrical Ignatius is perched on a laurel wreath that symbolizes the victory of the Catholic cause. The wreath itself is resting on a globe, which in turn is supported by allegorical representations of the four continents. Scattered across the structure are emblems and inscriptions that announce the valiant work of the Jesuits in turning back heresy and reestablishing the true faith. The equally massive Xavier has a slightly different orientation (figure 3.7). Gesturing to a cross that he holds in his left hand, the tireless missionary is proclaiming the gospel to a savage who is bowing at his feet, while an engraving to his right informs us that the saint has baptized 1.2 million new believers.67 The theme of conversion introduced here by Xavier is significant as it illustrates to what extent the bridge had become an identity marker for Bohemia’s Catholics. Conversion is a process of interaction, a dialogue between two parties. On the one hand, it points to the ultimate triumph of one’s own faith. Apart from Ignatius and Xavier, the bridge was filled with missionary saints. There was Norbert, bringing the gospel to Figure 3.7. St. Francis Xavier, proclaiming the central Europe; Dominic, comgospel to a savage who is bowing at his feet. bating the Albigensians; VinFormerly on the Charles Bridge.

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cent Ferrer, working among the Turks and Jews; and even the usually mild Anthony of Padua, known in some quarters as the “hammer of heretics.” All these figures reminded Czech believers on what side they stood. But conversion also points to the faith of the other, and it is this side of the dialogue that is often more important in the formation of identities. Conversion reminds us of who we are not. It distinguishes our enemies and exposes their weaknesses. This dual dynamic of highlighting one’s friends while recognizing one’s foes may have been the most important social function of the bridge. Czech Catholics would recognize three sets of confessional opponents scattered across the bridge. The Muslims, described as Turks, Saracens, or, more vaguely, Moors, were well represented. Kamenitzky identified the four individuals supporting the Xavier monument as Muslims.68 Thematically, they play a more central role in the statues of the Trinitarians and Vincent Ferrer. The Trinitarian group depicts the liberation of Christians held captive by the Muslims. At the base of this structure is a prison where a seemingly bored Turkish jailor is guarding a group of believers who are beseeching God for deliverance. Vincent Ferrer, in contrast, is represented as an apostle to the heretics. Below him is a turbaned figure of a new Saracen Christian who bears an inscription celebrating the saint’s conversion of eight thousand Muslims. More interesting are the multiple references to the only nonCatholic community that existed in late seventeenth-century Prague, the Jews. Next to the Muslim convert on the Ferrer monument is a rabbi who, with hand across his chest, is admitting the errors of his faith (figure 3.8). Evidently, Ferrer had greater success with the Jews, for the engraving below the rabbi informs us that he succeeded in bringing 25,000 to the Catho- Figure 3.8. Repentant rabbi on the Vincent lic faith. There is a more subtle Ferrer monument (Charles Bridge).

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allusion on the statue of the Dominicans. Originally, below Dominic was an inscription from I Corinthians, “We preach Christ crucified, unto the Jews a stumbling block.” This reference takes on special meaning when we consider the monument immediately to its right, the famous crucifix. In the mid-1690s as the result of a blasphemy case, the Jewish community had been compelled to erect at their own expense a gilded inscription proclaiming Christ’s sanctity in Hebrew. At the bottom of the cross three plaques were installed that described the incident in Czech, Latin, and German.69 The last of these confessional enemies were the Protestants. How the stone bridge came to include these heretics is an intriguing story that reflects to what extent this structure had become an identity marker for Bohemian Catholics. The supporters of neither Luther nor Calvin were officially represented in the bridge’s statuary. By the early eighteenth century, however, there was a popular legend concerning two figures that decorated the corner of Old Town Bridge Tower. A man with a lascivious smile has slipped his hand under the dress of a woman (figure 3.9). The tale which circulated and was told to foreign travelers identified this indecorous couple as an earthy Luther and a lusty Katherine von Bora.70

Figure 3.9. Corner of Old Town Bridge Tower; indecorous couple identified as an earthy Luther and a lusty Katherina von Bora.

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The stone bridge reflected broader aesthetic patterns of this period. The expressions of confessional triumphalism that we have just explored were a more general characteristic of Bohemia’s religious art of the early eighteenth century. Though Protestant reformers such as Luther and Calvin were not frequently portrayed, Jan Žižka, the famous Hussite general, was a familiar subject for Czech artists who depicted the great enemy of Catholic believers in a hostile manner.71 Jews, too, were singled out for scorn and abuse. In 1709, the sculptor, Jan Jiří Šlanovský, completed a statue of Christ before Pilate for the Karlov church. To its side was a series of seven figures, all burlesques and caricatures of Jews. This work in fact became so well known that a popular proverb, “You look like a Jew at Karlov,” developed around it.72 The first and second decades of the eighteenth century, the interval of greatest activity on the bridge, also corresponded to the architectural high point of the Catholic Reformation in central Europe. Only a few paces from the western terminus of the Charles Bridge, the Jesuits were renovating the St. Nicholas church, a complex that a popular guidebook describes as “the ultimate symbol of [the Jesuit] stranglehold on the country.” Hyperbole aside, this magnificent architectural accomplishment of Christoph and Kilian Ignaz Dientzenhofer mirrored the confidence of Bohemia’s Catholic church at its zenith.73

Endnotes 1. Foundational for Bendl is the work of Oldřich J. Blažíček, “Jan Jiří Bendl, Pražský sochař časného baroku,” Památky archaeologické 4–5 (1934–5): 55–91; Blažíček, “Jan Jiří Bendl,” Umění 30 (1982): 97–116. 2. Most recent on Škréta is Jaromír Neumann, Škrétové: Karel Škréta a jeho syn (Prague: Akropolis, 2000). 3. Thomas DaCosta Kaufmann, School of Prague: Painting at the Court of Rudolf II (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1988), 203. 4. Sibylle Appuhn-Radtke, Sakrale Bildwelt nach dem Dreissigjährigen Krieg: Johann Christoph Storer als Maler der katholischen Reform in Süddeutschland (Munich, 1995), 1, 2. 5. On nationalism see Gustav Edmund Pazaurek, Carl Screta (1610–1674) (Prague: Fr. Ehrlich’s Buch- und Kunsthandlung, 1889); for the Marxist perspective see the comments of Jaromír Neumann cited in Eberhard Hempel, Baroque Art and Architecture in Central Europe: Germany, Austria, Switzerland, Hungary, Czechoslovakia, Poland. Painting and Sculpture: Seventeenth and Eighteenth Centuries; Architecture: Sixteenth to Eighteenth Centuries (Baltimore: Penguin, 1965), 85. 6. See, for the example, the proceedings of a 1605 synod convened in Prague. Synodus Archidioecesana Pragensis (Prague: Typis Nigriniansis, recusa per Georgium Schyparz, 1650), 25–7. 7. On this, see in particular his two portraits of St. Charles Borromeo from 1647. Borromeo (1538–64), the energetic archbishop of Milan, was quickly appropriated by the church after his death and held up as an ideal model for high ecclesiastical officials. 8. V. Novotný incorrectly identifies the final figure as Basil of Caesarea in “Účast Jana Jiřího Bendla na výzdobě Kostela sv. Salvátora v Praze,” Památky Archaeologické 5 (1937): 46. The authoritative source and bibliography on St. Salvator’s is the entry in Pavel Vlček, ed., Umělecké památky Prahy, Staré město/Josefov (Prague: Academia, 1996), 109–14. 9. Neils Krogh Rasmussen, “Liturgy and Liturgical Arts,” in John W. O’Malley, ed., Catholi-

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14. 15.

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17. 18.

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cism in Early Modern History: A Guide to Research (St. Louis: Center for Reformation Research, 1988), 285–8. W. David Myers, “Poor, Sinning Folk”: Confession and Conscience in Counter-Reformation Germany (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1996). Frantisek Martin Pelcl, Abbildungen Böhmischer und Mährischer Gelehrten und Künstler: nebst kurzen Nachrichten von ihren Leben und Werken, 4 vols. (Prague: Wolffgang Gerle, 1773–1782), 3:110–18. Jiří Mikulec, Barokní náboženská bratrstva v Čechách (Prague: Nakl. Lidové noviny, 2000); Jan Royt, Obraz a kult v Čechách: 17. a 18. století (Prague: Karolinum, 1999); Zdeněk Kalista and Michaela Horáková, Česká barokní pouť: K religiozitě českého lidu v době barokní (Žďár nad Sázavou: Cisterciana Sarensis, 2001). Bohuslav Balbín, Diva Wartensis, seu origines, et miracula magnae Dei, hominúmque matris Mariae, quae à tot retro saeculis Wartae… (Prague: Formis Caesareo-Academicis, 1655); Bohuslav Balbín, Diva Turzanensis, sev Historia originis et miraculorum magnae Dei hominúmque Matris Mariae… (Olomouc: Typis V. H. Etteli, 1658); Bohuslav Balbín, Diva Montis Sancti, seu Origines et miracula magnae Dei hominvmqve matris Mariae, qvae in Sancto Monte Bohemiae… (Prague: Typis Vniversitatis Carolo-Ferdinandeae in Colleg. Soc. Iesu ad S. Clementem, 1665); Johanna von Herzogenberg, “Heiligtümer, Heiltümer und Schätze,” in Bohemia Sacra: das Christentum in Böhmen 973–1973, ed. Ferdinand Seibt (Düsseldorf: Pädagogischer Verlag Schwann, 1974), 467–8. For one example see Laurea gloriae, ex virtutibus Divorum Tutelarium Regni Bohemiae… (Prague, 1652). Archiv Pražského hradu, Archiv metropolitní kapituly u Sv. Víta, Codex VI 9, 178v–179v; Jan Florián Hammerschmied, Prodromus gloriae Pragenae: continens urbium Pragenarum fundationes, Pragensium a fide Christi suscepta religionis Catholicae fervores… (Prague: Typis & impensis Wolffgangi Wickhart, 1723), 570; Peter Rigetti and Johann Christoph Pannich, Historischer Nachricht sowohl von der Errichtung der Wellischen Congregation unter dem Titel Mariá Himmelfahrt als auch des dazu gehörigen Hospitals B.V. Mariae ad S. Carolum Borromaeum (Prague: Johanna Pruschin Wittib, 1773), 210–14. Vít Vlnas, ed., The Glory of the Baroque in Bohemia: Art, Culture and Society in the 17th and 18th Centuries: A Guide to the Exhibition (Prague: Paseka Publishers for the National Gallery in Prague, 2001), 43. Hammerschmied, Prodromus gloriae Pragenae, 30. Howard Louthan, “New Perspectives on the Bohemian Crisis of the Seventeenth Century,” in Philip Benedict and Myron Gutman, eds., Early Modern Europe: From Crisis to Stability (Newark: University of Delaware Press, 2005), 52–79. Archiv Pražského hradu, Codex VI 9, 178v–179v; also Codices XXVII; XLIV; Susan Tipton, “‘Super aspidem et basiliscum ambulabis...’: Zur Entstehung der Mariensäulen im 17. Jahrhundert,” in Dieter Breuer, ed., Religion und Religiosität im Zeitalter des Barock (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 1995), 383–5. Antonín Šorm and Antonín Krajča, eds., Mariánské sloupy v Čechách a na Moravě (Prague: Tištěno a vydáno u A. Daňka, 1939); Blažíček, “Jan Jiří Bendl” (1982), 113; Oldřich J. Blažíček, “Škrétova mapa evropy,” in Časopis společnosti přátel starožitností 60 (1952): 134– 41; Neumann, Škrétové, 90, 92. See the data of Antonín Šorm and Antonín Krajča in Mariánské sloupy v Čechách a na Moravě, 84–7. Franz Matsche, Die Kunst im Dienst der Staatsidee Kaiser Karls VI, 2 vols. (Berlin: W. de Gruyter, 1981), 1:142–58; Susan Tipton, “‘Super aspidem et basiliscum ambulabis…,’” 385–6. Of the forty-seven columns raised in Moravia (including those dedicated to the Trinity), 34 percent of them were raised in the five-year period following the 1714 plague. Nearly twenty percent of those erected in Bohemia were constructed in the same period.

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24. For a reproduction of this image see Oldřich Blažíček, Theses in Universitate Carolina Pragensi disputatae (Prague, Pragopress, 1967), Part I, folio 2. 25. Blažíček, “Jan Jiří Bendl,” (1982) 110–113. 26. Jaromír Neumann, Karel Škréta 1610–1674 (Prague: Národní galerie, 1974), 65–83. Jindřich Šámal, “Barokní cykly svatováclavské. Jejich význam v obraze sv. Václava” (Ph.D. diss., Charles University, 1945). 27. Jan Tanner, Svatá cesta z Prahy do Staré Boleslavě (Prague: Clementinum, 1692), 43–4. On this point also see the comments of Jan Royt in “Kult a ikonografie sv. Václava v 17. a 18. století,” in Svatý Václav v umění 17. a 18. století (Prague: Národní galerie, 1994), 9. 28. Anna Coreth, Pietas Austriaca, trans. William Bowman and Anna Maria Leitgeb, (1959; trans., West Lafayette, IN: Purdue University Press, 2004); Gábor Klaniczay, Holy Rulers and Blessed Princesses (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002), 103–4; 107–8. 29. Aegidius a s. Joanne Baptista, Věnec blahoslavenému a věčně oslavenému knížeti českému… (Prague: Apud Ioannem Bilinam Vetero, 1643); Aegidius a s. Joanne Baptista, D. Wenceslao Bohemorum duci ac martyri incylto… (Prague, 1643 [recte 1644]); Paul Krieger, Fons Apollinis Oder SonnenBrunnen… (Prague: Goliasch, 1661). The original cycle of paintings has not survived in its entirety. 30. Abraham a Sancta Clara, Drey Buchstaben W. W. W. Das ist: Ein gering geschmidte Lob-Red von den Glorwürdigen Blutszeigen Christi Wenceslao (Prague, 1703). 31. Paul Krieger, Fons Apollinis, E8v–F1v. 32. Blažíček, “Jan Jiří Bendl,” (1934–5) 76–7. In 1650, Bendl completed a statue of Wenceslas for the high altar of St. Henry’s church in Prague. 33. Josef Svátek, Pražské pověsti a legendy (1883; reprint Prague: Paseka, 1997), 16–17. 34. Paul Krieger, Fons Apollinis, C7v-D1r. 35. Royt, “Kult a ikonografie,” 9; Paul Krieger, Fons Apollinis, E5v. 36. See Pešina’s extended discussion of those who violated St. Vitus and the fate that then awaited them. Tomáš Pešina, Phosphorus Septicornis, Stella alias Matutina: hoc est: Sanctae Metropolitanae divi Viti ecclesiae Pragensis Majestas et Gloria… (Prague: Typis Joannis Arnoldti de Dobroslavina, 1673), 622–56. 37. Paul Krieger, Fons Apollinis, D3v–D4r, D6v–D7r, E8v–F1v. 38. The Boleslav-Wenceslas theme became a popular pedagogical model in the seventeenth century. See for example the Jesuit plays Cereus Iuventutis Animus, (Prague, 1674); Bonae & malae educationis typus Wenceslaus, & Boleslaus fratres (Vienna, n.d.). 39. Hammerschmied, Prodromus gloriae Pragenae, 591. 40. Jaroslaus Schaller, Beschreibung der königlichen Haupt- und Residenzstadt Prag, vol. 2 (Prague: Franz Gerzabeck, 1795) 2:364. 41. Karel Neubert, Ivo Kořan, and Milos Suchomel, Charles Bridge, trans. Till Gottheinerová (Prague: Gallery of the City of Prague, 1991), 46. 42. Data on dates and patrons provided by Kamil Novotný and Emanuel Poche, Karlův most (Prague: Poláčka, 1947), 88–112. 43. Národní Archiv, Stará manipulace, J 20/17/11, 1v–2r. 44. Novotný and Poche, Karlův most, 88–112; Neubert, Charles Bridge, 64. 45. Národní Archiv, Stará manipulace, J 20/17/11, 1v–2r. 46. Cited in Zdeněk Hojda, Pomníky i zapomníky (Prague: Paseka, 1996), 24. 47. Neubert, Charles Bridge, 46, 58, 60, 64. 48. One Jesuit commentator argued that trivial decorations such as crabs were wholly inappropriate for a monument that was designed for a more serious spiritual purpose. Národní Archiv, Stará manipulace, J 20/17/11, 1r–v. 49. Joachim Kamenitzky, Eigentlicher Entwurff und Vorbildung der vortrefflichen kostbahren und Welt-berühmten Prager Brucken (Prague, 1716), 54–7. 50. Kamenitzky, Eigentlicher Entwurff, A6v.

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51. See for example Welleba’s detailed explanation of Ferdinand Maximilian Brokoff’s St. Cajetan. W.F. Welleba, Die beruehmte Prager Bruecke und ihre Statuen (Prague: J. Rudl, 1827), 129. 52. Sibylle Appuhn-Radtke, Sakrale Bildwelt, 171–72. 53. Wolfgang Seitz, “Die Graphischen Thesenblätter des 17. und 18. Jahrhunderts: Ein Forschungsvorhaben über ein Spezialgebiet barocker Graphik,” Wolfenbütteler Barock-Nachrichten 11 (1984): 109; R. J. W. Evans, “Cultural Anarchy in the Empire,” Central European History 18 (1985): 24. 54. Pazaurek, Carl Screta; Jaromír Neumann, Malířství XVII. století v Čechách (Prague: Orbis 1951). 55. Jan Tanner, Alberti Chanowsky e Societate Iesu Vestigium Boemiae Piae (Prague: Nicholas Hosing, 1659) 20, 21. 56. Bohuslav Balbín, Vita Venerabilis Arnesti (vulgo Ernesti) primi Archiepiscopi Pragensis (Prague: Archiepiscopali Typographia apud S. Benedictum in Collegio S. Norberti, Adamus Kastner, 1664), 21–35. 57. The account was written by the Jesuits of the St. Anna church in Vienna. The passage is reprinted in Thomas Winkelbauer, Fürst und Fürstendiener: Gundaker von Liechtenstein, ein österreichischer Aristokrat des konfessionellen Zeitalters (Vienna: Oldenbourg, 1999), 135. 58. For Brokoff’s comments see Jan Herain, Karlův most v Praze (Prague: Nákladem Umělecké besedy, 1908), 44–5. 59. Welleba, Die beruehmte Prager Bruecke, 7–8. 60. Kamenitzky, Eigentlicher Entwurff, 14. 61. Significant here is the unpaginated eighteenth-century manuscript history of Johannes Miller, Historia Provinciae Bohemiae Societatis Jesus ab anno Domini 1555 quo eadem societas primum in Bohemia pedem fixit ad annum usq 1723 quo Provincia Bohemiae primum suum saeculum finivit. See book 3, number 21, section 9, “Auxilia spiritualia, & militaria tempore obsidionis Pragensis anno 1648 a nostris pro bono communi praestita.” (Strahov Monastic Library, Shelfmark DG III 19) 62. Svátek, Pražské pověsti, 108. See the 1891 painting of Karel and Adolf Liebscher that features the 1648 struggle and depicts the incident at the cross. 63. These letters from Prague’s National Archives have been collected and published in Jan Županič and Michal Fiala, eds., Praha 1648: nobilitační listy pro obránce pražských měst roku 1648 (Prague: VR Atelier, 2001). 64. Letter of nobility (23 February 1649), Županič and Fiala, Praha 1648, 69–70. 65. Letter of nobility (5 July 1679), Županič and Fiala, Praha 1648, 219–21. For similar accounts see Vojtěch Augustin Had z Proseče (106–07) and the two Globic brothers (153–54; 190–92). 66. Most important for the Wunschwitz family is the so-called Gedächtnus-Monument compiled by Johann Anton Cajetan Wunschwitz (Strahov Monastic Library, Shelfmark D II 22). On the Nepomuk statue and the yearly celebrations organized by the family on his feast day, see Wunschwitziana Miscellanea. Anniversariis honoribus sancto Joanni Nepomuceno sacris (Strahov Monastic Library, Shelfmark AO XI 14). 67. Kamenitzky, Eigentlicher Entwurff, 129. Also significant are Kamenitzky’s substantial remarks on the iconography of the Ignatius monument, 82–128. 68. Kamenitzky, Eigentlicher Entwurff, 129. 69. Schaller, Beschreibung der königlichen Haupt- und Residenzstadt Prag, 2:349–50. There are a number of variations of this legend. Recently, however, Alexandr Putík has uncovered the archival evidence of the actual blasphemy case. See his “The Hebrew Inscription on the Crucifix at Charles Bridge in Prague,” Judaica Bohemiae 32 (1997): 26–71. 70. See for example the story told to three English travelers in 1734.“The Travels of Three English Gentlemen, in the Year 1734” in The Harleian Miscellany (London: Robert Dutton, 1810), 5:349; Svátek, Pražské pověsti, 111.

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71. See the 1737 ceiling in the Church of Karlov in Prague where Žižka appears as a destroyer of churches. 72. Růžena Baťková et al, ed., Umělecké památky Prahy: Nové Město, Vyšehrad, Vinohrady (Prague: Academia, 1998), 139. 73. Rob Humphreys, Prague: The Rough Guide (London: Penguin, 1995), 69. The literature on St. Nicholas is substantial. For an overview see the entry in Pavel Vlček, ed., Umělecké památky Prahy, Malá Strana (Prague: Academia, 1999), 91–100.

Chapter 4

PRAGUE, WROCŁAW, AND VIENNA Center and Periphery in Transformations of Baroque Culture?

d Jiří Pešek

F

or a long time, the baroque era in Prague and the Czech lands, regardless of the dates chosen to delimit or define it, was not a period celebrated or glorified by Czech historiographers, nor was it a priority subject of research in the wider community of historians and art historians. The idea in Czech historiography (kindred to Czech politics) of the times of “suffering after the Battle of White Mountain” originated in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries in the context of the endeavor of Czech society to gain a politically “equally privileged” position within the Cisleithanian part of the Austro-Hungarian empire. The view of the baroque as a dark period of Habsburg oppression was gradually confirmed as part of the Czech political striving for national independence, as well as of the euphoria induced by its achievement.1 The baroque was presented retrospectively as the time of foreign domination, of foreign culture, and of art that was alien to the Czech people. In fact, until the present day, “many epithets, often not very flattering ones,” have been attached to the “age of darkness and great suffering” of 1620–1740, as an eminent Czech art historian put it a few years ago.2 What has become increasingly apparent is the contradiction between the traditional political interpretation of the period and culture after the Battle of White Mountain, on the one hand, and baroque art, on the other hand, which has been highly appreciated in Bohemia at least since the 1960s, and not only by specialists. However, the contradiction between these contrasting views has remained unreconciled: “Prague ceased to be the imperial seat. Thenceforth it did not attract the most prominent craftsmen and artists and gradually changed into a provincial

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city, too large for its continually diminishing importance. It is somewhat strange that this decline had no impact on the work of architects, far from it.”3 It is interesting to note that these negative domestic Czech clichés about seventeenth- and eighteenth-century Prague are borrowed on a routine basis by many foreign historians representing virtually all disciplines, who are presumably not biased by the Czech national political interpretation of the centuries after the Battle of White Mountain.4 It would be pointless to try to replace the traditional stereotype current during the late nineteenth century and in the First Republic—expressed by the motto, “we suffered for three hundred years”—with a new stereotype of flourishing after the Battle of White Mountain. It would be far more useful to follow the story of Bohemia, or rather of Prague, Wrocław, and Vienna, in the more general context of development in central Europe in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. The seventeenth century was the age of crisis in Europe in various respects.5 The rapid growth of towns and urbanization in the sixteenth century was followed, by the time of the Thirty Years’ War at the latest, by a period of demographic, economic, and political stagnation, and in many cases, of real crisis for towns. It was the Thirty Years’ War that marked a radical change and had fateful consequences for central Europe. And shortly after it ended, from the 1660s onward—that is to say, earlier than central Europe could have recovered from its economic and demographic blows—the Turks renewed their military pressure in Hungary, and Turkish troops started to directly infiltrate Lower Austria. Defensive fighting against the Turks lasted until the Battle of Vienna in September 1683.6 The empire was also exhausted by defending its western border: in the 1680s, the Rhineland was ravaged by the French armies of the “Sun King.”7 All these exogenous factors had a bearing on most central European regions through their markedly negative consequences. Like so many outrageous epidemics, they certainly could not be explained either as results of the defeat of Bohemian Protestant estates or as an expression of Habsburg despotism and dislike of the Czech people. Under these difficult conditions, baroque art and culture became established in a number of European countries. Obviously, the interpretation of this process cannot be reduced to an expression or even a tool of sectional politics aimed at suppression or marginalization of one of the independent cultures of central Europe, which hitherto had been settled in a different tradition. It is not the purpose of my argument to refute theses on the decay or provincial nature of the Czech baroque and, more specifically, of baroque Prague. I would, rather, like to deal with the question of how the position of a metropolis like Prague among other central European capital cities and seats is to be determined, how its value is to be characterized in relation to and in comparison with, for instance, baroque Vienna, where the focus of all action important for the Czech environment was to move after 1620, or Wrocław, often mentioned as an example of a successful economic center contrasting with Prague. Are there any criteria common to Vienna, Prague, and Wrocław—and also to cities such as Dresden, Munich, Leipzig, Kraków, and Warsaw—in the “short” seventeenth and the first

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half of the eighteenth centuries? On the basis of what criteria are the importance and quality of an early modern metropolis determined? My choice of Prague, Vienna, and Wrocław as the objects of this comparative study is based first on the fact that these were the three greatest, most densely populated urban centers of the Habsburg monarchy within the lands of the Czech crown and the Alpine lands. They were also the centers of large regions within this part of central Europe. It is apparent that among these three cities to be compared, Vienna had the dominant position and widened the gap between itself and the other two over the long term, from the start of the Thirty Years’ War to the suppression of the Holy Roman Empire in 1806. The emperor preferred Vienna as his residence, and resources for building, representation, and luxury flowed to it from all the countries under Habsburg rule. In connection with the progress of the centralization of the empire as an early modern absolutist state, more and more political and administrative functions accumulated in Vienna, especially after 1683. Prague was the counterpart and, perhaps, a bit of a rival to Vienna. This large and imposing city had not only a great historical, cultural, and ecclesiastical past but also a Rudolphine imperial tradition. Prague offered an established infrastructure for luxury crafts and services and provided better possibilities for the activities associated with representation than were available in Vienna. For many aristocrats, Prague also could be a prestigious and politically active alternative scene to the court society in Vienna. Wrocław, although the center of a traditional region as populous as Bohemia, was not comparable in political and residential qualities to Prague and Vienna, and could not compete with these two in terms of cultural and religious activities. Unlike both of the great centers of consumption, however, Wrocław was a place active in textile production and international trade. Its population was situated lower socially than that of Prague, but the numbers were the same; authors of simple quantitative analyses even tend to place Wrocław ahead of the Bohemian metropolis. A functionally oriented comparative analysis of these three cities should yield much new and interesting knowledge. Extensive syntheses on the history of early modern European towns, which have become classics, base their evaluation on only one quantifiable characteristic of towns noted in this era: the size of their populations. They also evaluate—especially in the context of the seventeenth century—the position of each city in the hierarchy of urban communities within a given region or in the Empire. In this framework, the size of the population changes from a quantitative characteristic to a qualitative one; that is, the developmental success of a metropolis or a seat must be reflected particularly by its population growth.8 But what, in light of the foregoing, should be done to distinguish the qualities of cities similar in size but diametrically different in social characteristics? What should be done to distinguish their urban and architectural qualities and to evaluate the intensity of their involvement in the functional hierarchy of networks of towns in their respective parts of Europe? What should be done to distinguish the influence of internal

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parameters of development from that of external factors, such as epidemics and destruction—mainly from warfare? Most crucially, the question is: where should one seek a reliable basis for such reckoning? In his synthesis on early modern towns, which is currently the most recent for central Europe, Herbert Knittler excludes the Prague of ca. 1700 from the club of the largest European cities. He describes the latter as residential communities of more than forty thousand inhabitants. According to the information he has gathered from all-European syntheses, Prague had a population of just thirtynine thousand in 1700 and therefore could not be admitted to the club of really big cities of that time.9 A historiographic estimate from 1914, which was based on data from the salt tax, actually indicated 39,495 or, in other words, only five people less than the number needed for rounding up and, thus, ranking Prague among the chief cities according to the simple criterion of population size.10 However, in 1967, these numbers were recalculated by Zdena Pelikánová-Nová. Having added in verified larger numbers for the Jewish population in Prague (11,517 Jews in Prague in 1702), she gave an estimate of forty-three to fortyfour thousand “inhabitants actually present in Prague.” 11 Moreover, she did not include a group of nine thousand “aliens present” in the city that was officially recorded in 1703.12 Is the inclusion or exclusion of a few children from large Jewish families decisive for the classification of the Czech capital? It might, perhaps, be possible to correct the inaccurate population data using the relatively more precisely verifiable information on the size of the urban area. This method is highly esteemed by many historical geographers.13 But even then, some fundamental methodological questions have to be addressed. The first concerns the factors of the density and the type of buildings in the urban area. The inner city of Vienna is only slightly larger than the area of the old town and the Jewish town in Prague. Nevertheless, the population living inside the city walls of Vienna around 1700 was more than twice as large: fifty thousand, as against twenty-one thousand inhabitants of the above-mentioned districts of Prague.14 This was due to a smaller area of public spaces, a higher density of buildings and perhaps also a higher proportion of multistory buildings in Vienna than in the center of Prague’s urban agglomeration.15 A side effect of Vienna’s unpleasant density, which later was interpreted as a positive quality of the city, was a significantly higher cost of real property and, consequently, troublesome complications for investors seeking to consolidate land for stately buildings. Before 1683, only a few imposing palaces were constructed in the Inner City of Vienna outside the Hofburg.16 One of them is particularly worthy of mention: the old Harrach Palace, which burned down when Vienna was under siege by the Turks. In 1664, there were no more than 170 noblemen’s houses and palaces in inner Vienna.17 Other imposing buildings were located in the suburbs, far from the city walls and beyond the nearly one-kilometer-wide glacis—that is to say, past the fortifications and a compulsorily empty defensive zone. The first majestic suburban aristocratic residence was the Liechtenstein Palace in Rossau, completed in 1691.18

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On the other hand, in the large area of Prague’s New Town, Lesser Town, and Hradčany (the castle district) with some sparsely built-up patches surrounded by city walls, hundreds of aristocratic residences were erected already in the seventeenth century. Dozens of them were architecturally imposing buildings. In this respect, Prague represented a type of city less similar to Vienna and more resembling papal Rome: an immense but only partly built-up area surrounded by walls, which only became crowded on special occasions such as pilgrimages and at other times offered sufficient space for gardens, orchards, fields, and even pastures for cattle.19 The few summer garden residences of nobility in the suburban belt past the Prague city walls, such as at Troja, were not considered as a part of the agglomeration. Vienna was regarded by most Habsburg sovereigns as the key seat of their empire. After Maximilian II ascended the throne, the city went through a redefinition of its area of habitation.20 In the second half of the seventeenth century, especially, Vienna had to move a large number of its urban functions beyond the fortifications and glacis to the suburbs in the so-called Burgfried area (the area outside the town walls, but within its jurisdiction). In 1683, Vienna started to redevelop its suburbs, destroyed when it was under siege by Turkish forces.21 After that, in some places a relatively compact development extended as far as beyond Burgfried. This included, in particular, Josefstadt and adjacent residential areas to the west of the Inner City.22 In 1704, at the instigation of Prince Eugene of Savoy, this suburban belt, annexed to Vienna only in 1857, was encircled by the defensive Linienwall.23 This consisted of light fortifications protecting the hinterlands of the imperial seat against Kuruc raiders, whom the Austrian army was not able to fight off. It was these fortifications, serving also as a police and customs borderline, that united de facto (though not administratively) the city with the hinterlands and thus caused the Inner City and the suburbs to become a real metropolitan agglomeration with a population in excess of one hundred thousand. As for Wrocław, it differed from the sovereign seats of Prague and Vienna in many respects. First and foremost, until the end of the seventeenth century it had not distinguished itself as a seat of academic institutions or aristocratic residences. Furthermore, as a higher religious center, it was of minor importance in comparison with the two other cities. Unlike Prague and Vienna, the Wrocław of the late seventeenth and the first third of the eighteenth century was an important center of production and exports of cloth and canvas, and partly of garment manufacturing. What was also of great importance was Wrocław’s long distance and intermediate trade, which made it possible to exchange goods between, on the one hand, the Polish-Lithuanian region, the Balkans, and the south Russian and central Asian regions, and on the other hand, north and central Germany, accessible both by navigation on the Oder and the Elbe and by road along the traditional cattle trade corridors. Wrocław was also at least partly involved in trade with the Venetian region and the Baltic area. The Thirty Years’ War stopped the economic boom of Wrocław in the early seventeenth century. In 1618–1620, Wrocław aligned itself with the estates against the Habsburg sovereign; after the defeat of the Bohemian revolt by Ferdinand II, the

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city was punished by ceasing to be the seat of the starosta of the principality of Wrocław. The sovereign’s unification policy restricted Wrocław’s privileges, and the existing élites were also hit by re-Catholicization, which entailed the coming of Jesuits to this predominantly Lutheran city in 1638. Wrocław did not suffer direct damage from fighting in the Thirty Years’ War. But it was struck all the more heavily by the concomitant phenomena of the war. In 1636, for example, mercenaries in the city attempted to revolt; and an epidemic of cholera killed perhaps about half of the thirty-two thousand inhabitants who resided in the city before the war. The city’s economy was profoundly affected by the blockade maintained by Swedish troops, as well as the loss of economic influence on mining in Silesia. Adding to the stagnation of Wrocław trade were the wartime destruction of neighboring Saxony, later the pillage of Poland by the Swedes, and in the early eighteenth century, to some extent, the Great Northern War (in particular the year 1707).24 During the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, Wrocław became surrounded by Dutch- and Italian-style fortifications, which were modern for that age. These enclosed the city for centuries in its ground plan and territorial extent of the late fifteenth century. This is shown clearly in the bird’s-eye view of the city drawn by F. B. Werner before 1750.25 Only suburbs could grow: they lay beyond the belt of fortifications or on islands in the Oder river and were joined to the city only in the nineteenth century.26 At the end of the Thirty Years’ War, Wrocław had a population of about twenty thousand. The population and economic revival obviously took a very long time, as in Prague. Polish scholars reckon thirty-four thousand inhabitants living in the agglomeration during the 1690s. However, after 1700, Wrocław experienced generally rapid development as well as population growth.27 In 1710, the size of Wrocław’s population exceeded forty thousand.28 The transit trade eastward and westward was renewed; in this regard, the Polish-Saxon Union under Augustus the Strong played an important positive role. Wrocław also became a regional banking center.29 Wrocław’s economic prosperity at the turn of the eighteenth century was probably boosted by the fact that a permanent Jewish population finally settled in the city around 1700. A selfgoverning Jewish community, however, was established there only in 1744.30 The beginning of the eighteenth century gave Wrocław a strong cultural impetus. The castle that Leopold I had handed over to the Jesuits for their college in 1659 was the place where, in 1702, with the intention to support re-Catholicization (which had not been very effective so far) the Academia et Universitas Leopoldina was founded. It comprised a faculty of arts and a faculty of theology.31 It became a center of education of Silesian Catholics, but was completely ignored by local Lutheran youth. The students of the academy and the Jesuit grammar school only accounted for 3 percent of the still-Protestant city in the first half of the eighteenth century. However, they had considerably greater importance for the city’s economy.32 A cultural characteristic of the city in the sixteenth and deep into the seventeenth century was, on one hand, the encounters between the Catholic humanism of the episcopal court circle, which was traditionally linked with the Krakówian royal court and university, and, on the other hand,

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the Lutheran, Saxony-oriented education of most burghers and sometimes even with the Calvinizing tendencies of some Wrocław patricians educated in western European universities. Still, the fact that the state authority gave preference to Jesuit Catholicism at the turn of the eighteenth century was rather detrimental to the intellectual life of the city.33 Baroque architecture started to manifest itself in Wrocław in the 1660s, mainly in the style of Catholic ecclesiastical buildings. Baroque palaces began to be built in the city only in the first two decades of the eighteenth century—that is to say, after Silesian nobility and gentry began to purchase real property there (the prices of which had plummeted as a result of a grave population crisis) and settled in the city, after the city council in the mid-seventeenth century lifted a still-valid ban on ennoblement of burghers. Thus, after 1700, imposing palaces of the Hatzfelds, Schreyvogls, Spaetgens, and Oppersdorfs were erected inside the circle of the city fortifications. On the other hand, the housing of the burghers remained to a large extent in the Gothic or Renaissance styles until the end of the eighteenth century.34 How should one compare, in terms of area, these cities, which differed substantially not only in the type of buildings but also in their characters as defined by municipal law, town planning layouts, and fortification lines? Before addressing the functional and symbolic characteristics of the cities in question, I would like to make an unscientific comparison of the metropolises as depicted in contemporary vedutas. These are certainly not accurate renderings of the actual appearance of a city. They are interpretations of its substance, emphasizing selected key structures considered characteristic of the city. These artists’ interpretations may help us understand how a particular city was conceived of in those times. Both Prague and Vienna were portrayed by imperial draughtsman Volprecht van Ouden-Allen in the 1670s, that is, prior to the siege of the city on the beautiful blue Danube by the Turks.35 Ouden-Allen’s view of Prague is a depiction of an extensive urban landscape (see figure 4.1).36 Its axis is the river Vltava, and its dominant features are the Charles Bridge and the castle hill with the royal palace, the cathedral, and a succession of aristocratic residences, of which the most prominent one is the Czernin

Figure 4.1. Volprecht van Ouden-Allen, veduta of Prague, 1670s. View downstream to the northeast with the Charles Bridge over the Vltava in the center and Castle Hill to the left.

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Figure 4.2. Volprecht van Ouden-Allen, veduta of Vienna, 1670s. View from the west with the city fortifications featured in the center, the Hofburg complex within the walls on the right, and the Danube flowing in from left center.

Palace.37 The massive bastions of the Prague city walls are represented in the veduta without playing a major role in the whole of the picture. On the other hand, the veduta of Vienna features mighty fortifications as a dominant element of the whole picture and the key symbol of the city (figure 4.2). In the southeast, the extensive Hofburg complex stands out over the fortifications from the densely built-up area of the Inner City, unsegmented by the draughtsman; deep in the built-up area, one can see several important churches, above all the Stephansdom in the heart of the city with the admonishing finger of its Gothic tower.38 There is no strict order in the chaos of suburban streets and more compact groupings of buildings separated from Vienna proper by the wide free strip of the glacis, and, with the exception of several monastery complexes, there are no architectural dominants beyond the glacis at that time. It is merely a belt of village-like settlements. The ensemble of the built-up area depicted does not resemble a metropolitan agglomeration comparable to Prague. At that time, nonetheless, the fortress of Vienna alone already had twice as many inhabitants as the whole of the Prague agglomeration. Ouden-Allen was commissioned by the imperial court; therefore, there is no doubt that the imperial customer must have approved the interpretive formula of Vienna, or more precisely, of both vedutas, at the latest before these were printed. But the artist might have intended to characterize each of the capitals differently. Until 1683, Vienna was predominantly represented as an impregnable city fortress and a key strategic point for the forces fighting the Turks. On the other hand, Prague was an example of an unusually large “modern” city in the empire, surrounding the stately residence of the king of Bohemia, whose vote was the key one in the election of the Holy Roman Emperor. Like his Habsburg predecessors starting with Ferdinand I, Leopold needed both cities and their castles: the

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Hofburg in Vienna confirmed his status as a legitimate member of the Habsburg dynasty and the possessor of the Alpine lands, the Prague Castle that as the king of Bohemia and an elector of the Holy Roman Empire.39 Hence the Habsburgs, although residing in Vienna after 1612, continued to make modifications to the Prague Castle, the war situation permitting, and later even adorned the castle with new collections of works of art to make up for the losses caused by Swedish conquerors.40 In 1654, a gallery of pictures was acquired for Prague in Antwerp from the property of King Charles I of England and his prime minister, George Villiers, Duke of Buckingham.41 Let us return to the question of which of the cities can be described as a metropolis and which as peripheral. This question cannot be answered by a mere analysis of the qualities and values of the cities. It is necessary to see these in proportion, and study their positions within the hierarchical structures of networks of towns at that time. But was there a network of towns with a uniform hierarchical structure in the Holy Roman Empire and within—or, more precisely, in relation to—the Habsburg monarchy? Every single historical account of early modern cities says that this was not the case. The empire was divided into a number of regional circles with their own town systems; important imperial and free cities had their own circles. Networks of towns in individual lands centered on the residential seats were to be found in particular in the east and southeast of the empire. The Habsburg possessions (the Alpine lands, the Czech lands including Silesia, Hungary, and other smaller territories) were so heterogeneous (also from the legal point of view) that no unified and central network of towns with a distinct hierarchy could develop. Nor can a clear organization into a hierarchy during the period in question be documented as regards individual segments of the Habsburg possessions. For instance, Prague played an important role in the Czech lands, particularly as a symbol, but the hierarchical structure of the network of towns attached to it only existed in Bohemia: Moravian and Silesian networks of towns did not link with Prague. Wrocław was, by and large, incorporated into the context of Silesian, Saxon, and Brandenburg towns.42 In parallel, Prague was the seat of the public administration carried out by the estates as well as of the sovereign, who was represented by a governor in his absence. Until 1749, when the Czech court chancery was transferred from Prague to Vienna, there was no formal subordination of Prague to Vienna as a superior center of state administration. However, apart from these hierarchies bound to the country and state, the cities under consideration were the seats of a significant number of independent functional systems, which were not interconnected. This applies in particular to the ecclesiastical hierarchy: the metropolises were each the seat of an archbishop, and provinces of the religious orders did not overlap. A clear example is provided by the Catholic dispute over the Prague university between the “archiepiscopal” group and the Jesuits.43 Until the 1654 university union, the archbishop of Prague and the orders allied with him stood in clear opposition to Vienna and the imperial court, which favored the Jesuits. Ernest Cardinal Harrach, archbishop of Prague, unsuccessfully sought support against

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Vienna at the Curia in Rome. Even after the university union, academic Prague remained an independent entity: the Jesuits had a separate Czech province, and until the Theresian reforms, there was no umbrella organization in the Habsburg monarchy coordinating or managing the academic education system. Perhaps one should also raise the question of why the leading noblemen of Bohemia in the baroque period, including prominent figures such as Jan Václav Gallas, a friend of Leopold I, diplomat and later the viceroy of Naples, saw fit to build costly palace residences in Prague, even long after 1683.44 Finally, it should be noted that for these aristocrats Vienna was not yet the only point of reference for everything; they felt the need to have such buildings as a status symbol in their home country, that is to say in Prague. For some of them, this could even be a sort of political demonstration claiming residential primacy for Prague. Also, for reasons of prestige, it was not socially acceptable for these important Czech aristocrats to “run away from Prague” to the court and to give up adequate symbols of their status in Prague. Incidentally, what higher standards of comfort could Vienna offer to Czech aristocrats in comparison with Prague before the rule of Charles VI? The letters sent from Vienna in 1716 by the wife of the British envoy to Istanbul, Lady Montagu, refer, on the one hand, to the great splendor of aristocratic interiors but also, on the other hand, to the inhabitants of the Inner City being crammed together unbearably, as it was not even possible to keep the usual distance between the residential areas of the nobility and the dwellings of the commoners who served them. This brief overview of themes related to the comparison of the provincial and imperial metropolises in the 1620–1740 period concludes with the question of the cultural dependence of baroque Prague on Vienna that is often assumed. One should inquire how this dependence is to be determined. For instance, is the Prague baroque style in architecture a derivative of the Viennese baroque? Despite many ties between the two evident from the turn of the eighteenth century, this is probably not the case. Most of the key buildings in Prague and also in Vienna at least until the 1680s were designed and constructed by Italians or architects coming from the south German region. Important individual cases in Prague, such as the work of the great Viennese court architect Johann Bernhard Fischer von Erlach,45 for example, cannot alter this fact. Prague’s great advantage, especially over Wrocław, was its having sufficient attractive space for construction inside the traditional fortified city area, and also, probably, the consequent significantly lower prices of land. Moreover, the research conducted by the late Milada Vilímková showed that, when evaluating the artistic qualities of structural designs and execution, one should not underestimate in particular the role of aristocratic and certain ecclesiastical investors. It was common for these people to acquire extensive experience abroad during their journeys and study trips to Italy, western Europe, and the empire. A theoretical study of civil engineering, as well as practical experience of outstanding buildings, was part of the canon of aristocratic education and of a standard program of study trips. Hence, the investors were at least very knowledgeable.46

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The researches of the past decade, such as those conducted by Lubomír Lancinger, Kateřina Bečková, Pavel Vlček, and Olga Fejtová, have shown that prominent baroque investors did not focus their attention exclusively on the traditionally most attractive locations in the Old Town, Lesser Town, and Hradčany districts, and that a number of imposing building projects funded either by noblemen or by the Church were also carried out in the large New Town.47 Already in 1653, on this alleged periphery of the Prague agglomeration, there were 158 noblemen’s houses and eighteen slab-like buildings and aristocratic palaces.48 That is more than in the whole of imperial Vienna at that time.49 A part of the extensive New Town space was still of a “suburban” nature. The decisive factor was the lack of water at higher altitudes of the upper New Town, as it was impossible to pump the water up from water towers on the banks of the Vltava, and people had to rely on local sources.50 But even in this garden part of the city, several architecturally remarkable summer houses were built during the first half of the eighteenth century. Studies by Zdeněk Hojda, Olga Fejtová, Jaroslava Kašparová, and Jiří Pokorný make it possible to trace the high quality of the furniture and private libraries in Prague burghers’ houses as well as some of the noblemen’s houses and palaces.51 Apparently, the repeated ravages of war in the 1630s and 1640s and a series of epidemics that reduced Prague’s population drastically—during the Thirty Years’ War the population shrank to a figure between a half and a third of its size in the Rudolphine era—did not result in an interruption of cultural contacts with foreign countries or put an end to investment activities in Prague. Unlike Vienna and Wrocław, Prague was one of the cities in the empire that were severely struck by the Thirty Years’ War. The cities that suffered similar blows involving depopulation included Augsburg, Nuremburg, and Mainz. Only the imperial cities of Magdeburg, Dortmund, and Frankfurt an der Oder were plagued to a greater extent, being deprived of three quarters of their population. Upper German or, more precisely, Rhenish cities also recovered only very slowly, and most of them never belonged to the category of key urban centers of the empire again. Let us recall the fate of Nuremberg after 1650.52 Eventually, Prague succeeded in resurrecting itself and rejoining the club of important metropolises, despite the heavy blows of plagues and great fires in the second half of the seventeenth century. However, Prague enjoyed real cultural and artistic prosperity again only in the last two decades of the seventeenth century and the first quarter of the eighteenth century. Prague experienced this ahead of Wrocław, and simultaneously with a far more noticeable and general development of imperial Vienna, which was freed from the Turkish threat after 1683 and established from 1704 within its Linienwall boundaries. After 1691, when the first garden residence of aristocracy, the Liechtenstein Palace, was completed in Rossau, many palaces went up in the area of the Viennese Burgfried to recompense the aristocratic investors for the confinement of their dwellings inside the city in the shadow of the Hofburg and the court.

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If there is any parallel to Vienna in Prague, it is very slight. In fact, some noble families built two palaces in the Prague agglomeration: one in the Lesser Town or Hradčany, and the other—including extensive outbuildings—in the New Town. In Prague, a real baroque Gartenpalais beyond the city walls was, exceptionally, Troja. The development of Prague, Wrocław, and Vienna was not interconnected. Both capital cities maintained parallel artistic and trade contacts with Italy and south Germany, occasionally with France, Spain, and the Netherlands. Prague’s direct partners in cultural and artistic trade were traditional Saxon (Leipzig, Dresden) and south German centers (Frankish Nuremberg was followed, after its decline, by Bavarian Munich). The role of intermediary between these cities and Italy was performed for a long time by Upper Austrian Linz. Wrocław established ties with Little Poland and Moravia (Olomouc), but, in particular, with Saxony and Nuremberg, and increasingly with Brandenburg (Frankfurt an der Oder, Szczecin). On the other hand, Vienna remained long uninvolved in the Prague or Silesian circle of contacts and ties. Even in the late eighteenth century, German and Italian book-printing centers were incomparably more important for the book culture of Prague aristocratic salons, as well as burghers’ libraries, than books originating from the imperial seat on the Danube. Similarly, news was coming to Prague in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries mainly from the central parts of the empire (Augsburg, Cologne), sometimes from Italy, and only to a small extent from Vienna. Therefore, the parallelism of cultural, artistic, trade, and information ties and channels excludes any notion of hierarchical dependence of Prague culture on Vienna, at least in the period before the repeated devastation and impoverishment of Prague and its hinterlands in the wars of 1742–1757, and the definitive reorientation of “Prussian” Wrocław to Berlin. My reflections on Prague, Wrocław, and Vienna are not meant to disprove any hypotheses of Prague’s provincialism nor to demonstrate its equality with Vienna. No doubt Vienna joined the top category of European metropolises not later than in the 1690s, whereas Prague and Wrocław all the more so remained only the metropolises of their respective lands inside the empire, which was undergoing intensive internal differentiation.53 The key impetus to the changes in the organism of the empire was the then uncontainable rise of the Brandenburg electorship, which after 1701 transformed itself into the expanding Kingdom of Prussia, with its center in Berlin, growing with lightning speed, and in the “barracklike Versailles” of Potsdam.54 My reflections have focused, rather, on the methodology of such comparisons. The comparative history of central European cities, seats, and metropolises of individual countries in this context may not be limited to one or two quantifiable indicators characterizing the population of the city and its position in the network of towns. When estimating the position and qualities of a city of key importance, one should always use a variety of different indicators, bearing in mind that the importance of the role played by functional, traditional, and symbolic

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criteria was similar to that of relevant town-planning, architectural, economic, and population indicators. It is only possible to discover the real quality and supraregional role of individual cities by conducting a broad-based, systematic, comparative investigation, which would make it possible to situate the dominant cities of central (and then of western and southern) Europe in a “network,” and to show the directions of flows of innovation, trade exchanges, and various kinds of information among these cities. Early modern Europe was interconnected to a much greater extent and in a far more differentiated way than the studies of culture, town development, and art history so far carried out have acknowledged and documented. I have compared three central European cities of large size, which also were three important centers in the Habsburg monarchy, on the basis of quantitative and qualitative criteria. At first, I inquired after their function and the part that they played in the context of the large regions that each dominated. It is evident that there was no hierarchical dependence among Prague, Vienna, and Wrocław in the period with which I am concerned. Each of these cities was very different in its character and in its functional structure within the Habsburg state, which was, in the meantime, very heterogeneous. They were not part of a unified and centralized town network. Their dominant international economic, informational, cultural, and artistic connections extended in different directions. I could not identify any network of direct cultural connections between the three, and we cannot speak of any hierarchical structure among them. Thus, the results of my comparative analysis prevent an application of the traditional, but, in art history, now no longer acceptable “center-periphery” model of interpretation. It could be said that a method of functional comparison has won out over an attempt at hierarchical ranking.

Endnotes 1. This is perhaps most clearly shown in: Arnošt Denis, Konec samostatnosti české (Czech translation of Ernest Denis, Fin de l’indépendance bohême, 2 vols. [Paris, A. Colin, 1890]), 3rd edition (Prague, 1909), 619–23; idem, Čechy po Bílé Hoře (Czech translation of Ernest Denis, La Bohême depuis la Montagne-Blanche, 2 vols [Paris: E. Leroux, 1903]), vol. 1, bk. 1 (Prague, 1911), 118–42, 286–94; Zdeněk Nejedlý, Bílá Hora, Habsburg a český národ (Prague: Mladé proudy, 1920), 30–44. 2. Pavel Vlček, Praha 1610–1700: Kapitoly o architektuře raného baroka (Prague: Nakl. Libri, 1998), 5. 3. Ibid. 4. The most recent example is Herbert Knittler, Die europäische Stadt in der frühen Neuzeit (Vienna: Verlag für Geschichte und Politik, 2000), 70, 274. 5. See a work that has become a classic by Miroslav Hroch and Josef Petráň, 17. Století—Krize feudální společnosti? (Prague: Svoboda, 1976), or the German version, Das 17. Jahrhundert: Krise der Feudalen Gesellschaft? (Hamburg: Hoffmann und Campe, 1981). See also a remarkable work by Thomas DaCosta Kaufmann, Court, Cloister, and City: The Art and Culture of Central Europe, 1450–1800 (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1995), quoted here according to the German edition: Höfe, Klöster und Städte: Kunst und Kultur in Mit-

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teleuropa 1450–1800, trans. Jürgen Blasius, Christian Rochow and Bettina Aldor (Cologne: DuMont, 1998), 286. Karl Vocelka, Geschichte Österreichs: Kultur, Gesellschaft, Politik (Graz: Styria, 2000), 122–3. As clearly expressed by Walter Hubatsch, Deutschland zwischen dem Dreißigjährigen Krieg und der Französischen Revolution (Frankfurt a.M.: Ullstein, 1974); also Rudolf Vierhaus, Deutschland im Zeitalter des Absolutismus (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck und Ruprecht, 1988). In this context, I find it rather amusing that Knittler, Die europäische Stadt, 87, says: “Like other large cities, London soon suffered from overpopulation and uncontrolled immigration so that the Court and Parliament deemed it necessary to take measures in this matter. The years 1580 and 1592 saw the imposition of bans on receiving more than one tenant family in newly built houses…” In other words, what current historiographic evaluation postulates as a sign of a city’s superior quality was, on the contrary, justly regarded by contemporaries as deleterious to the quality of London. Ibid. Josef Pekař, “Prvé sčítání obyvatelstva v Čechách,” Český časopis historický 20 (1914): 330–3. Pekař noted that he thought the number of 7,452 for Prague Jews over ten years of age reported in the source to be too small. With respect to the information on the salt tax, it should also be pointed out that the number of inhabitants of Nové Město (New Town) is surprisingly small and hardly credible: only 6,836 as against 9,571 inhabitants of Staré Město (Old Town) and 5,811 of Malá Strana (Lesser Town). Zdena Pelikánová-Nová, “Lidnatost Prahy v 18. a první čtvrti 19. století,” Pražský sborník historický (hereafter, PSH) (1967–1968): 32. Ibid., 33. See particularly Paul M. Hohenberg and Lynn Hollen Lees, The Making of Urban Europe 1000–1950 (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1985); and Paul M. Hohenberg and Lynn Hollen Lees, “Urban Systems and Economic Growth: Town Populations in Metropolitan Hinterlands 1600–1850,” in Capital Cities and Their Hinterlands in Early Modern Europe, ed. Peter Clark and Bernard Lepetit (Aldershot: Scolar Press, 1996), 26–50. Franz Baltzarek, “Das territoriale und bevölkerungsmäßige Wachstum der Großstadt Wien im 17., 18. und 19. Jahrhundert: Mit Beobachtungen zur Entwicklung der Wiener Vorstädte und Vororte,” Wiener Geschichtsblätter 35 (1980): 1–24, here 14; Peter Csendes, “Wien: Die Probleme der kaiserlichen Residenzstadt im 17. Jahrhundert,” in Polen und Österreich im 17. Jahrhundert, ed. Walter Leitsch and Stanislaw Trawkowski (Vienna: Böhlau, 1999), 216–31. In this respect, it is worthwhile to draw a comparison between Prague and Munich in Bavaria. The latter was smaller in area than the Old Town and the Jewish Town of Prague, and around 1700 was the home of some 20,000 people living in 980 houses. See Manfred Peter Heimers, “Die Strukturen einer barocken Residenzstadt: München zwischen Dreißigjährigem Krieg und dem Vorabend der Französischen Revolution,” in Geschichte der Stadt München, ed. Richard Bauer (Munich: Beck, 1992), 211–2. Elisabeth Lichtenberger states that “unlike the kings of France, the Hohenzollerns in Prussia and the Wittelsbachs in Bavaria, the Habsburgs remained virtually uninvolved in construction activities in their own seat.” “Wien—Das sozialökologische Modell einer barocken Residenz um die Mitte des 18. Jahrhunderts,” in Städtische Kultur in der Barockzeit, ed. Wilhelm Rausch (Linz: Österreichischen Arbeitskreis für Stadtgeschichtsforschung und Ludwig-Boltzmann-Institut für Stadtgeschichtsforschung, 1982), 238. A similar view was voiced by Hellmut Lorenz in his “Barockarchitektur in Wien und im Umkreis der Kaiserlichen Residenzstadt,” in Prinz Eugen und das barocke Österreich, ed. Karl Gutkas (Salzburg: Residenz, 1985), 235–48. Kaufmann is far more prudent in expressing his opinion on this issue: “The art and architecture linked with the imperial house only developed to the full in this [imperially propagandist] sense after 1683. Although the court only slowly began

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19. 20. 21. 22. 23.

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25. 26. 27.

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to play the leading role in giving commissions, the first projects were planned very early.” Kaufman, Höfe, Klöster und Städte, 322. Lichtenberger, “Wien,” 246. Hellmut Lorenz, “Ein Exemplum fürstlichen Mäzenatentums der Barockzeit: Bau und Ausstattung des Gartenpalasts Liechtenstein in Wien,” Zeitschrift des deutschen Vereins für Kunstwissenschaft 43 (1989): 7–24. Volker Reinhardt, Überleben in der frühneuzeitlichen Stadt: Annona und Getreideversorgung in Rom 1563–1797 (Tübingen: Niemeyer, 1991). Csendes, “Wien,” 221. Kaufmann, Höfe, Klöster und Städte, 324. In this period Lower Austria lost as much as 90 percent of its population. Wolfgang Pircher, Verwüstung und Verschwendung: Adeliges Bauen nach der Zweiten Türkenbelagerung (Vienna: F. Deuticke, 1984). As regards adding Viennese suburbs to the Inner City, see Felix Czeike, “Wachstumsprobleme in Wien im 19. Jahrhundert,” in Probleme des Städtewesens im industriellen Zeitalter, ed. Helmut Jäger (Cologne: Böhlau, 1978), 246ff. Comprehensively discussed most recently by: Leszek Ziątkowski, “Wrocław w czasach habsburskich (1520–1740),” in Historia Wrocławia, vol. 1, Od pradziejów do końca czasów habsburskich, ed. Cezary Buśko, Mateusz Goliński, Michał Kaczmarek, and Leszek Ziątkowski (Wrocław: Wydawnictwo Dolnośląskie, 2001), 229–37; Teresa Kulak, “Historia Wrocławia,” in Encyklopedia Wrocławia, ed. Jan Harasimowicz (Wrocław: Wydawnictwo Dolnośląskie, 2000), 271–8, here p. 272–3; Wacław Długoborski, Józef Gierowski, and Karol Maleczyński, Dzieje Wrocławia do roku 1807 (Warsaw: Państwowe Wydawnictwo Naukowe, 1958), 375–85. The book by Norman Davies and Roger Moorhouse, Microcosm: Portrait of a Central European City (London: Pimlico, 2002), does not present us with new information. Długoborski, Gierowski, and Maleczyński, Dzieje Wrocławia, 377. Ibid., 380. In their 1958 synthesis, Długoborski, Gierowski, and Maleczyński (Dzieje Wrocławia, 382) believe that the population level of the pre-Thirty Years’ War period (between 32,000 and 36,000) was not exceeded until the beginning of the eighteenth century. See Teresa Kulak and Mateusz Goliński, “Ludność,” in Encyklopedia Wrocławia, ed. Jan Harasimowicz (Wrocław: Wydawn Dolnośląskie, 2000), 464, containing an estimate for the 1690s. Ziątkovski, “Wrocław,” 246, only cites traditional data for 1675 (30,000) and 1710 (41,000). Długoborski, Gierowski, and Maleczyński, Dzieje Wrocławia, 451. Ziątkowski, “Wrocław,” 274; Kulak and Goliński, “Ludność,” 468. Carsten Rabe, Alma Mater Leopoldina: Kolleg und Universität der Jesuiten in Wrocław 1638– 1811 (Cologne: Böhlau, 1999). Ziątkowski, “Wrocław,” 279. Ibid., 269, 283–4. See, for example, the view of the New Market as shown in the drawing by F. B. Werner dated 1755; a reproduction is in Ziątkowski, “Wrocław,” 254. Ouden-Allen’s veduta of Vienna was published in Max Eisler, Historischer Atlas des Wiener Stadtbildes, Arbeiten des kunsthistorischen Instituts der Universität Wien, no. 16 (Vienna: Deutschösterreichische Staatsdruckerei, 1919), Tafel XII; or, more precisely, a photographic reprint in Ferdinand Opll, Wien im Bild historischer Karten: Die Entwicklung der Stadt bis in die Mitte des 19. Jahrhunderts (Vienna: Böhlau, 1983), Tafel 4. Volprecht von OudenAllen (1635–1715) came from Utrecht, the Netherlands; in 1677 he was documented in Vienna and from 1678 in the service of Leopold I as Kammermaler. The veduta of Vienna was printed as a six-part engraving in 1688 after a drawing made before the summer of 1683. Cf. Ingeburg Pick, “Die Türkengefahr als Motiv für die Entstehung Kartographischer Werke über Wien” (Dissertation, Geisteswissenschaftliche Fakultät, Universität Wien,

Prague, Wrocław, and Vienna: Center and Periphery in Baroque Culture?

36.

37.

38.

39.

40. 41.

42. 43. 44.

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1980), 65–7. This work as well as Ouden-Allen’s veduta and a number of other studies on baroque Vienna were kindly provided to me by Professor Dr. Gernot Heiss, to whom I would like to express my thanks and appreciation for his long-time dedicated support. Concerning Ouden-Allen’s veduta of Prague, see Zdeněk Hojda, “Obraz a text na pražských vedutách 17. století,” Acta Universitatis Carolinae: Philosophica et historica 5 (1996): 85–91, in particular 87–9, with citations of other literature. The Czernin palace, built from 1668 after the design by Francesco Carrati, had only one worthy counterpart in Vienna at that time as regards its size and quality: the Leopold wing of the Hofburg, constructed after the projects by Filiberto Lucchese in 1660–1666 and extended from 1672 under the leadership of G. P. Trencallo. See Pavel Vlček, ed., Umělecké památky Prahy: Pražský hrad a Hradčany (Prague: Academia, 2000), 311–20. Concerning the importance of the Leopold wing of Hofburg for Viennese palace architecture created by Italian master builders, see Hellmut Lorenz, “Vienna Gloriosa Habsburgica?” Kunsthistorische Mitteilungen des Österreichischen Kunsthistorikerverbandes 2, no. 4–5 (1985): 49–54. I was unable to consult a study by Hellmut Lorenz, “The Imperial Hofburg: The Theory and Practice of Architectural Representation in Baroque Vienna,” in State and Society in Early Modern Austria, ed. Charles W. Ingrao (West Lafayette: Purdue University Press, 1996), 93–109. Matthias Müller, “Der Anachronismus als Modernität: Die Wiener Hofburg als programmatisches Leitbild für den frühneuzeitlichen Residenzbau im alten Reich,” in Krakau, Prag und Wien: Funktionen von Metropolen im frühmodernen Staat, ed. Marina Dmitrieva and Karen Lambrecht (Stuttgart: Steiner, 2000), 313–29; Hubert Ch. Ehalt, Ausdrucksformen absolutistischer Herrschaft: Der Wiener Hof im 17. und 18. Jahrhundert (Vienna: Verlag für Geschichte und Politik, 1980), 84ff. See Michal Šroněk, “Kunstmäzenatentum in Prag 1580–1650 als Ausdruck gesellschaftlicher Veränderungen,” in Dmitrieva and Lambrecht, Krakau, Prag und Wien, 190–3. Pavel Preiss, “Zánik rudolfinských sbírek a nová obrazárna na Pražském hradě,” in Artis pictoriae amatores: Evropa v zrcadle pražského barokního sběratelství, ed. Lubomír Slavíček (Prague: Národní galerie v Praze, 1993), 33; and Klara Garas, “Die Sammlung Buckingham und die kaiserliche Galerie,” Wiener Jahrbuch für Kunstgeschichte 40 (1987): 111–21. Długoborski, Gierowski, and Maleczyński, Dzieje Wrocławia, 453–5. Ivana Čornejová, Kapitoly z dějin pražské univerzity 1622–1773 (Prague: Karolinum, 1992), 9–60, 133–6. Concerning the Clam-Gallas palace, see Václav Ledvinka’s exposé in Václav Ledvinka, Bohumil Mráz, and Vít Vlnas, Pražské paláce (Prague: Nakl. Akropolis, 1995), 79–85. It is worth mentioning that the magnificently ostentatious frontal part of the palace was built after a design by Johann Bernhard Fischer von Erlach only after 1713, following the 1699– 1700 period of construction led by Marco Antonio Canevale—in other words, years after the beginning of the palace construction boom in Vienna. Concerning the personality and work of Johann Bernhard Fischer von Erlach, the creator of fundamental concepts of imperial Vienna’s architecture and designer of many key buildings, see—apart from less recent works by Hans Sedlmayr and Hans Auerhammers—a monograph by Hellmut Lorenz, Johann Bernhard Fischer von Erlach (Zürich: Verlag für Architektur, 1992); and the collection, Friedrich Polleroß, ed., Fischer von Erlach und die Wiener Barocktradition (Vienna: Böhlau, 1995). Zdeněk Hojda, “Die Architektur ist das Schönste und Nützlichste nach denen Litteris: Knihy o architektuře v pražských měšťanských knihovnách 17. století,” in Historia docet (A collection of works in tribute to the sixtieth birthday of Professor Ivan Hlaváček), ed. Miloslav Polívka and Michal Svatoš (Prague: Historický ústav, 1992), 115–25. Concerning the noble milieux in the empire and Austria, see Norbert Conrads, Ritterakademien der frühen Neuzeit (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck und Ruprecht, 1982); and Gernot Heiss, “Standeserziehung und Schulunterricht: Zur Bildung der niederösterreichischen Adeligen in der frühen

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Neuzeit,” in Adel im Wandel: Politik, Kultur, Konfession, ed. Herbert Knittler, Gottfried Stangler, and Renate Zedinger (Vienna: Amt der NÖ Landesregierung, 1990), 397–400. Lubomír Lancinger published a series of articles under a common title: “Z místopisu Nového Města pražského v 15.–19. století,” PSH 20 (1987): 138–80; 21 (1988): 84–123; 24 (1991): 118–59; 25 (1992): 132–71; 28 (1995): 147–76. Rich documentation can be found in a book by Kateřina Bečková, Zmizelé Praha: Nové Město (Prague: Nakladatelství Schola Ludus-Pragensia, 1998). Also to be noted is a study by Pavel Vlček, “Proměny Nového Města a Vyšehradu v baroku,” in Umělecké památky Prahy: Nové Město, Vyšehrad, Vinohrady, ed. Růžena Baťková et al. (Prague: Academia, 1998), 30. See also the very informative, important, but concise study by Olga Fejtová, “Příspěvek k sociálně ekonomické charakteristice Nového Města pražského v 17. století—domovní majetek jako výraz sociálně ekonomického potenciálu města,” Documenta Pragensia 17 (1998): 171–83. Fejtová, “Příspěvek,” 180. Lichtenberger, “Wien,” 246. Jaroslav Jásek, “K zásobování Nového Města pražského vodou,” Documenta Pragensia 17 (1998): 301–4. Zdeněk Hojda, “Výtvarná díla v domech staroměstských měšťanů v letech 1627–1740: Příspěvek k dějinám barokní Prahy I,” PSH 26 (1993): 38–102; idem, “Kulturní investice staroměstských měšťanů v letech 1627–1740: Příspěvek k dějinám kultury barokní Prahy II,” PSH 27 (1994): 47–104; idem, “Marek Bernard Joanelli, příklad ambiciózního pražského měšťana a mecenáše 1. poloviny 18. století,” in Barokní umění a jeho význam v české kultuře, ed. Národní galerie v Praze (Prague: Národní galerie v Praze, 1991), 171–84; idem, “Karlův most jako barokní znaková galerie: Donátoři mosteckých soch a jejich znaky,” in Seminář a jeho hosté, ed. Zdeněk Hojda, Jiří Pešek, and Blanka Zilynská (Prague: Filozofická fakulta Univerzity Karlovy, 1992), 247–61; Olga Fejtová, “Zum Vergleich der bürgerlichen Privatbibliotheken in Prager Neustadt und Heilbronn im 17. Jahrhundert,” in Bürgerliche Kultur im Vergleich: Deutschland, die böhmischen Länder und das Karpatenbecken im 16. und 18. Jahrhundert, ed. István Monok and Péter Ötvös (Szeged: Scriptum, 1998), 23–36; Jiří Pokorný, “Knihy a knihovny v inventářích pražských měšťanů v 18. století (1700–1784),” Acta Universitatis Carolinae - Historia Universitatis Carolinae Pragensis 28, no. 1 (1988): 41–64. Knittler, Die europäische Stadt, 49; Heinz Schilling, Die Stadt in der frühen Neuzeit, Enzyklopädie deutscher Geschichte, vol. 24 (Munich: Oldenbourg, 1993), 13–17. The “geographical position” of Prague inside the Habsburg lands, which were becoming internally integrated from the 1660s, underwent substantial transformations. The loss of both Lusatias to Saxony, the repulse of the Turks, the shift of the eastern border of the Habsburg possessions far to the east, and later the loss of most of Silesia (including Wrocław) to Prussia—all this resulted in changing Prague from a city in the very center of the Habsburg lands at the beginning of the seventeenth century into an urban center at the northern edge of the Danubian monarchy. Now it was Vienna that was at the geographical focus of the Habsburg possessions, although until 1683 it had been the strategic “border” point for the forces fighting the Turks. The ties with the “inner” Holy Roman Empire of the German nation loosened in proportion to the growing influence of the Habsburg possessions proper. See Jaroslav Pánek, “Habsburská monarchie jako rámec rozvoje barokní kultury,” in Kultura baroka v Čechách a na Moravě, ed. Zdeněk Hojda (Prague: Historický ústav, 1992), 43–52. See Kaufmann, Höfe, Klöster und Städte, 311–12 and 550, where the author refers to his study, “An Independent Dutch Art: A View from Central Europe,” in 1648: Vrede van Munster, ed. Katholieke Universiteit Nijmegen, Werkgroep Zeventiende Eeuw (Hilversum: Verloren, 1997), 359–69. Concerning Brandenburg–Preussen, see Knittler, Die Europäische Stadt, 69–70; Wolfgang Braunfels, Abendländische Stadtbaukunst: Herrschaftsform und Baugestalt (Cologne: DuMont Schauberg, 1976), 229–34; and Helga Schultz, Berlin 1650–1800: Sozialgeschichte einer Residenz (Berlin: Akademie Verlag, 1992).

Chapter 5

REPRESENTATION OF THE COURT AND BURGHERS IN THE BAROQUE CITIES OF THE HIGH ROAD Kraków, Wrocław, and Dresden in a Historical Comparison

d Jan Harasimowicz

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ne of the factors that contributed most to the development of towns in central Europe, and especially in its eastern part, was long-distance trade, which defined principal east-west and north-south trade routes and then ensured that the road system remained passable and properly maintained thanks to trading settlements founded along the routes. At the center of such a settlement was usually a parish church dedicated to Saint Nicholas, the patron saint of travelers. Recent studies on the origins of towns have shown that the emergence of a trading settlement frequently preceded the subsequent foundation of a town chartered in accordance with German law, and the remnants of its irregular layout would for a long time remain detectable within the new regular grid of streets.1 Such were the origins of many towns situated along one of the branches of the middle and eastern sections of the so-called Hohe Straße (High Road), also referred to as the via regia (royal road), which connected western Europe with Kievan Russia, i.e., the areas of Meissen, Lusatia, Silesia, and Little Poland.2 Some of these towns, such as Dresden, Bautzen, Legnica, Wrocław, Brzeg, Opole, Bytom, and Kraków, from the very beginning (or soon thereafter) benefited from the protection provided by a stronghold erected nearby and later transformed into a castle to serve as the seat of a margrave, duke, or king. Other towns, such as Großenhain, Kamenz, Görlitz, Bolesławiec, Tarnów, Przemyśl, and Lviv, never acquired the status of the feudal lord’s residence, but feudal lordship manifested itself in each of them in a variety of ways nevertheless.

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The High Road provided a channel not only for commercial exchange, but also for the transfer of material and spiritual culture, the forms and institutions of social life, and religious and artistic ideas.3 While trade exchange was bilateral, the cultural transfer was of a more unilateral character, directed mainly from the west (chiefly southern Germany) to the east. Over time, merchants from Nuremberg and Augsburg journeying through Dresden, Görlitz, Wrocław, and Kraków would set up trading posts in these towns, and many settled there and propagated their native customs, forms of piety, social intercourse, and entertainment. And so, in the later fifteenth–early sixteenth centuries, the south German type of painted or sculpted epitaph reached Wrocław and Kraków, and in the principal churches in both cities, monumental winged altarpieces by Nuremberg masters were installed. The impulses coming from Bohemia, Moravia, the areas located on the lower stretch of the Rhein River and on the Schelde and Maas, as well as the Baltic towns of the Hanseatic League, were no longer of primary importance. The cultural identity of the three main cities situated on the middle stretch of the via regia—Kraków, Wrocław, and Dresden—was formed in the late Middle Ages under the dominant influence of south German burgher culture capable of imposing its standards even upon the royal court, as happened in Kraków.4 Therefore the focus of the present paper is on how this relatively uniform cultural model changed as a result of socio-political processes characteristic of the early modern era. Who was the initiator of these changes and who benefited most from them? What survived as an enduring medieval heritage in the aforementioned cities, and what was the imprint of the Renaissance and the baroque? In Kraków, the first signs of the waning influence of the form of burgher culture developed in southern Germany had already become noticeable at the beginning of the sixteenth century. Under the reign of Sigismund I Jagiellon, the royal castle on Wawel Hill in Kraków (figures 5.1 and 5.2) became the center of the new Italian Renaissance culture that was not only influencing this city, but was also spreading to the rest of Poland.5 Likewise, Dresden Castle became the principal center in Saxony of the Italianate Renaissance culture (italianitá),6 propagated with great determination by Elector Moritz and his successor Augustus—although this happened a little later than in Kraków, after the Albertine line of the Wettins secured the electorate of Saxony from the Ernestines in 1548. A different situation developed in Wrocław, which had been deprived of an independent ducal court earlier in the fourteenth century. Ferdinand I Habsburg seized the rule of Silesia after King Ludwig Jagiellon’s tragic death at Mohacs in 1526, and quickly ordered the castle on the left bank of the Odra (Oder) to be modernized. Still, the decisive impulse towards the Italian Renaissance was provided by Kraków, with, for example, tombs with recumbent effigies and atticcrowned monumental buildings, as well as by Görlitz and Dresden, with, for example, portals of townhouses, and epitaphs set in an architectural framework.7 Renaissance edifices erected in Kraków and its vicinity during the reign of Sigismund I and Sigismund II Augustus fulfilled all the criteria of the early modern idiom. The Sigismund Chapel at Wawel Cathedral (figure 5.3)—a splendid

Representation of the Court and Burghers: Kraków, Wrocław, and Dresden

Figure 5.1. Kraków, Royal Castle on Wawel Hill (fourteenth–fifteenth centuries), eastern view. From Jan K. Ostrowski, Kraków (Warsaw: Wydawn. Artystyczne i Filmowe, 1992), fig. 66.

Figure 5.2. Kraków, Royal Castle on Wawel Hill, Renaissance courtyard with arcades. From Ostrowski, Kraków, fig. 67.

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Figure 5.3. Wawel Cathedral, Interior of the Sigismund Chapel (1519–1533). From Ostrowski, Kraków, fig. 89.

dynastic monument—had no equal in any country north of the Alps.8 The city itself could still afford considerable investments, to which the building of the Cloth Hall (figure 5.4), crowned with a beautiful decorated parapet, testifies.9 It inspired a number of similar parapets employed in townhouses as well as in

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Figure 5.4. Kraków, Town Square, Cloth Hall (1556–1560) from the southeast. From Ostrowski, Kraków, fig. 100.

residential and ecclesiastical buildings.10 However, as the focus of Polish politics moved towards the north and northeast under the first elected monarchs—particularly Sigismund III Vasa—and Kraków lost its capital status to Warsaw, its political and cultural role began to wane. The move of the royal court to Warsaw in 1609 dealt the final blow to Kraków’s metropolitan ambitions. The last years of the royal presence in Kraków converged with the emergence of the baroque style in Poland, marked by the erection of the Jesuit Church of SS. Peter and Paul (started in 1597, built by Giuseppe Britius, Giovanni Maria Bernardoni, and Giovanni Trevano)11 and the so-called Senators’ Staircase at Wawel Castle (started in 1599 under Giovanni Trevano).12 The Jesuit Church in Kraków was one of the first in Europe inspired by the Jesuits’ mother church Il Gesu in Rome, and is an outstanding architectural work (figure 5.5). Its dynamic proportions, articulated Bays, and the form of its dome refer to the early baroque style of Carlo Maderna. This architectural idiom, represented also by the Zbaraski Chapel at the Dominican church in Kraków (1627–1633),13 was not, however, widely adopted in the city. Until about 1680, the Roman and north Italian version of the baroque style dominated. It first appeared at the Camaldolite church at Bielany near Kraków (1610–1630).14 The transition to the high Roman baroque as interpreted by Gian Lorenzo Bernini was marked by the University Church of St.

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Figure 5.5. Kraków, Jesuit Church of SS. Peter and Paul (1597–1639), Grodzka Street façade. From Jacek Purchla, Cracovie au coeur de l’Europe (Kraków: Międzynarodowe Centrum Kultury Kraków, 2001), fig. 96.

Anne (1689–1704), distinguished by its stucco decor (Baldassare Fontana),15 and the Missionaries’ church at Stradom (1719–1728), distinguished by its architecture (Kacper Bażanka, Polish architect and former student at Rome’s Academy of San Luca) (figure 5.6).16 One of the last baroque monuments erected in Kraków,

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the Trinitarian church in Kazimierz (1752–1758),17 designed by Francesco Placidi, referred to the style of Francesco Borromini and also incorporated elements of French and Saxon rococo. The number of churches and chapels erected during this period, and the splendor of the decor and furnishings lavished on the newly erected as well as existing structures, seem puzzling in the context of the city’s waning political role, outbreaks of plague (1623, 1652, 1677–1681), and wars. However, this wave of

Figure 5.6. Kraków, Missionaries’ church in Stradom (1719–1728), façade before a fronton and attic were added above the side sections. From Ostrowski, Kraków, fig. 163.

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building activity sponsored by the Catholic Church resulted from the fact that it became the principal beneficiary of the transfer of the capital to Warsaw: in 1667 the Church owned 55.1 percent of the lots in the city, while 27.7 percent belonged to local burghers, and only 16.6 percent to members of the nobility.18 Many clergymen continued to regard Kraków as “Little Rome,” an important center of religious life, culture, and the arts; among them was Piotr Hiacynt Pruszcz, author of Kleynoty Stołecznego Miástá Krakowa albo Koscioły, which provides a description of the churches and jewels of the capital city of Kraków.19 Formally, Polish kings continued to be crowned and buried in Kraków, but the city’s declining status was reflected in the fact that the Saxon Chapel at Wawel Cathedral (designed by Francesco Placidi about 1755) was never completed, while Augustus II and Augustus III became actively involved in monumental urban and architectural projects in Warsaw (now known as the Saxon Axis, 1713–1745). It is also worthy of note that the declining economic status of Kraków burghers was reflected in the modesty of their tombs and epitaphs. In addition, few new townhouses were erected or modernized, and building activity remained limited to maintenance. Many townhouses were demolished to make room for cloisters of rather modest architecture.20 Unlike the ultra-Catholic Kraków, Wrocław, the capital of Silesia, remained a city divided along religious lines over the entire early modern period.21 The territory within the town walls under the jurisdiction of the city council had become completely Lutheran by 1530, and the few remaining convents (Premonstratensian, Dominican, and Red Star Knights of the Cross) and nunneries (Clarist and Dominican) had to adjust to the new situation and keep a low profile to avoid religious conflicts. The islands on the Odra remained under the jurisdiction of the Cathedral Chapter, the collegiate Holy Cross Church, and the Augustinian monastery on Sand Island, but for many years the proprietors could not afford any major investment.22 The construction of the western towers of St John’s Cathedral and their Renaissance helmets was completed only in 1580, after the diocesan synod had accepted the decrees of the Council of Trent. Wrocław was now under the rule of the Catholic King of Bohemia, who granted the city privileges making its status equal to the towns of the Reich, and who made sure that Lutheranism, reluctantly tolerated by the Catholic monarchs, did not evolve into the “iconoclastic” Calvinism. As a result, the medieval decor and furnishings of the three principal churches (St. Elisabeth’s, St. Mary Magdalene’s, and St. Bernardino’s) were preserved and enriched with Renaissance pulpits, baptismal fonts, and sepulchral monuments.23 This cunning policy, along with the skillful maneuvering between the warring factions during the Thirty Years’ War, allowed the burghers to continue the free propagation of the Augsburg Confession and to retain most of the city’s political privileges. The first workhouse (Zuchthaus) in the Habsburg monarchy was founded in Wrocław on the bank of the Black Oława River (Schwarze Ohle),24 and became the symbol of “good order” and postwar rebuilding. It was erected in the Italian early baroque style. By the late seventeenth to early eighteenth century, many medieval town-

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houses were demolished to make room for baroque palatial residences built for noblemen loyal to the emperor.25 The continuous pressure of the Catholic authority resulted in the gradual adoption of the high baroque in its Roman version. The first churches erected in this style were St. Jacob’s Church (1686–1690), built by Augustinian nuns, and St. Anthony’s Church (1685–1692), built by the Reformati.26 However, it was St. Elizabeth’s Chapel at St. John the Baptist’s Cathedral that became the turning point (figure 5.7). Founded by Cardinal Friedrich von Hessen-Darmstadt, Bishop of Wrocław, it was a direct import from Rome of exquisite architecture

Figure 5.7. Wrocław, St. John the Baptist’s Cathedral. Interior of St. Elizabeth’s Chapel (1680–1700). From Harasimowicz, ed., Atlas architektury Wrocławia, 2 vols. (Wrocław: Wydawnictwo Dolnośląskie, 1997–1998), vol. 1, fig. 1e.

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and sculpture by such artists as Giacomo Scianzi, Domenico Guidi, and Ercole Ferrata.27 Over time, its counterpart was erected on the other side of the so-called small choir of the Cathedral: the Eucharist Chapel, known also as the Electoral Chapel (1716–1724), founded by Bishop Franz Ludwig von der Pfalz-Neuburg and designed by the famous Viennese architect Johann Bernhard Fischer von Erlach.28 When virtually all Catholic churches originally built in the Gothic style (Church of Our Lady on Sand Island, Holy Cross Church, St. Vincent’s, St. Clare’s, St. Adalbert’s, St. Catherine’s, St. Matthias’s, St. Dorothy’s, and Corpus Christi Church) were also furnished with new baroque altarpieces and paintings (figure 5.8), the Protestant burghers had to respond. At last, the interiors of Wrocław Lutheran churches opened up to let in the winds of change, exemplified by the magnificent baroque organ installed in St. Mary Magdalene’s Church.29

Figure 5.8. Wrocław, Premonstratensian Church of St. Vincent; interior with Baroque altarpieces, paintings, and stalls (second half of the seventeenth century). Painting by Adalbert Woelfl from 1869. From Harasimowicz, Atlas architektury Wrocławia, vol. 1, fig. 17b.

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The Jesuit mission, established in Wrocław only in 1638 after a few failed attempts, remained under the personal patronage of several successive emperors.30 Soon afterwards, the Jesuit College was founded, and, to accommodate it, Emperor Ferdinand III let the Jesuits use Wrocław Castle, first temporarily and then permanently after it had become clear that they would not find another location in the city. The Kaiserkammer, housed at the castle from 1558, was moved first to the former curia of the Dukes of Opole, and, after 1701, to the new monumental building opposite the Clarist nunnery (figure 5.9).31 When Emperor Leopold I

Figure 5.9. Wrocław, the building of the former Kaiserkammer (after 1701), northern view. From Harasimowicz, Atlas architektury Wrocławia, vol. 1, fig. 115.

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elevated the Jesuit college to the rank of university in 1702, the site of the demolished wings of the castle was already occupied by the new baroque church of the Holy Name of Jesus (1689–1698) (figure 5.10).32

Figure 5.10. Wrocław, Jesuit Church of the Holy Name of Jesus (1689–1734), southeastern view. From Harasimowicz, Atlas architektury Wrocławia, vol. 1, fig. 52a.

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The emperor subsequently sent his court painter Johann Michael Rottmayr to Wrocław to paint the church’s monumental plafond (1704–1706). On a narrow parcel stretched along the Odra, the edifice of the Jesuit academy was erected (today, the main building of the university) and the effigies of its founder, together with his two sons, emperors Joseph I and Charles VI, were prominently featured in the splendid Leopoldine Hall on the first floor (1731–1733) (figure 5.11). Its iconographical program glorified the Habsburg patrimonium scientiae.33 The monumental staircase leading to the Leopoldine Hall was decorated with frescoes representing all Silesian duchies and estates (1734–1735). This symbolic homage paid by Silesia to the magnanimous monarch who had sacrificed his castle, the principal attribute of his power, to benefit “the faithful province, dear to his heart,” was designed to put an end to the doubts expressed by the Lutherans as to the need for a Catholic institution of higher education in Wrocław. The completion of the university complex in its originally intended form, with the monumental Imperial Tower at the center and two smaller towers at both sides, became impossible after the Prussian army under King Frederick II invaded Silesia in the late 1740s. Soon it became obvious that Wrocław, which, in the meantime, had been proclaimed the third capital city of Prussia, had no suitable edifice to convert into a royal residence. The Spaetgen Palace in the city’s southern section was purchased and extended by adding the perpendicular Frederick Wing, distinguished by its restrained architecture (figure 5.12).34 The Reformed Evangelical Court Church, erected nearby after the design of Johann Boumann the Elder (1750) (figure 5.13),35 was also an austere structure, very different from

Figure 5.11. Wrocław, main building of the Jesuit University (1728–1736), Leopoldine Hall, western view. From Harasimowicz, Atlas architektury Wrocławia, vol. 1, fig. 175c.

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Figure 5.12. Wrocław, former residence of Prussian kings (1751–1846), southern view. Archival photograph, 1880. From Harasimowicz, Atlas architektury Wrocławia, vol. 1, fig. 114d. Figure 5.13. Wrocław, Evangelical-Reformed Court Church (evang.reform. Hofkirche) (1746–1750), northeastern view. From Harasimowicz, Atlas architektury Wrocławia, vol. 1, fig. 55a.

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the Lutheran parish churches rich in representational works of art. The transition from the ornate late baroque style in its Austro-Bohemian version to the restrained rococo forms favored by Frederick paved the way for the vernacular interpretation of neoclassicism, which by the late eighteenth century triumphed in the ecclesiastical and secular buildings of Carl Gotthard Langhans.36 Unlike Kraków and Wrocław, which in the baroque period did not benefit from a royal or princely patronage opening new horizons for the arts and architecture, the character of Dresden was determined by the artistic patronage of the Saxon rulers, the Wettins.37 They resided in the successively expanded Renaissance castle whose façade was covered with sgraffito decorations. Over time they also gained control over the Belvedere in the Jungfernbastei, the Opera House (1667), and the early baroque Palais im Großen Garten (1678–1683) (figure 5.14).38 The coming to power of Elector Friedrich Augustus (1694) and, in particular, his becoming King of Poland (he was elected in 1697, and reascended the throne in 1709 under the name of Augustus II), which forced him to convert to Catholicism, opened entirely new perspectives for Dresden and Saxony. The King’s shrewd economic policy helped finance monumental construction projects, which were based as well on a solid organizational framework from 1718, when the Supreme Civil Engineering Office (Ziviloberbauamt) was founded and two state building supervisors (Oberlandbaumeister) were appointed: Matthäus Daniel Pöppelmann and Zacharias Longuelune.39 A number of edifices were erected, among them such outstanding realizations of Saxon rococo as the Zwinger (1710–1719, 1722– 1728) (figure 5.15),40 Pillnitz Castle (1720–1725),41 Moritzburg Hunting Castle, which had a major overhaul in 1723–1736, (figure 5.16),42 and the Japanese Palace (1728–1733).43

Figure 5.14. Dresden, Palais im Großen Garten (1678–1683), view from the town’s side. Archival photograph from 1937. From Fritz Löffler, Das alte Dresden: Geschichte seiner Bauten, 6th ed. (Leipzig: VEB E. A. Seemann, 1982), fig. 130.

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Figure 5.15. Dresden, Zwinger (1710–1719), Crown Gate (Kronentor), crowned with four gilded eagles and Polish royal crown. Archival photograph. From Löffler, Dresden, fig. 188.

After Augustus II had died and his son Elector Friedrich Augustus II was elected king of Poland in 1734 as Augustus III, construction activity in Dresden continued, expressed in the Brühl Palace (1737–1740), Catholic Court Church (kath. Hofkirche, 1738–1755), the Town Hall in the Old Town Square (1741–

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Figure 5.16. Dresden, Moritzburg Hunting Castle (1723–1736), southern view. Archival photograph from 1933. From Löffler, Dresden, fig. 212.

1746), Hubertusburg Hunting Castle (1743–1751), and the Town Hall in the New Town (1750–1753).44 Both monarchs were also dedicated and systematic collectors. Some of the expanding royal collections were displayed in specially designed rooms, such as the Grünes Gewölbe (1723–1729), and were made accessible to the general public.45 Simultaneously with the establishment of the Royal Palace of Science (Palais Royal des Sciences, 1728) at the Zwinger, regulations were issued concerning the number of visitors and entrance fees. The reign of Augustus II and his successor benefited the burghers, who in the rulers’ absolutist policy were assigned the role of counterbalancing the influence of the nobility.46 The population of Dresden grew quickly from 21,300 in 1699 to 64,200 in 1755. The privileged position of Lutheranism did not suffer as a result of the ruler’s conversion to Catholicism: on 29 September 1767, the city was granted appropriate guarantees. The newly erected Catholic Court Church designed by Gaetano Chiaveri was an austere, neoclassical structure.47 Its interior housed a special ambulatory to accommodate the annual Corpus Christi processions, which were not allowed to venture outside the church, as was customary in Catholic cities. The monumental, centrally planned Church of Our Lady (Frauenkirche, 1726–1734), designed by George Bähr, with its monumental dome towering over the Old Town’s panorama, became the symbol of the city’s adherence to Lutheranism.48 In the New Town, on the opposite bank of the Elbe, rose the Church of the Three Magi (Dreikönigskirche, 1732–1739) with its exceptionally high tower, a collaboration of Matthäus Daniel Pöppelmann and George Bähr.49 Destroyed in 1760 as a result of bombardment by Prussian

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troops besieging the city, Holy Cross Church (Kreuzkirche; formerly St. Nicholas’ Church founded in the trading settlement that preceded the chartering of the town) was rebuilt several years later by Johann Georg Schmidt, George Bähr’s pupil, in the Neoclassical style (figure 5.17).50

Figure 5.17. Dresden, Evangelical Holy Cross Church (evang. Kreuzkirche) (1764– 1792), southern view. Archival photograph. From Löffler, Dresden, fig. 287.

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In contrast to Kraków and Wrocław, where most of the medieval architectural substance (first of all ecclesiastical buildings) was preserved through the late eighteenth century, Dresden became a thoroughly baroque city within a relatively short period. This was possible thanks to the establishment by the monarch of a central planning agency responsible for assuring the stately character of newly erected edifices and complexes. In Wrocław, the monarch’s representation was limited, because of the city’s specific status, to the university complex, whose baroque architecture stood in sharp contrast to the medieval churches and townhouses only occasionally enlivened by Renaissance or baroque architectural details. Unlike the baroque monasteries, most of which were later destroyed following their secularization in 1810, baroque churches did not constitute a prominent feature in the cityscape. In Kraków, on the other hand, the baroque style was realized mainly in churches that were built, decorated, and furnished with no expense spared. Even today, they contrast with Renaissance secular buildings that are a unique testimony to the harmonious coexistence in Kraków of royal representation (Wawel Castle and Cathedral) and municipal representation (Cloth Hall), characteristic of the “golden age” of the commonwealth. The developments discussed in this paper reflect the gradual weakening, in the sixteenth century, of the late-medieval cultural connections that linked the three cities located on the via regia. Over the following centuries, this connection disappeared almost completely as a result of two converging processes. One was the declining importance of the High Road itself as it became marginalized in favor of the newly discovered sea route to India. The other reflected the political developments in this part of Europe that were shaped by factors other than longdistance trade. Kraków, Wrocław, and Dresden would, perhaps, have had more in common with each other from the early eighteenth century, had the plans for creating a direct territorial connection between Saxony and Poland been realized. Its establishment was essential if the two-state organism ruled by the Wettins were to emerge as a new central European power, given the right economic climate.51 However, neither Austria nor Prussia was willing to foster Saxony’s political ambitions and transfer a strip of Silesian territory to make this connection possible. The Austro-Prussian rivalry over the control of Silesia, which directed the expansion of Wrocław’s trade either towards the Adriatic or the Baltic Sea, became an additional factor weakening the traditional east-west trade relations based on the Hohe Straße. The partitions of Poland in 1772–1795, the Napoleonic Wars, and subsequent decisions of the Congress of Vienna, resulting in Saxony’s losing of the eastern section of Upper Lusatia (Görlitz District) that became incorporated in the Prussian province of Silesia, further separated the cities under discussion. The development of the major industrial district in Upper Silesia favored the northsouth connection via both water (Odra River) and land routes. The Moravian Gate regained its strategic importance as the shortest passage between Berlin and Vienna. The Berlin–Legnica–Wrocław superhighway was completed just before World War II and there were plans to extend it to Katowice and Kraków in the

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next phase of construction, while the Dresden connection was planned for a more distant future. However, the situation that arose in this part of Europe in the aftermath of the war (Poland’s borders pushed westwards, Germany divided, and Berlin marginalized) restored the economic importance of the old Kiev–Kraków–Wrocław–Dresden–Frankfurt route, while adding new military and strategic considerations. The dissolution of the Warsaw Pact, fall of the Soviet Union, and peaceful reunification of Germany freed the old via regia from the military servitudes but, despite Berlin’s reclaiming of its political status as the united Germany’s capital, the route’s economic importance, revived after 1945, continues. Since the expansion of the European Union on 1 May 2004, all customs barriers between Germany (Free State of Saxony) and Poland (Province of Lower Silesia) have disappeared. Soon a superhighway will link Dresden, Wrocław, and Kraków (the longest motorway stretch in Poland), the old High Road becoming again—as it was for centuries—the transmission belt of intense economic and cultural exchange.

Endnotes 1. Karlheinz Blaschke, “Die Entstehung der Stadt Dresden,” Dresdner Hefte 19, no. 65 (2001): 3–12. 2. Maria Bogucka and Henryk Samsonowicz, Dzieje miast i mieszczaństwa w Polsce przedrozbiorowej (Wrocław: Zakład Narodowy im. Ossolińskich, 1986), 34–9, 46–50. 3. Wolfgang von Stromer, “Nürnberg-Breslauer Wirtschaftsbeziehungen im Spätmittelalter,” Jahrbuch für fränkische Landesforschung 16 (1975): 1079–1100; Wolfgang von Stromer, “Krakau und Nürnberg zur Zeit des Veit Stoß,” in Veit Stoß: Die Vorträge des Nürnberger Symposions, ed. Rainer Kahsnitz (Munich: Deutscher Kunstverlag, 1985), 9–18; Reinhard Seyboth, “Fränkisch-schlesische Beziehungen im 15. und 16. Jahrhundert,” Jahrbuch der Schlesischen Friedrich-Wilhelms-Universität zu Breslau 28 (1987): 83–97; Jan Harasimowicz, “Die Bedeutung der süddeutschen Reichsstädte für die bürgerliche Kultur der jagiellonischen Länder um 1500,” in Die Jagiellonen: Kunst und Kultur einer europäischen Dynastie an der Wende zur Neuzeit, ed. Dietmar Popp and Robert Suckale (Nürnberg: Germanisches Nationalmuseum, 2002), 403–10. 4. Jan Harasimowicz, “Bürgerliche und höfische Kunstrepräsentation in den Zentren Krakau und Danzig,” in Metropolen im Wandel: Zentralität in Ostmitteleuropa an der Wende vom Mittelalter zur Neuzeit, ed. Evamaria Engel, Karen Lambrecht, and Hanna Nogossek (Berlin: Akademie Verlag, 1995), 93–107. 5. Tadeusz Dobrowolski, Sztuka Krakowa, 4th ed. (Kraków: Wydawn. Literackie, 1971), 211–73; Jacek Purchla, Cracovie au coeur de l’Europe (Kraków: Centre International de la Culture, 2001), 56–73. 6. Fritz Löffler, Das alte Dresden: Geschichte seiner Bauten, 6th ed. (Leipzig: E. A. Seemann, 1982), 34–74; Barbara Marx, ed., Elbflorenz: italienische Präsenz in Dresden 16–19. Jahrhundert (Dresden: Verlag der Kunst, 2000). 7. Mieczysław Zlat, “Sztuka renesansu i manieryzmu 1500–1650,” in Sztuka Wrocławia, ed. Tadeusz Broniewski and Mieczysław Zlat (Wrocław: Zakład Narodowy im. Ossolińskich, 1967), 183–263. 8. Stefan S. Komornicki, “Kaplica Zygmuntowska w katedrze na Wawelu 1517–1533,” Rocznik Krakowski 23 (1932): 47–120; Lech Kalinowski, “Treści artystyczne i ideowe Kaplicy

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12. 13. 14.

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17. 18.

19. 20. 21.

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Zygmuntowskiej,” Studia do dziejów Wawelu 2 (1960): 1–129; Stanisław Mossakowski, “Bartolomeo Berrecci á Cracovie: la chapelle Sigismond,” Revue de l’ Art 101 (1993): 67–85. Stefan Świszczowski, “Sukiennice na rynku krakowskim w epoce gotyku i renesansu,” Biuletyn Historii Sztuki i Kultury 10 (1948): 285–309. Dobrowolski, Sztuka Krakowa, 281–3. Adam Małkiewicz, “Kościół ŚŚ. Piotra i Pawła w Krakowie—dzieje budowy i problem autorstwa,” Zeszyty Naukowe UJ. Prace z Historii Sztuki 5 (1967): 43–86; Adam Miłobędzki, Architektura polska XVII wieku (Warsaw: Państwowe Wydawnictwo Naukowe, 1980), 121– 4; Adam Małkiewicz, Kościół Świętych Piotra i Pawła w Krakowie (Kraków: Wydawnictwo Literackie, 1985). Miłobędzki, Architektura polska, 115f. Ibid., 188. Jacek Gajewski, “Kościół i klasztor kamedułów na Bielanach pod Krakowem w świetle materiałów archiwalnych,” Biuletyn Historii Sztuki 38 (1976): 374–7; Miłobędzki, Architektura polska, 124–8. Stanisław Mossakowski, Tylman z Gameren: architekt polskiego baroku (Wrocław: Zakład Narodowy im. Ossolińskich, 1973), 78–80, 197–202; Miłobędzki, Architektura polska, 389–92. Olgierd Zagórowski, “Architekt Kacper Bażanka. Około 1680–1726 r.,” Biuletyn Historii Sztuki 18 (1956): 84–122; Józef Lepiarczyk, “W sprawie fasady późnobarokowego kościoła Misjonarzy w Krakowie,” Rocznik Krakowski 52 (1986): 47–60. Józef Lepiarczyk, “Architekt Franciszek Placidi. Około 1710–1782,” Rocznik Krakowski 38 (1965): 65–126. Mieczysław Niwiński, “Stanowy podział własności nieruchomej w Krakowie XVI i XVII stulecia,” in Studia historyczne ku czci Stanisława Kutrzeby (Kraków: Uniwersytet Jagielloński, 1938), 549–85. Piotr Hiacynth Pruszcz, Kleynoty Stołecznego Miástá Krakowa albo Koscioły, y co w nich iest widzenia godnego y znácznego (1745; reprint, Kraków: Krajowa Agencja Wydawnicza, 1983). Janina Bieniarzówna and Jan M. Małecki, Dzieje Krakowa, vol. 2: Kraków w wiekach XVIXVIII, 2nd ed. (Kraków: Wydawnictwo Literackie, 1994), 262–96. Wacław Długoborski, Józef Gierowski, and Karol Maleczyński, Dzieje Wrocławia do roku 1807 (Warsaw: Państwowe Wydawnictwo Naukowe, 1958); Ludwig Petry, Breslau und seine ersten Oberherren aus dem Hause Habsburg 1526–1635: Ein Beitrag zur politischen Geschichte der Stadt (St. Katharinen: Scripta Mercaturae Verlag, 2000). Jan Harasimowicz, “Funkcje katolickiego mecenatu artystycznego na Śląsku w dobie reformacji i ‘odnowy trydenckiej’ Kościoła,” Śląski Kwartalnik Historyczny Sobótka 41 (1986): 561–81. Jan Harasimowicz, “Die Haupt- und Pfarrkirche zu St. Elisabeth in Breslau: ‘evangelischer Zion’ einer multinationalen Metropole,” in Europa in der Frühen Neuzeit: Festschrift für Günther Mühlpfordt, vol. 1: Vormoderne, ed. Erich Donnert (Weimar: Böhlau, 1997), 603–12. Wojciech Brzezowski, “Wrocławski dom pracy przymusowej i jego budowniczowie,” in Architektura Wrocławia, vol. 4: Gmach, ed. Jerzy Rozpędowski (Wrocław: Oficyna Wydawnicza Politechniki Wrocławskiej, 1998), 47–64. Wojciech Brzezowski, “Dom wrocławski w okresie baroku,” in Architektura Wrocławia, vol. 1: Dom (Wrocław: Oficyna Wydawnicza Politechniki Wrocławskiej, 1995), 173–87; Jan Harasimowicz, ed., Atlas architektury Wrocławia, 2 vols. (Wrocław: Wydawnictwo Dolnośląskie, 1997–1998), 2:10–21. Harasimowicz, ed., Atlas architektury Wrocławia, 1:14f., 48f. Bernhard Patzak, Die Elisabethkapelle des Breslauer Domes (Breslau: Freies Forschungsinstitut für Schlesische Kunst- und Kulturgeschichte, 1922); Konstanty Kalinowski, “Kaplica Św. Elżbiety przy katedrze we Wrocławiu,” Kwartalnik Architektury i Urbanistyki 15 (1969): 273–96; Konstanty Kalinowski, Architektura doby baroku na Śląsku (Warsaw: Państwowe

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Wydawnictwo Naukowe, 1977), 108–10; Konstanty Kalinowski, Rzeźba barokowa na Śląsku (Warsaw: Państwowe Wydawnictwo Naukowe, 1986), 121–4; Cristiano Giometti, “Per Domenico Guidi scultore (1628–1701): nuovi contributi,” Dzieła i Interpretacje 8 (2003): 93–109. Stanisław Mossakowski, “Kaplica Elektorska przy katedrze we Wrocławiu,” Zeszyty Naukowe UJ. Prace z Historii Sztuki 1 (1962): 195–222; Kalinowski, Architektura doby baroku, 154–9; Kalinowski, Rzeźba barokowa, 124f. Samuel Gumiński, “Barokowe prospekty organowe kościołów wrocławskich,” in Architektura Wrocławia, vol. 3: Świątynia, ed. Jerzy Rozpędowski (Wrocław: Oficyna Wydawnicza Politechniki Wrocławskiej, 1997), 193–212. Carsten Rabe, Alma Mater Leopoldina: Kolleg und Universität der Jesuiten in Breslau 1638– 1811 (Cologne: Böhlau, 1999). Harasimowicz, ed., Atlas architektury Wrocławia, 1:102f. Ibid., 1:50f.; Henryk Dziurla, “Kościół Uniwersytecki na zrębach lewobrzeżnego zamku,” in Architektura Wrocławia, vol. 3: Świątynia, 161–9. Henryk Dziurla, Uniwersytet Wrocławski (Wrocław: Zakład Narodowy im. Ossolińskich, 1975), 65–75. Konstanty Kalinowski, “Wrocławska rezydencja Fryderyka II,” Materiały Muzeum Wnętrz Zabytkowych w Pszczynie 3 (1984): 21–51; Harasimowicz, ed., Atlas architektury Wrocławia, 1:100–3. The stately royal residence was erected perpendicular to the Frederick’s Wing and facing the Parade Ground (Exercierplatz) in 1843–1846, after the design of the Berlin architect Friedrich August Stüler. Kalinowski, Architektura doby baroku, 319f.; Harasimowicz, ed., Atlas architektury Wrocławia, 1:56f.; Piotr Oszczanowski, Kościół Ewangelicko-Augsburski pod wezwaniem Opatrzności Bożej (Wrocław: Via Nova, 1997); Ulrich Hutter-Wolandt, Die Hofkirche zu Breslau: Ein Rokokokirchenbau im frühpreußischen Schlesien (Bonn: Kulturstiftung der Deutschen Vertriebenen, 1999). Walther Theodor Hinrichs, Carl Gotthard Langhans, ein schlesischer Baumeister 1733–1808 (Straßburg: Heitz, 1909); Jerzy Krzysztof Kos, “Twórczość architektoniczna Carla Gottharda Langhansa na Śląsku 1760–1808” (Ph.D. dissertation, Uniwersytet Wrocławski, 1997). Cornelius Gurlitt, August der Starke: Ein Fürstenleben aus der Zeit des Deutschen Barock, 2 vols. (Dresden: Sibyllen-Verlag, 1924); Erich Haenel and Erna von Watzdorf, August der Starke: Kunst und Kultur des Barock (Dresden: C. Heinrich, 1933); The Splendor of Dresden: Five Centuries of Art Collecting: An Exhibition from the German Democratic Republic (Washington, DC: National Gallery of Art, 1978); Ulli Arnold and Werner Schmidt, eds., Barock in Dresden: Kunst und Kunstsammlungen unter der Regierung des Kurfürsten Friedrich August I. von Sachsen und Königs August II. von Polen genannt August der Starke 1694–1733 und des Kurfürsten Friedrich August II. von Sachsen und Königs August III. von Polen 1733–1763: Eine Ausstellung aus der DDR in der Villa Hügel zu Essen vom 8. Juni bis 2. November 1986 (Leipzig: Edition Leipzig, 1986); Karl Czok, August der Starke und seine Zeit: Kurfürst von Sachsen, König von Polen, 4th ed. (Leipzig: Edition Leipzig, 2004). Löffler, Das alte Dresden (1982), 81–5, 103–10; Winfried Werner, Das Palais im Großen Garten zu Dresden (Munich: Deutscher Kunstverlag, 1999). Walter Hentschel, Die sächsische Baukunst des 18. Jahrhunderts in Polen, 2 vols. (Berlin: Henschelverlag, 1967); Hermann Heckmann, Matthäus Daniel Pöppelmann: Leben und Werk (Munich: Deutscher Kunstverlag, 1972); Löffler, Das alte Dresden (1982), 116–24. Jean Louis Sponsel, Der Zwinger, die Hoffeste und die Schloßbaupläne zu Dresden, 2 vols. (Dresden: Stengel and Co., 1924); Löffler, Das alte Dresden (1982), 126–32, 154–67; John Man and Nicolas Sapieha, Zwinger Palace, Dresden (London: Tauris Parke Books, 1990); Fritz Löffler, Willy Pritsche, and Michael Kirsten, Der Zwinger in Dresden, 4th ed. (Leipzig: E. A. Seemann, 1992). Löffler, Das alte Dresden (1982), 136–9, 172–5, 270.

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42. Igor A. Jenzen, Schloß und Park Pillnitz (Munich: Deutscher Kunstverlag, 1998); Beatrice Hanstein, Schloß und Park Pillnitz (Berlin: Homilius, 1999). 43. Ingrid Möbius and Jürgen Karpinski, Schloß Moritzburg, 3rd ed. (Regensburg: Schnell und Steiner, 2001); Ingrid Möbius and Margitta Coban-Hensel, Schloß Moritzburg: Gestaltung einer Kulturlandschaft (Leipzig: Edition Leipzig, 2003). 44. Löffler, Das alte Dresden (1982), 203–10, 217–22, 237–45, 254f., 280–2, 301–4; Hans Eberhard Scholze, Schloß Hubertusburg, 2nd ed. (Leipzig: E. A. Seemann, 1987). 45. Jean Louis Sponsel, Das Grüne Gewölbe zu Dresden, 4 vols. (Leipzig: Hiersemann, 1925– 1932); Joachim Menzhausen, Dresdener Kunstkammer und Grünes Gewölbe (Leipzig: Koehler & Amelang, 1977); Arnold and Schmidt, Barock in Dresden, 368–87; Ulli Arnold, Joachim Menzhausen and Gerd Spitzer, Grünes Gewölbe Dresden, 3rd ed. (Leipzig: Edition Leipzig, 1994). 46. Siegfried Hoyer, “Bürgerkultur einer Residenzstadt: Dresden im 18. Jahrhundert,” in Städtische Kultur in der Barockzeit, ed. Wilhelm Rausch (Linz/Donau: Österr. Arbeitskreis für Stadtgeschichtsforschung, 1982), 105–16; Karl Czok, “Zur absolutischen Politik Augusts des Starken,” Sächsische Heimatblätter 29 (1983): 145–53. 47. Karl Freckmann, Die Hofkirche zu Dresden (Augsburg: B. Filser, 1929); Eberhard Hempel, Gaetano Chiaveri, der Architekt der Katholischen Hofkirche zu Dresden (Dresden: W. Jess, 1955); Löffler, Das alte Dresden (1982), 203–10, 217–22, 224–27; Eberhard Hempel and Fritz Löffler, Die katholische Hofkirche zu Dresden, 8th ed. (Berlin: Union-Verlag, 1987); Siegfried Seifert and Klemens Ullmann, Katholische Hofkirche Dresden: Kathedrale des Bistums Dresden-Meißen (Leipzig: Benno, 2000). 48. Jean Louis Sponsel, Die Frauenkirche zu Dresden: Geschichte ihrer Entstehung von George Bährs frühesten Entwürfen bis zur Vollendung nach dem Tod ihres Erbauers (Dresden: W. Baensch, 1893); Fritz Löffler, Die Frauenkirche zu Dresden (Berlin: Union-Verlag, 1984); Löffler, Das alte Dresden (1982), 195–7, 211–16, 223; Heinrich Gerhard Franz, “Die Frauenkirche in Dresden und ihr Erbauer George Bähr im Kontext der kursächsischen Barockbaukunst,” Jahrbuch des Zentralinstituts für Kunstgeschichte München 4 (1988): 143–90; Hans-Joachim Kuke, Die Frauenkirche in Dresden: “ein Sankt Peter der wahren evangelischen Religion” (Worms: Wernersche Verlagsgesellschaft, 1996); Heinrich Magirius, Dresden: Die Frauenkirche (Regensburg: Schnell und Steiner, 1999); Walther Schliepe, Die Frauenkirche in Dresden: Der Erstentwurf von George Bähr. Ursprung einer Bauidee (Petersberg: Michael Imhof Verlag, 2005). 49. Löffler, Das alte Dresden (1982), 198–201, 230f.; Hartmut Mai, Dreikönigskirche Dresden, 2nd ed. (Regensburg: Schnell und Steiner, 1998). 50. Löffler, Das alte Dresden (1982), 201–3, 233f.; Fritz Löffler and Hans Böhm, Die Kreuzkirche zu Dresden, 3rd ed. (Berlin: Union-Verlag, 1984); Matthias Müller, Kreuzkirche Dresden (Regensburg: Schnell und Steiner, 2000). 51. Jacek Staszewski, “Polen und Sachsen im 18. Jahrhundert,” Jahrbuch für Geschichte 23 (1981): 167–88; Jacek Staszewski, “Die Polnisch-Sächsische Union und die Hohenzollernmonarchie (1697–1763),” Jahrbuch für die Geschichte Mittel- und Ostdeutschlands 30 (1981): 28–34; Jacek Staszewski, “Die sächsisch-polnische Union und die Umwandlungsprozesse in beiden Ländern,” Sächsische Heimatblätter 29 (1983): 154–9.

Chapter 6

FROM PROTESTANT FORTRESS TO BAROQUE APOTHEOSIS Dresden from the Sixteenth to the Eighteenth Century1

d Barbara Marx

Shaping Traditions of Protestant Identity In 1680, at the end of the reign of Elector Johann Georg II (r. 1656–80), when the chronicler and counselor Anton Weck reconsidered the architecture of the Court and the City of Dresden, it seemed to him the culmination of a coherent development leading to urban perfection. Weck’s eulogy is based on the conviction that both the religious and the civic foundations laid by the Albertine branch of the electoral dynasty had shaped the image of the city in such a way as to confer upon it an everlasting identity.1 Weck’s exhaustive narration is supplemented by copperplate illustrations, which put into evidence the magnificence of the electoral buildings as they could be seen in 1680—showing in particular the residential palace from different angles and, thus, underscoring the significance of the rulers’ growing impact on the shape of the city. Weck’s outlook on Dresden, therefore, reflects the process that had gradually taken place from 1547 onward, when Dresden had been chosen as the seat of the Research for this article has been funded by the SFB 537 of the Technical University of Dresden. I wish to thank Silke Herz (Dresden) and Dr. Mila Horký (Dresden) for compiling and verifying the picture material, and Martin Arndt (Dresden) for the technical support. I am grateful to my colleagues Brigitte Georgi-Findlay (Dresden), Gerd Strathmann (Bochum) and Hans Sauer (Munich) for their help with the English version of my paper.

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new electoral branch of Saxony. From 1552, Dresden had been regarded as the main center of German Protestantism. This was due to the leadership of Elector Moritz (r. 1541–53), who, after the Emperor’s victory at Mühlhausen in 1547, eclipsed his competitor and cousin Elector Johann Friedrich der Großmütige (the Magnanimous) (r. 1532–47), forcing him to abandon his residence, Castle Hartenfels at Torgau, and to go into exile at Weimar. The subsequent expansion of the residential palace in Dresden into a majestic four-winged building, protected by the Brückentor (Bridge Gate) that led to the large stone bridge over the Elbe, was meant to show the beginning of a new dynastic era. At the same time, it echoed the Protestant cultural features of the preceding sixteenth-century electoral residences, the castles of Wittenberg and Torgau. The political and religious power transferred to Dresden when Elector Moritz and his successors took up their residence there turned the city into a military and spiritual fortress. In the north, the river Elbe constituted a natural defense, which was exploited during the sixteenth century to surround the huge fortification system of eight bastions with deep moats.2 At the end of the sixteenth century, the town could be entered from the west side through the Wilsches Tor (Wilsdorf Gate),3 a gate crowned originally by a Gothic spire, or from the east through the Pirnisches Tor (Pirna Gate),4 the northern Brückentor and the Elbe bridge being reserved for military purposes. The prospectus drawn up by Merian in 1650 (see figure 6.1), subsequently used by Weck in 1680 and by Icander in 1719, relies on the new techniques of urban representation introduced by the end of the sixteenth century.5 The view of Dresden from the opposite side of the river follows the visual axis of the bridge and combines all the prominent buildings erected by the rulers since 1547. This scene along the large front facing the Elbe displays the very magnificence that was, in Weck’s words, due to Dresden’s status as “die weitberühmte Churfürstl. Residentz-Statt und Vestung” (the far-famed electoral residence and fortress). The fortification seen in front of the river stretched from the left of the castle to the east, featuring a series of constructions that pointed directly to the electors’ responsibilities for military defense, economic protection, and support of the city’s inhabitants: the mint erected in 1556; the electoral stables built in 1586– 91; the storehouses in 1588; the Altes Salzhaus (old salt house), by 1650 turned

Figure 6.1. View of Dresden from the north. Engraving. Matthäus Merian, Topographiae Superioris Saxoniae, 1650.

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into a magazine for festival costumes and machinery; the Pulverturm (gunpowder tower), built in 1566 for the gunpowder supplies; the Neues Salzhaus (new salt house), testifying to the still-existing electoral salt monopoly; and a large square building called the Zeughaus (armory) with an adjoining court yard, the Zeughof, where the foundry had been located in 1567.6 This imposing construction of the Arsenal had been realized from 1559 to 1563, and was noted by contemporary visitors for its extraordinary dimensions and style.7 After 1711, the Zeughof figured prominently in King August II’s plans for the remodeling of the eastern part of the town.8 In this planning, the traditional buildings that were gathered at the Elbe riverfront and that had symbolized the military power of Dresden received particular attention, as can be seen from the elaborate design that court architect Matthäus Daniel Pöppelmann (1662–1736) drew up around 1714 for the Pulverturm, which was to be placed in front of the one-hundred-meter-long new Arsenal (see figure 6.2).9 The impressive structure was meant to face the new east front of the electoral palace, on which the team of the Oberbauamt (office in charge of the electoral and royal buildings) was working simultaneously. At the very corner of the northeastern side of the fortification as shown by Merian, and by local artists such as Daniel Bretschneider adopting Merian’s perspective, there can be seen the Lusthaus (pleasure house), crowned by a belvedere and forming a whole with the Neue Bastei (new bastion).10 The building complex was commissioned by Elector Christian I (r. 1586–91), whose untimely death left the original project unfinished. All this was part of the large-scale urban renewal of the sixteenth century, pointing to the eastern part of Dresden in the direction of the Pirnisches Tor, and it testifies to the elector’s decision to complete the rebuilding of the fortification system already set up by his father Elector August (r. 1553–86) in the western part of the town. Though adhering closely to the established iconographic tradition, Elector Christian I implemented a new style of representational imagery in the late sixteenth century. The decoration program of the new stables, as well as of the Lusthaus, was reminiscent of Roman antiquity, significantly blended with the icons of Protestant rulership, and was intended to heighten the more functional and sober buildings already in place on the Elbe riverfront. The roof of the Lusthaus was covered with copper plates, whose reflections adorned the six-meter-high female statue towering above the very angle of the bastion over a huge electoral coat of arms, made of stone and held by lions, measuring 11.3 meters in width.11 The questions concerning the identity of this “virgin,” now destroyed, which subsequently gave the name Jungfernbastei (Virgin’s Bastion) to the bastion, are not entirely answered, an allegorical Prudentia or Justitia having been variously proposed. The new eastern bastion with its buildings was designed to affirm the triumphant implementation and continuity of the Albertine electoral dominion over Dresden and Saxony, which had already been celebrated by a preceding stone monument, the so-called Moritz-Monument. This figurative sculptural work of

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Figure 6.2. Matthäus Daniel Pöppelmann, drawing for the new gunpowder tower. Pen and ink, watercolor, ca. 1714. Dresden, SLUB, Ms. L4/29.

art had been placed on the bastion front facing the river in 1553. It showed Elector Moritz in the act of handing over the electoral sword to his brother and successor August, both of them flanked by their respective wives. The group was guarded by standing figures of armed knights, thus confirming the definite defeat of the Ernestine branch.12 United through this kind of visual imagery, both the defense of the right faith and the defense of worldly dominion over the city referred to one and the same objective. The religious and political messages of artistic works were fused to demonstrate the new Protestant rulers’ legitimate claims of territorial sovereignty underscored by Lutheran belief.13 By instrumentalizing public religious images for dynastic purpose, the Albertine electoral branch in Dresden thus responded to the tactics of power that the defeated Ernestines had

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adopted to inspire a uniquely Saxon body of Reformation art, using the very same devices14 and eventually also the same artists, e.g., the bronze founder Wolf Hilliger or the painter Lucas Cranach the Younger. The Protestant slogan Verbum Domini manet in aeternum had been stamped in 1522 on a medal depicting the founder of the Reformation in Saxony, Elector Friedrich der Weise (the Wise) (r. 1486–1525),15 in the very year when the radical iconoclast Karlstadt had published, in the residence city of Wittenberg, a violent pamphlet against image making. A plaque bearing the motto crowns Friedrich’s bronze funeral monument, which was designed by Cranach the Elder and built in the Wittenberg Castle chapel in 1527.16 It had been adopted as a spiritual and political legacy by his nephew, the Ernestine Protestant leader Johann Friedrich, and it had been used after his military defeat in 1547 to reaffirm the righteousness of his claim in the full-length woodcut portrait made by Cranach the Elder. The slogan was also prominent in the chapel of Castle Grimmenstein in Gotha,17 which was to substitute for the lost Torgau castle, where the chapel had been consecrated in 1544 by Luther in person. In Dresden, the verse V.D.M.I.A.E. had been imprinted (in 1555) on the richly decorated oak door of the palace chapel, which was framed by an elaborate triumphal arch and crowned on top by the statues of Fides and Fortitudo, vigorously flanking the central figure of the resurrected Christ.18 The portal led from the inner courtyard into the chapel, which was situated in the north wing of the palace. The inscription asserted the adherence of the ruler and his residential city to the Lutheran faith. Accordingly, the same motto was adopted again in 1569 to be engraved on the new bronze bell for the main Protestant church in Dresden, the Kreuzkirche (Church of the Holy Cross).19 The same credo linked the two central powers of the city, the burghers and the rulers, who were symbolized respectively by the main religious centers, the Kreuzkirche and the palace chapel. The inscription Turris fortissima / Deus refugium et / nomen Domini / fortitudo nostra, placed by Elector Christian I in 1591 on the previously mentioned Jungfernbastei,20 referred to the neighboring Pulverturm as well as to both of the most prominent towers of the city. These towers marked the worldly and the religious dominion of Dresden, and could be measured against each other in the view from the Lusthaus on top of the bastion. The same message of legitimacy linked the program of biblical decoration in the palace, taken from the Old and the New Testaments, to those exhibited at strategic urban points. Thus, the decoration program of the southern city gate, the Salomonis Tor (Solomon’s Gate), erected by Elector Moritz in 1550, represented the Temple of Jerusalem, and, in so doing, mirrored the frescoed episodes of King Solomon depicted in the highest story of the arcade adorning the north wing of the palace, which faced the inner courtyard.21 This arcaded structure, mimicking an Italian loggia and placed before the frescoed walls, was overlooked by the majestic palace tower (see figure 6.3), the whole architecture being converted into a visual lesson on the militant Protestantism of the Albertines. The representation of the Apostle Paul’s conversion painted on the wall of the first

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Figure 6.3. Electoral Palace at Dresden, south entrance with Torhaus portal. Engraving, Weck, Der Chur. Fürstlichen… Residentz… Vorstellung, 1680. Dresden, SLUB, Deutsche Fotothek.

story of the arcade and flanked by the Saxon coat of arms, as well as the Adoration of the Magi depicted in the second story, clearly alluded to the political fate of Elector Moritz, who had left the imperial party in order to become the new leader of the Protestant camp and the defender of the Lutheran faith. The military exploits of Elector Moritz during the religious wars of the mid-sixteenth

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century were translated into the allegory of Joshua’s war against the Amalekites told in the Old Testament. Seven scenes relating to these biblical events were carved as stone reliefs, forming a balustrade that connected the columns of the four-story loggia.22 The relief cycle begins with Joshua in armor kneeling before the vision of God coming out of the clouds. It shows the biblical hero in the very same attitude that was later adopted for Elector Moritz’s statue, which shows the elector kneeling on his funeral monument before the holy cross. The biblical histories inscribed onto the wall of the palace facing the courtyard functioned as dynastic and civic memories that were meant to be read as a history of salvation. The decoration program of the palace walls corresponded to the meaning implied in the palace chapel’s triumphant entrance door and in other monuments. The political and religious messages derived from the figurative lessons taught inside and outside the palace were identical. The patterns of religious and political rule developed previously in Wittenberg and in Torgau Castle were adopted, but appropriately modified by the Albertine electors in order to permeate the urban body with symbolic messages. The figural program of the city gates and bastions not only circumscribed the town’s extension, but also intersected its urban structure by connecting to the residential palace as well as to the burghers’ quarters. Triumphant Renaissance architecture and visual prominence were the features that singled out the centers of legitimate worldly power, marking the spiritual heart of the palace, the Protestant chapel, as well as the spiritual core of the town, the Protestant parish church.23 Testifying to the religious and the military balance of the town’s cultural identity, the main Protestant church tower had been elevated to the height of ninety-two meters between 1579 and 1584. It was meant to proclaim the Protestant dominion over the city of Dresden, and was actually also intended to tower above the palace, as is shown in the 1572 engraving by Hogenberg, when the rebuilding of the massive Kreuzkirche had not even started.24 The same sculptor, Hans Walther II (1526–86), who was employed to create the central liturgical monuments for the Kreuzkirche—the baptismal font (1566) and the main altar (1574–79)—and who had provided the design for the mighty church tower,25 had been employed previously in the making of the palace chapel’s portal, as well as in the stone work of the palace’s sculptural decorations, and in the Moritz-Monument on the bastion.26 The circulation of Lutheran ideas and Protestant artistic works between the centers of power served to tighten the bonds within the civic community, and suggested the privilege of living in a city protected by God—a true Jerusalem. Hans Walther was a member of a family of artists originating from Meissen. In Dresden, he came to occupy a position similar to the one held by Protestant art champion Lucas Cranach the Elder in Wittenberg in the first half of the sixteenth century.27 Like Cranach, Hans Walther led a successful business, he successively became a member of the city council in 1561, and was one of the founders of the Guild of Painters and Sculptors in 1574; he held the office of mayor of the town

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at the time of the renewal of the main church and in the years after. In the case of Lucas Cranach as well as in that of Hans Walther, it seems that the rise of the artist to high civil offices was due not only to the patronage of the elector, but also to the civic prestige of the pious artistic work created for the common good. It was part of the underlying pact between the city and its ruler that there should be no substantial differences in expressing dogmatic positions, whereas the formal artistic differences introduced with the unusual Italianate decoration of the electoral palace did not seem to be a point of particular concern to the burghers. The electoral initiative of employing Italian artists together with Germans in a Protestant court, as practiced by the Albertines in the sixteenth century, was due to the necessity to incorporate as well as to renew the guidelines of Protestant self-presentation urged by the Ernestines.28 When the Ernestine branch of the dynasty had been stripped of political power and, with it, of its important iconographic leadership, the symbolic competition between the two ducal houses of Saxony dwindled. In its place, an implicit competition for self-manifestation and territorial presence in town slowly started to divide the ruler and his subjects in Dresden, whereas formerly it had united them. When it was decided, in 1674, to elevate the palace’s Hausmannturm (main tower) to the height of ninety-seven meters, bringing to full effect its new copper-plated roof (which was close to the front, facing the Elbe), this was a clear sign that a rivalry for symbolic urban preeminence had started (see figure 6.4).

Figure 6.4. C. H. Fritzsche, Electoral Palace. View from the Zwinger area to the west wing of the palace, 1709. Watercolor, 1710. Dresden, Kupferstichkabinett. Deutsche Fotothek (Richter).

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Symbolic Dominion: Continuity and Change City gates and bastions were the urban points where the Albertine electors, from Elector Moritz in the sixteenth century to King August II in the eighteenth century, chose to be represented—in what might be termed a second body—as armored lords and defenders of justice both inside and outside the city. The armored knight originally placed on top of the tower of Castle Grimmenstein in Gotha was destined to crown the Brückentor, also called Schönes Tor (Beautiful Gate), which led to the Elbe riverfront and was enlarged in 1553. The western bastion, completed in 1572, showed a gilded Justitia over the Saxon-Danish coat of arms flanked by two gilded lions, reminders of its founder, Elector August and his consort Anna of Denmark. The subsequently built eastern Jungfernbastei was obviously meant to form its pendant. The western city gate, the Wilsches Tor, under reconstruction since 1568, exhibited an enormous flag with a Protestant version of a golden St. Michael stabbing the dragon at his feet.29 In the short reign of Elector Christian I (r. 1586–91), these personifications of worldly and divine justice moved from the bastions into the inner city. What heretofore had been mainly a warning to attackers from outside came to form an admonition to the citizens, reminding them of the moral and religious principles that the elector’s rule imposed on their social conduct.30 Accordingly, a statue of Justitia holding sword and scales was placed at the apex of the dome towering over the newly constructed Torhaus portal (1589–90), which opened up to the southeast city entrance of the palace in the Schloßstraße (Castle Street). The military outlook of the portal’s design is emphasized effectively with the doric order of the front columns framing the door, which replicate the rustica decoration of the whole structure.31 The statue was placed high above a range of sculpted personifications of virtues that Weck gives as Fides, Magnanimitas, Gratitudo, and Fortitudo.32 At their feet could be seen a pelican, opening his own breast to feed his progeny. The decoration clearly resumed the perfect program of pious government. The animal symbolism, centered on the christological allegory of self-sacrifice, appears again in the four pelicans that adorn the funereal tumba of Elector Moritz in Freiberg and surround the armed statue of the ruler kneeling on top of the monument. The sketches provided by court architect Klengel for the neverrealized mausoleum for Elector Johann Georg I (r. 1611–56) at mid-seventeenth century took up the same pelican symbol by placing it prominently over the entry, in an analogy to the Torhaus.33 The public demonstration of the Albertine rulers’ pietas was a constant guarantee of their righteous use of power. Such a coherent symbolic system, put into public places and relying on everlasting, stable meanings—just as the motto V.D.M.I.A.E.,34 which was used well into the seventeenth century, seemed to predict—could not be easily modified. Whenever unusual or innovative formal solutions to iconological problems occur in this context, hidden and conflicting guidelines, oscillating between an obligatory safeguard of cultural identity and a desire for expression of individual difference, are likely to emerge.

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This certainly holds true for the impressive statuary decoration commissioned by Elector Christian I in 1590–91 for the reconstruction of the eastern city gate, the Pirnisches Tor (see figure 6.5). The central part of this three-gated portal is topped by a false arch in the guise of a niche, from which emerges the nearly free-standing, gilded, and (according to Weck) larger-than-life-size statue of the elector in full armor, seated upon a rising horse that seems to leap forward out of the monument. Two gigantic armed soldiers in Roman costume, serving as guards to the armed rider, are placed on pedestals at both sides of the equestrian monument. This triumphal gate was double-sided, with the sandstone sculptures facing the inner town side as well as the outside. The equestrian statue has been extensively discussed with regard to its potentially Italian models.35 Yet, it seems difficult to reconcile the particular religious edge inscribed in the quest for identity led by the proto-Calvinist Elector Christian I, who in these years was determined to forge a Protestant military alliance in support of the French Huguenot party of Henri IV, with the affirmative imperial attitude of the Medici equestrian statues erected in Florence’s places de victoire (commemorative spaces).36 The Medici statues conform to the Marcus Aurelius type mounted on a pacing horse, of which a reduced-size copy in bronze, cast by Filarete, originally in the collection of Piero de’ Medici, had reached Elector Christian I in 1587 as a gift (see figure 6.6).37

Figure 6.5. Eastern city gate, the Pirnisches Tor, erected in 1590–91. Engraving. Weck 1680. Dresden, SLUB. Deutsche Fotothek.

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Figure 6.6. Antonio Averlino called Filarete, miniature copy of the Capitoline statue of Marcus Aurelius. Bronze, 1465. Dresden, Grünes Gewölbe. Deutsche Fotothek.

Further artistic prototypes of Florentine origin were present in the electoral collections. At the same time, the model of the leaping horse was also well known to the elector through local elaborations of the subject. He had been presented in 1579 with a colored pen drawing executed by the local painter Gabriel Kaltemarckt after Italian examples.38 Kaltemarckt’s knowledge of Italian sculpture and painting did not sufficiently impress his patron to turn Dresden into a center of art collection, as the artist had hoped. But as late as 1640, his drawing, showing an energetic Marcus Curtius on horseback all’antica, was still preserved carefully in the electoral Kunstkammer, since it obviously conformed to the electors’ self-presentation.39 Kaltemarckt’s drawing was an Italianate update of what had been visible at the Dresden court ever since the decoration of the new palace by the mid-sixteenth century. The sgraffito paintings of the palace walls in the courtyard, executed

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primarily by the Italian artists Benedetto and Gabriele Tola between 1549 and 1555, were dedicated to scenes of Roman history and Roman state heroes. On a compartment in the first story of the north wing, there could be seen the figure of Marcus Curtius in full armor on horseback, as he leaps forward into the abyss to save Rome from destruction40, the history of his sacrifice as told by Livy (2:12) traditionally serving as an example of civic self-abnegation.41 At the time of Christian’s rise to the electoral dignity in 1586, the popular version of Marcus Curtius with the rearing horse adopted in Dresden42 had been re-edited in the widespread series of engravings entitled Roman Heroes, which Hendrik Goltzius had dedicated to Emperor Rudolph II (see figure 6.7).43 It was certainly fit to be

Figure 6.7. Hendrik Goltzius, Marcus Curtius. Engraving from the series Roman Heroes, 1586. Illustration taken from Hendrick Goltzius, Hendrik Goltzius 1558–1617: The Complete Engravings, Etchings, Woodcuts, ed. W. L. Strauss (New York: Abaris Books, 1977), 393.

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molded into a Protestant model of civic self-sacrifice that combined heroic leadership stemming from Roman antiquity with militant religious emphasis. The Pirnisches Tor, therefore, exhibited the elector’s statue on horseback in the form of a Protestant miles Christianus reenacting the glorious story of the Roman hero Marcus Curtius. The gesture of power underscored by the ruler’s outstanding position on the gate architecture high above the citizens was thus justified by its underlying religious and moral values. This convincing iconographic solution was adopted by the successors of Christian I, since it balanced the pose of domination with the visual declaration of the ruler’s dutiful self-abnegation toward the civic community.44 The disproportionate façade of the indoor Riding Hall, conceived by court architect Wolf Caspar von Klengel in 1672–1677, still relies, somewhat incongruously, on this particular message inscribed in the architecture of Dresden’s sixteenth-century city gates (see figure 6.8).45 Its decoration program, with a figure of Justice flanked by two giant urns dominating the aedicula of the middle front, with a huge ducal coat of arms and the statue of Elector Johann Georg II (r. 1656–85) in the niche over the entrance door, reproduces and integrates the symbolism of the dynastic monuments already present in town. The rider on the forward leaping horse is no longer posing as Marcus Curtius but as Saint George, determined to crush his potential enemies under his horse’s hooves. The monument, as well as the medal coined for this occasion, was intended to commemorate the investiture of Johann Georg II with the Order of the Garter in 1671, for which Klengel had also provided the sketch of a triumphal gate surmounted by the statue of St.

Figure 6.8. Riding Hall, façade. Detail of engraving. Weck 1680. Dresden, SLUB. Deutsche Fotothek.

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George.46 The model for the equestrian statue on the front of the Riding Hall can be traced back to the small iron statue given as a gift to the elector in 1667 and showing the sovereign of the Order of the Garter, the English King Charles II, as St. George on horseback.47 The riding contests organized in the building by Elector Johann Georg II actually seem a poor pretext for the pretentious, fake three-story façade architecture. The topographical choice for the equestrian monument placed on the façade becomes more comprehensible seen in reference to the location of the bastion situated immediately behind the Riding Hall. This bastion closed the northwest angle of the fortification, but it had remained a blank space and was never graced with a decoration similar to that of the prestigious eastern bastion, the Jungfernbastei. Elector Johann Georg II, posing in an attitude similar to that of his predecessor Christian I on the Pirnisches Tor, assimilated the various figurative suggestions offered by the existing city gates and the palace. Their emblematic fusion conveyed the symbolic dimension of military and moral strength to the entrance portal of the Riding Hall, which directly faced the Elbe and could be perceived clearly from the riverside above the bastion wall: it thus was meant to occupy the vacant symbolic place within the urban fortification. Yet, the awkward asymmetric position of the buildings in this area, which can be seen in the ground plan dating from before 1710 (see figure 6.9), did not integrate this message into a coherent spatial structure. Unlike most of the other

Figure 6.9. Ground plan of the palace area, with Riding Hall, Shooting Gallery, Comedy House, Palace, and Stables; end of seventeenth century. Dresden, SHStA, Karten und Risse, Schrank VIII, Fach 2, no. 29.

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plans, this document visualizes the actual urban surroundings of the palace as memorialized by Weck in 1680. It shows the uncomfortable site of the electoral buildings crowded into the northwestern part of the fortification, thus eluding a coherent relationship to the town’s civic corpus: the stables situated in the southeast of the electoral building complex, the palace with its garden adjoining the Komödienhaus (theatre) built by Klengel, and the buildings for shooting and riding situated in the upper part of the plan. Such was the situation when Friedrich August, who reigned from 1694 as Elector Friedrich August I of Saxony and simultaneously from 1697 to 1704, and from 1709 to 1733 as King August II of Poland, assumed the government. He immediately thought of major urban transformations, but even minor alterations in the area that was already controlled by the electoral rulers were slow to take place (see figure 6.10). A plan executed by the royal engineer Constantin Erich in 1710, with particular regard to the bastion system, shows the solution envisioned by the king for the hitherto useless northwestern bastion that formed an acute angle. The Riding Hall was to be shortened to permit the creation of a terraced orangerie within the protecting fortification walls. The plan proves that in 1710, the spectacular projects that had been developed since 1701 and drawn up by Pöppelmann between 1704 and 1709,48 and whose purpose was to connect the palace area to the festival space in the west (see figure 6.11) uniting the Riding Hall directly to the palace, had remained mere castelli in aria.

Figure 6.10. Constantin Erich, plan of west bastion system, with seventeenth-century Riding Hall and Shooting Gallery shortened to create supplementary space for the orangerie arcade; 1710. Detail of the west area. Dresden, SHStA, OHMA, P, Cap. I.A. 31.

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Figure 6.11. Matthäus Daniel Pöppelmann, ground plan for the Royal Palace. Pen and ink, ca. 1709. Dresden, SLUB, Ms. L4/2.

Royal Monuments and Artistic Display The tradition inaugurated in Dresden by a particularly persistent artistic type of the ruler on horseback exerted a strong influence on the conflicting options for the equestrian monument of the Saxon elector and Polish king. The successive plans for a new construction or eventual reconstruction of the palace, in large part destroyed by a fire in 1701, comprised several variants of a characteristic monument that was now to denote the new royal dignity of the patron. One of the first sketches, dating from 1709, referred to an equestrian monument, which was to be part of the residential space surrounding the palace and yet used existing traditional structures.49 The now lost draft showed the gate to the Elbe, the Brückentor, in the immediate neighborhood of the palace, crowned with an equestrian statue and adjacent trophies on both sides. The Brückentor already exhibited the rudimentary structure of a triumphal arch, with twelve Tuscan columns supported by a rustica substructure (according to Weck in 1680),50 but it bore no other decorations apart from the ducal and electoral Saxon coat of arms. It matched the triumphant palace entrances devised under King August II’s electoral predecessors Johann Georg III (r. 1680–91) and Johann Georg IV (r. 1691–94). The original position of the Brückentor, on the right side of the palace, can be seen in figure 6.10. The gate, as it was planned in 1709, the year when August regained the Polish crown lost in 1704, would have amplified the range of the symbols of power surrounding the town in conformity with the existing iconographic traditions. Yet, the statue, as it faces the castle from the height of the Brückentor, ignores the traditional nexus of good government, civic self-devotion, and military strength. Instead, the rider on horseback is leading in triumph into an open space that functions as a forecourt to the royal palace (see figure 6.12).51 The forecourt stretches before the eastern main front of the newly projected royal palace and opens up in the direction of the stables farther east. The connection between the palace and the older sixteenth-century building of the stables with its characteristic arcaded gallery is provided by means of a curved colonnade reminiscent of

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Figure 6.12. Matthäus Daniel Pöppelmann, plan for the Royal Palace. Bird’s-eye view from the east integrating the old palace with four sixteenth-century winding staircases heightened to towers, and arcade gallery leading to the Stables. Pen and ink, watercolor, ca. 1709–10. Dresden, SLUB, Ms. L4/11.

the forecourt of St. Peter’s in Rome, and by a radial double structure recalling the royal stables at Versailles. The equestrian statue of the Polish king was, thus, to inaugurate its own exclusive space of royal representation, concentrating on the palace, which is shown in the plans as if no urban context ever existed. Just as these palace projects for Dresden are intended to rival the royal palace in Berlin under construction since 1698, so the design for the Brückentor drawn into the outline of the palace area in Dresden appears to refer to the bronze statue in Berlin of the Great Elector Friedrich Wilhelm I of Brandenburg (1620–1688), designed by the court architect and sculptor Andreas Schlüter (1659–1714). The bronze cast was finished in 1700 and placed on Berlin’s Pont Neuf—the Rathausbrücke (Town Hall Bridge) or Lange Brücke (Long Bridge)—in 1703.52 The former wooden construction of the bridge connecting Berlin and Cölln had been replaced by a stone bridge in 1692–95 by order of the Calvinist Elector Friedrich III (r. 1688–1713). The equestrian statue, featuring his father, Elector Friedrich Wilhelm I, in Roman costume on a pacing horse, was placed on a platform eight meters high adjacent to the middle of the bridge. Its position as well as the formal type chosen by Schlüter recalled the statue of Henri IV derived from Florentine models, which had been set up in 1614 on the Pont Neuf in Paris. The bronze effigy of Elector Friedrich Wilhelm I thus faced the enormous royal palace, which was to represent, more than anything else, his son Elector Friedrich

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III’s ascent to royal dignity. In 1701, Elector Friedrich III had crowned himself in Königsberg to become king of Prussia, assuming the name of Friedrich I. The equestrian monument as well as the enlargement of the former elector’s palace in Potsdam came along as a gesture of piety and devotion to the memory of the king’s father, but there was no mistake about its underlying triumphant significance.53 Schlüter’s statue of the Brandenburg Elector Friedrich Wilhelm had been ostentatiously modeled on the huge equestrian monument of Louis XIV on a pacing horse created by François Girardon and put up in the Place Vendôme, then Place Louis-le-Grand, in 1699.54 Its height measured 10.5 meters. By 1715, in Dresden, King August II had his own bronze equestrian statue made by the Paris workshop of François Girardon, an exact miniature (105 cm high) of the French king’s statue in the guise of a victorious Roman emperor; the statue could only be placed in a hall as a Saalmonument because of its modest dimensions.55 It was never intended to serve as a model for public monuments in Dresden, since its particular connotation of imperial power connected to French absolutism collided strongly with local civic traditions. Significantly enough, the bronze statue of August II mounted on an elaborate pedestal that incorporated famous Florentine equestrian models, found its final destination, after 1724, among the works of art that the king had assembled in the palace’s treasure museum of the Grünes Gewölbe (Green Vault).56 The room dedicated to the bronzes finally assembled all the icons of imperial power, which the king could not exhibit in the form of public monuments in his residential city, while his aspirations were instead more and more mirrored and fulfilled by his private commissions of works of art. In the Bronzezimmer, the French bronze statue of the Polish king entered into a “familiar” dialogue with the other potentates on horse, namely Louis XIV, whose equestrian statues King August II acquired during his reign—starting with a bronze horse on a pedestal bought in 1705, always with a view toward the realization of his own public equestrian monument (never obtained during his lifetime).57 The various suggestions that had emerged in the course of the design contests for the rebuilding of the east and south wings of the Louvre after 1657 had been made public by copper etching series such as Jean Marot’s Architecture Françoise issued in 1670.58 The winning project for the eastern façade of the Louvre conceived by Claude Perrault (1613–1688) had also been reproduced on the frontispiece of his treatise on Vitruvius, which he issued in 1673 and again in 1684.59 Unlike the ultimately realized architecture, as pictured in the popular Paris guide of Germain Brice (also present at Dresden),60 the etching on Perrault’s title page showed the central tympanum of the colonnade front crowned by the equestrian statue of Louis XIV towering high up above the building. The title etching also displayed the triumphal arch crowned by the king’s gigantic statue on horse, the model of which had been designed by Perrault in 1670 for Louis XIV’s (never realized) monument on the Place du Trône.61 These visions of royal triumph, personified by the French monarch’s figure on horseback placed above his subjects in an inaccessible heavenly realm, stimulated the absolutist building dreams in Berlin as well as in Dresden. The plans of French Huguenot engineer Jean de

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Bodt (1670–1745) for the royal stables at Berlin (1702–1703?) had assigned such an equestrian monument, which was never executed, for the top of the central portal.62 It is significant that Jean de Bodt, having been appointed in 1728 as surintendant des bâtiments civils (director of civil buildings) under King August II, proposed the same structure again in 1736 when he was asked to draw plans for a new residential palace in Dresden for King August III.63 After 1707, and more likely around 1709, King August II of Poland had envisioned having his statue eventually placed on top of the triumphal eastern portal of the royal palace, duly incorporated in Pöppelmann’s plans (see figure 6.13).64 By 1711, a model of the equestrian statue had been executed and was tried on the different wooden model façades for the palace. Whatever these models may have looked like, it is certain that the Polish monarch had by 1715 definitely made his choice for the particular prototype that had been introduced by his predecessors, with the horse rising up in a pose that was by then termed a classic levade.65 It is quite possible that, on the occasion of his grand tour to Italy, during his stay in Rome in 1694, the then still electoral prince Friedrich August had been impressed by Gianlorenzo Bernini’s larger than life-size equestrian statue of Constantine placed at the foot of the Scala Regia (Royal Staircase) (1663–1666) in the Vatican Palace, which features a rider on a rearing horse, both startled by the visionary appearance of the holy cross.66 Bernini’s model supported an iconology supposedly able to unite the Saxon monarch’s allegiance to Protestant electoral traditions with the aspirations for a new Christian empire underscored by August II’s conversion to the Catholic faith in 1697. The Polish king’s partial-

Figure 6.13. Matthäus Daniel Pöppelmann, portal of the Royal Palace, eastern front, 1711. Formerly Dresden, Sächsisches Hauptstaatsarchiv. Deutsche Fotothek.

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ity is the more noteworthy, since Louis XIV, whose influence guided the style of royal representation at the Saxon court, had definitely discarded this much too flamboyant “baroque” type of equestrian pose, already monopolized by the Spanish monarchs. Bernini, Italy’s leading sculptor, had proposed such a project—modeled on his statue of Constantine in the Vatican—to Louis XIV in 1669–70.67 The French king had, for his part, preferred the version of the more majestic Marcus Aurelius pacing horse, of the type created by François Girardon (1628–1715) for the Place Vendôme in 1679–83. Bernini’s statue was then reworked by Girardon to represent the Roman hero Marcus Curtius, and under this label the work figured in the 1695 catalogue of the sculptural decorations in the gardens of Versailles.68 These may have been good reasons for King August II to adopt a form of selfrepresentation that could again be reconnected to the particular Saxon iconology of Marcus Curtius and St. George, with whom he had identified when he was still elector of Saxony.69 Yet, the difference from the prevailing model of the ruler on horse, adopted in Paris as well as in Berlin, was immediately noticed by Zacharias Longuelune (1669–1748), in 1715 still collaborator to Jean de Bodt in Berlin, before he passed to the Oberbauamt of Dresden. He held that, according to leading conventions, the leaping horse preferred by King August II produced “un effet plus surprenant” (a more surprising effect).70 In the last months of 1722, again in view of the execution of the final equestrian monument for August II, the king’s Flemish agent Raymond Leplat contacted the Medici court sculptor Giovanni Battista Foggini (1652–1722) at Florence. Foggini’s sketch of the bronze statue of Spanish King Carlos II on a rearing horse executed in 1698 is preserved at the Dresden Kupferstich-Kabinett; the miniature bronze replication of this model, conceived as a Saalmonument for the equestrian portrait of Emperor Joseph I of Habsburg, now at the Bayerisches Nationalmuseum in Munich, went as a gift from Cosimo III de’ Medici to the Palatine court of Düsseldorf in 1706 and may have been known at the Dresden court. In 1722, Foggini still had the monumental models for the bronze casts, derived from his predecessor Tacca, on exhibition in the courtyard of his workshop in Borgo Pinti, where Leplat did see them. Leplat then proposed to the king that he commission two larger-than-life-size equestrian bronze statues from Foggini, one showing a pacing horse, the other a rearing horse. The potential destination of one of the statues was the marketplace in the city of Leipzig, and the burghers, ignorant of the Florentine art market, would be charged, according to Leplat’s suggestions, with paying the entire price for both of them. The second statue was to be installed in Dresden, not in a public place, but in the king’s pleasure house Holländisches Palais, afterwards Japanisches Palais, where plans for its extension into a large royal palace had been temporarily envisioned, including the king’s equestrian monument to be placed in the forecourt. Leplat’s extravagant proposals are all the more interesting since, as a royal courtier of August II, he was painfully aware of the lack of public symbols of magnificence denoting “l’honeur et gloire” (honor and fame) of the king, while on the

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other hand, he was conscious of the delicate political implications involved in the placement of the equestrian monuments. The urge for the public recognition of the king’s absolutist sovereignty was doubled by the recommendation of utter secrecy during the transaction: Votre Majesté poura le faire payer touttes les deux [statues] a la Ville Leypsig et se pouront faire et etre transporté sans que personne n’en sache rien, iusques aux temps qu’ils ariveront en Saxe pour etre plassé ou Votre Majesté ordonerait. Se sont ses deux chevaux de bronze avecq la statue equestre de Votre Majesté que ie voudray encore faire elever en l’honeur et gloire de Votre Majesté et ne me sousieres plus de mourire si ie peus avoir cet honeur là. (Your Majesty could make the town of Leipzig pay for both statues, which may be fabricated and shipped without anybody knowing about it, until they arrive in Saxony and will be installed in the place determined by Your Majesty. It is these two horses made of bronze, with the equestrian statue of Your Majesty, that I want to be erected in honor and fame of Your Majesty, and I don’t care for death any more if only I can obtain that honor).71

Leplat’s proposals were not followed by August II, more cautious than his French-infatuated Flemish agent who saw the realization of the king’s equestrian monument as a proof of his proper “honeur” (honor) and ability. Finally, the king decided that the model provided by Jean-Joseph Vinache (1696–1754), the royal sculptor appointed at the Dresden court since 1719, should win the contest for the Goldene Reiter (Golden Rider) in 1727–28 (see figure 6.14).

Figure 6.14. JeanJoseph Vinache, model for the equestrian statue of August II. Bronze, 1728–30. Dresden, Grünes Gewölbe. Dresden, TU Dresden, Institut für Kunst- und Musikwissenschaft.

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More difficult than the decision on the basic type of the equestrian monument was indeed the choice of its possible location within the town of Dresden. The numerous proposals to place it in the forecourt of the new royal palace or other newly projected buildings remained unsatisfactory. The solution realized in Berlin, following Paris, to put the statue up on the main bridge, proved most tempting to King August II. It seems that the model of the equestrian statue created by Permoser was also tried on the new Elbe bridge, broadened by Pöppelmann in 1727 with an eye to the Pont Neuf in Paris. The effect of the famous view on Dresden was to be immortalized by the painter Bernardo Bellotto in the mideighteenth century.72 For the installment of his equestrian monument, the king envisioned a space in the middle of the bridge, where the statue would be erected on a pedestal supported by four columns. Yet, there were obstacles to the realization of this plan that were not merely of a technical nature. On the highest point of the railing of the Elbe bridge connecting Dresden with the opposite part of Altendresden, the Albertines had placed a large metal cross, clearly visible in the sixteenth-century engravings, since this was precisely the point where electoral justice was executed with regard to criminals sentenced to be drowned.73 A new bronze crucifix created by Christoph Abraham Walther had been erected on the bridge in 1670 under Elector Johann Georg II, substituting for the earlier ones (see figure 6.15). In Bellotto’s highly suggestive composition dating from 1747, the Protestant cross on the bridge marks the passage to the Catholic court church, the tower of the Royal Palace surfacing behind the church and substituting for its own still missing tower. For the common people, shown in the foreground on the

Figure 6.15. Bernardo Bellotto, view of Dresden with the Catholic court church as seen from the opposite riverside. Oil, 1747. Dresden, Staatliche Kunstsammlungen, Gemäldegalerie Alte Meister.

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riverside of Altendresden as they are occupied in their daily activities, the view on the entry into the old town over the bridge, marked as it is by the sacralized monuments proceeding from the Protestant cross on the bridge to the new court church and the palace, is staged as a street to salvation. August II certainly followed the local tradition when he, as late as 1727, ordered that a new passage gate on the bridge leading to Altendresden on the opposite side of the palace should be fortified and singled out for a royal monument. The plans were provided around 1730 by Pöppelmann’s successor Zacharias Longuelune, who reintroduced in Dresden the sober Huguenot style of French architecture imported previously to Berlin by Jean de Bodt. As the king had finally renounced his ambition to have his equestrian statue erected on the bridge, Longuelune proposed a high pyramidal building at the bridge head leading to Altendresden, which was to be crowned by the equestrian statue of the ruler (see figure 6.16).74 In an alternative design, Longuelune sketched a giant obelisk towering over the pyramid, a form of royal glorification already thoroughly exploited in the era of absolutist France.75 Longuelune intended the passage to the other part of the town to be secured by a Blockhaus (guardhouse) that would exhibit a symbolic presence of authority, thus demonstrating the ruler’s power to guarantee the safety of the burghers. The votive inscriptions secvritati vrbis and provident. Avgvsti R. devised for the obelisk argued in favor of the traditional military and civic responsibilities of the rulers towards a social community that was now extended to the opposite part of Dresden called Altendresden. In adding this interpretation to the monument, the inscriptions were meant to render its imposing iconology of power less incisive, or, rather, to obscure its absolutist architectural gesture. The Polish king’s predilection for the dramatic effect of obelisk monuments, which he had been able to witness during his grand tour to Rome, had already found expression in the festival decorations conceived for various dynastic occasions. A particularly striking example is provided by the festival architecture displayed in the festivities for Saturn, the last of the Seven Planets festival events staged in honor of the marriage between Maria Josepha, Archduchess of Austria, and the Royal Prince Friedrich August II, later King August III, in 1719. The festivities were broadcast in a series of twelve engravings commissioned by the king

Figure 6.16. Zacharias Longuelune, plan for bridgehead buildings for entrance to Altendresden. Pencil, 1727–1732. Dresden, SHStA, OHMA, P, Cap. IV. 37.

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Figure 6.17. Carl Heinrich Jacob Fehling, Festival of Saturn staged in the grounds of Plauen by August II in 1719. Engraving. Dresden, Kupferstichkabinett. Deutsche Fotothek.

(see figure 6.17).76 The transformation of some of these ephemeral structures into long-lasting monuments was mediated in 1722 by the acquisition of the Obeliscus Augustalis, an extraordinary work of art made of gold, ivory, marble, and precious stones, and with encrusted gems and cameos; 228 centimeters high, it was devised by the king’s favorite goldsmith, Johann Melchior Dinglinger.77 The contemplation of this object, featuring at the base of the obelisk the richly decorated crowned portrait of the royal monarch and Maecenas surmounted by Egyptian sphinxes, may have supplemented, in artistic terms, the king’s frustrated desire for self-glorification. The same function may be attributed to the Kaiserkameo, a joint work of Dinglinger and Permoser, 44 centimeters high, which featured a presumed cameo of the Roman Emperor Augustus mounted on an elaborate pedestal of gold, silver, pearls, and precious stones, a medallion at its feet exhibiting, as in a mirror, the royal signature AR of the Saxon Augustus. Like the king’s bronze equestrian statue, with King August II posing simultaneously as a Roman emperor and as Louis XIV, the Obeliscus Augustalis personified and objectified the Caesarean dreams of the Saxon-Polish monarch, which he was obliged to conceal in public from the burghers of electoral Dresden. These ambitions were instead fulfilled by means of August’s extensive artistic patronage, which aimed more and more at the purchase and commission of especially emblematic works of art.78 The royal self-glorification envisioned by the king was essentially realized within the highly artificial arrangements of the Grünes Gewölbe inside the palace, where the splendid furnishing of the rooms and the suggestive staging of the works of art created an overpowering effect of royal magnificence.

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The Grünes Gewölbe, housing the electoral, then royal treasures, jewels, and silverware, had been originally one of the most secluded parts of the palace. The hidden impulses that guided the art patronage of King August II directed him to gradually open the collections, displayed on the ground floor of the palace’s northwest wing, to selected visitors. In January 1728, when King Friedrich I of Prussia paid a visit to this treasure museum under renovation, the equestrian Saalmonument exposed in the Grünes Gewölbe was perhaps already flanked by the model of the equestrian monument created by the court sculptor Jean-Josephe Vinache in 1727–28 for August’s not yet realized public statue. Apart from these collecting activities, King August II was careful to link the public buildings realized during his reign to the building activities of his electoral predecessors.79 Pöppelmann’s reconstruction of the Elbe bridge was officially presented as the continuation of Elector August’s fortification efforts in the sixteenth century, and the Augustean crucifix on the bridge was linked to its commission by Elector Johann Georg II. The obelisk designed by Longuelune for the Blockhaus, had it ever been realized, was to bear a dedication to Saxoniae populo restituta; the equestrian statue would have been adorned by the Augustean inscription Pater Patriae, already adopted by Louis XIV,80 then conveniently corrected by the Polish king’s advisors into Pater et amor Patriae.81 In this process guided by hesitations and implicit scruples, there can be detected a conscious deviation from the tradition implemented by the king’s predecessors in placing their statues at strategic urban points. Compared to Christian I’s equestrian monument on the Pirnisches Tor, which still existed in the eighteenth century, and to the statue of Johann Georg II on the façade of the Riding Hall (demolished in 1712), the design for King August II’s monument bears evidence of the change that had occurred in the symbolic function of these monuments. The royal rider is no longer clad in full armor, his defensive task having been assumed by the military guards stationed in the bridgehead building and in the city’s corps de garde. The antique Roman outfit adopted by the sovereign rather claims the “ancient” reason of his authority and his “imperial” command over the city and the territory. In the town of Dresden, the implicit resistance offered by the burghers to erecting a royal statue in the name of the Saxon-Polish union was not of a topographical, but of a legalistic and juridical order, since the town still figured only as the residence of Protestant Electoral Saxony, notwithstanding the royal dignity of the Polish king. In fact, the gilded equestrian monument with its royal rider in Roman costume was not placed on the pyramidal bridgehead building, finished only by the time of King August’s II death in 1733, and the sculptural program conceived for the pedestal, which was to glorify the Saxon-Polish union,82 was never put into place. When the statue of the Goldener Reiter was inaugurated without much ceremony in 1736, it had been moved into the center of the market of Altendresden, directly opposite to, but yet sufficiently far away from the palace on the other side of the Elbe. Its final destination memorialized the development by which King August II had come to adopt the hitherto neglected

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northern part of the town as his own creation of the Neue Königsstadt, the new city-of-the-king.

Visions of Royal Palaces The decisive shift of attention to the profound urban modification of Altendresden83 seems to be a consequence of the king’s failure to mold Dresden into a royal capital. The determination by which August II imposed a rigorous, symmetrically radial structure and severely regulated building standards for the burghers’ quarters in Altendresden, enforcing even the dislocation of its major Protestant church from its site because it was obstructing the main axis,84 appears to have counterbalanced the disappointments he experienced in the transformation of Dresden. All the major plans developed from 1701 onwards for the integration of a royal palace and major buildings according to urban norms of geometric design and symmétrie, a key word in the king’s vocabulary, had been hindered by the lack of space and the resistance of the burghers. It is true that by 1712, the Riding Hall and the adjacent buildings had been demolished in order to render the new Zwinger garden “so viel wie möglich regulair” (as regular as possible);85 but when, in 1716, architect Pöppelmann was, according to the king’s order, about to pull down a small part of the city walls in this area, protests and acts of sabotage occurred immediately.86 The desire for the realization of a royal palace corresponding to the new status of Protestant elector and Catholic king united in one person surfaced immediately after August’s ascent to the throne in 1697, and was nourished by the partial destruction of the electoral palace due to a fire in 1701. Pöppelmann’s first plans, executed before 1710, testify to the request for an effect of overwhelming magnificence emanating from the architecture of a royal palace. The guidelines that inspired the designs for Dresden as well as for Warsaw were informed by the general belief during the age of absolutism that royal buildings were the embodiment of the ruler, since they expressed his political and moral grandeur. Still strongly influential was Bernini’s judgment pronounced in 1665, when he was asked to justify his grandiose plans for the rebuilding of the Louvre: “Che le fabbriche sono i ritratti dell’animo dei principi, ils ne doivent rien faire, ou faire quelque chose de grand et de magnifique” (Since buildings are the portraits of the prince’s soul, they must do nothing at all, or accomplish something great and magnificent).87 The transformation of Berlin into a royal residence by the former electors of Brandenburg, related as they were by family ties to the electors of Saxony, proved greatly intriguing to King August II and was closely observed by him. While Versailles certainly continued to be a nostalgic reminiscence cherished since the king’s grand tours, Berlin now emerged as a nearby potential rival for the public ostentation of royal splendor. As early as 1703, August II had requested Schlüter’s plans for the Berlin royal palace, available in engravings made by Paul Decker.88 On the occasion of the meeting with King Frederick IV of Denmark and Fried-

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rich I of Prussia in Berlin in 1709, the Saxon monarch had been able to examine the palaces of Potsdam (modeled on Versailles), Charlottenburg, and Oranienburg, as well as the spectacular enlargement of the Berlin palace.89 Matthäus Daniel Pöppelmann, the court architect, in charge of the planning for the Dresden palace since 1705, was instantaneously dispatched in 1710 for six months to Vienna and Italy in order to improve his personal experience of the buildings that were regarded as canonical examples of grandeur. “Pomposity” (pompös) was the stylistic feature that the architecture of the royal buildings in Berlin brought to full effect, according to enthusiastic contemporary descriptions. The plans for the Dresden palace from 1702 and, more closely, from 1711 until 1718 were indeed intended to match, if not to surpass, the impressive monarchist architecture and the massive interventions in the urban tissue of Berlin that were effected in these same years. Both of the plans, the unrealized sketches for the royal palace in Dresden as well as those for the palace building complex in Berlin overseen after 1709 by the Swedish architect Icander and realized in 1716, drew heavily on antique and baroque monumental buildings. Those models, though slightly out of date, inspired an intense exchange between the architects in Dresden, Berlin, and Warsaw. Like his colleagues, Matthäus Daniel Pöppelmann, who had been appointed to the court office of Landbaumeister (royal architect) in 1704 and was in charge of, among others, the plans for the Dresden palace, was inspired by the magnificence displayed in the eastern façade of the French king’s palace in Paris, the Louvre. Its pseudo-antique temple colonnade à la manière des Grecs, projected from 1668 onwards, served as the principal reference for the eastern front of the Dresden Palace as shown in figure 6.12.90 The spectacular façade structure of the Louvre was strongly recommended by German theoreticians of architecture at the beginning of the eighteenth century. Among these was Leonhard Christoph Sturm, professor of mathematics at the University of Frankfurt/Oder after 1702 and an indefatigable writer on all subjects of architecture; eager as he was to get involved in the renewal of Berlin, he posed as a strenuous defender of the original puristic plan for the Louvre façade and its creator, Perrault.91 Apart from this French prototype of royal architecture, Pöppelmann, before 1710, could not but depend on Schlüter’s designs for the Berlin palace façades circulating in the form of copper etchings, as well as on the subsequent amplifications proposed by Icander and De Bodt.92 Unlike his colleagues Schlüter and Icander, the Saxon Landbaumeister Pöppelmann had not been able to examine in person the famous examples of the royal buildings he was asked to replicate for the Dresden palace. Before his trips to Vienna, Italy, and Poland in 1710, and to France in 1715, he had been forced to rely exclusively on the study of engravings and copper etchings instead of relating directly to his visual experience, but this was a common practice in his day. Pöppelmann’s first plans for the royal palace, which seem literally out of place when confronted with the urban structures of Dresden, are the product of an imaginary architecture stimulated by the visual conventions of contemporary architectural design.

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Pöppelmann certainly had prepared his trip to Italy, in particular his stay in Rome, on the basis of the engravings and copper etchings available to him. It is evident that he contemplated Roman baroque buildings through the lens of illustrated treatises and reproductions, such as Carlo Fontana’s Il Tempio Vaticano of 1694, which King August II had personally received as a gift from the author in the year of its publication. During his visit to Rome the Saxon prince Friedrich August had been given a guided tour of the basilica, cupola, and lantern of St. Peter. The king’s infatuation with obelisk symbolism might actually date from this time. The conversion of the former Protestant elector Friedrich August I to the Catholic faith in 1697 facilitated his propensity for adopting in Dresden the baroque forms associated with the power of Catholicism. Pöppelmann’s design for a royal palace in 1709–10, with its tower gate placed in the arcade front as seen in figure 6.11, was already dependent on Fontana’s publication.93 This holds true also for such colleagues in Berlin as Jean de Bodt. The exploitation of baroque architecture developed for Roman church façades and church towers served to confer upon secular buildings the aura of sacred power, in symphony with their monumental, colonnaded outline derived from Roman antiquity. The importation of these stylistic features had been practiced systematically in Berlin with regard to the palace of Potsdam, the castle of Charlottenburg, and the plans of the Dom, the Protestant cathedral. The series of drawings made by Pöppelmann for the main façade of the royal palace after his voyage to Vienna and Rome relies heavily on these very same models. But in the end, his experiences were not expressed in the palace building, since the king had, by 1718, decided for financial reasons to suspend the plans for its reconstruction. In February 1718, prompted by his councilor Count Wackerbarth, August II informed his board of architects in the Oberbauamt that he had renounced building the “Zwinger als ein … in einer Symmetrie mit dem Schloß stehendes Werk” (as a building standing in symmetry with the palace).94 The Zwinger area with its orangerie had been planned from 1711 as an enclosed garden joined in some way to the western part of the palace. Now, it was a separate building to be considered apart. By this decision, all the decorative elements, which had been conceived according to their function in the projected palace’s architecture, acquired a new significance within an autonomous space. The architecture of church towers that had been adapted for entrance towers and portals of royal buildings and of courts of honor, a practice also contemplated for the Dresden palace (see figure 6.18), was now employed for the sole purpose of the festival architecture displayed in the Zwinger. This transfer of elements developed for the majestic representation of royal palaces into a space reserved exclusively for royal festivities is perhaps the most striking feature in the devolution from the planning of an extended palace area with vast gardens to the place enclosed by Pöppelmann’s aerial structures. Whenever the Zwinger had been used for animal hunting or for running on the ring, it had been provided with a wooden amphitheatre that was pulled down after the event (figure 6.4). For the marriage festivities of his son Friedrich August II with Maria Josepha, the king desired a more consistent environment. Pöppel-

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Figure 6.18. Matthäus Daniel Pöppelmann, Royal Palace, plan for the eastern façade. Pen and ink, watercolor, ca. 1711. Dresden, SLUB, Ms. L4/4.

mann used the architecture of prestige connected with ceremonial functions to heighten the significance of an autonomous space, which served only for festival events. In September 1719, the festivities staged in the Zwinger in the name of the planet Jupiter consisted of a carrousel (tournament) of the four elements (see figure 6.19) and a mercerie (market) set up in the name of Mercury.95 The engravings executed to memorialize these events highlighted the most prominent elements of the building structure surrounding the festival space. On the left side there can be seen the Kronentor, a “crowned” tower gate set by 1714 into the center of the arcade gallery. Both the Kronentor and the galleries were covered with copper. The Kronentor, derived from Pöppelmann’s former plans for the palace façade, received the architect’s prime attention.96 It actually led to

Figure 6.19. Festival architecture, Carousel of the Four Elements, held in the Zwinger, 1719. Pen and ink, watercolor. Dresden, Kupferstichkabinett. Deutsche Fotothek (Hüttel).

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a small wooden bridge crossing the ditch behind the Zwinger, but this detail is significantly missing in the festival engraving, which shows the tower as a purely decorative element completely devoid of any practical function. An earlier variant of the portal tower for the Zwinger design dating from around 1713–14 and featuring Hercules bearing the globe can be seen in figure 6.20. The motif of the

Figure 6.20. Matthäus Daniel Pöppelmann, drawing for a tower portal. Pencil, ca. 1713–14. Dresden, SLUB, Ms. L4/24.

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Hercules Saxonicus was used for the figure on top of the central pavilion adjoining the ditch, called Wall-Pavillon, in 1716–18. The basic model for Pöppelmann’s design of the Kronentor can be identified in Bernini’s demolished bell towers (1637–1641) for the basilica of St. Peter, which by the eighteenth century had survived only in Carlo Fontana’s etchings for the Tempio Vaticano of 1694.97 The baroque mediation between church bell towers and royal tower gates, already attested to by the tower gate in Fontana’s design for the arcade of St. Peter’s place of 1694, was corroborated by the subsequent experiments in Berlin and Potsdam conducted by Schlüter and De Bodt, as well as by Pöppelmann in Dresden.98 De Bodt even employed the twin structure of Bernini’s bell towers as a literal quotation, in 1712, in his designs for the Berlin Dom conceived as a new St. Peter’s.99 That Pöppelmann attributed particular importance to his own reinvention of the triumphal tower gate in the context of the Zwinger architecture can be deduced from the choice of the engravings offered for viewing in his 1729 publication, Vorstellung und Beschreibung Des von Sr. Königl. Majestät … erbauten so genannten Zwinger-Gartens Gebäuden.100 Apart from the reproduction of the Kronentor, there exist up to four nonrealized variations on the theme of the tower portal, among them two quite extravagant cascade towers.101 The cascade tower, however, which was to crown the grotto architecture complex in the Zwinger, had indeed been personally approved by the king in 1718, and, consequently, it figured prominently in Pöppelmann’s edition of his virtual projects. Thus, one of the elements most functional to the triumphant architecture of royal palaces and castles had been redefined in order to create the artistic festival image of Dresden. It is characteristic for the conflicting lines of interest, which both the respect due to electoral traditions and the need for the display of royal magnificence imposed on the king, that the vision of a royal palace inside the town of Dresden reemerged only during the discussions for the royal monument on the bridge after 1727. To this purpose, Pöppelmann’s plans dating from 1710 were exhumed when Zacharias Longuelune was commissioned, around 1729–30, to conceive a new palace building complex. In order to obtain an overview of the buildings that had been completed by 1730, it may be useful to examine the documentation shown in figures 6.21 and 6.22. The plan in Figure 6.22 is a slightly later document, which integrates and completes the variants provided by Longuelune’s original plans, namely Figure 6.21. Longuelune updated the design of his predecessor Pöppelmann (see figure 6.12) by adding to his plan the royal buildings realized since 1711 and by distributing among them the functions that had grown out of the changing aspects of royal representation.102 In the west angle of the fortification can be seen the arcaded Zwinger building structure (1714–1728) connected to the Opera shown in figure 6.22. Since the plan does not assign a precise function to the building, figure 6.21 may reflect a stage when King August II thought of transforming the building into an anatomical theatre. The project for a new Catholic court chapel is inscribed in the structure of the former Redoutenhaus for balls and masquerades. In both figures

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Figure 6.21. Zacharias Longuelune, ground plan for Royal Palace and museum galleries. Pen and ink, watercolor, ca. 1730. Dresden, SHStA, OHMA, P, Cap. I.A. 60a.

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Figure 6.22. After Zacharias Longuelune, ground plan of palace area from the western fortification to the New Market with Frauenkirche. Colored graphite, ca. 1730. Dresden, SHStA, OHMA, P, Cap. I.A. 34.

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6.21 and 6.22 the projected chapel is linked to the palace by a long corridor. The ground of the Zwinger is left blank. Since it served for festivals and tournaments, it was covered only with pavement, thus eluding the lavish garden decoration devised around 1715. A supplementary garden space stretching in the direction of the Elbe had already been part of the preceding plans advanced by the Oberbauamt. The garden is flanked by long galleries closed on the outside. South of the palace is located the Prinzliches Palais or Taschenberg-Palais, which served temporarily as a residence for the royal prince and his family. Its reconstruction had been completed by 1719 for the marriage of the future Elector Friedrich August II and King August III of Poland with the emperor’s daughter, Maria Josepha. In the figures, the sixteenth-century outline of the old electoral palace is enclosed within a greatly enlarged quadrangular structure, which is adapted from the plans executed before 1711. The ground floor of the old northwest wing was destined to form the new museum for the art treasures housed in the Grünes Gewölbe since 1723. The plans greatly surpass the enlargement of its rooms ordered by King August II in 1727.103 The room in the northwest corner of the Grünes Gewölbe loses its original function as it comes to form part of an extended new west wing communicating with the U-shaped galleries that could be entered separately by a spiral staircase. The purpose of this wing consisting of four supplementary rooms is made clear by the inscription on figure 6.22: “zum Grünen Gewölbe” (pertaining to the Green Vault). The treasure museum would have been extended to contain up to ten rooms. The plans contemplate the possibility of circulating freely within a largely diversified gallery structure communicating with the Zwinger. The whole structure including the holdings of the Grünes Gewölbe served as a giant museum course, laying out the different fields of art and knowledge—displayed by the wealth of the royal collections—in an ideal closed circuit.104 Since 1728 the Zwinger had been used to accommodate a part of the royal collections. Its extended building structures with pavilions and galleries required an appropriate use lasting beyond the ephemeral festivities. Yet, the most prestigious royal holdings, such as the picture gallery, had not been included in the transfer to the Zwinger. More room was needed for the accommodation of the new collection of antiquities acquired in 1727–28.105 The long gallery adjacent to the Grünes Gewölbe as shown in the figures had indeed been intended for the display of the antique statues and plaster casts. The opposite gallery may have been envisioned, at one time, for housing the picture gallery. This hypothesis is corroborated by figure 6.21. It does not yet show the interior transformation of the Großer Stall (Great Stables) that led in 1745–47 to the establishment of an authentic picture gallery, modeled on the reorganization of the imperial picture gallery housed in the Vienna Stallburg (Stables) in 1728. Figure 6.22 instead shows an intermediate stage of the new disposition of the Großer Stall (Great Stables) conceived as a quarter for high-ranking guests in 1729–31. The twostory building had been endowed with a large free-standing staircase in 1729

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and, by and by, numerous paintings and other objects of the king’s overflowing collections filled the rooms and the galleries.106 The idea of uniting the entirety of the king’s artistic and scientific holdings in a building complex that far surpassed in extent the planning for the enlarged palace testifies to a new balance within the modalities of royal representation, to which the construction of the Zwinger had significantly contributed. Beyond difficulties in realizing them, Longuelune’s plans for the museum spaces attest to the king’s intense preoccupation, in the last years of his reign, with the representational value of the art collections and their appropriate presentation. The public display of the royal treasures proposed and required the same deference, devotion, and high esteem due to the monarch himself that was now by his generosity diverted to the general fruition of the arts and sciences. The long-coveted public selfglorification of the king in the eyes of his subjects finally coincided with the public recognition of his achievements as a royal collector and patron to the arts. The enormous investment made into the royal collections, housed as they were in buildings of extraordinary magnificence, thus served no longer only “zu unserem divertissiment” (for our pleasure). The transfer of the collections into the Zwinger, including the plans for a separate museum complex, is now motivated, in 1727, by the concern of linking the general spread of the arts and sciences so firmly to the royal reputation, that they become substantially identical: Alß sind wir allergnädigst entschloßen, zu beßerer Aufnahm der Wißenschaften und Künste wie auch zur Zierde unseres Hofes unsere Bibliothèque und sämtliche obbenannte Sammlungen in möglister Ordnung an einen bequemen Orte zusammen zu bringen und außzustellen, auch zu dem Ende ein eigenes Gebäude errichten laßen, um dem Publico zum Besten zu allgemeinem Gebrauche auf gewiße maaße zu widmen. (So we have graciously resolved for the purpose of a more efficient assimilation of sciences and arts, as well as for the adornment of our court, to assemble our library and all the above-mentioned collections in the best possible order in a convenient place, and moreover to erect to this end a proper building, conceived for the best of the public and dedicated to some extent to general fruition).107

The ideal of perfection long pursued by the insatiable royal collector was then embodied in the stylish display of the invaluable, precious artistic objects and the rich scientific holdings, which in turn reflected and deferred this ideal on the king himself. The collections represented the power of the monarch all the more convincingly since he seemed to encourage the participation of his subjects in the aesthetic pleasure and the public utility conveyed by the “best possible order” of things carefully disposed by him. This idea is conveyed, indeed, in the frontispiece of Pöppelmann’s 1729 publication on the architecture of the Zwinger, where the title of the work is inscribed on a kind of pedestal that bears the king’s equestrian statue, with the whole design enclosed in a medallion.108 Formed by the power of the ruler, the collections presented his truly royal image as an unambiguous object of public admiration.

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The palais des sciences thus took the place of the never-realized royal palace. In 1729, the court painter Louis Silvestre presented his preliminary drafts for the painting of the ceiling in the Wall-Pavillon, the central pavilion of the Zwinger situated opposite the palace. The painting was to represent Le Triomphe des Arts en Saxe (The Triumph of the Arts in Saxony).109 Because the triumph of the king was being transferred, now, to the triumph of the arts promoted by the royal patron, triumphant symbolism could be used in abundance because it was safely contained within the domain of the arts and the sciences. This final turn of cultural politics, led by the transformation of the Zwinger and the stables, advanced a different solution to the problem of building a royal capital. In figure 6.22, the ground plans of the Neue Frauenkirche (New Church of Our Lady) and of the corps de garde on the New Market to the east of the palace are singled out. The triangular shape of the Großer Vorhoff (Grand Forecourt), already proposed by Pöppelmann, is adopted by Longuelune to form another festival space. It leads up to the opera house and the theatre, both of them linked to the Großer Stall. The project for the new stables on the opposite side comprised an adjacent riding hall. The visual axis between the façade of the Neue Frauenkirche, shown roughly in its definite ground plan approved in 1726, and the eastern front of the palace is emphasized by what is inscribed in the plan as a double Porte Triumphale (Triumphal Gate),110 a tower-like portal modeled on Pöppelmann’s designs and crowned with a pyramid. Significantly, the burghers’ buildings situated in the immediate neighborhood of the palace are left out. That this ambitious design, like so many others, could not be realized was clear, since already Pöppelmann’s first designs for the royal palace had to be matched against the urban realities. The situation of the southern as well as the eastern surroundings of the palace and its dense settlement discouraged any expansion in these directions, especially after the building of the monumental Frauenkirche. It seems reasonable to assume that this majestic church emulating St. Peter in Rome, which had been erected on the decision of the city council of Dresden in order to reaffirm the Protestant identity of the city, proved an unexpected compensation to King August for his own unfulfilled palace plans.111 In September 1730, the king’s entourage—in particular, his former councilor Wackerbarth—had the satisfaction of seeing the royal architect Matthäus Daniel Pöppelmann, by then nearly seventy years old, requested by the Prussian king to come to Berlin to discuss the plans for the new Peterskirche (St. Peter’s) adjoining the palace area. In his letter to Pöppelmann’s son, who was active at the court of Warsaw, Wackerbarth rejoiced in the possibility of demonstrating how the urban competition between Berlin and Dresden had turned in favor of the Saxon capital. He took the request to be proof of the way that “die reputation des M. Oberlandbaumeister in der Baukunst erschallet und was vor avantageuse Ideen Ihro Königl. Majt. in Preußen davon heget” (the resounding reputation of the royal architect in the art of building and what favorable ideas the Prussian king entertains thereof ).112 By that time, Pöppelmann’s most reputed buildings, with

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the Zwinger turned into a palais des sciences, were certainly considered to match Berlin’s royal buildings.

Endnotes Abbreviations: OHMA Oberhofmarschallamt SLUB Sächsische Landes- und Universitätsbibliothek SHStA Sächsisches Hauptstaatsarchiv 1. Anton Weck, Der Chur-Fürstlichen Sächsischen weitberuffenen Residentz- und Haupt-Vestung Dresden Beschreib- und Vorstellung… (Nürnberg: Johann Hoffmann, 1680). Weck’s important work is briefly reviewed in Helen Watanabe-O’Kelly, Court Culture in Dresden: From Renaissance to Baroque (New York: Palgrave, 2002), 155–8. 2. Eva Papke, “Der Ausbau der Festung Dresden unter Kurfürst Moritz,” Dresdner Hefte 52, no. 4 (1997): 44–50 and idem, Festung Dresden: Aus der Geschichte der Dresdner Stadtbefestigung (Dresden: Verlag der Kunst, 1997), as well as Markus A. Castor, “Rocco di Linar und die Mathematica Militaris der Dresdner Fortifikation in italienischer Manier: Städteplanung von der Bild- zur Raumordnung,” in Elbflorenz: Italienische Präsenz in Dresden, ed. Barbara Marx (Dresden: Verlag der Kunst, 2000), 101–34. 3. See the engraving by Bellotto 1750, reproduced in Fritz Löffler, Das alte Dresden: Geschichte seiner Bauten (Dresden: Sachsenverlag, 1962), 106, fig. 102. 4. Engraving in Weck, Residentz- und Haupt-Vestung Dresden, reproduced in Walter May, “Die höfische Architektur in Dresden unter Christian I.,” Dresdner Hefte 29, no. 1 (1992): 70. 5. Grit Arnscheidt, “Vom Prospectus zum Prospekt: Die graphische Stadtdarstellung zwischen Repräsentation und Werbung,” in Stadt und Repräsentation, ed. Bernhard Kirchgässer and Hans-Peter Brecht (Sigmaringen: Thorbecke, 1995), 9–24. 6. See Löffler, Das alte Dresden (1962), 11, fig. 20. 7. Cornelius Gurlitt, Beschreibende Darstellung der älteren Bau- und Kunstdenkmäler des Königreichs Sachsen, vols. 21-23, Stadt Dresden, Teil 1.-3. (1900–1901; reprint, Neustadt a.d. Aisch: Verlag für Kunstreproduktionen, 2001), 419–20. 8. Heidrun Laudel and Kurt Milde, “Die räumliche Dimension baulicher Planungen in der Regierungszeit Augusts des Starken,” in Sachsen und die Wettiner: Chancen und Realitäten, ed. Reiner Gross (Dresden: Kulturakademie, 1990), 286, fig. 9. Hermann Heckmann, Matthäus Daniel Pöppelmann: Leben und Werk (Munich: Deutscher Kunstverlag, 1972), 224–5, figs. 222 and 223. The plans were never realized, the old structure of the Pulverturm having been demolished in 1744 to give way to a civil electoral building. 10. Walter Bachmann, “Nossenis Lusthaus auf der Jungfernbastei in Dresden,” Neues Archiv für sächsische Geschichte 56 (1939): 1–25; May, “Die höfische Architektur.” 11. The coat of arms was designed by Cranach the Younger’s pupil Zacharis Wehme, as shown in his drawing dated from 1591; see Werner Schade, Dresdener Zeichnungen 1550–1650: Inventionen sächsischer Künstler in europäischen Sammlungen (Dresden: Kupferstich-Kabinett der Staatlichen Kunstsammlungen, 1969), 112, no. 138. The Saxon coat of arms held by two lions and guarded by two gilded Roman knights also marked the entrance to the Neuer Stall (New Stables) constructed under Christian I and facing the eastern area of the town with its New Market; see Weck, Residentz- und Haupt-Vestung Dresden, 54; Walter Hentschel, Dresdner Bildhauer des 16. und 17. Jahrhunderts (Weimar: Böhlau, 1966), 136, fig. 66. See also Dirk Syndram, “Der Pfälzer Löwe und Christian I. von Sachsen: Anmerkungen zu einem zurückerworbenen Kleinod,” Jahrbuch der Staatlichen Kunstsammlungen 27 (1998–99): 7–14.

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12. Richard Steche, “Über einige Monumentalbauten Sachsens aus der 2. Hälfte des 16. Jahrhunderts,” Neues Archiv für Sächsische Geschichte 4 (1883): 115–26; Hentschel, Dresdner Bildhauer, 113–15, figs. 14, 15, 16a, 16b; Claude Keisch, “Das Dresdner Moritzmonument und einige andere plastische Zeugnisse kursächsischer Staatsrepräsentation,” Jahrbuch der Staatlichen Kunstsammlungen Dresden (1970–71): 145–65. 13. Wolfgang Flügel, “Bildpropaganda zum Übergang der sächsischen Kurwürde von den Ernestinern auf die Wettiner,” Neues Archiv für Sächsische Geschichte 67 (1996): 71–96. 14. Carl C. Christensen, Princes and Propaganda: Electoral Saxon Art of the Reformation (Kirksville, MO: Sixteenth Century Journal Publishers, 1992), 5–8. 15. Christensen, Princes and Propaganda, 28–9; Jeffrey Chipps Smith, “‘Verbum Domini manet in aeternum’: Medal Designs by Sebald Beham and the Reformation in the Duchy of Saxony,” Anzeiger des Germanischen Nationalmuseums (1987): 205–26. The spread of the inscription V.D.M.I.A.E. has been traced by Frederick J. Stopp, “Verbum Domini Manet in Aeternum: The Dissemination of a Reformation Slogan 1522–1904,” in Essays in German Language, Culture and Society, ed. Siegbert S. Prawer et al. (London: University of London Institute of Germanic Studies, 1969), 123–35 and Ingetraut Ludolphy, “VDMIAE: ein ‘Reim’ der Reformationszeit,” Jahrbuch der Hessischen Kirchengeschichtlichen Vereinigung 33 (1982): 279–82. 16. Sibylle Harksen, Die Schloßkirche zu Wittenberg (Berlin: Union-Verlag, 1969); HansJoachim Krause, “Die Kirche des ‘Neuen Stifts’ in Halle und die Schloßkirche in Wittenberg: Zur Geschichte und ursprünglichen Gestalt beider Bauten,” in Cranach: Meisterwerke auf Vorrat: Die Erlanger Handzeichnungen der Universitätsbibliothek (Munich: Form-Druck, 1994), 21–36. 17. Flügel, “Bildpropaganda,” 78–79 and fig. 1; Gabriele Wimböck, “Exempla fidei: Die Kirchenausstattungen der Wettiner im Reformationszeitalter,” in Glaube und Macht: Sachsen im Europa der Reformationszeit. Aufsätze, ed. Harald Marx and Cecilie Hollberg (Dresden: Sandstein, 2004), 189–219, in particular 195. The same statuary program overlooked the triumphal portal leading to the chapel of Colditz Castle, which was erected in 1583 by Elector August. 18. Staatliche Kunstsammlungen Dresden, Das Dresdner Schloss: Monument sächsischer Kultur und Geschichte (Dresden: Staatliche Kunstsammlungen, 1992), 80–1, fig. 60; Wimböck, “Exempla fidei,” 194–7. See in general Hans-Joachim Krause, “Zur Ikonographie der protestantischen Schloßkapellen des 16. Jahrhunderts,” in Von der Macht der Bilder, ed. Ernst Ullmann (Leipzig: Seemann, 1983), 395–412; Clemens Jöckle, “Überlegungen zu einer Typologie evangelischer Schloßkapellen des 16. Jahrhunderts,” in Geschichte des protestantischen Kirchenbaus: Festschrift für Peter Poscharsky zum 60. Geburtstag, ed. Klaus Raschzok and Reiner Sörries (Erlangen: Junge, 1994), 37–53; and with regard to Danish examples stemming from the Torgau archetype, Hugo Johannsen, “The Protestant Palace Chapel: Monument to Evangelical Religion and Sacred Rulership,” in Signs of Change: Transformations of Christian Traditions and Their Representation in the Arts, 1000–2000, ed. Nils Holger Petersen, Claus Clüver, and Nicolas Bell (Amsterdam: Rodopi, 2004). For the importance of incorporating Protestant churches into residence castles see Gotthard Kießling, “Die herrschaftliche Inanspruchnahme evangelischer Kirchen an Residenzorten,” in Die Künste und das Schloß in der frühen Neuzeit, ed. Lutz Unbehaun (Munich: Deutscher Kunstverlag, 1998), 83–94. 19. Gurlitt, Beschreibende Darstellung, 21:21. 20. Gurlitt, Beschreibende Darstellung, 22:330. 21. Werner Schade, “Maler am Hof von Moritz von Sachsen,” Zeitschrift des deutschen Vereins für Kunstgeschichte 22 (1968): 29–44; Das Dresdner Schloss, 73, fig. 53; 69, fig. 52; Ulrike Heckner, Im Dienst von Fürsten und Reformation: Fassadenmalerei an den Schlössern in Dresden und Neuburg an der Donau im 16. Jahrhundert (Munich: Deutscher Kunstverlag, 1995), 42–3 and figs. 39 and 40; Ulrike Heckner, “Die Fassadendekoration des Dresdner

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24. 25. 26.

27.

28.

29.

30.

31. 32.

33.

34. 35.

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Schlosses,” Dresdner Hefte 52, no. 4 (1997): 36–43; and more extensively on the whole decoration program, Brunhilde Gonschor, “Bilddarstellungen des 16. Jahrhunderts im Großen Hof des Dresdner Schlosses,” in Denkmalpflege in Sachsen 1894–1994 (Halle a. d. Saale: Stekovics, 1998), 2:333–75, for the frescoes in particular 342–6. Gonschor’s attribution of the picture designs to Francesco Ricchino, following Schade, “Maler am Hof,” instead of to Benedetto Tola is convincingly contested by Heckner, Im Dienst von Fürsten. Gurlitt, Beschreibende Darstellung, 22:355–8; Gonschor, “Bilddarstellungen,” 339–42. See the examples of triumphal architecture displayed by churches and palace chapels in Heinrich Magirius, “Zur Ausbreitung der Renaissance in Mitteldeutschland in der ersten Hälfte des 16. Jahrhunderts,” in H. Marx and Hollberg, Glaube und Macht, 155–74. For the relationship of Protestant palace chapels to church architecture, starting from the prototype of the Torgau palace chapel, see Dieter Großmann, “Die Bedeutung der Schloßkapellen für den protestantischen Kirchenbau,” in Renaissance in Nord-Mitteleuropa, vol. 1, ed. Georg Ulrich Großmann (Munich: Deutscher Kunstverlag, 1990), 127–147. Löffler, Das alte Dresden, 11, fig. 3. Gurlitt, Beschreibende Darstellung, 21: 21–7. Hentschel, Dresdner Bildhauer, 113–17. Walter Hentschel, “Die Breslauer und Dresdener Bildhauerfamilie Walther zwischen Spätgotik und Barock,” Genealogisches Jahrbuch 2 (1962): 71–4. Monika Lücke and Dietrich Lücke, “Lucas Cranach in Wittenberg,” in Lucas Cranach: Ein Maler-Unternehmer aus Franken, ed. Claus Grimm, Johannes Erichsen, and Evamaria Brockhoff (Augsburg: Haus der Bayerischen Geschichte, 1994), 59–65. Originating from Kronach in Franconia, Cranach had been employed as a court painter by Friedrich III the Wise in 1505 and granted the citizenship of Wittenberg. From 1519 to 1544, he was a member of the city council and held the office of the mayor several times. See Barbara Marx, “Italianità und frühneuzeitliche Hofkultur: Dresden im Kontext,” in B. Marx, Elbflorenz, 7–36; idem, “Wandering Objects, Migrating Artists: The Appropriation of Italian Renaissance Art by German Courts in the Sixteenth Century,” in Forging European Identities, 1400–1700, ed. Herman Roodenburg (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2007), 178–226. Gurlitt, Beschreibende Darstellung, 22: 237–378. The Protestant practice of encoding the religious imagery of Catholic saints is mentioned by Margit Kern, Tugend versus Gnade: Protestantische Bildprogramme in Nürnberg, Pirna, Regensburg und Ulm (Berlin: Mann, 2002), 89. Norbert Schneider, “Strategien der Verhaltensnormierung in der Bildpropaganda der Reformationszeit,” in Kultur zwischen Bürgertum und Volk, ed. Jutta Held (Berlin: ArgumentVerlag, 1983), 7–19. Das Dresdner Schloss, 59, fig. 45, reproducing the engraving from Weck, Residentz- und Haupt-Vestung Dresden. Weck, Residentz- und Haupt-Vestung Dresden, 30. See Kern, Tugend versus Gnade, and generally Michaela Bautz, Virtutes: Studien zu Funktion und Ikonographie im Mittelalter und im 16. Jahrhundert (Berlin: dissertation.de., 1999). Günter Passavant, Wolf Caspar von Klengel, Dresden 1630–1691: Reisen–Skizzen–Baukünstlerische Tätigkeiten (Munich-Berlin: Deutscher Kunstverlag, 2001), 178, fig. 170. For the programmatical implications of Saxon funeral monuments, see Roswitha Jacobsen, “Religiosität und Herrschaftsrepräsentation in Funeralien sächsischer Fürsten,” in Religion und Religiosität im Zeitalter des Barock, Teil 1, ed. Dieter Breuer (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 1995), 163–73. For Verbum Domini manet in aeternum, cf. note 15. Damian Dombrowski, “Das Reiterdenkmal am Pirnischen Tor zu Dresden: Stadtplanung und Kunstpolitik unter Kurfürst Christian I.,” Münchener Jahrbuch der bildenden Kunst, 3rd ser., 50 (1999): 107–46.

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36. For the Florentine prototypes see Dietrich Erben, “Die Reiterdenkmäler der Medici in Florenz und ihre politische Bedeutung,” Mitteilungen des Kunsthistorischen Institutes in Florenz, 40 (1996): 287–361. 37. Walter Holzhausen, “Die Bronzen der Kurfürstlichen Sächsischen Kunstkammer zu Dresden,” Jahrbuch der Preußischen Kunstsammlungen 54, Beiheft (1933): 50–51, fig.1; Gerald Heres, Dresdner Kunstsammlungen im 18. Jahrhundert (Leipzig: E. A. Seemann, 1991), 176, fig.; Marx, “Italianità und frühneuzeitliche Hofkultur”; D’après l’antique: Paris: Musée du Louvre, 16 octobre 2000–15 janvier 2001, ed. Jean-Pierre Cuzin et al. (Paris: Réunion des Musées Nationaux, 2000), 193–4, no. 41. 38. Schade, Dresdener Zeichnungen, fig. no. 60. Schade’s definition of a Riding Amazon has been superseded by the correct identification of the subject advanced by Jürgen Müller, “Renovatio artis Saxoniae. Sull’interpretazione dei Bedenken di Gabriel Kaltemarckt del 1587,” in Scambio culturale con il nemico religioso–Italia e Sassonia attorno al 1600, ed. Sibylle EbertSchifferer (Cinisello Balsamo, Milan: Silvana Ed., 2007), 129–41, especially 130–33 and figs. 1 and 2. 39. Holzhausen, “Die Bronzen,” 46, note 2. 40. Gonschor, “Bilddarstellungen,” 364, figs. 30, 34. 41. Marc Laureys, “Civic Self-Offering: Some Renaissance Representations of Marcus Curtius,” in Recreating Ancient History: Episodes from the Greek and Roman Past in the Arts and Literature of the Early Modern Period, ed. Karl A. E. Enenkel et al. (Leiden: Brill, 2001), 147–166. 42. It should be noted that Cranach’s much less heroic woodcut version of the motif ca. 1506, which shows horse and rider already engulfed by the abyss, remained largely eccentric in respect to the picture type that privileged the dynamic forward movement of both horse and horseman. For Cranach’s woodcut, see Lucas Cranach der Ältere 1472–1553: Das gesamte graphische Werk (Berlin: Hentschelverlag, 1972), 369. 43. Hendrik Goltzius 1558–1617: The Complete Engravings, Etchings, Woodcuts, ed. W. L. Strauss (New York: Abaris Books, 1977), 392–3, no. 234; Doris Krystof, Werben für die Kunst: Bildliche Kunsttheorie und das Rhetorische in den Kupferstichen von Hendrik Goltzius (Hildesheim: Georg Olms, 1997), 106–11. See Walter S. Melion, “Memorabilia aliquot Romanae strenuitatis exempla: The Thematics of Artisanal Virtue in Hendrick Goltzius’ Roman Heroes,” Modern Language Notes 110 (1995): 1090–1134. 44. This has already been noted by Dombrowski, “Das Reiterdenkmal.” 45. Engraving in Weck, Residentz- und Haupt-Vestung Dresden, variously reproduced by Löffler, Das alte Dresden, 21, fig. 15; Passavant, Wolf Caspar von Klengel, 314 and figs. 356, 369, 370. 46. Passavant, Wolf Caspar von Klengel, 205, fig. 202. 47. Watanabe-O’Kelly, Court Culture in Dresden, 140–7 dwells extensively on the iconographic adoption of St. George by Johann Georg II; for the medal and the iron statue see figs. 31 and 32. 48. Matthäus Daniel Pöppelmann, Vorstellung und Beschreibung des Zwingergartens zu Dresden: Nachdruck des Stichwerks von 1729, ed. H. Keller (Dortmund: Harenberg, 1980), 55–56, no. 132 u. fig. 49. Heckmann, Pöppelmann: Leben und Werk, 55, figs. 28 and 56, fig. 29. The history of King August’s equestrian monuments has been investigated in detail by Jean Louis Sponsel, “Das Reiterdenkmal Augusts des Starken und seine Modelle,” Neues Archiv für Sächsische Geschichte und Altertumskunde 22 (1901): 102–150, but his contribution is outdated in many respects. 50. Weck, Residentz- und Haupt-Vestung Dresden, 83. This detail has escaped the notice of Heckmann, Pöppelmann: Leben und Werk, 54–6, who reproduces the plans, attributing them to Pöppelmann: figs. 28, 29. 51. Heckmann, Pöppelmann: Leben und Werk, 60, fig. 36. The ground plan matching the bird’seye view shown in Figure 7.12 is now lost—see ibid., 55, fig. 28. See also Heidrun Laudel, “Planungen zum Dresdner Schloß,” in Matthäus Daniel Pöppelmann 1662–1736: Ein Architekt des Barocks in Dresden (Dresden: Staatliche Kunstsammlungen, 1987), 53–60, and

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53.

54.

55. 56.

57. 58.

59.

60.

61. 62.

63. 64.

65.

66.

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idem, “Projekte zur Dresdner Residenz in der Regierungszeit Augusts des Starken,” in Matthäus Daniel Pöppelmann 1662–1736 und die Architektur der Zeit Augusts des Starken, ed. Karl Milde, (Dresden: Verlag der Kunst, 1990), 299–311. Preußen 1701: Eine europäische Geschichte, vol. 1, Katalog (Berlin: Deutsches Historisches Museum und Stiftung Preußische Schlösser und Gärten, 2001), 230, fig. IX. 7 and 231, fig. IX. 9. Its installation in 1703 had been greeted in various occasional writings by German as well as by French Huguenot authors such as Charles Ancillon, all present in the Royal Library of Dresden; see Dresden, SLUB, Hist. Boruss. 55, nos. 32, 33, 34, 35; see Preußen 1701, 1:233–4, fig. IX. 14. Compare Johannes Tripps, “Berlin als Rom des Nordens: das Stadtschloß im städtebaulichen Kontext,” Pantheon 55 (1997): 112–125, and Hans-Joachim Kuke, “In Augustiorem Formam egeri iussit: Das Fortuna-Portal und die Epoche Friedrichs I. in Potsdam,” in Minervas Mythos: Fragmente und Dokumente des Potsdamer Stadtschlosses, ed. Saskia Hüneke and Gundula Christl (Berlin: Edition Hentrich, 2001), 49–54. Richard L. Cleary, The Place Royale and Urban Design in the Ancien Régime (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1999), 56–63; Andreas Köstler, Place Royale: Metamorphosen einer kritischen Form des Absolutismus (Munich: Wilhelm Fink Verlag, 2003), 105–18. Dirk Syndram et al., eds., Das Grüne Gewölbe zu Dresden: Führer durch seine Geschichte und seine Sammlungen (Leipzig: Koehler und Amelung, 1997), 328–9, fig. Walter Holzhausen, “Die Bronzen Augusts des Starken in Dresden,” Jahrbuch der Preußischen Kunstsammlungen 60 (1939): 157–86; Dirk Syndram, Die Schatzkammer Augusts des Starken: Von der Pretiosensammlung zum Grünen Gewölbe (Leipzig: E. A. Seemann, 1999), 117, fig. Dresden, SHStA, Loc. 896/1: Sachen, das Grüne Gewölbe… betr., fol. 13a. For the Louvre plannings, see the exhaustive material assembled by Michael Petzet, Claude Perrault und die Architektur des Sonnenkönigs: Der Louvre König Ludwigs XIV. und das Werk Claude Perraults (Munich-Berlin: Deutscher Kunstverlag, 2000). The book was conserved in the Royal Library, now Dresden, SLUB, Lit. Rom. B 817: Claude Perrault, Les dix livres d’architecture de Vitruve (Paris, 1684). A similar composition of figures adorns the Greek temple proposed by Perrault in his treatise Architecture Générale de Vitruve reduite en Abregé, Dernière Edition (Amsterdam, 1691), Fig. IV, Dresden, SLUB. Lit. Rom. B. 4358. Germain Brice, Description de la ville de Paris et de tout ce qu’elle contient de plus remarquable: enrichie de plans & de figures dessinées & gravées correctement, vols. 1–3 (Paris: Fournier, 1713), Dresden, SLUB, 3.A.6987, 1.–3. The engraving of the Louvre is in vol. 1, p. 24. Michael Petzet, “Das Triumphbogenmonument für Ludwig XIV. auf der Place du Trône,” Zeitschrift für Kunstgeschichte 45, no. 2 (1982): 145–94; Petzet, Claude Perrault, 399–442. Hans-Joachim Kuke, “Architekur, die nie gebaut wurde: Visionen für das neue Berlin,” in Preußen 1701: Eine europäische Geschichte, vol. 2, Essays (Berlin: Deutsches Historisches Museum und Stiftung Preußische Schlösser und Gärten, 2001), 279–88; and idem, Jean de Bodt 1670–1745: Architekt und Ingenieur im Zeitalter des Barock (Worms: Wernersche Verlagsgesellschaft, 2002), 67–71. Kuke, Jean de Bodt, in particular 236, fig. 285. For more details, see Laudel, “Planungen zum Dresdner Schloß,” 56–7; Heckmann, Pöppelmann: Leben und Werk, 65, figs. 37 and 67, fig. 38, and Sponsel, “Das Reiterdenkmal Augusts des Starken.” Martin Raumschüssel, ed., Verborgene Schätze der Skulpturensammlung (Dresden: Staatliche Kunstsammlungen, 1992), 52–53 no. 36, and fig. 36 has tried to refer the plaster model of the sculptor Paul Heermann to Pöppelmann’s sketches around 1711, but see Syndram, Die Schatzkammer, 176, fig. Tod A. Marder, Bernini’s Scala Regia at the Vatican Palace (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1997); idem, Bernini and the Art of Architecture (New York: Abbeville Press, 1998), 170–3 and figs.

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67. See Rudolf Wittkower, “The Vicissitudes of a Dynastic Monument: Bernini’s Equestrian Statue of Louis XIV,” in De artibus opuscula XL: Essays in Honor of Erwin Panowsky, ed. Millard Meiss (New York: New York University Press, 1961), 1:497–531. 68. Simon Thomassin, Recueil des figures, groupes, thermes, fontaines, vases… (Amsterdam: Mortier, 1695), part I, fig. 62 “M. Curtius. Iean Laurent Bernini Napolit. Sculpsit.”; Dresden, SLUB, 4.A.6912. 69. See Syndram, Die Schatzkammer, 44–5, fig. 70. Heinrich Gerhard Franz, Zacharias Longuelune und die Baukunst des 18. Jahrhunderts in Dresden (Berlin: Deutscher Verein für Kunstwissenschaft, 1953), 93. 71. Raymond Leplat’s letter to King August II dated “Venise 5 decembre 1722” is preserved in Dresden, SHStA, Loc. 380/1, fol. 34r–v. His following letter, dated “Paris 11 janvier 1723,” acknowledges reception of two sketches for the statues supplied by Foggini, with the measurement of the monuments, which have not been traced. They are not to be identified with Foggini’s drawing held by the Dresden Kupferstichkabinett showing the equestrian statue of King Carlos II, for which see Klaus Lankheit, Florentinische Barockplastik. Die Kunst am Hof der letzten Medici 1670–1743 (Munich: Bruckmann, 1962), 78–80. On the Florentine tradition of equestrian statues exploited by Foggini, see Davide Gasparotto, “Cavalli e cavalieri. Il monumento equestre da Giambologna a Foggini,” in Giambologna: gli dei, gli eroi. Genesi e fortuna di uno stile europeo nella scultura, exhibition catalogue, ed. Beatrice Paolozzi Strozzi and Dimitrios Zikos (Florence Milan: Giunti, 2006), 88–105, here: 102, 105 fig. 72. Franz, Zacharias Longuelune, 71 and fig. 67; Heckmann, Pöppelmann: Leben und Werk, 284–6. 73. Icander, Das Fast auf dem höchsten Gipffel Der Vollkommenheit Prangende Dreßden Oder Kurtze doch deutliche Beschreibung Derer In dieser Stadt berühmten Gebäude und Merckwürdigkeiten, wie solche Anno 1719 observiret worden… (Leipzig: Augusto Martini, 1719). 74. Franz, Zacharias Longuelune, 32–5 and figs. 55–66. 75. For the French elaboration of the topic, see Petzet, Claude Perrault, 335–53. 76. Das Saturnus Fest im plauischen Grunde 1719: Eigentliche Vorstellung des vortrefflichen und prächtigen Bergwerks- oder Saturnus-Festes, wie solches auf Befehl Sr. Königl. Majt. in Pohlen … aufgeführt und celebriret worden am 20.September 1719. The illustrations are examined by Monika Schlechte, “Saturnalia Saxoniae: Das Saturnfest 1719: Eine ikonographische Untersuchung,” Dresdner Hefte 21 (1990): 39–52; see also idem, “Recueil des Dessins et gravures representent les solemnites du mariage: Das Dresdner Fest von 1719 im Bild,” in Image et spectacle, ed. Pierre Béhar (Amsterdam: Rodopi, 1993): 117–69; Barbara Marx, “Disziplinierte Räume. Die visuelle Formierung Dresdens unter König August dem Starken,” in Das Sichtbare und das Unsichtbare der Macht. Institutionelle Prozesse in Antike, Mittelalter und Neuzeit, ed. Gert Melville (Cologne Weimar Vienna: Böhlau, 2005), 177–206, esp. 180, 191 and 204. 77. Gerald Heres, “Die museale Aufstellung der Kabinettstücke Dinglingers im Grünen Gewölbe,” Dresdner Kunstblätter 25 (1981): 25–31; Heres, Dresdner Kunstsammlungen, 59, 61, figs.; Syndram, Die Schatzkammer, 136–40 and fig. 78. These purchases are surveyed in Syndram, Schatzkammer Augusts des Starken. 79. The surprisingly conservative tendency present in King August II’s building activities has been stressed by Heinrich Magirius, Geschichte der Denkmalpflege: Sachsen: Von den Anfängen bis zum Neubeginn 1945 (Berlin: VEB Verlag für Bauwesen, 1989), 30–40. 80. The equestrian statue of Louis XIV with the inscriptions placed on the pedestal had been reproduced and commented on in Brice, Description de la ville de Paris, 210–13. 81. The inscriptions that were taken into account for the various monuments figure in Dresden, SHStA, Loc.355/15 Geh. Kabinett Acta Eigenhändige von Ihro Königl.Majestät…, fol. 399–400. 82. Kuke, Jean de Bodt, 229. 83. See Bruno Alfred Döring, Die neue Königsstadt: Alten-Dresdner Aufbau nach dem Brande von 1685. (Dresden: Verein für Geschichte Dresdens, 1920).

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84. Heckmann, Pöppelmann: Leben und Werk, 264–72. 85. Dresden, SHStA, Loc. 774/2 Den Zwinger Garthen Bau betr. 1709–1739, 1756, fol. 17r–v. 86. Dresden, SHStA, Loc. 774/2 Den Zwinger Garthen Bau betr. 1709–1739, 1756, fols. 45ff. 87. Cited after Petzet, Claude Perrault, 89. 88. Heckmann, Pöppelmann: Leben und Werk, 42; Guido Hinterkeuser, “Blick nach Europa: Die Architektur in Berlin im Zeitalter Friedrichs III./I.,” in Preußen 1701: Eine europäische Geschichte, vol. 2, Essays (Berlin: Deutsches Historisches Museum und Stiftung Preußische Schlösser und Gärten, 2001), 263, 267 n. 3. Court architect Pöppelmann, responsible for the reconstruction of the Dresden palace, obtained fifteen copper etchings of the palace and the palace garden of Potsdam designed by the French Huguenot architect and engineer Jean de Bodt (1670–1745), active in Dresden from 1728; Heckmann, Pöppelmann: Leben und Werk, 45. For De Bodt see Hermann Heckmann, Baumeister des Barock und Rokoko in Brandenburg-Preußen (Berlin: Verlag für Bauwesen, 1998), 203–26, and the excellent monograph by Kuke, Jean de Bodt. 89. For the Berlin Palace see Goerd Peschken and Hans-Werner Klünner, Das Berliner Schloß: Das klassische Berlin (Frankfurt a.M.: Propyläen, 1991), and Goerd Peschken, Das königliche Schloß zu Berlin, 3 vols. (Munich: Deutscher Kunstverlag, 1992–2001). For Schlüter’s contribution in particular see Guido Hinterkeuser, Das Berliner Schloss: Der Umbau durch Andreas Schlüter (Berlin: Siedler, 2003). 90. Heckmann, Pöppelmann: Leben und Werk, 60, fig. 35. 91. The Louvre had been a constant point of reference in Sturm’s adaptation of the French treatise of Augustin Charles Daviler in Leonhard Christoph Sturm, Auszführliche Anleitung zu der gantzen Civil-Baukunst… (Amsterdam: Hugueten, 1699), and reprinted within the series of his own works at Augsburg by Jeremiae Wolff Erben in 1725. In his Architectonische Reise-Anmerckungen… (Augsburg: Jeremias Wolff, 1719), Sturm gives the reproductions of both Bernini’s and Perrault’s models as copied by him on the occasion of a visit to the royal Académie de peinture et d’architecture established in the Louvre. In his judgment, the building was unique in the whole world, and therefore he had tried to copy the façade from his own observation as neatly as possible: “Der Execution und correction nach hat dieses Gebäude in der gantzen Welt kaum seines gleichen. Deswegen habe ich es mit mehr fleiss als alles übrige abgezeichnet” (Tab. XX). 92. Compare Pöppelmann’s plans with Heckmann, Baumeister des Barock und Rokoko, 152–54, figs. 93. Hellmut Hager, “Carlo Fontana e la fortuna del ‘terzo braccio’ del colonnato di piazza San Pietro in Vaticano,” in L’architettura della Basilica di San Pietro: Storia e costruzione, ed. Gianfranco Spagnesi, Quaderni dell’Istituto di Storia dell’architettura, n.s., 25 (1995–97): 337–60; idem, “Modi proposti dall’autore per la terminazione della Piazza, e Bracci, col novo Campanile, et Orologio,” in Carlo Fontana, Il Tempio Vaticano 1694 (Milano: Electa, 2003), ccxxviii–ccxxxi. See also idem, “Osservazioni su Carlo Fontana e sulla sua opera del Tempio Vaticano (1694),” in Il Barocco romano e l’Europa, ed. Marcello Fagiolo and Maria Luisa Madonna (Roma: Istituto Poligrafico e Zecca dello Stato, 1992), 83–149. 94. Dresden, SHStA, Loc. 774/2 Den Zwinger Garthen Bau betr. 1709–1739, 1756, fols. 58r–67r drafts and fine copy. 95. Schlechte, “Recueil des Dessins,” 145–9, 150–2. 96. Heckmann, Pöppelmann: Leben und Werk, 118ff. For Pöppelmann’s Zwinger architecture see Matthäus Daniel Pöppelmann: Der Architekt des Dresdner Zwinger, ed. Harald Marx (Leipzig: Seemann, 1990). 97. Carlo Fontana, Il Tempio Vaticano 1694, 211. See Marder, Bernini and the Art of Architecture, 72–81 and figs. 67–73, and the survey in Irving Lavin, “Bernini at St. Peter’s: singularis in singulis, in omnibus unicus,” in St. Peter’s in the Vatican, ed. William Tronzo (Cambridge:

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99. 100. 101.

102. 103. 104.

105. 106.

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Cambridge University Press, 2005), 111–243. The importance of Bernini’s bell towers has been duly underlined by Sarah McPhee, Bernini and the Bell Towers: Architecture and Politics at the Vatican (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2002). See Hellmut Hager, “Impronte Berniniane nell’architettura e nella decorazione architettonica in Italia e nell’ Europa,” in Le Bernin et l’ Europe: Du baroque triomphant à l’âge romantique, ed. Chantal Grell and Milovan Stanic (Paris: Presse de l’Université Paris-Sorbonne, 2002), 353–374; Kuke, Jean de Bodt. Heckmann, Baumeister des Barock und Rokoko, 231, fig. See the reissue of this work, Pöppelmann, Vorstellung und Beschreibung. Pöppelmann, Vorstellung und Beschreibung, Tafel nos. 18, 19, 21, 22. For unpublished variants, see Matthäus Daniel Pöppelmann, 1662–1736: ein Architect des Barocks in Dresden: Ausstellung zum 250. Todestag und zum 325. Geburtstag des Erbauers des Dresdener Zwingers (Dresden: Die Kunstsammlungen, 1987), 66, nos. 165–7. Existing buildings are represented in black ink, new constructions in red. Heres, Dresdner Kunstsammlungen, 50ff.; Syndram, Die Schatzkammer Augusts des Starken, 156. Heres, Dresdner Kunstsammlungen, 95–7; also Gerald Heres, “Longuelunes Museumsprojekt und die Mineraliengalerie im Zwinger,” Dresdner Kunstblätter 26 (1982): 145–9 and idem, “Die Museumsprojekte Augusts des Starken,” Jahrbuch für Regionalgeschichte 16 (1989): 102–15. Franz, Zacharias Longuelune, 21–2, figs. 23–8. For the collection of antiquities, see Heres, Dresdner Kunstsammlungen, 79–83. Gerald Heres, “Der erste Umbau des Dresdener Stallgebäudes im Lichte der Engelbrechtschen Architekturstiche,” Jahrbuch der Staatlichen Kunstsammlungen Dresden 13 (1981): 101–107. Dresden, SHStA,Loc. 379/4, fol. 42r–42/8 Royal instruction for Count von Friesen, dated 14 June 1727. See Pöppelmann, Vorstellung und Beschreibung. Dresden, SHStA, Loc. 380/1, fol. 37r, dated 5 April 1729, reported in Harald Marx, “Der Zwinger und die Farbe—der Zwinger und die Malerei,” Jahrbuch der Staatlichen Kunstsammlungen Dresden 14 (1982): 7–34, here: 20f. It is supplemented by the note “Gleichen Stiel,” i.e., the outer part to be made in the same style as the inner part of the entrance gate. Hans-Joachim Kuke, Die Frauenkirche in Dresden (Worms: Wernersche Verlagsgesellschaft, 1996), 30, and passim. Dresden, SHStA, Loc. 1210/3, fol. 114r.

Chapter 7

A TALE OF TWO CITIES Nuremberg and Munich

d Jeffrey Chipps Smith

N

uremberg and Munich were two of the preeminent early modern artistic centers of the Holy Roman Empire. Since their fates became more inextricably bound together after their union in the Kingdom of Bavaria in 1806 and in subsequent German history, it is easy to overlook their quite different paths to and moments of artistic glory. This paper will address their respective artistic trajectories in the baroque age.1 What factors prompted the rise or fall of their artistic communities? Although a full answer to this question is beyond the scope of this essay, I shall consider how patronage, the economic engine that fostered art, was intimately associated with local politics and with broader challenges, such as the Protestant Reformation and the Catholic response. Even when a dynamic artistic environment was achieved, it proved difficult to sustain. Nuremberg and Munich were large cities. Around 1500, Nuremberg had a population estimated at nearly 40,000—with another 20,000 residing within its surrounding territory, which encompassed about 1,200 square kilometers, including six towns, seven markets, and seventy villages.2 This was the largest domain of any German imperial city. The population subsequently declined and would not regain this level until the nineteenth century. In contrast, Munich possessed only about 13,500 inhabitants around 1500, and about 20,000 in 1580. The city, however, was the capital of the duchy of Bavaria, which at the end of the sixteenth century contained about 27,500 square kilometers and a population approaching one million.3 As newer towns founded, respectively, in about 1050 and 1158, Nuremberg and Munich were not awarded episcopal seats. Nuremberg

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fell under the jurisdiction of the bishop of Bamberg, and Munich was under the bishop of Freising. Neither possessed a university, though the academy started in 1575 at Altdorf, near Nuremberg, achieved university status in 1622. Both were active commercial centers, although for centuries the Franconian city considered Augsburg rather than Munich to be its main rival. In 1471, the astronomer Johannes Regiomontanus described Nuremberg as the “quasi centrum Europae.”4 Standing at major north-south and east-west crossroads of the empire, Nuremberg benefited from its location to become one of Europe’s leading industrial and trade towns. Using raw materials such as Bohemian and Saxon metals, its artisans manufactured export wares and precision instruments. Its dynamic printing industry assured it was at the heart of the empire’s intellectual exchange. Munich was long a noted, middle-level market town; however, it lacked the same breadth of industry and international trading profile that Nuremberg and Augsburg enjoyed. During the course of the sixteenth century, the city blossomed into the capital of the duchy of Bavaria. Its rise as an administrative seat affected its economic and artistic fortunes. Artistically, Nuremberg vied with Augsburg, not Munich, throughout the late Middle Ages and Renaissance, when it was arguably the Holy Roman Empire’s leading center.5 Masters from Michael Wolgemut and Albrecht Dürer to Veit Stoss and Wenzel Jamnitzer enjoyed great regional and international fame. Yet, during the second half of the sixteenth century, Nuremberg’s fortunes began to wane. Most specialists, if asked, would have difficulty naming a single seventeenth- or, above all, eighteenth-century artist active in Nuremberg. Its baroque era heritage remains poorly understood.6 Munich experienced something of an inverse situation. Only a few of its pre-Reformation artists, such as sculptor Erasmus Grasser or painter Jan Polock, earned regional reputations. This gradually changed as the dukes of Bavaria made Munich their primary residence and nurtured local talents like Han Mielich the painter, active from 1536 to 1573. With the ascendancy of Duke Wilhelm V (r. 1579–97), the city first experienced the influx of skilled masters from across Europe. Unlike Nuremberg, Munich was able to sustain its artistic prominence until the end of the eighteenth century. Let us now consider the respective histories of these two cities more carefully.

Nuremberg: Development and Decline Nuremberg was a Reichsstadt, or an imperial free city controlled by a patrician oligarchy. These two traits defined its character. As a Reichsstadt, Nuremberg owed its allegiance to the Holy Roman Empire rather than to any other noble or ecclesiastical authority. It was autonomous in most matters. Nuremberg held a singular position among the imperial free cities. The Golden Bull of 1356, a quasi-constitutional document, stipulated that the inaugural diet or assembly of each newly elected emperor must take place in Nuremberg. This law had major financial, political, and artistic ramifications for the city, but these are outside the

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scope of this paper. The towering Schöner Brunnen (Beautiful Fountain, 1385– 96) in the Hauptmarkt honors the emperor and the seven imperial electors. Sculptures, paintings, and stained-glass windows in the Rathaus and in the city’s major churches celebrate the emperors, several of whom helped fund local projects from the fourteenth through early sixteenth centuries. In 1423–24, Emperor Sigismund designated Nuremberg as the guardian of the imperial regalia and holy relics.7 These objects left the city only briefly for the coronation of a new emperor. Items such as Charlemagne’s crown and orb as well as Christological relics were displayed during Nuremberg’s fair, held annually two weeks after Easter. At a time when there was no imperial capital, as Vienna and Prague later would be, possession of these relics and other privileges made Nuremberg the de facto heart of the empire. A late sixteenth-century colored drawing offers a symbolic portrait of Nuremberg’s government (figure 7.1).8 The burden of supporting the city falls on the shoulders of its leaders, who were drawn from the ranks of the forty-two “old” patrician families. The seated man with his fur-trimmed robe, likely the senior Losunger or highest civic official, holds Nuremberg securely on his shoulders. The raised tip of his cap seems to touch the Rathaus (city hall) in the center of the model. He is aided by a merchant, who buttresses the external walls. Opposite, but standing slightly apart, is a craft representative. Since suppressing a revolt in 1348–49, the council had banned all trade guilds and their members’ meaning-

Figure 7.1. Symbolic representation of Nuremberg’s government, colored drawing, late sixteenth century. Nuremberg, Stadtbibliothek, Abt. Sammlungen.

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ful representation in government. Artists could be on the Greater Council—but only exceptionally, as in the case of Wenzel Jamnitzer, on the more powerful Small Council. Nuremberg’s government closely regulated civic life. The council, not the bishop of Bamberg, appointed local religious officials and lay patrician overseers for the parish churches. The sword and scale in the drawing refer to the council’s control of judicial and legal affairs. The council, not the artisans, wrote craft regulations and monitored their activities. This was not the model found in most cities. From the perspective of the visual arts, this resulted in a more flexible creative environment in Nuremberg than in most towns.9 The council often waived fees, master’s requirements, and other impediments to lure skilled artists from other cities. The degree of its regulation depended upon the specific craft’s contribution to the local economy. Goldsmiths and metalworkers were sworn artists who annually took an oath to the city, in which they promised not to leave Nuremberg without permission, and not to share trade secrets with competitors elsewhere. Painters, printmakers, and sculptors belonged to the free arts (freien Künste). They had far fewer restrictions and fewer rights. Prior to 1596, the painters could not establish even minimum rules; even then the council prevented the painters from demanding an entrance fee or a masterpiece from new members. Nuremberg possessed no elaborate guild houses adjacent to the city hall, as are visible in most other towns. There was also no guild patronage of chapels and altarpieces, as one could find from Ulm to Antwerp. During the fifteenth and early sixteenth centuries, this market model worked well for Nuremberg. The success of its artistic industries was predicated upon a continuing demand for its products, especially by clients outside of the city. Strict controls on the quality of its wares, notably in specializations such as the goldsmith trade, where each item was marked with the city’s and master’s stamps, assured verifiable high standards of materials and workmanship. Following the lead of his godfather, Anton Koberger the renowned publisher, Dürer used agents across the continent to sell his prints. Patrons from the Rhine to Kraków ordered brass epitaphs and tombs by Peter Vischer the Elder and his family. Nuremberg’s preeminence was soon threatened by broader historical events. When its city council declared Nuremberg to be a Lutheran city on 14 March 1525, no one fully understood the immediate and long-term ramifications of this official act.10 Although Nuremberg sought to minimize the anger of its allies and its trading partners, its decision alienated many, including Emperor Charles V (r. 1519–56), a staunch opponent of the Protestant movement. Their relationship quickly deteriorated, even though the council imposed strict local censorship in a vain effort to limit the city’s production of polemical anti-Catholic prints, such as a broadsheet from about 1530 criticizing German nobles for failing to stop the sale of indulgences, and other papal misdeeds.11 Another woodcut dating to 1559, or four years after the Peace of Augsburg granted recognition to the Lutherans, shows Martin Luther, Philipp Melanchthon, and other reformers kneeling before Nuremberg’s skyline.12 The city’s unique imperial ties were irrepara-

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bly broken.13 Unlike Maximilian I (r. 1493–1519), his predecessor who actively patronized many of Nuremberg’s artists, Charles V had little interest in its craftsmen. Nuremberg hosted its last imperial diet in 1543. Much of the economic benefit, including commissions by the attending princes and delegates, evaporated. Emperor Rudolf II (r. 1576–1612) was a rabid collector of works by Dürer (d. 1528) and commissioner of sumptuous pieces by goldsmith Christoph Jamnitzer; however, he refused to visit the city, even though he once passed within sight of its walls in 1580. For its part, the city stopped annually displaying the imperial regalia. In 1796, the regalia and relics were transferred to Vienna, where they are still exhibited. This blow, coupled with other events, sapped Nuremberg’s economic and, therefore, artistic vitality.14 The wars of 1552–54 against Albrecht Alcibiades, the margrave of Brandenburg-Kulmbach, despoiled much of the surrounding countryside. The bankruptcies of Spain and France, plus the 1576 plunder of Antwerp, where Nuremberg had a major trading presence, damaged its credit and its markets. Nuremberg was also a victim of the realignment of European commerce toward the New World and Asia. The Atlantic powers of Portugal, Spain, France, England, and, soon, the Netherlands dominated the markets for raw materials, spices, and luxury wares, as sea-based trade proved more economical than land transport. Nuremberg’s embrace of Lutheranism in 1525 directly impacted the arts. The local, regional, and interregional demand for new religious art largely collapsed. Many communities’ churches were already saturated with late medieval and early Renaissance art. More significantly, Lutheran and, more broadly, Protestant attitudes about religious art as idolatrous or, at best, a misuse of resources, discouraged new commissions.15 Although Nuremberg suppressed most iconoclastic acts, the destruction of art occurred in many communities. Just the threat of iconoclasm inhibited potential patrons even in securely Catholic areas. On the eve of the Reformation, Nuremberg enjoyed a large and vigorous religious community within its walls. Wenzel Hollar’s mid-seventeenth-century plan highlights the churches and civic structures (figure 7.2).16 Nuremberg possessed two major parish churches (St. Lorenz [#15] and St. Sebaldus [#28]), two secondary churches (St. Jakob [#8] and the Frauenkirche [#25]), seven monasteries or order churches (Augustinian [#27], Benedictine [#40], Carmelite [#12], Carthusian [#6], Dominican [#31], Franciscan [#16], and Teutonic Knights [#9]), two women’s convents (Dominican [#20] and Franciscan Poor Clares [#1]), three pilgrimage hospitals with churches (#2, 19, 48), the imperial chapel in the castle (#35), two cemetery churches (#49 and #50), two charitable houses with chapels (#7, 44), and a host of lesser institutions and chapels. Although population estimates are inexact, it is reasonable to assume that one-seventh to one-eighth, if not more, of Nuremberg’s residents held religious vocations. Soon after 1525, all of the monasteries were suppressed, and the convents, denied new members, gradually withered. Many of the buildings were adapted to other uses.17 By any measure, the disruptions, including the sudden loss of population, were a shock.

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Figure 7.2. Wenzel Hollar, plan of Nuremberg, engraving, c. 1657. Nuremberg, Germanisches Nationalmuseum. (Letters and numbers added by author.)

The local market for religious art, historically one of the primary components that fueled Nuremberg’s artistic economy, disappeared. There were no guilds, no religious confraternities, and no resident aristocracy to soften the blow. No new churches were erected in the city between the end of the fifteenth century, when the choir of St. Lorenz (1477) and the new Augustinian church (1479–85) were finished, and the late seventeenth century. The existing churches and formerly Catholic institutions received Lutheran ministers and overseers. In 1671, the former Franciscan church and cloister, used as an orphanage, burned down.18 Johann Trost constructed a new edifice in 1681–89; however, the church with its ornate decorations was demolished in 1810, and the rest in 1913. Of greater artistic significance was the Egidienkirche, the former Benedictine monastery (see figure 7.2, #40–41), which was converted into a Lutheran parish church and school, established in 1525 by Philipp Melanchthon.19 On 7 July 1696, the church burned. Only the choir, crossing, and a few chapels survived. Johann Trost designed the new edifice, but following his death in 1700, the actual construction was directed by his son, Gottlieb, from 1711 to 1718 (figure 7.3). The elegant elliptical nave was lined with galleries to accommodate the congregation and students. The interior’s focus is on the pulpit at the eastern end of the nave rather than on the single altar in the choir. Johann Daniel Preissler and Johann Martin Schuster’s The Glorification of the Lamb, adorning the ceiling, and Donato

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Figure 7.3. Nuremberg, interior of St. Egidienkirche, engraving/etching. From Christoph Melchior Roth, Abbildungen aller Kirchen, Klöster, und Kapellen in Nürnberg (Nuremberg, 1756).

Polli’s stuccoes were, until their destruction in 1945, the only notable decorations. The altar originally displayed a Lamentation (c. 1630) by the workshop of Anthony van Dyck, rather than a painting by a local master. In the aftermath of the Thirty Years’ War, as Nuremberg and its economy began to improve, several of the city’s churches were embellished. With minor exceptions, it was a few wealthy families, not any institutional groups, who funded these enrichments. Prior to the 1650s, most new art had been restricted to a small number of painted or sculpted epitaphs. Between 1657 and 1663, St. Sebaldus, the oldest parish church, was partially refurbished in the latest heavily ornate style (figure 7.4). The sandstone walls were whitewashed. A new pulpit (1659), painted organ shutters, and a gallery were added to the nave. Two patrician families, the Tuchers and the Muffels, commissioned new paintings for the altars of St. Nikolaus (1659) and St. Stephan (1660), respectively. The city council donated the new high altar (1663). None of these projects was awarded to painters who were from or who had trained in Nuremberg.20 Only the St. Stephan’s altarpiece survives. The high altar was removed in 1822 and replaced the following year with a neo-Gothic one as part of a campaign to “restore” the medieval character of the church. Johann Martin Schuster’s success at the Egidienkirche prompted Johann Hieronymus Loeffelholz to commission his Christ at the Altar

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Figure 7.4. Johann Ulrich Kraus (after Johann Andreas Graff), view of the interior of St. Sebaldus, engraving, 1693. Nuremberg, Germanisches Nationalmuseum, Sp. 9067.

with the Eucharist (Germanisches Nationalmuseum) in 1724 as the new high altar in St. Lorenz.21 This, in turn, experienced a similar fate, as it was replaced with a neo-Gothic altar in 1824. In spite of these and other examples, the artists of Nuremberg enjoyed no sustained demand for religious art. Civic and residential projects only sporadically filled the void left by the decline in religious patronage. Other than Benedikt Wurzelbauer’s Fountain of the Virtues (1583–89; figure 7.2, #14), a very public allegory of rule that is located adjacent to St. Lorenz, the city council focused its attention on the Rathaus (figure 7.2, #30) as the symbol of civic identity (figure 7.5). The Nuremberg Rathaus, as in many towns, was a conglomeration of adjoining, mostly late medieval buildings. In 1616, the council commissioned Jakob Wolff the Younger to erect a monumental new west façade.22 Their actions were in direct response to the huge new Rathaus that Elias Holl was building in Augsburg in 1615–20.23 In many of the imperial free cities, which were the traditional mercantile powerhouses of Germany, the city hall, rather than a princely palace, embodied local pride and civic aspirations. Although Nuremberg’s Rathaus faces onto one of the city’s main streets, which links the Hauptmarkt and the castle precinct, the setting precludes a broad frontal view of the façade. Lorenz Strauch’s depiction of the Rathaus, while basically accurate, adopts a vantage point available only to a few pigeons perched on the roof of the church of St. Sebaldus across the street. Recognizing

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Figure 7.5. Johann Troschel (after Lorenz Strauch), West façade of the Nuremberg Rathaus, engraving, 1621. Nuremberg, Germanisches Nationalmuseum, Sp. 1528.

that the façade would be seen most fully from the sides, Wolff used the awkwardly sloping site to his advantage. He stressed the horizontal flow of his three stories. The regularity of the windows of the upper floors partially masks the irregularity of the ground story and the slightly different heights of the three portals. The two corners are articulated with rusticated blocks that add a muscular, subtly militant quality to the edifice.24 Wolff’s Palladian-inspired façade and large interior courtyard, both completed in 1622, use a Tuscan order. The decorations are limited to portals, each adorned with a coat of arms and two reclining figures. Sculptors Leonhard Kern and Joachim Toppmann, working from the designs of Christoph Jamnitzer of 1616–17, carved this allegory of good government. From north to south (left to right in the engraving), are statues of Ninus (Assyria-Babylon) and Cyrus (Persia), Prudence and Justice, and Alexander the Great (Macedonia) and Julius Caesar (imperial Rome). That is, the city council rules virtuously over this imperial free city, which is the heir to the Roman, now Holy Roman, Empire, the last of the great multinational realms. The Nuremberg Rathaus embodied civic aspirations. Additions, renovations, and new decorative programs in the vast great hall, once the site of Reichstags, and in other chambers were initiated during the years 1613 to 1621.25 The Nuremberg Rathaus proved to be the last major artistic project sponsored by the city govern-

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ment for the next century or so. It was conceived and largely completed prior to the outbreak of the Thirty Years’ War in 1618. Nuremberg endured the traumatic, if unsuccessful, eighteen-week siege by Swedish troops in 1632.26 Although the great banquet celebrating the end of the war and the subsequent peace treaty was held in the great hall of the Rathaus on 25 September 1649, the economic effects of the war contributed to Nuremberg’s political and artistic decline.27 This pattern of civic failure to erect bold new buildings and other noteworthy artistic projects holds true for many imperial free cities that lacked powerful resident nobles or ecclesiastical princes. Much of the impetus for commissioning new art fell to wealthy patricians and merchants.28 Twenty-seven notable new townhouses were erected between 1589 and 1610.29 Martin Peller’s residence (1602–07; figure 7.2, #38) on the Egidienplatz was among the grandest (figure 7.6). Jakob Wolff the Elder’s design distinctively combines Italian and German features. The façade, featuring the five classical orders (Tuscan, Doric, Ionic, Corinthian, and Composite) in ascending arrangement, was inspired partially by the plates of Sebastiano Serlio’s Regole gen-

Figure 7.6. Jakob Wolff the Elder, Pellerhaus, 1602–07. Photo 1935. Nuremberg, HochbauamtBildstelle.

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erali di architettura (Book Four), which had been published in a German edition in 1542. To this, Jakob Wolff the Elder added a German scrolled gable, projecting oriel (bay window) over the doorway, and considerable decoration, which included a statue of Jupiter at the apex, a relief of St. Martin, crouching lions, garlands, strapwork, and obelisks, among other features. Jakob Stromer, the city’s Baumeister (1597–1614), could well have been describing Peller’s residence when he criticized Nuremberg’s new houses as being “mit Schmuck überladen” (overladen with ornament).30 The novelty of Wolff’s original plan was too much for some of Peller’s future neighbors, who complained that it did not match the style of their older houses. Architect and patron were compelled to modify the façade’s appearance. In 1609, Peller’s father-in-law, Bartholomaus Viatis, Nuremberg’s wealthiest resident, also incurred the council’s criticism because of his plans for a house chapel.31 There remained an onus against opulent display. When Viatis constructed a large new house on the banks of the Pegnitz River between 1615 and 1620, the façade was covered by an elaborate cycle of mural paintings designed by Paul Juvenel the Elder, perhaps the most successful local painter.32 The long tradition of painted houses must have made this exhibition more acceptable. Within their houses, Nuremberg’s affluent residents favored portraits and other art intended for their private consumption. Their tastes collectively tended to be rather conservative. Even before the Thirty Years’ War dampened the local market for art, the depth and breadth of patrician patronage around 1600 failed to match the levels observed a century earlier. Two final points need to be made about Nuremberg’s art in the seventeenth century. First, its sharp overall decline was not immediately evident, since a strong export market existed for goldsmith works and, to a lesser degree, paintings and sculptures, at least up to the opening years of the Thirty Years’ War. Christoph Jamnitzer crafted brilliant goldsmith pieces for emperors, nobles, and wealthy patricians. His recently rediscovered gilt silver Moor’s Head Drinking Cup of about 1595–1600, now in Munich (Bayerisches Nationalmuseum), was made as a drinking cup and table decoration for a marriage between the Strozzi and Pucci families in Florence.33 As proof of the vibrancy of this trade, sixty-five new goldsmith apprentices were registered here between 1600 and 1630. Of these, fully a third came from other regions or lands, including one from London.34 The city’s fame as one of the empire’s leading goldsmith centers continued into the eighteenth century. And second, Nuremberg’s sense of itself as a leader in the arts was still evident in 1662, when Germany’s first art academy was established there.35 Like its precursors, such as the informal academies of Gerrit van Honthorst in Utrecht and Rembrandt in Amsterdam, artists and dilettantes gathered to draw live models. The intellectual force behind the academy seems to have been Joachim von Sandrart, Germany’s leading painter. Trained in Nuremberg and then apprenticed to van Honthorst in Utrecht, he had witnessed different methods for instructing artists in Italy and northern Europe. Although von Sandrart resided on his family estate near Ingolstadt in 1662, he maintained close ties through his nephew

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Jacob, whose house in Nuremberg was often the meeting place for this informal group. In 1674, Joachim moved to Nuremberg, where he resided until his death in 1688. Tellingly, his religious paintings hung in Munich’s churches but not in Nuremberg’s. His ideas about the proper education of artists, which involved knowledge of perspective, proportion, anatomy, and classical art, among other topics, were articulated fully in his Teutsch Academie, published in Nuremberg in two parts in 1675 and 1679. A Latin edition appeared in 1683.36 This was the first important German theoretical treatise on art since the writings of Dürer in the 1520s. The actual impact of the academy is difficult to gauge in its early years. The city council transformed it into a more formal institution for the training of young artists in 1670–71. Beginning in 1699, the participants met in the former Dominican convent of St. Katharina’s. In 1703, its curriculum was updated, and in the following year, the painter-engraver Johann Daniel Preissler was named its director, a post he held until 1737; he also directed its art school from 1716. In spite of such innovations, the artistic scene in Nuremberg, as in many of the imperial free cities, in the eighteenth century remained rather modest and only regional in importance.

Munich: Political and Religious Patronage Munich’s artistic fate proved different than Nuremberg’s even though both cities faced many of the same historical challenges. The growing ambitions of the dukes of Bavaria and the city’s emergence as a bastion of the Catholic faith were critical factors in spurring its artistic maturation. Around 1500, Munich displayed many of the same traits as its larger Franconian neighbor. Its residents erected notable public edifices, including the Frauenkirche (1468–94), its main parish church, and new Rathaus (1470–80), both by Jörg von Halsbach.37 The dukes of Bavaria played an important yet by no means dominating role in the artistic life of the city. Munich was then just one of several towns in which the dukes periodically resided. In fact, Landshut was arguably a more influential artistic center during the late fifteenth and first half of the sixteenth century.38 Munich’s ascendancy can be traced to the reunification of the two duchies of Upper and Lower Bavaria in 1505 under Albrecht IV the Wise (r. 1465–1508). This event provided enhanced financial and territorial support for the Wittelsbachs’ aspirations. During the course of the next century or so, Munich developed into the seat of power of the Wittelsbachs’ domain. In 1530 it was referred to as a princely city (Fürstliche Stadt); in 1575 it was the princely capital (Fürstliche Hauptstadt); and in 1624 it was the electoral capital (Kurfürstliche Hauptstadt).39 By the seventeenth century, Munich also became a major residential city for the aristocracy who clustered around the Wittelsbach court: some 130 nobles owned 235 local properties. At the insistence of the dukes, Munich remained Catholic, as Protestants were purged from government posts. At his inaugural Landtag or regional diet

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in 1580, Wilhelm V (r. 1579–97) warned the delegates that he would no longer tolerate Lutheranism within the duchy. Under Albrecht V (r. 1550–79) and his successors, Wilhelm V and Maximilian I (r. 1597–1651), the Bavarian capital became a leader of the Counter- or Catholic Reformation. Church and state contributed greatly to the vibrancy of Munich’s art. Consider a seventeenth-century city plan in which church and ducal properties are highlighted in bold black (figure 7.7).40 As the city expanded, so did the percentage of land owned either by religious groups or by the Wittelsbachs. The dukes became the largest landholders. As will be discussed later, when they moved from their historic residence in the Alter Hof (#2) to the Residenz (#15) around 1600, they dominated the entire northeast quadrant of Munich. The city’s fortifications were expanded to accommodate the palace garden (#16) and prepare against the threat of war in 1620. After his abdication in 1597, Duke Wilhelm V dwelt in his own new palace complex, the Maxburg (#14), whose plot of land required the acquisition and demolition of twenty-one burger houses. This was less than the adjacent Jesuit church (St. Michael’s, #13) and college, which Wilhelm erected between 1583 and 1597. This complex replaced thirty-four burgher houses plus

Figure 7.7. Matthäus Merian the Elder, plan of Munich (modified to show early eighteenth-century appearance). From Wolfgang Braunfels, Die Kunst im Heiligen Römischen Reich (Munich: C.H. Beck, 1979). I, fig. 145.

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some existing church property. The physical presence of the Catholic Church in Munich grew rapidly from the late sixteenth century. In 1760, Munich could boast having thirty-five churches, eighteen cloisters, and forty chapels.41 Although the Wittelsbachs and the Catholic Church were the critical catalysts in Munich’s artistic maturation, as will be shown, it is a mistake to underestimate the contributions of other individuals and groups. For instance, between 1600 and 1730–31, new altars for the Frauenkirche (figure 7.7, #3) were funded by the Wittelsbachs, including the retired Wilhelm V; by other nobles, including King Sigismund III of Poland who in 1625 ordered Jeremias Sibenbürger’s gilt silver reliquary of St. Benno for the saint’s altar in the sanctuary; by high court officials, one of whom commissioned Joachim von Sandrart’s Annunciation in 1646; by wealthy members of the city council; by patrician families and a wealthy merchant’s widow; by one of the canons of this collegiate parish church; and by a family for the chapel of the Hofbruderschaft St. Anna und St. Georg, a devotional confraternity.42 The Bürgersaal (1709–10), the large meeting hall of the Marian congregation, was constructed by its lay members near the Jesuit church. Religion and politics were inextricably linked in the Wittelsbachs’ patronage of art and architecture. Adam Contzen, the Jesuit political theorist and confessor to Maximilian I, wrote: “the purpose of the state was to assist man positively in his quest for his highest goals, human virtue, happiness and eternal salvation, and to create material conditions favorable to this quest. Immoral and irreligious conduct thus directly subverted the purpose for which the state existed.”43 Both Wilhelm V and Maximilian I aspired to foster a solidly Catholic Bavaria. Art was one very visible means for promoting a vibrant local Catholic identity. St. Michael’s church marks the opening salvo in this campaign. At the outset of his reign in 1579, Duke Wilhelm V announced his intention to erect a sumptuous new church and adjoining college for the Jesuits (figures 7.8 and 7.9).44 St. Michael’s was significant as the first major church constructed in Germany since the 1520s, when the Protestant Reformation largely halted new projects. It was also the first significant edifice built for the Society of Jesus north of the Alps. Under the direction of the painter and artistic overseer Friedrich Sustris, a remarkable team of painters, sculptors, stuccoists, and masons were recruited from Italy, Switzerland, and the Holy Roman Empire to supplement Bavarian and Swabian talent. The church faces north rather than east, as was customary, so its façade opens on to Neuhauserstrasse, the city’s main east-west thoroughfare. The eye-catching exterior and spacious interior had no architectural precedents in northern Europe. Their style was boldly modern at that time. Equally jolting was the monumental bronze St. Michael Vanquishing Lucifer spilling out of the golden niche located between the two portals of the church. Designed by Hubert Gerhard, cast by Martin Frey in 1588, and placed in 1592, this four-meter-tall ensemble included then the largest bronze statues in northern Europe. The archangel defeats the rebellious Lucifer, who personifies sin and heresy (i.e., Protestantism) rampant in the world. Gerhard’s ensemble embodies the militant response of both the Jesuits and the dukes of Bavaria to the Reformation, as Munich be-

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Figure 7.8. Johann Smissek, St. Michael’s Church and the Jesuit College in Munich, etching, ca. 1644–50. Munich, Stadtmuseum.

came a center for post-Tridentine Catholicism. Adjacent to St. Michael’s church is the Jesuit College where over one thousand students were taught annually. The engraving by Michael Wenig, a Nuremberg printmaker who made his career in Munich, depicts a religious complex far greater in scale than anything ever seen in Nuremberg. Wilhelm V and the Jesuits embraced the power of art to instruct and to move the viewer. An elaborate program of paintings and sculptures imparted fundamental messages about the Catholic faith, the intercessory capabilities of saints, and the triumphal promise of Christianity. Christoph Schwarz’s monumental high altar painting is visible throughout the broad, open spaces of the church. Hans von Aachen, Peter Candid, Antonio Maria Viani, Hubert Gerhard, Hans Reichle, Carlo Pallago, the Castelli family of stuccoists, and even Giovanni Bologna of Florence created major works of art for St. Michael’s. Reproductive engravings by the Sadelers and Kilians of several of these works broadly publicized the emerging Munich court style. Following the abdication of Wilhelm V, Maximilian I assumed full control of the duchy.45 Politically ambitious, he was a staunch supporter of the Catholic Church’s efforts to expand in Bavaria. During his long reign, from 1597 to 1651, Munich witnessed the building or embellishment of numerous churches, often funded by Maximilian.46 He invited the Capuchins to Munich in 1600 and erected their church in 1601–02 on the Lenbachplatz (just above the Maxburg; figure 7.7, #14). The Augustinians renovated their choir (#7) in 1618–21.

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Figure 7.9. Interior, St. Michael’s Church in Munich, 1583–97.

Court sculptor Hans Krumper designed the church of St. Karl Borromäus in der Au, a suburb, in 1621–23. This soon was transferred, in 1627, to the Minims, better known as the Paulaners or followers of St. Francis of Paola, who later came to be recognized for their brewing skills. Isaak Pader, the court architect, devised the new triple conch choir for the parish church of St. Peter’s (next to the Altes Rathaus; #5) in 1630.47 Maximilian commissioned Peter Candid to paint a monumental, multistory altarpiece for the Frauenkirche’s high altar in 1617–20.48 Photographs taken before the re-Gothicizing of the church in 1858

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show Candid’s altarpiece plus the so-called Arch of St. Benno of Meissen, which Wilhelm V ordered for the entrance to the choir in 1603–04. Maximilian had considerable talent at his disposal, including Peter Candid and Hans Krumper. It is interesting to speculate what might have been achieved in Munich if the Thirty Years’ War had not intervened. As the leader of the Catholic League and the victor of the Battle of White Mountain near Prague in 1620, Maximilian was in the midst of the war that ravaged much of Germany for the last three decades of his reign. In 1632, Gustavus Adolfus, king of Sweden (r. 1611–32) and leader of the Protestant forces, occupied Munich. Although he died in battle later that year, his allies did not relinquish the city until 1634. The duchy and its economy were devastated.49 The famine and plague following the Protestant withdrawal prolonged the misery. Maximilian credited the Virgin Mary with his victory at White Mountain and with the expulsion of the Swedish troops, so in 1638 he ordered Hubert Gerhard’s bronze Virgin and Child of the Apocalypse, made originally in 1593 for the Jesuit church, moved to Munich’s main square, later re-named the Marienplatz (figure 7.7, #18; figure 7.10).50 It was mounted on an 11.6-meter-tall, red marble column and, three years later, complemented by four militant angels or putti battling symbols of hunger, war, plague, and heresy attributed to Ferdinand Murmann. The statue of the Virgin Mary as patron saint has been a symbol of the city ever since.51 Maximilian’s descendents continued to support the Catholic Church in Munich. Their actions are more comparable to the Habsburgs ruling in Vienna and Prague than to the conservative Lutheran city councilors of Nuremberg. Ferdinand Maria (r. 1651–79) erected the Carmelite cloister on the Promenadeplatz in 1654–57 and, more significantly, the imposing Hofkirche St. Kajetan (figure 7.7, #17) for the Theatine order in 1663–75 (figure 7.11).52 St. Kajetan fulfilled a vow made by his wife, Henriette Adelaide of Savoy, to build a new court church if she bore an heir. It is located directly opposite the Residenz. This mature baroqueera church was designed by the Bolognese architect, Agostino Barelli and Enrico Zuccalli, his Swiss successor, after the order’s mother church in Rome. The soaring dome, rising seventy-one meters high, had no local precedent. Michael Wening’s print, dating around 1700, depicts the church before the alteration of the façade, completed only in 1765–68, by François de Cuvilliés the Elder, the court’s most famous eighteenth-century architect. During the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, the Residenz palace was the other major hub of artistic activity. As seen in Wenig’s print, the palace with its formal gardens grew to dominate the whole northeastern quarter of Munich. Between 1601 and 1619—that is, before the disruptions of the Thirty Years’ War— the basic form of the palace took shape.53 Maximilian I replaced the Alter Hof, the medieval castle further west, and the heavily fortified Neuveste along the city wall, with a new residence befitting his growing political power. While the names of his architects are unknown, Maximilian participated actively in the planning. As noted by Klingensmith, the prince tied together the disparate structures, such as the originally free-standing Antiquarium and the Neuveste, already on the site,

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Figure 7.10. Hubert Gerhard and others, Virgin and Child of the Apocalypse Column, Munich, 1593 and ca. 1638, woodcut by Marc Anton Hannas (after Jacob Custos), after 1641. Munich, Stadtmuseum.

and erected the Kaiserhofbau, the large new courtyard and wings on the north side.54 The Antiquarium, measuring 67.75 by 11.9 meters, was erected by Duke Albrecht V between 1568 and 1572. Constructed by Augsburg architect Simon Zwitzel and modified by Jacopo Strada in 1586–87, this was the first building in the empire designed specifically to exhibit classical sculpture.55

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Figure 7.11. Michael Wening, Residenz, St. Kajetan’s Church (top center), and View of Munich from the Northeast, ca. 1700, engraving, after Wolfgang Braunfels, Die Kunst im Heiligen Römischen Reich. I, fig. 165.

The Residenz was then the largest palace in Germany. Yet, since the palace was tightly bound by houses to the west along Schwabingergasse (the modern Residenzstrasse), it was impossible to construct either a monumental façade or provide a sufficient set back to show off the palace’s scale (figure 7.12). The 150-

Figure 7.12. West façade of the Residenz in Munich, completed by 1619.

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meter-long western front is still impressive as it is divided into two equal stories, punctuated by two portals and, in the center, Hans Krumper’s statue of the Virgin Mary as the patron of Bavaria. Unlike the Nuremberg Rathaus, here all of the rustication, pilasters, and pediments are painted on the otherwise flat walls. Maximilian’s own apartments were located between the Grotto courtyard and the formal gardens on the south side (figure 7.13; #4–10). Shortly before 1607, he

Figure 7.13. Plan of the first upper floor of the Residenz in Munich, after Samuel John Klingensmith, The Utility of Splendor, Plan B.

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built the Kammergalerie adjacent to his bedroom (#8–9). There he displayed his favorite paintings and objects from the Kunstkammer. The well-ventilated Summer Room, beneath this, was decorated with paintings and tapestries designed by Peter Candid. The large scale of the Residenz reflected Maximilian’s growing staff and the complexities of court ceremonies. The 1615 list of his household included 520 personnel, a number that was doubled a century later.56 The Kaiserhof or Imperial Court wings were intended originally for visitors, notably the emperor and important noble guests (figure 7.13, top). Maximilian provided impressive spaces to reflect his growing power and cultural sophistication. Visitors entered through the broad imperial staircase (#19), which is lined with Hans Krumper’s statues of famous Wittelsbachs, including Otto I, the first duke in 1180, and Emperor Ludwig.57 The wide landing at the top affords views to the adjacent garden and direct entrance into the imperial hall (#20), then the largest room in the palace.58 Measuring thirty-four meters in length and about ten meters high, the chamber is impressive. The decoration was altered in subsequent centuries, destroyed in 1945, and partially remade in the decades after World War II. Today, photographs replicate Peter Candid’s original ceiling painting showing the personification of Fame, as an angel, in the center of the room, and Wisdom with the seven liberal arts, and Power, with four ancient kingdoms, on either end. The succeeding suite of chambers (#22–28), known as the stone rooms because of their extensive use of marble and scagliola or inlaid colored stones, displayed a coordinated allegorical program depicting the universe, elements, world, four seasons, eternity, religion, and finally the triumph of the Catholic Church. Additionally, Maximilian constructed the Brunnenhof with its fountain of Duke Otto I by Hubert Gerhard and Hans Krumper, as well as the two-story court chapel (#17), and his private Reiche Kapelle (#16).59 The latter, dating to 1607, is an exquisite blending of colored inlaid stone walls, painted and gilt ceiling, and an altar wall covered with silver reliefs and reliquaries, mostly made in Augsburg. The overall effect is dazzling and decidedly busy. Although construction largely was finished by 1619, Maximilian continued to employ painters, sculptors, furniture makers, and other artisans throughout his reign. The Residenz palace was repeatedly redecorated and, after the fires in 1674 and 1750, repaired.60 It was not expanded, however, until the nineteenth century. The Wittelsbach electors erected impressive residences at Nymphenburg and Schleissheim on the outskirts of Munich.61 Maxmilian I’s grandson and namesake Maximilian Emanuel (r. 1679–1726) was another energetic builder. Buoyed by military victories over the Turks at Vienna in 1683 and Belgrade in 1688 and by his 1685 marriage to Maria Antonia, daughter of Emperor Leopold I (r. 1658– 1705), he harbored higher aspirations than being an elector. His political scheming resulted in his being exiled in Brussels and Paris for almost a decade by Emperors Joseph I (r. 1705–11) and Charles VI (r. 1711–40) during the War of the Spanish Succession. When he returned to Munich in 1715, he quickly renewed construction of the palaces of Nymphenburg and Schleissheim.62 While Nymphenburg was primarily a summer retreat, albeit a large one, Schleissheim was

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planned as an imposing architectural statement of the elector’s political stature and cultural refinement. Schleissheim was originally designed by Enrico Zuccalli. While in exile, Maximilian Emanuel was strongly influenced by Versailles and the sophistication of the French court art. The new architect was Joseph Effner, the son of a court servant at Dachau.63 The elector had funded his training in Paris as a garden designer and then as an architect. Schleissheim was built with court ceremonies and display in mind. Its garden façade measures three hundred meters, or twice the width of the Residenz. (figure 7.14) The full project calling for four wings was never finished. The grandeur of the physical spaces of the processional staircase, which was not completed in stone until 1848, and the great hall sought to rival anything in France. Cosmas Damian Asam’s fresco of Vulcan Forging the Weapons for the Trojan War on the vault above the staircase, and Johann Baptist Zimmermann’s accompanying stucco decorations of Turks brandishing weapons allude to the elector’s military triumphs.64 This theme was continued in the Great Hall, with its two colossal paintings of the elector’s campaigns by Franz Joachim Beich, and ceiling painting of Aeneas by the Venetian Jacopo Amigoni, as well as in the Hall of Victories and in his Audience Hall. The style and themes were designed to impress viewers with the elector’s magnificence and bravery. The Wittelsbachs and the vibrant local Catholic community fueled Munich’s emergence as an international cultural center from the later sixteenth to mideighteenth centuries. At the outset of the 1500s, only a few artists worked for the court. As documented in the Meisterbuch of St. Luke’s Guild of Painters, Sculptors, Embroiderers, and Glaziers, the number of masters petitioning to be exempt from taxes and guild fees as court artists in Munich grew sharply over

Figure 7.14. Garden façade, Schleissheim Palace, 1701–1848.

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time.65 With the construction of churches, such as St. Michael’s and St. Kajetan’s, and palaces, a thriving local school of stucco practitioners emerged.66 Other sumptuous arts, such as goldsmith work, blossomed, too, to meet the growing demand.67 Munich’s goldsmiths, however, never seriously rivaled their counterparts in Nuremberg and Augsburg. Seeking to establish a local tapestry industry, Maximilian I lured Hans van der Biest from Brussels to Munich, where between 1604 and 1615 he and his workshop of up to twenty weavers produced weavings after the designs of Peter Candid for the Residenz.68 This anticipated the court’s establishment of the tapestry atelier at Schleissheim and the Nymphenburg porcelain factory in the eighteenth century.

Conclusion As this brief survey demonstrates, Nuremberg and Munich had very different artistic destinies over the sixteenth, seventeenth, and early eighteenth centuries. Shifting trade patterns, the Protestant Reformation, and the decline in its fortunes as an imperial free city affected Nuremberg. Its position as Germany’s leading artistic center around 1500 slowly eroded. By the end of the baroque era, it had lost its creative spark. Joachim von Sandrart, then in the twilight of his career, was its last luminary. Munich, on the other hand, truly blossomed only in the later sixteenth century as the dukes and, from 1623, electors of Bavaria attracted skilled artists from across the continent, and supported local masters. They transformed Munich into a stronghold of the Catholic Reformation and into a fitting capital city for their growing political power. They looked to Vienna, Paris, and other princely cities for their artistic models, not to the former German centers of Nuremberg or Augsburg. The Wittelsbachs dominated local patronage in a way that neither individuals nor even the city council could in Nuremberg. Besides initiating most of the major projects, their tastes influenced the local citizenry and resident aristocracy. The international currents evident in the art of Sustris, Krumper, and Candid gave way after 1650 to a court preference for Italian or Italianate art, as promoted by Henriette Adelaide of Savoy. This, in turn, yielded to the aesthetics of Louis XIV’s Versailles once Maximilian Emanuel returned from France in 1715. One might argue that Munich found its own voice only slightly later, when it was home to such remarkable talents as the Asam brothers, François Cuvilliés the Elder and Younger, Johann Michael Fischer, Ignaz Günther, Johann Baptist Straub, and Johann Baptist Zimmermann. Munich’s rococo or mature eighteenth-century art, whose story is beyond the scope of this essay, had its roots in the fertile environment of the late sixteenth and seventeenth century in the Bavarian capital.

Endnotes 1. The term “baroque” is used in this essay solely as a convenient referent of time, one covering the period from around 1600 to the early eighteenth century. Like the word “Gothic,”

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3. 4. 5.

6. 7. 8.

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10. 11. 12. 13. 14.

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which was used pejoratively by Giorgio Vasari (1568) or, later, Peter Paul Rubens (1622) to refer to the barbaric style of medieval art, baroque, in the sense of bizarre, carried a negative meaning when it was coined: the term may have been derived from the Portuguese word barroco, meaning “pearls and teeth of unequal size.” I do not apply the word in a stylistic sense, however. Heinrich Wölfflin (1888) and others have searched nobly, if in vain, for a handful of stylistic features (for example, painterliness, grand style, massiveness, movement, naturalism, space, time, or light) that inclusively describe the art of this period. The tremendous cultural and artistic diversity of Europe at this time dooms this laudable effort at clear synthesis. For instance, not all seventeenth-century architecture is classically inspired, as artists continued using late medieval-style forms (that is, a Welsch or German indigenous style as opposed to an imported Italian style). The distinctions between even relatively nearby cities, such as Nuremberg and Munich, can be explained in terms of ambition, princely direction, financial resources, and the availability of skilled masters. Heinrich Wölfflin, Renaissance and Baroque, trans. Kathrin Simon (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1975; original edition 1888); John Rupert Martin, Baroque (New York: Harper & Row, 1977); and Kerry Downes, “Baroque,” Grove Art Online (Oxford University Press [May 15, 2006]), http://www.groveart.com/ with additional literature. Gerhard Pfeiffer and Wilhelm Schwemmer, Geschichte Nürnbergs in Bilddokumenten, 3rd ed. (Munich: Beck, 1977), 16; Rudolf Endres, “Nürnbergs Stellung im Reich im 17. Jahrhundert,” in ‘der Franken Rom’: Nürnbergs Blütezeit in der zweiten Hälfte des 17. Jahrhunderts, ed. John Roger Paas (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 1995), 19–45, esp. 19. Dieter Albrecht, Maximilian I. von Bayern 1573–1651 (Munich: Oldenbourg, 1998), 3–4. The duchy included thirty-four towns, ninety-three markets, and 4,700 villages. Hermann Maué et al., eds., Quasi Centrum Europae: Europa kauft in Nürnberg 1400–1800, exhibition catalogue (Nuremberg: Verlag des Germanisches Nationalmuseums, 2002), 13. Gerhard Pfeiffer, ed., Nürnberg, Geschichte einer europäischen Stadt (Munich: Beck, 1971); Gerald Strauss, Nuremberg in the Sixteenth Century, rev. ed. (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1976); Jeffrey Chipps Smith, Nuremberg, A Renaissance City, 1500–1618, exhibition catalogue, Huntington Art Gallery, University of Texas (Austin: University of Texas Press, 1983); Metropolitan Museum of Art and Germanisches Nationalmuseum, Gothic and Renaissance Art in Nuremberg, 1300–1550, exhibition catalogue (New York: Metropolitan Museum of Art; Munich: Prestel-Verlag, 1986). Germanisches Nationalmuseum Nürnberg, Barock in Nürnberg, 1600–1750, exhibition catalogue (Nuremberg: Druckhaus Nürnberg, 1962). Julia Schnelbögl, “Die Reichskleinodien in Nürnberg. 1424–1523,” Mitteilungen des Vereins für Geschichte der Stadt Nürnberg 51 (1962): 78–159. Germanisches Nationalmuseum Nürnberg and Lutherische Kirche in Bayern, Reformation in Nürnberg: Umbruch und Bewahrung, exhibition catalogue (Nuremberg: Verlag Medien und Kultur, 1979), no. 6. Smith, Nuremberg, 46–7 with literature; Andreas Tacke, ed., “Der Mahler Ordnung und Gebräuch in Nürmberg”: Die Nürnberger Maler(zunft)bücher ergänzt durch weitere Quellen, Genealogien und Viten des 16., 17. und 18. Jahrhunderts (Munich: Deutscher Kunstverlag, 2001), esp. 16–18. Germanisches Nationalmuseum Nürnberg, Reformation in Nürnberg. Ibid., no. 40 with text by Hans Sachs. Ibid., no. 89. Rudolf Endres, “Nürnbergs Stellung,” 20–1. Martha White Paas, “Nürnbergs Wirtschaft im 17. Jahrhundert,” in J. Paas, ‘der Franken Rom,’ 46–61; also Rudolf Endres, “Nürnberg im 18. Jahrhundert—keine Katastrophe,” Anzeiger des Germanischen Nationalmuseums (2002): 337–44. On the Reformation’s impact, see Jeffrey Chipps Smith, German Sculpture of the Later Renaissance, c. 1520–1580 (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1994), 31–45.

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16. Smith, Nuremberg, 5–15. I have added the letters and numbers. 17. Some monks, like the nuns, were permitted to live in their residences until their deaths. On the subsequent uses of these churches, see Christoph Melchior Roth, Abbildungen aller Kirchen, Klöster, und Kapellen in Nürnberg (Nuremberg, 1756; reprint, Nuremberg, n.d.), 3–8. 18. Roth, Abbildungen, 6 and unnumbered plate of the exterior; Günther P. Fehring and Anton Ress, Die Stadt Nürnberg, 2nd rev. ed. by Wilhelm Schwemmer (Munich: Deutscher Kunstverlag, 1977), 44. 19. Roth, Abbildungen, 3-4 and four unnumbered plates illustrating the church before the fire, immediately after in its ruined state, and exterior and interior views. Kurt Pilz, Die St. Egidienkirche in Nürnberg (Nuremberg: Selbstverlag des Vereins für Bayerische Kirchengeschichte, 1972); Pfeiffer and Schwemmer, Geschichte, nos. 212–13; Fehring and Ress, Nürnberg, 29–40. The church was rebuilt after its destruction in 1945 but its decorations were not renewed. 20. These were painted respectively by Matthäus Merian the Younger, based mainly in Frankfurt, Johann Franz Ermels from Reilkirch an der Mosel, who had been in Cologne and Holland before coming to Nuremberg in 1660, and Georg Wirsching of Neumarkt. Germanisches Nationalmuseum Nürnberg, Barock in Nürnberg, 63–4, 75; Wilhelm Schwemmer, Die Sebalduskirche zu Nürnberg (Nuremberg: Hofmann, 1979), 6 and 9. 21. Germanisches Nationalmuseum Nürnberg, Baroque in Nürnberg, 84, no. A 282; Claudia Maué, Die Bildwerke des 17. und 18. Jahrhunderts im Germanischen Nationalmuseum, Teil 1: Franken (Mainz: P. von Zabern, 1997), 89–90, no. 24. 22. Ernst Mummenhoff, Das Rathaus in Nürnberg (Nuremberg: J. L. Schrag, 1891); Pfeiffer and Schwemmer, Geschichte, no. 59; Helmut Häussler, Brunnen, Denkmale und Freiplastiken in Nürnberg (Nuremberg: Hofmann, 1977), 88. 23. Wolfram Baer et al., eds., Elias Holl und das Augsburger Rathaus, exhibition catalogue, Stadtarchiv, Augsburg (Regensburg: F. Pustet, 1985). Also see Susan Tipton, Res pvblica bene ordinata: Regentenspiegel und Bilder vom guten Regiment—Rathausdekorationen in der Frühen Neuzeit (Hildesheim: G. Olms, 1996), 201–18 (Augsburg), 370–84 (Nuremberg). 24. Although rusticated stone facings were found on Renaissance palaces, such as the Medici and Pitti palaces in Florence, the style retained its historical association with military architecture. John Onians, Bearers of Meaning: The Classical Orders in Antiquity, the Middle Ages, and the Renaissance (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1988), 48–51, 239–41, 271–73, 288–89. 25. Matthias Mende, Das alte Nürnberger Rathaus, vol. 1, exhibition catalogue, Stadtgeschichtliche Museen (Nuremberg: Stadtgeschichtliche Museen Nürnberg, 1979), 12–99 (history) and 177–88, 192–409 (Great Hall). 26. See Michael Herr’s contemporary painting of the siege, which involved about 18,000 troops, in Andreas Tacke, Die Gemälde des 17. Jahrhunderts im Germanischen Nationalmuseum: Bestandskatalog (Mainz: P. von Zabern, 1995), 111–113, no. 50. 27. Germanisches Nationalmuseum Nürnberg, Von teutscher Not zu höfischer Pracht 1648–1701, exhibition catalogue (Cologne: DuMont, 1998), 25–36. 28. Wilhelm Schwemmer, Das Bürgerhaus in Nürnberg (Tübingen: E. Wasmuth, 1972), plates 65, 67, 70b, 92b, 99b, 100, 103, 106d, 107b, 113b, 128a, 129, 131; figs. 66–73, 97; Jeffrey Chipps Smith, “The Transformation in Patrician Tastes in Renaissance Nuremberg,” in New Perspectives on the Art of Renaissance Nuremberg: Five Essays, ed. Jeffrey Chipps Smith (Austin: University of Texas at Austin, 1985), 83–100, esp. 91–98; Dieter Büchner, Das ‘Schöne Zimmer’ aus dem Pellerhaus (Nuremberg: Stadtarchiv Nürnberg, 1995). 29. Schwemmer, Bürgerhaus, 71. 30. Schwemmer, Bürgerhaus, 76. Also see Reinhold Schaffer, Das Pellerhaus in Nürnberg (Nuremberg: K. Ulrich, n.d. [1934]), 22–4, figs. 3–8; Carl C. Christensen, “The Nurernberg City Council as a Patron of the Fine Arts, 1500–1550” (Ph.D. dissertation, Ohio State University, Columbus, 1965), 69; Gerhard Siebold, Die Viatis und Peller: Beiträge zur Geschichte ihrer Handelsgesellschaft (Cologne: Böhlau, 1977), 115–116.

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31. Schwemmer, Bürgerhaus, plate 99b. 32. Germanisches Nationalmuseum Nürnberg, Baroque in Nürnberg, 47, no. A 53. 33. Renate Eikelmann, ed., Der Mohrenkopfpokal von Christoph Jamnitzer, exhibition catalogue (Munich: Bayerisches Nationalmuseum, 2002). Also see Klaus Pechstein et al., eds., Wenzel Jamnitzer und die Nürnberger Goldschmiedekunst 1500–1700, exhibition catalogue (Nuremberg: Germanisches Nationalmuseum Nürnberg, 1985). 34. Germanisches Nationalmuseum Nürnberg, Baroque in Nürnberg, 139. 35. Nikolaus Pevsner, Academies of Art Past and Present (Cambridge, 1940; reprint, New York: Da Capo Press, 1973), 115–17; Germanisches Nationalmuseum Nürnberg, Barock in Nürnberg, 14–17; idem, Von teutscher Not, 245–50. 36. Joachim von Sandrart, Teutsche Academie der edlen Bau-, Bild- und Malerei-Künste, 3 vols., ed. Christian Klemm (Nördlingen: Verlag Dr. Alfons Uhl, 1994). See also Andreas Tacke, “Mars, the Enemy of Art: Sandrart’s Teutsche Academie and the Impact of War on Art and Artists,” in 1648—War and Peace in Europe, essay vol. 2, Art and Culture, ed. Klaus Bussmann and Heinz Schilling (Munich: Bruckmann, 1998), 245–52. 37. Otto Hartig, “Die Kunsttätigkeit in München unter Wilhelm IV. und Albrecht V, 1520– 1579,” in Münchner Jahrbuch der bildenden Kunst, N.F. 3 (1926): 273–370; 7 (1930): 339–77; 8 (1931): 322–84; and 10 (1933): 226–46; Wolfgang Braunfels, Die Kunst im Heiligen Römischen Reich, 6 vols. (Munich: C. H. Beck, 1979), 1:161–205; Norbert Lieb, München—Die Geschichte seiner Kunst, 4th rev. ed. (Munich: Callwey, 1988); Georg Schwaiger, ed., Monachium Sacrum: Festschrift zur 500-Jahr-Feier der Metropolitankirche Zu Unserer Lieben Frau in München, 2 vols. (Munich: Deutscher Kunstverlag, 1994). 38. Georg Spitzelberger, Das Herzogtum Bayern-Landshut und seine Residenzstadt 1392–1503 (Landshut: Stadt- und Kreismuseum/Stadtarchiv Landshut, 1993); Iris Lauterbach et al., eds., Die Landshuter Stadtresidenz: Architektur und Ausstattung (Munich: Zentralinstitut für Kunstgeschichte, 1998); and Museen der Stadt Landshut, Vor Leinberger: Landshuter Skulptur im Zeitalter der Reichen Herzöge, 1393–1503, 2 vols, exhibition catalogue (Landshut: Museen der Stadt, 2001). 39. Braunfels, Kunst, 1:163. 40. Braunfels, Kunst, 1:164, fig. 145. 41. Braunfels, Kunst, 1:163. For a list of new religious constructions between 1600 and 1770, see Hugo Schnell, “Die Münchner Kirchen des Barock und Rokoko,” in Die Mönch im Wappen: Aus Geschichte und Gegenwart des katholischen München (Munich: Schnell und Steiner, 1960), 285–321, esp. 289–92. 42. Friedrich Fahr et al., eds., Die Münchner Frauenkirche: Restaurierung und Rückkehr ihner Bildwerke (Munich: Erich Wewel Verlag, 1993), nos. 11–20, 22–24. 43. Ten Books on Politics (Mainz, 1620) cited in Robert Bireley, “Antimachiavellianism, the Baroque, and Maximilian of Bavaria,” Archivum Historicum Societatis Iesu 53 (1984): 137– 59, here 143. 44. Jeffrey Chipps Smith, Sensuous Worship: Jesuits and the Art of the Early Catholic Reformation in Germany (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2002), 57–101. 45. Hubert Glaser, ed., Um Glauben und Reich—Kurfürst Maximilian I, 2 vols., exhibition catalogue, Residenz, Wittelsbach und Bayern, no. 2. (Munich: Hirmer Verlag, 1980); Hubert Glaser, ed., Quellen und Studien zur Kunstpolitik der Wittelsbacher vom 16. bis zum 18. Jahrhundert (Munich: Hirmer, Piper, 1980); Albrecht, Maximilian I. 46. Georg Schwaiger, “München—eine geistliche Stadt,” in Schwaiger, Monachium Sacrum, 1:1–289, esp. 1:104–12. 47. Lothar Altmann, Peterskirche München, 4th rev. ed. (Munich: Schnell & Steiner, 1990), cover and 5. 48. Brigitte Volk-Knüttel, “Der Hochaltar der Münchner Frauenkirche von 1620 und seine Gemälde von Peter Candid,” in Schwaiger, Monachium Sacrum, 2:203–46. 49. Manfred Peter Heimers, Krieg, Hunger, Pest und Glaubenszwist: München im Dreissigjährigen Krieg (Munich: Buchendorfer Verlag, 1998).

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50. Michael Schattenhofer, Die Mariensäule in München (Munich: Schnell und Steiner, 1971). 51. Hubert Glaser and Elke Anna Werner, “The Victorious Virgin: The Religious Patronage of Maximilian I of Bavaria,” in Bussmann and Schilling, 1648—War and Peace, 141–51. 52. Lieb, München, 210–47. The Theatinerkirche supplanted both the Frauenkirche and St. Michael’s as the site of the Wittelsbachs’ family mausoleum. 53. Brigitte Knüttel, “Zur Geschichte der Münchner Residenz 1600–1616,” Münchner Jahrbuch der bildenden Kunst 18 (1967): 187–210; Samuel John Klingensmith, The Utility of Splendor: Ceremony, Social Life, and Architecture at the Court of Bavaria, 1600–1800, ed. Christian F. Otto and Mark Ashton (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1993), esp. 3–36; Enno Burmeister, Die Baugeschichtliche Entwicklung des Alten Hofes in München (Munich: Buchendorfer Verlag, 1999); Hermann Neumann, The Munich Residence and the Treasury (Munich: Prestel, 2001), 9–14, 43–61; Dorothea Diemer, Hubert Gerhard und Carlo di Cesare del Palagio, 2 vols. (Berlin: Deutscher Verlag für Kunstwissenschaft, 2004), 1:90–117; and Thea Vignau-Wilberg, In Europa zu Hause: Niederländer in München um 1600, exh. cat., Neue Pinakothek (Munich: Hirmer, 2005), 17–47. 54. Klingensmith, The Utility of Splendor, 27–8. He cites Wenig who, in 1701, wrote that the Residenz possessed 2,066 windows, four large courtyards, twenty feast rooms, sixteen long galleries, four chapels, sixteen kitchens, and twelve cellars (19). 55. It was subsequently incorporated into the new palace. Neumann, The Munich Residence, 34–41; Ellen Weski and Heike Frosien-Leinz, Das Antiquarium der Münchner Residenz: Katalog der Skulpturen, 2 vols. (Munich: Hirmer, 1987). 56. Klingensmith, Utility of Splendor, 14. 57. Neumann, Munich Residence, 51. 58. Neumann, Munich Residence, 52–4. 59. Neumann, Munich Residence, 43-50, 54–61. 60. Klingensmith, Utility of Splendor, 36–58. 61. Nymphenburg, initiated as a summer retreat for the Electress Henriette Adelaide of Savoy in 1664–75, continued to expand and be renovated until the 1750s. Especially notable are the outbuildings in the surrounding forest, such as François de Cuvilliés the Elder’s famous Amalienburg (1734–39). Luisa Hager, Nymphenburg (Königstein im Taunus, nd); Klingensmith, Utility of Splendor, 89–103; Peter O. Krückmann, The Wittelsbach Palaces: From Landshut and Höchstädt to Munich (Munich: Prestel, 2001), 36–49. 62. Luisa Hager, Schloss Schleissheim (Königstein im Taunus: H. Köster, 1974); Klingensmith, Utility of Splendor, 65–89, 103–5; Krückmann, Wittelsbach Palaces, 50–8. 63. Gisela Vits, “Effner, Joseph,” in Jane Turner, ed., The Dictionary of Art, 36 vols. (New York: Grove, 1996), 9:746–7. 64. Hager, Schleissheim, 18–22, 39. 65. Volker Liedke, “Das Meisterbuch der Münchner Zunft der Maler, Bildhauer, Seidensticker und Glaser (1566–1825),” Ars Bavarica 10 (1978): 21–53; idem, “Die Herkunft der Münchner Maler und Bildhauer des 16., 17. und 18. Jahrhunderts,” Ars Bavarica 10 (1978): 53–8; and idem, “Die Meisterlisten der Münchner Maler, Bildhauer, Glaser und Seidensticker für das 16. Jahrhundert,” Ars Bavarica 15/16 (1980): 49–63. 66. Erwin Schalkhausser, Die Münchner Schule in der Stuckdekoration des 17. Jahrhunderts, Oberbayrisches Archiv für väterlandische Geschichte 81–82 (Munich, 1957). 67. Johanna Hager, “Münchner Gold- und Silberschmiedekunst in der Ära des Herzogs und späteren Kurfürsten Maximilian I. von Bayern (1597–1651),” (Doctoral dissertation, Ludwig-Maximilians-Universität, Munich, 1982). 68. Brigitte Volk-Knüttel, Peter Candid—Zeichnungen (Munich: Staatliche Graphische Sammlung, 1978), esp. 15–19; Neumann, Munich Residence, 54, 56, 58, 61.

Chapter 8

SEARCHING FOR THE NEW CONSTANTINE Early Modern Rome as a Spanish Imperial City

d Thomas Dandelet

I

n January of 1506, Pope Julius II wrote to King Henry VIII and twenty leading bishops and noblemen of England to announce proudly the beginning of the construction of the new St. Peter’s Basilica.1 In one of the great acts of Renaissance papal hubris, Julius II had decided to tear down the basilica that the most important Christian Roman Emperor, Constantine, had built almost 1200 years earlier (figure 8.1). The replacement was to be the grandest, and most expensive, church in Christendom, and the pope wrote to the English king and court to encourage their generous patronage towards the new St. Peter’s. Julius II soon realized, however, that it would take more than royal donations to build the monumental new St. Peter’s, and he subsequently crafted a new indulgence in 1507 that would be sold to help finance the construction.2 It was that indulgence, of course, and the similar one issued by Leo X in 1513 that served as flash points of the Reformation, since Martin Luther deemed them worthy of particular criticism in his ninety-five theses of 1517. The Reformation ensured that the indulgence for St. Peter’s would raise little money in much of Germany, and the exit of Henry VIII from the Catholic fold in 1533 meant that revenue for Roman construction from his kingdoms also was at an end. Combined with the French Concordat of 1516 between Francis I and the papacy, which sharply limited the flow of French ecclesiastical revenue to Rome, the Reformation created a full-blown financial crisis for the building of St. Peter’s. Finally, the sack of Rome in 1527 by troops loyal to Charles V, the king of Spain and Holy Roman

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Figure 8.1. Old St. Peter’s and Vatican Palace ca. 1533. M. van Heemskerck: Inventio Urbis, figure 9.

Emperor,3 turned the crisis into an economic disaster of epic proportions, not just for St. Peter’s, but for Renaissance Rome more generally. By 1527, in short, the building of the new St. Peter’s and the new Rome were at a standstill, and the successors of Julius II were faced with the grim reality that it was much easier to tear down Constantine’s old basilica than it was to build a new one. They also had to confront the fact that their own revenues would never suffice to build the new project. Indeed, the basilica had become a microcosm of the economic crisis facing the entire city, and it clearly revealed that what Rome really needed was a new Constantine. Rome, in fact, had been in need of a new Constantine for most of the previous twelve centuries. The great paradox of Constantine’s dual legacy was that it was at one and the same time responsible for the creation of much of Christian Rome, but also for the end of Rome as an imperial city. The quick decline of Rome after Constantine’s departure for Byzantium in the early fourth century underlined the basic reality that without the imperial army and treasury, the city would rapidly fall prey to hard economic times, a shrinking population, a decaying urban infrastructure, and barbarian armies. The contradiction was understood by the Spanish royal historian and professor of rhetoric at Alcala de Henares, Ambrosio Morales. He pointed out in his history of Spain from 1584 that, while Constantine certainly had brought peace and prosperity to the Church, he had also been responsible for the fall of the Roman Empire, since he had divided it into two and removed critical legions from the Rhine and Danube river valleys.4 Whatever the cause, by the beginning of the Renaissance in the early fifteenth century, Rome was a shadow of its former self, with an estimated population of

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25,000 people compared to the one million souls of antiquity. Petrarch’s lament from the middle of the fourteenth century summed up the melancholy sentiment of the age well: “in murmur sad the words rang forth: Rome was.”5 Although Rome had begun to expand demographically and had some notable new Renaissance buildings and streets by the early sixteenth century, giving rise to the sentiment of Flavio Biondo and others that Rome was being renewed, the sack of 1527 again reduced the population from the roughly 54,000 people counted by the census of 1527—done prior to the sack—to perhaps 25,000. It also brought much of the urban expansion to a halt.6 The great Roman miracle, then, was that over the next 150 years, the city grew to be the greatest urban capital and stage in all of Europe, and the model for other European capitals. The palaces, churches, gardens, and piazzas of Rome were without comparison by the middle of the seventeenth century, and the population of Rome had boomed to the unprecedented size in recent centuries of over 125,000 people. How can we explain this Roman miracle of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries? Although Rome from roughly 1540 to 1700 is often called Tridentine Rome or Counter-Reformation Rome, the fact is that the Council of Trent made no provision for funding the papacy or replacing the revenues lost to the Reformation. Where, then, did the money and years of peace that had evaded Rome in the previous centuries come from? Who, in other words, stepped in to provide the treasury and army, especially after the departure of the Reformation princes in the north? Who played the new Constantine? The primary answer to these questions can be summed up in one short phrase: the Spanish monarchy. The Spanish Habsburgs, in particular, from the reign of Charles I (1517–1557) through the reign of the last Spanish Habsburg, Charles II (1665–1700), played the role of the most loyal and generous of the Catholic monarchs towards Rome. On at least four different levels, they provided critical support for the papacy and the city of Rome to a degree that was unparalleled or completely absent among other European powers. More specifically, the Spanish monarchs and broader empire supported the papacy in the realm of political theory, military defense, and financial patronage, while Spanish immigration into the city led to steady demographic growth. As the four pillars of the great edifice that was papal Rome in the late sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, each of these was essential in supporting the political stability, social growth, economic prosperity, and dynamic urbanism that marked the city. In each of these areas, the Spanish monarchs very much played the role of the new Constantine while the other major European powers largely abandoned the city as active patrons. This role is perhaps most surprising in the area of defense and demographic growth. Indeed, it is counterintuitive, given the well-known role that the Spanish soldiers serving under Charles I played in the sack of 1527.7 But the sack, for all of its notoriety and careful study by historians, was also an historical exception when considered in the context of the long sixteenth century. After 1527, Charles I played the role of military protector of the Papal States and Rome. This was also

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the case for his son, Philip II, and the other Spanish Habsburgs, Philip III, Philip IV, and Charles II, all of whom considered a military alliance with the papacy a central feature of their foreign policy (figure 8.2). With the Spanish states of Naples to the south and Milan to the north, this was a natural political choice, and it led to an unprecedented period of peace and prosperity for the papacy.

Figure 8.2. Statue of King Philip IV of Spain in Santa Maria Maggiore, Rome, ca. 1700.

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It also meant that there was a constant stream of Spanish travelers, soldiers, pilgrims, and statesmen making their way to Italy. Many of these Spaniards made Rome their home. In the later sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries, tens of thousands of Spaniards immigrated to Rome in search of work, patrons, and, above all else, ecclesiastical pensions. Without them, the extraordinary population boom could not have happened. And a boom it certainly was. While the rest of Italy is estimated to have grown by only 10 percent between 1500 and 1650, Rome grew by an astonishing 400 percent.8 While we lack detailed census data that notes place of origin for Roman citizens, we do have one estimate of the Spanish community in Rome from 1582 that puts their number at 30,000 people out of a total population of roughly 100,000, or 30 percent of the city’s total.9 They were without question the strongest, wealthiest, and most politically influential foreign faction in the city, and they played central financial roles as wealthy patrons and customers of everything from chalices to palaces.10 Before mapping out the major contours of Spanish patronage in Rome, it is important to acknowledge that at the root of this beneficent relationship with Rome was a de facto political accommodation that had been reached between the papacy and Spanish monarchy that, in part, revolved around the meaning and interpretation of the Constantinian legacy. The political debate, of course, had heated up in the fifteenth century with the publication of Lorenzo Valla’s attack on the famous “Donation of Constantine.” This document, preserved in the Vatican Library, was claimed by the papacy to be a fourth-century original from Constantine himself that granted to the papacy spiritual and temporal dominion over Rome, Italy, and much of western Europe after the emperor’s departure for Byzantium. Valla had applied his philological skills to prove that the document was an eighth-century forgery, a convenient discovery for his patron, the king of Naples, who could use the information to challenge papal claims of feudal lordship in Naples, and later for Protestant reformers and princes, who used it to attack papal political claims.11 The accuracy of Valla’s critique has become such a standard part of our historical knowledge that it is easy to forget that it was not accepted by the papacy or acted upon by the Spanish monarchy throughout the early modern period. On the contrary, the famous cycle in the Sala di Constantino in the Vatican palace by Giulio Romano and his school is a vibrant iconographic reaffirmation of the Donation legend and one of the best examples of the papacy’s desire to push its version of the Constantinian political legacy (figure 8.3). There are no fewer than five Constantine cycles in Rome, painted in the early modern period, all with a clear didactic function that reaffirms the papacy’s reading of the Donation.12 One of these cycles was painted for the Lateran Palace around 1590 and is particularly important for the associations that it evoked with the Spanish monarchy. The cycle by Cesare Nebbia, Giovanni Guerra, and others comprises three major panels, including two that treat the stories of the Donation and Baptism of Constantine. The third, titled The Battle of Lepanto, is located in the Room of

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Figure 8.3. Giulio Romano and others, The Donation of Constantine, Room of Constantine, Vatican palace.

Constantine in the Lateran, and it celebrated the famous Christian naval victory of 1571 off the coast of Greece, where an alliance of papal, Spanish, and Venetian navies had defeated the Ottoman fleet. With the Spanish monarchy providing the largest contingent of men and ships, it was clear that it was Philip who stood as the closest thing to a sixteenth-century Constantine.13 This was a perspective that was reaffirmed in a literary medium at roughly the same time in the Ecclesiastical History of Cesare Baronio. Writing in 1593, Baronio dedicated volume three of his twelve-volume history to Philip II. It is a 684-page volume devoted exclusively to the history of Constantine, and in the four-page dedication, the author makes clear parallels between the role of Constantine as great protector and propagator of the Church and the similar contemporary role of Philip II. Baronio presented the work with the suggestion that Constantine provided a good example for Christian monarchs, from which much could be learned. Again, the message could not have been clearer: Baronio, faithful member of the papal court, clearly sought to present the papacy’s version of Constantinian history, its preferred political myth, to the Spanish king as a model and reminder of the best kind of monarchical behavior.14 Together with this version of Church history, and equally essential to the overall project of papal Rome’s great flowering in the age of the Catholic Reformation, was the Spanish monarchy’s general support of the papacy’s political theology and claims to power within the Church and vis-à-vis the secular monarchs. While this realm is the most abstract among the areas mentioned, it constituted

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the ideological glue that held the papal monarchy together, since it confirmed papal supremacy over the secular monarchs in spiritual and ecclesiastical affairs. Spanish theologians closely associated with the Spanish monarchy who banded together with papal theologians to defend this position included the Jesuit theologian, Francisco Suarez. He, above all others, closely allied himself with the other major sixteenth-century architect of papal supremacy, Robert Bellarmine, to support the papacy’s political position, and it is in his writing that we also find clear parallels with the Constantinian position. More specifically, in the four-volume Defensa de la Fe, written by Suarez against the perceived theological errors of Henry VIII and the Anglican Church, Suarez draws on an extensive knowledge of patristic sources to support the papacy’s claim to have authority over all secular powers in matters of church doctrine, law, and episcopal appointments. He is especially fond of the example of Constantine to support his argument against what he sees as the error of the Protestants concerning the subjection of the secular to the spiritual, and of monarchs to the pope. He notes: “It is known in the history of Constantine that he said that he attended the council to be judged by the bishops, not to judge them.” Writing more specifically about the pope, he notes that many kings and emperors “often professed and recognized the chair of Peter in the Roman pontiff and his universal jurisdiction over all the Church, as shown by Constantine.” Besides supporting the pope’s spiritual authority, the Spanish monarch’s acknowledgement of papal claims also provided the foundation for a more concrete form of support, for it led the Spanish monarchs of the sixteenth and seventeenth century, almost alone among the great powers of Europe except for the Portuguese and the Holy Roman Emperors, to accept some of the papacy’s general political and territorial claims, particularly where they applied to Italy and Iberia. The concrete proof of this was manifested in the following ways: the papacy was allowed to have a collector operating in Iberia who collected papal revenues from Spanish ecclesiastical lands; the monarchy accepted the papacy’s claim of the power of investiture over the kingdoms of Sicily and Naples and paid the papacy annual feudal dues as fiefs of the papacy in those lands; the monarchy did not stand in the way of expansions of the Papal States when the duchies of Ferrara and Urbino fell vacant in the late sixteenth and mid-seventeenth century respectively; and, most importantly, the monarchy acted as Rome’s most important and faithful financial patron, allowing the payment of many different forms of ecclesiastical revenue to the papal court to help maintain the papacy and college of cardinals and to help build and maintain the churches and palaces of the city. This Spanish ecclesiastical revenue provided critical economic resources that underwrote the Roman miracle. It is also this patronage that further justifies the designation of Rome as a Spanish imperial city, and there is a wealth of concrete evidence and examples to illustrate the claim. Many of these, moreover, have loud Constantinian echoes— including the most famous of them, namely the one that opened this paper, the new basilica of St. Peter.

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Although spending and construction at St. Peter’s had come to a standstill in 1527, the following decades witnessed a new agreement between Charles I and the papacy that led to a dramatic increase in the revenue that flowed to St. Peter’s. This came from the crusade indulgence sold in Iberia to raise money for the war against the Ottomans, which regularly brought the monarchy as much as 300,000 ducats per year. The papacy, for its part, received a percentage of the crusade indulgence specifically for the building of St. Peter’s. This regularly brought roughly 18,000 ducats per year into the treasury of the Fabbrica of St. Peter’s, and it became the largest and most reliable source of income for the construction.15 Similarly, the papacy and monarchy worked out an agreement wherein the papacy was granted a portion of last testaments left in the Kingdom of Naples, and later a percentage of the tax on grain. This revenue fluctuated more than that of the crusade indulgence, but it was the second largest source of income for the church. While a detailed study of the financing of St. Peter’s has yet to be done, recent studies have put the total spending on the building between 1506 and 1620 at roughly 2.5 million ducats. Of this, I estimate, based upon my own preliminary work with the account books of the Fabbrica, that close to 70 percent of all revenues during this 114-year period came from lands ruled over by the Spanish monarchy.16 This is a dramatic number that underlines just how central the Spanish monarchy was to the building of new St. Peter’s. It was truly a Constantinian role that they played, and it is hard to imagine how the church would have been built without them (figure 8.4).17 Similarly, the papacy also benefited greatly from Spanish economic patronage in the form of a variety of other revenues from lands ruled by the Spanish kings. Papal account books from the late sixteenth and seventeenth centuries show that the papal collectors in Iberia, Portugal, and Naples, who gathered the papal portion of the income of vacant bishoprics, regularly sent the popes between 60,000 and 85,000 ducats annually.18 The kings also paid the popes the annual feudal dues from Naples that were set at 7,000 ducats. Thus, direct payments to the papal coffers from Spanish lands for most of the 150 years between 1550 and 1700 averaged roughly 80,000 ducats, for a combined total over those years of roughly 12 million ducats. It is important to note that in all of the areas of Spanish financial contributions to the papacy mentioned thus far, there is no parallel with any of the other major European powers. There simply were no papal collectors allowed in other parts of Europe, no measurable contributions to St. Peter’s outside of the Papal States, and no feudal dues being paid to the papacy. No detailed comparison or measurement of relative amounts of support for the papacy in these areas is possible or necessary, simply because there were none. Certainly, taxes from the Papal States and Rome provided the papacy with the other revenues that it used to build up the city, including roughly 30 or 35 percent of the funding for St. Peter’s. And the pope clearly remained the single most important patron in the city for his own court and, especially, the cardinals, to whom he gave large ecclesiastical benefices.

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Figure 8.4. Antonio Tempesta, Detail of the Vatican, 1593, Frutaz, Piante di Roma, II, pl. 269.

Still, the cardinals residing in Rome also received large sums of Spanish income in the form of benefices from churches in Spanish-ruled lands. The general annual total for cardinals’ pensions was roughly 60,000 ducats between 1550 and 1700, for a combined total of an estimated 9 million ducats.19 This amount was regularly distributed among roughly thirty cardinals. Consequently, the papal monarch and the princes of the church received a combined amount of over 20 million ducats between 1550 and 1700, a sum that could have built almost ten new St. Peter’s and that certainly played a substantial role in the cardinals’ patron-

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age of many of the new churches in Rome, and in the building of their many new palaces. Again, it is important to note by way of comparison that it was only in 1600 that Henry IV of France also began to send ecclesiastical pensions to cardinals in order to offset Spanish influence. Although the amount of 60,000 ducats was noted also by at least one contemporary in 1600 as the amount the king had decided to distribute, it is not clear that such an amount regularly made its way to Rome.20 If the fifteenth century was the age of palace building in Florence, when over one hundred new palaces were built, the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries were the age of the palace boom in Rome, when likewise over one hundred new buildings went up. When one considers that the Spanish ambassador bought the Mondeleschi palace in 1647 for 22,000 ducats, it puts in sharp relief the considerable spending power of 22 million ducats over a 150-year period.21 Besides palaces built by Spaniards in Rome, such as those of Cardinal Deza and the Fonseca family palace, it is also clear that many of the largest Spanish pensions went to cardinals who built some of the most famous palaces: Cardinal Farnese received tens of thousands of ducats from Spain in the later half of the sixteenth century, and cardinals from the Borghese, Pamphili, and Colonna families received tens of thousands of ducats from Spanish pensions throughout the seventeenth century. And this was not the end of the Spanish revenue that made its way to Rome. Rather, the single largest sum of Spanish money came in the form of thousands of smaller church pensions in the range of one hundred to two hundred ducats. These were the most common pensions distributed in Rome by the datary, the branch of the curia responsible for their administration. According to one detailed Spanish source, these pensions and related financial transactions such as currency exchange accounted for over 800,000 ducats of annual spending in Rome.22 While the loss of the account books from the datary to Napoleon’s armies makes it difficult to know how constant this 800,000 ducat sum was, I think it fair to assume that from 1550 to 1700 an average sum of some 700,000 ducats came to Rome each year from this source, for a total of over 100 million ducats in the period. Again, this is an extraordinary sum of money, particularly when one considers that the papacy’s annual budget in the seventeenth century was between two and three million ducats, and frequently half of that went to service the debt. And again, it is hard to conceive of the Roman miracle without the millions of Spanish ducats that bolstered the Roman economy. A negative proof of this argument can be seen, in part, when one looks at the economic stagnation that came over Rome in the eighteenth century, after the end of the Habsburg dynasty in Spain. The war of the Spanish succession from 1700 to 1715 witnessed the beginning of a drying-up of many of the traditional Spanish revenues previously cited. New palaces were few, the number of new churches built declined dramatically, and population growth stalled. By 1753, when the new Spanish Bourbon dynasty in Spain imposed a concordat reminiscent of the French Concordat of 1516, Spanish pensions and ecclesiastical money coming into Rome slowed to a trickle.

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Still, Spanish patronage in Rome did not completely stop, as demonstrated by the noticeable example of the building of the new church of Santissima Trinità degli Spagnoli on the Via Condotti in the eighteenth century (1741–44). Built by Iberian architects and paid for by the bishop of Nicaragua and later archbishop of Lima, Diego Morcillo Rubio Auñón, who gave 200,000 pesos for the project in 1730, this church represents a continuation of Spanish ecclesiastical largesse that produced one of the finest baroque churches in the city.23 So, too, does the longest-lasting example of Spanish patronage in the city, which brings us full circle, namely, the continuing contribution of the cruzada tax to the construction of St. Peter’s. This payment continued throughout the early modern period and beyond. Indeed, the last account books in the Fabbrica are for the period from the 1890s through the 1930s, thereby bringing the time span of Spanish donations to the church to over four centuries—a record that even Constantine and his successors could not match. This last example underlines the singular quality of the Spanish contribution to early modern Rome. No other European power, in short, allowed the papacy to play such a central role in their ecclesiastical economy and to benefit so directly from it for such a long period of time. No other power played the military defender of the papacy or was as critical to the demographic boom of the Renaissance and baroque city. As defenders, patrons, and citizens of Rome, the Spanish thus played a truly Constantinian role that has no parallel among other European powers in the period from 1500–1700. Rome, in these many dimensions, was truly a Spanish imperial city.

Endnotes 1. Ludwig Pastor, History of the Popes, ed. Frederick Antrobus (St. Louis: Herder, 1898), 6:636–7. Pastor provides a copy of the original letter. 2. Ennio Francia, Storia della Costruzione dell Nuovo San Pietro (Rome: De Luca, 1989), 2:45. The bulls Salvator noster of 1507 by Julius II and Liquet nos by Leo X in 1513 were both indulgence bulls for funding St. Peter’s, and Johannes Tetzel was the Dominican vicecommissario delle Indulgenze in 1517 whose preaching of the indulgence was attacked by Luther. 3. Grandson of the Habsburg Emperor Maximilian I, this ruler was both King Charles I of Spain from 1517 and Emperor Charles V of the Holy Roman Empire from 1519. 4. Ambrosio de Morales, La Coronica General de España (Alcala: Lequerica, 1584), 2:388r–396r. 5. Quoted in Maud Jerrold, Francesco Petrarca: Poet and Humanist (1909; repr., Port Washington, NY: Kennikat, 1970), 97. 6. For a good general discussion of Roman population development in the sixteenth century see Peter Partner, Renaissance Rome, 1500–1559 (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1976), 80–84. 7. For details on the sack see especially André Chastel, The Sack of Rome, 1527 (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1983). 8. David I. Kertzer and Marzio Barbagli, eds., Family Life in Early Modern Times (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2001) xxi. In the table provided in the introduction by the editors, it is noted that the population of Italy grew from 10 million to 12 million from 1500 to 1600, and then declined by 1 million from 1600 to 1650 to 11 million.

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9. Biblioteca Apostolica Vaticana (BAV), Urb. Lat. 1050, f. 204r. 10. For a detailed discussion of this community see chapter four of Thomas Dandelet, Spanish Rome, 1500–1700 (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2001). 11. Lorenzo Valla, The Treatise of Lorenzo Valla on the Donation of Constantine, edited and translated by Christopher Coleman (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1922). The original Latin version is also provided here. 12. For the best discussion of these cycles see Jack Freiberg, “In the Sign of the Cross: The Image of Constantine in the Art of Counter-Reformation Rome,” in Piero della Francesca and His Legacy, ed. Marilyn Aronberg Lavin (Hanover: University Press of New England, 1995), 67–87. 13. Ibid., 76–77. 14. Cesare Baronio, Annales Ecclesiastici, vol. 3 (Antwerp: Plantiniana, 1593). 15. For more on the cruzada see Dandelet, Spanish Rome, 60. 16. The pertinent account books cover the period from 1529 to 1620, and are in the archive of the Fabbrica of St. Peter’s, the office responsible for the building and maintenance of the church. These include but are not limited to ARFSP (Archivio della Reverenda Fabbrica di San Pietro) Mss. Arm. 29, D, 645; Arm. 29, D, 644; Arm. 24, F, 4; Arm. 24, F, 21; Arm. 25, C, 45; Arm. 25, C, 64; Arm. 25, C, 75. 17. It is worth noting, too, that Spanish imperial patronage with strong Constantinian echoes could also be found in two other churches that were originally built with the emperor’s money, namely Santa Maria Maggiore and San Giovanni Laterano. Santa Maria Maggiore, for which the Spanish monarchs were official sponsors, received constant patronage throughout the period, a fact symbolized by the statue of Philip IV in front of the church. For San Giovanni Laterano, a portion of the Fabbrica money from the Spanish cruzada was dedicated to that church in the middle of the eighteenth century. 18. Dandelet, Spanish Rome, 61. 19. Ibid. See especially 132–41 for specific details on payments to cardinals in the period. 20. AGS, Estado, Roma, leg. 1870, unfoliated. 21. Dandelet, Spanish Rome, 205. 22. Biblioteca Nacional Madrid (BNM), MSS. 1323, Informe y consulta a V. Magestad, en razon de los memoriales dados en nombre de los Reynos y diversas Iglesias, acerca de algunos despachos, y negocios de Roma, 1629, f. 101r. The text reads in part: “Pudiera tanto dezir, y informar à V. Magestad, respeto de lo contenido en los memoriales, sobre los despachos destos Reynos en la Corte Romana, pretendiendo, y assegurando en ellos por relacion de hombres practicos, que los despachos de gracia, coadjutorias, resignaciones, permutas, uniones, pensiones, dispensas con los pleitos, y negocios de justicia, y otros importen cada ano ochocientos mil ducados por lo menos, entendiendose sin las Bulas de provisiones de Obispados, y demas prebendas y vacantes forc, osas à despacharse en Roma, y las pensiones Regias por merced de V.M. de la cantidad no podrè atestiguar; y quando sea verdadera, repare V.M. que no son todos en beneficio de la Camara Apostolica, ni de sus ministros, porque con ellos se sustentan quatro mil pretendientes Españoles en Roma, y otros tantos, ò pocos menos Curiales y Notarios, agentes de tales despachos en estos Reynos… ” 23. This information comes from an as yet unpublished paper titled “Santissima Trinità degli Spagnoli,” 3, by Victor Deupi, which he kindly shared with me.

Chapter 9

THE ZODIAC IN THE STREETS Inscribing “Buon Governo” in Baroque Naples

d John A. Marino

I

n the face-to-face culture of early modern European towns, citizens of the “ceremonial city” constantly paraded through the streets in recurrent performances of religious processions, devotional rites, civic festivals, and popular demonstrations.1 Monuments, images, writings, and emblems of religious, mythological, astrological, and political allegories conveyed polyvalent messages to the urban polity’s audience of diverse caste, class, age, and gender. Such visual and verbal ephemera formed part of the ritual process that created and reinforced group identity, hierarchical structures, and urban solidarity, as well as fanning and fomenting rivalries, competition, and contestation among families, friends, and neighbors.2 The difficulty in describing the simultaneity of continuity and change or cohesion and conflict in civic rituals depends upon integrating structuralist and functionalist approaches to ritual to help us understand its means and meanings, contexts and content, causality and contingency.3 How did ritual persist? When and why did it play itself out? To determine what was the relationship between time and space, the rationale, and the mechanisms of transmission in baroque civic ritual requires analysis of the politics and culture of the time. An unusual confluence of events—political crises and a veritable crescendo of publishing—during the nine years 1623–1631 resulted in the printing of eight books that have been preserved and that describe the religio-civic feast of St. John the Baptist (San Giovanni) in the city of Naples. These books provide an exceptional portrait of the ideology of the ruling elite and its public indoctrination in Spanish “good government.”4 Giulio Cesare Capaccio, ex-secretary of the city

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of Naples, published a description of the procession on St. John’s vigil for 1623 through 1627;5 Giovanni Bernardino Giuliani, secretary of the Neapolitan seggio del popolo (the one nonnoble seggio, that is, ward, among the six districts on the city council) published descriptions for 1628 and 1631;6 and Francesco Orilia’s 501-page book, Lo Zodiaco, over, idea di perfettione di prencipi (The zodiac, or, the idea of the perfection of princes), describes the 1629 procession of the viceroy as the movement of the sun through the celestial signs of the zodiac and the embodiment of princely virtues.7 Two decades later, Andrea Rubino’s unpublished diary, which recorded a detailed account of the St. John procession six times between 1649 and 1668, confirms the practices and meaning of the feast in the difficult twenty years following the 1647 revolt and the horrific plague of 1656.8 This unique information from fourteen feasts in the mid-seventeenth century (1623–1668), which details the decoration of the parade route for the vigil of St. John’s Day in Naples, allows us to analyze more than a snapshot of a one-time event. We can examine a festival’s ideological intent together with its material practice over time. Orilia’s extraordinary tome reproduces 143 engravings and 72 emblems, and the continued life of this ephemeral art enables us to explore the intersection of politics and culture in western Europe’s second-largest city.

The Cult of St. John the Baptist in Naples Before we start to unpack the multiple meanings embedded in the stylized ceremonies, complex iconography, and bizarre celebrations of St. John’s Day in Naples, we should understand some simple facts about the long history and mythology surrounding Johannine devotion as well as where, when, and how St. John’s Day was celebrated. In Naples, the cult of St. John had deep roots back to the earliest public foundations of Christianity in the Roman Empire. Constantine the Great was traditionally credited with constructing the Baptistery of S. Giovanni in Fonte, the oldest baptistery in Western Christendom and part of the archbishop’s cathedral.9 Constantine was also said to have established one of the four principal parishes in Naples, S. Giovanni Maggiore, just above the seggio of Porto (one of the city nobility’s five wards), by refurbishing and rededicating the ancient temple of Partenope, the mythological siren worshipped as the city founder. The cult of St. John, thus, had direct links to public baptism in the bishop’s church at the center of the city, and to the ancient Greek foundation of Naples through the sanctification of the site of its mythical founder Partenope as an early parish church, with both baptistery and parish attributed to the Emperor Constantine, who connected late imperial Naples to his new Greek capital in the eastern empire. The center of the saint’s cult, however, was near the Piazza del Mercato in the heart of the popolo quarter at the church of S. Giovanni a Mare, so called because it stood close to the old shoreline. The church itself had been founded under the Angevin kings of Naples, who had special devotion to John the Baptist and had brought a vial of the saint’s blood to Naples in 1282–85. The Knights of St.

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John of Jerusalem became custodians of the church in 1386, with a hospice for pilgrims en route to the Holy Land. In the 1580s, the church had five chapels and provided dowries for a dozen young girls under lay confraternity patronage.10 The oldest of these confraternities, the Compagnia della disciplina di S. Giovan Battista, dated from around 1440 at the beginning of the Aragonese period; and, after a long decline to near extinction, in 1576 it reformed and reconstituted itself so that it was able to expand its spiritual and corporal works of mercy beyond its past activities and to reestablish its former leadership during the feast and procession of San Giovanni. Many other Neapolitan churches had relics of St. John the Baptist.11 Reliquaries of his blood were kept at the monasteries of S. Giovanni a Carbonara, S. Ligorio (S. Gregorio Armeno), and S. Maria Donnaromita, while a piece of the saint’s face was in the duomo. In 1577, upon its translation to Donnaromita and again in 1580 and 1581, the blood of St. John had “prodigious liquefactions.”12 Capaccio reports that every time the vial with St. John’s blood at Donnaromita came into contact with the reliquary of the saint’s rib, the blood would liquefy.13 Numerous other churches and chapels in Naples and its environs were dedicated to St. John the Baptist, not surprising in a city that counted some 643 churches, chapels, monasteries, and oratories in the early seventeenth century.14 Each of the five noble seggi had a church dedicated to St. John and patronized by leading nobility of that district. Originally, the Florentine mercantile community in Naples venerated St. John as their patron at San Giovanni Battista dei Fiorentini, near S. Pietro Martire in the heart of the popolo district, but in 1557 transferred their church to an area between S. Giacomo degli Spagnoli and Piazza della Carità in the heavily fortified Spanish center. The feast of St. John the Baptist in Naples was played out over two days in five kinds of activities. First, on the morning of the vigil of the saint’s day, 23 June, a merchant fair was set up in the popular quarter of the city along an approximately one-kilometer-long parade route from the Castel Nuovo to S. Giovanni a Mare (figure 9.1). The viceroy and the eletto del popolo (the city council representative of the one nonnoble, city-wide district) led a procession that wove through the streets and squares near the bay; at stops along the way, they received and recognized the captains of the twenty-nine popolo districts (ottine) and the consuls of the various mercantile and artisanal guilds. Second, on the vigil of St. John’s Day, young Neapolitan girls, who would collect grains of wheat in small vases in order to read their wedding-day fortunes, stopped passersby for small coins, for St. John was the patron of marital unions, and his feast continued the ancient Roman tradition of blessing the fecundity of June weddings.15 Third, in the evening of the vigil, fire and water marked the celebrations as bonfires and fireworks lit the sky and reflected off the bay in a purification ritual that included full immersion in the sea by naked male and female supplicants and penitents seeking cures for physical ailments and forgiveness of sins.16 Fourth, music and dancing, especially the lewd, naked il ballo di S. Giovanni (St. John’s dance), evocative of Salome’s performance for King Herod, continued in the streets through the night

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Figure 9.1. Antonio Bulifon, The Most Faithful city of Naples (1685). The parade route from the Castel Nuovo to S. Giovanni a Mare follows the first main street inside the city wall east of the Castel Nuovo along the shore. (Route marked by black and white dotted line.)

and linked the naked “rebaptism” to the local betrothal, fortune-telling, and courting customs. Fifth, on the day of the feast, 24 June, elections of the officers of the city’s most important charitable body, the Santissima Annunziata, took place, as well as the investiture of the newly appointed eletto del popolo. On the day after the feast, the temporary statues were brought inside the saint’s church for the coming year to continue the Baptist’s intercession. St. John’s Day and its associated beliefs were by no means limited to Naples. Devotion to St. John, the precursor of Christ, and the only human being in addition to Mary the Mother of Jesus whose birthday rather than death day is celebrated in the Church calendar, was widespread in Italy and Christendom at the time of the summer solstice. The same six dominant themes can be identified in monarchical Naples and in republican Florence, but customs differed.17 First, in Naples, contract and compact still defined relations among private parties, merchants, artisans, guilds, marriage partners, and between government and popolo, with the viceroy and the eletto del popolo playing significant roles in the merchant fair procession. Second, the clergy was notably absent (having made their profession of fealty earlier in the year on the feast of S. Gennaro) and purification was, instead, sought individually by nude bathers in the bay. Third, the captains of the popolo’s ottine met the viceroy, but the citizens did not march in their neighborhood military units as in Florence. Fourth, local confraternities were active in the feast and procession. Fifth, Spanish royal and viceregal victories and exploits were commemorated and provincial subjugation often portrayed; however, the city was not

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the center of imperium, but only one jewel in the Spanish crown. Sixth and finally, the culminating horse race was not as significant in Naples as it was in Florence. Amid all the erudite inventions and political posturing used in attempts to manipulate and direct the feast’s rituals in Naples, a raft of popular superstitions, portents, and prognostications on fortune and fertility continued to intervene. It was believed that a young maiden’s grains of wheat would help her find her mate; that a great trail of fire shot across the night sky, dragging Salome and her cruel mother, Herodias, whom John the Baptist had rebuked for her adulterous and incestuous marriage to Herod; and that if one dropped a lead ball in boiling water, the resultant new shape could be used to foretell the future. Naples and Southern Italy uniquely celebrated the liquefaction of the blood of the saints. Just as S. Gennaro’s liquefied blood on the Saturday before the first Sunday of May brought good fortune to Naples, so too St. John’s liquefied blood and the myriad of festivities practiced on his feast pointed to both an individual’s and the city’s fortuna.18 Fires and fireworks were ubiquitous; marriage engagements and amorous games were part of the order of the day and the disorder of the night in the “St. John’s dance”; the sea flanking the cult church of S. Giovanni a Mare provided easy access for purification through full immersion “rebaptism”; and a mock battle between Saracens and lazzari took place in the Piazza del Mercato in front of S. Maria del Carmine, whose bell tower spewed fireworks throughout the night. The disparate elements of popular enthusiasm notwithstanding, the structure of the feast of St. John changed over time with the exigencies of events, as the state, Church, and social groups vied among themselves to appropriate the feast. The political crisis of the Aragonese monarchy after the French invasions of 1494 and Spanish ambitions to gain and maintain control of Naples after 1503; the Church’s antagonism to what it perceived as the unregulated and sacrilegious ritual practices of the feast; and the rivalries between the city’s factions (nobility against viceroys, noble families and seggi against one another, and nobility against popolo) that would lead to open revolt in 1647—together, these factors made and remade the feast a tradition in constant transition. Its practices and their meanings were invented and reinvented to reinforce the dominant powers of the time.

The Feast of St. John the Baptist from the Spanish Conquest to Viceroy Osuna’s Recall The three most important religious feasts in the Neapolitan liturgical calendar— San Gennaro (Saturday before the first Sunday of May), Corpus Christi (Thursday after Trinity Sunday, that is, 60 days after Easter, between 24 May and 24 June), and San Giovanni (23–24 June)19—took their modern form under Spanish political rule as a way of restoring the disrupted order after the French invasions of 1494. In 1497, the restored Aragonese king Frederick reorganized the two medieval feasts of S. Gennaro, with the translation of the saint’s body to the city,

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and of Corpus Christi with precedence given to the popolo and its eletto. 20 With the Spanish invasion and conquest of Naples complete in December 1503, Ferdinand the Catholic and his successors emphasized the legitimacy of the Spanish monarchy as heirs to their Aragonese ancestors.21 St. John’s Day assumed direct political significance with the municipal statutes of 1522, which indicate the election of the Santissima Annunziata officers and the investiture of the eletto del popolo on the feast.22 St. John the Baptist’s Day came to play a central role in the public ritual of Spanish Naples because of the way the rising star of Spanish government linked the religious holidays (long syncretized with the traditional agrarian and astrological calendar) to the inaugural year of their surrogate king’s rule. This vice-king or viceroy took his place in the ritual life of the city and fostered group solidarity among the popolo, who reasserted long-eroded rights and privileges as the new government consciously attempted to divide and conquer native groups within its newly acquired kingdom. Thus, Naples’s three most important religious feast days must be understood as working together as part of a spring cycle beginning with the May Day festival (appropriated by S. Gennaro), continuing through spring planting (Easter season and its conclusion two months later at Corpus Christi), and culminating near the summer solstice (appropriated by St. John). They were clustered in May and June, as vestiges of ancient, pagan agrarian rites that made the summer solstice the high point of the solar and agricultural year in giving thanks for the year just passed, and guaranteeing good fortune for the year to come. In the ancient world, the summer solstice celebrated Fors Fortuna, the Roman goddess of fertility and increase, who brought the fruits of the earth from Southern Italy’s mythical garden of the Mediterranean, and the gift of life itself through love and marriage.23 By 1543, one finds the first mention of the viceroy in procession through a merchant fair in the streets of the popular quarter, when Pedro de Toledo, the long-reigning viceroy (1532–1553), accompanied a visiting Tunisian king during the feast.24 Note that this procession was not in the first year of the viceroy’s reign, makes no mention of the eletto del popolo, and does not yet follow a route exclusively limited to the popular quarter. The earliest evidence of the connection with St. John’s Day and the first year of a new viceroy, evidence provided by Ferrante Carafa and Tommaso Costo, dates from 1583 for the viceroy Duke of Osuna (1582–1586),25 whose participation in the processions was no doubt inspired by the recent blood liquefaction miracles at S. Maria Donnaromita in 1577, 1580, and 1581. Such public festivities could easily turn from celebration and ritual conflict to real violence. Soon after the notorious riot, murder, and ritual cannibalism of the eletto del popolo Giovan Vincenzo Starace on 9 May 1585,26 Scipione Guerra’s chronicle notes that the viceroy participated in both the Corpus Christi and St. John processions with a heavily armed escort.27 During the 1601 procession, while stopping to read the sonnets praising him, the viceroy Count of Lemos heard a great commotion and saw many nobles with unsheathed swords surrounding a deadly duel between two nobles.28

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Spanish rule in Naples was weakened by the dismissal of the Spanish viceroy, the Duke of Osuna (1616–1620);29 the two short interim viceroyalties of Cardinal Borgia (June–December 1620) and Cardinal Zapata (December 1620–December 1622); and the loss of influence by Philip IV’s favorite, the Duke of Lerma, with the king’s death in 1621.30 The Duke of Alba (December 1622–August 1629), therefore, attempted to establish more positive links with the popolo, especially during the fiscal squeeze in the early stages of the Thirty Years’ War.

The Structure and Decorations of the Procession, 1623–1631 On the vigil of St. John’s Day, then, some twenty identifiable city sites and their respective guild inhabitants marked the procession’s itinerary through a mercantile bazaar of stalls and shops to the center of the saint’s cult at S. Giovanni a Mare. As in most medieval and early modern cities, guildsmen and their trades, along with foreign merchants, were localized in specific geographic areas of the city and gave their names to particular squares and streets. In Naples, this popolo district occupied a low-lying area near the port and along the sea toward the southeast city walls, below the foundation of the ancient Greek town, which sloped up from the sea plain to higher ground. The parade on St. John’s vigil joined the city’s governing elite—the Spanish viceroy and the native Neapolitan nobility—with the eletto del popolo, the city council representative of the popular urban classes, in a procession through this densely populated working-class quarter between the old noble seggi and the shore. In the 1620s, the viceroy, the vicereine in her carriage, and their cavalcade escort paraded out of the viceroy’s palace on horseback and proceeded up the Via Toledo to Via S. Giacomo, where they turned right along the notable monuments of the Spanish presence in the city, the jail of Santiago and the church of S. Maria di Monserrato, to head down toward the Castel Nuovo. The eletto del popolo and his entourage met the viceroy and his party east of the Castel Nuovo at Guardiola, where the guard post of Spanish soldiers was maintained, in what is today Piazza del Municipio. The procession moved through Piazza dell’Olmo into the heart of the city’s dense popolo neighborhoods; and the eletto would present each ottina captain to the viceroy at some nineteen guild-decorated stopping places. The political trajectory for the feast of St. John’s Day grew out of proportion in the decade beginning with its celebration in the first year of the viceroyalty of Antonio Alvarez, the Duke of Alba, in 1623. Capaccio’s description of the 1626 procession, for example, gave the names of the eletto del popolo and ten ottina captains who represented about one-fourth of the city population, some 65,000 people in the densely populated proletarian district. The annual celebration culminated in the sumptuous ostentation of the 1629 procession and Orilia’s commemoration of this farewell tribute to the Duke of Alba, who had received news at the beginning of that year of the appointment of a new viceroy. Orilia describes

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the 1629 festivities in twelve stages, with brief ceremonies of the gift-giving of flowers, candies, and sweets at triumphal arches flanked by statues representing the virtues of good government, and associated with one of the twelve signs of the zodiac at each of twelve stops along the way. Although the difficulties of Alba’s successor, the Duke of Alcalà (August 1629–May 1631), precluded the publication of a dedicatory book in 1630 for the lone St John’s Day of his viceroyalty,31 the next viceroy, the Count of Monterey (May 1631–November 1637), saw two books published for St. John’s Day during his first year in office in 1631.32 Giuliani describes the procession through the merchant fair, once again emphasizing abundance and plenty, Spanish good government and its virtues. The eight statues in the Sellaria proclaim the message in the personification of eight virtues— Religion, Justice, Providence, Magnanimity, Fortitude, Prudence, Magnificence, and Affability. And the representation of this last statue, Affability, with a lyre in her right arm and a cornucopia in her left, pulled together the two themes of joyful celebration and prosperity under Spanish rule as a consequence of the moral life of virtue. Pedro Martinez de Herrara, a Carmelite theologian, on the other hand, does not follow the vigil’s procession, but rather its posted epigrams and mottos provide the point of departure for his Latin disquisition of twenty-one questions into the principles for princely rule. The virtues—clemency, justice, wisdom, friendship, prudence, resolution, providence, liberality, modesty, nobility and integrity, honor, and mercy—punctuate this “mirror for princes” political treatise. Unique in this extant literature is Orilia’s treatise on “the idea of the perfection of princes,” not for its theme or descriptive content, but for its extensive engravings and its zodiacal organizing principle. Dozens of engravings fill Orilia’s baroque panoply of visual and verbal ephemeral decorations, which include portraits of twelve of the viceroy’s distinguished ancestors in the Toledo clan; six judicial figures from the Neapolitan courts; five offices in the Neapolitan bureaucracy; ten offices in the viceroy’s household; the seven high offices of the Kingdom of Naples; six of Naples’s then thirteen patron saints, including S. Gennaro and the five city protectors newly elevated during Alba’s viceroyalty; allegorical figures of seven Neapolitan island deities, the Kingdom’s twelve provinces, seven rivers, and eight sciences; and three statues of fame. In 1629, then, a statue of Felicity at the sign of Cancer (the sign of the zodiac governing the date of the saint’s feast on 24 June) overlooked the meeting of the viceroy and eletto del popolo at the procession’s first stop, Guardiola, as the virtue held in her arms the scepter of good government and a cornucopia of abbondanza, while her feet had stopped the wheel of Fortune, which had a stake through its hub (see figure 9.2). Just as the zodiac is a belt of stars within 9° of the apparent path of the sun’s orbit above the earth, so too the processional route with the viceroy as its sun followed the zodiac’s annual progression at each of its successive stops. The sun’s guiding light shone the virtues of “good government” upon the viceroy, who, in turn, bestowed them upon the people. Thus, the thirty-six images—of the twelve arches, twelve

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Figure 9.2. Felicity, the first of the twelve virtues of viceregal government. Francesco Orilia, Lo Zodiaco, over, idea di perfettione di prencipi (Naples, 1630). (Orilia, 13).

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virtues, and twelve portraits of the viceroy—announce each of the twelve stops and signs of the zodiac, dividing the road of march. Orilia informs his readers that the association of the twelve signs of the zodiac with “the twelve principal virtues,” which “established the idea of the feast and of the apparati,” was derived from the Civitate Cristi by Joannes Genesius Quaja of Parma (d. 1398) published in Reggio nell’Emilia in 1501.33 Just as Quaja’s book explicates Revelations 21 on the Heavenly City of the New Jerusalem and specifies the names of its twelve gates and their twelve foundation stones, their associated twelve apostles, twelve directions, and twelve virtues,34 so too in Orilia’s zodiacal mirror-for-princes, the twelve virtues inscribed in the streets and piazza of the popolo quarter follow the annual cycle, beginning with the feast of St. John the Baptist and its summer sign of Cancer, to specify the requisite princely virtues of Felicity, Fortezza, Justice, Clemency, Prudence, Wisdom, Pietas, Temperance, Concord and Zeal for Peace, Beneficence, Magnanimity, and Vigilance. In the Duke of Alba’s six previous years in office, in fact, six shorter books published in Naples make it clear that the astral references that framed the 1629 festival were not unique. In the heart of the popolo district in the Piazza della Sellaria near the seat of the seggio del popolo at the church of S. Agostino, for example, a temporary stage in 1624 displayed eight statues in honor of the viceroy’s ancestor, the third Duke of Alba, Fernando Alvarez de Toledo (1507–1582), whose renowned military exploits for Charles V and Philip II helped consolidate the Spanish empire. Thus, statues of four of the provinces he commanded were linked with the four cardinal or moral virtues, with each standing under the influence of one of the planets; namely, Mercury reigned over Spain and Prudence, the Sun reigned over Africa and Temperance, Mars over Germany and Fortitude, Venus over Italy and Justice.35 And, of course, the Duke of Alba’s name (a homonym for “dawn”) is invoked in every one of the seven St. John the Baptist processions of his viceroyalty, as the sun having brought a new dawn to Spanish Naples with his arrival as viceroy on 22 December 1622. According to the full iconographic descriptions provided by the former city secretary Capaccio and the popolo secretary Giuliani, as well as by Orilia, what the audience saw in the St. John’s processions would have differed each year from 1623 to 1631. Nevertheless, some general composite profile can be created and the ephemeral apparati imagined from the engravings included in Orilia’s tome. First, triumphal arches, often apparati or machinery for fireworks, were ubiquitous. The arches were described according to the classical orders and the number of portals. Two arches stood out: the important arch at the center of the popolo quarter in the Piazza della Sellaria (see figure 9.3), which was recycled from the feast of Corpus Christi and served as a fireworks apparato in the St. John’s vigil procession, and the comestible arch of ham, salami, and cheese (figure 9.4) at the end of the procession route at the Porta del Caputo. The arch of food and its adjacent fountain of wine were gifts to the popolo that made real all the propagandistic claims of abbondanza. Fireworks burst not only from the Sellaria

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Figure 9.3. Ephemeral arch constructed in Piazza della Sellaria (Orilia, 362).

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Figure 9.4. Comestible arch of ham, salami, and cheese constructed at the Porta del Caputo (Orilia, 456).

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arch of the Blessed Sacrament, but also from mountains of plenty and pastoral landscapes, ships, dragons, and elm trees at the dogana in Via dell’Olmo; from pyramids, towers, and columns at the Piazza di Maio (both near the beginning of the procession); and from mechanical fish midway at the fish market, Fontana della Pietra del Pesce. Second, statues of the virtues—especially the four moral virtues of justice, temperance, fortitude, and prudence—connected abundance and good government through princely/viceregal virtue. Vigilance (figure 9.5), as represented at the Porta del Caputo end point in 1629, is vision and watchfulness holding in her right hand the scepter of good government with an eye above it, an eagle on her head, a crane at her side, and standing on the wheel of Fortune, whose rim is covered with eyes—with the eye, eagle, and crane all being symbols of God’s Providence, knowledge, and wisdom over Fortune. Third, innumerable images of the viceroy Duke of Alba, his vicereine, the viceroy’s ancestors and house of Toledo, their coat of arms, symbols of the sun or dawn, and the Spanish monarchs from Philip IV back to Charles V all emphasized the presence of the king in his absence. As one entered the Piazza della Sellaria in 1629, the vice-king Alba was even presented riding Pegasus (like Bellerophon, a mythological precursor of St. John), who might divine the source of life-giving water; or, in the street of the Armieri, he could crush underfoot two Furies (symbols of the vicious passions) in a triumph of Moderation and Temperance36 (figure 9.6). Fourth, St. John was represented in painting, statuary, or even a tableau vivant.37 An image of the “Beheading of St. John the Baptist” was displayed at the Fontana della Piazza di Porto, near the beginning of the parade route; this is recorded in all five of Capaccio’s books, 1623–1627. In Orilia’s 1629 description, however, the decollation comes at the end of the march as the last image in the procession, where we see the fructifying blood of the saint spilled as salvific precursor and intercessor, whereas at stop number one, Guardiola, is the birth of the Baptist. The preface to Capaccio’s description of the 1626 procession reproduces an image of the birth of the Baptist, and his 1623 and 1624 books present a third image of St. John the Baptist in the desert as a frontispiece. Such images of St. John were common in Naples, with 148 paintings of ten different St. John scenes recorded in the death inventories of Neapolitan collectors from 1600 to 1780.38 Fifth, two of the competing guild displays were high points of every year’s procession. The jewelers and the gold and silversmiths at the Orefici (stop number nine) expanded into the larger space of the Loggia dei Genovesi after 1627. In 1623, Capaccio described statues of Salus Publica (the goddess of Public Welfare), the viceroy, the three Graces, and Clemency; in 1624, fourteen statues including the two Muses Poinnia and Calliope, Fortuna, Partenope, Felicità, and Salute; in 1626, Magnanimity, Partenope, and Prudence. In 1627, Capaccio praised the artists by name and claims that three statues of the Orefici exceeded one another in unbelievable values—a statue of the province of Navarre worth

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Figure 9.5. Vigilance, the last of the twelve virtues of viceregal government (Orilia, 463).

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Figure 9.6. Viceroy Duke of Alba crushing two Furies (Orilia, 291).

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600,000 to 700,000 ducats, a large globe worth 1 million ducats, and a statue of Hilarity (the richest of all) worth 1.5 million ducats, inflated amounts difficult to believe since in 1626 the Kingdom’s total revenue was 4.584 million ducats. In 1629, Orilia published engravings of the three gem-studded representations of Fame (Celebrity, Glory, and Eternity), and Orefici statues are constantly praised as outstripping the wealth and riches of India from Goa to Bengal. The real centerpiece of the parade route, however, came at the seggio del popolo’s political stronghold in the Piazza della Sellaria, where a stage set with eight statues would be constructed. As already mentioned, those of 1624 pictured the third Duke of Alba’s four provinces and four virtues. In 1623, the eight statues represented members of viceroy Toledo’s house; in 1625, four Neapolitan nymphs and four Neapolitan poets, as well as the three Sirens; in 1626, six maritime deities exiting the sea to praise the virtues; in 1627, the eight provinces of the Kingdom of Naples; in 1628, the four moral virtues and four other virtues; and in 1629, the number increased to twelve statues of the principal rivers of the kingdom to dramatize the triumph of Beneficence. Among the life-giving waters of the kingdom, the river Sebeto (figure 9.7) is given special importance and appeared almost every year. It runs underground through the city of Naples and is the origin or source of all earthly life as it flows from Vesuvius into Lake Avernus (for the ancients, the entrance to the Underworld). Similarly, Partenope (figure 9.8), the founding Siren of Naples, as represented in the Rua FrancescaRua Campana in 1629, might sound her string and sing her song “to invite the popolo to allegrezza,” as Capaccio records for 1627.39

The Feast of St. John’s Day from the 1647 Revolt to the End of Spanish Rule In 1647, weeks before the 7 July outbreak of the revolt that would last for nine months, the viceroy overheard the popolo murmuring under their breath, and placards calling for the popolo “to make a great tumult on the feast of St. John” were posted around the city due to the mounting discontent over reduction of the regulated weight of a loaf of bread and the imposition of new gabelles at a time of famine, especially the gabelle on fruit. For fear of what a large crowd of the popolo might do, the viceroy suspended the 24 June feast of St. John, only to postpone the trigger of the revolt two weeks to the feast of the Virgin of the Carmine.40 In 1648, although the Spanish had regained control of the city for over two months, the June feast of St. John was again cancelled because “the city [was] almost ruined from the recent turbulence.”41 As recorded by Rubino, the three St. John the Baptist processions following the revolt and the three processions following the plague all confirm that both the earlier themes of peace and prosperity as well as the same figures (religious, mythological, and political) continued to be central to the words and images of the

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Figure 9.7. Sebeto, the mythical god of the river running under the city of Naples (Orilia, 392).

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Figure 9.8. Partenope, mythical Siren founder of the city of Naples (Orilia, 344).

merchant-fair decorations. Rubino, as in the 1620s books, emphasizes the precious cloths of silk, taffeta, and damask used for backdrops and canopies, which created an artificial sky over the streets and piazze. One new food item, macaroni, makes its way into the dreams of abundance, while, in 1665 and 1668, the procession through the merchant fair began to make extended stops for plays or dramatic read-

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ings whose texts Rubino transcribes in great detail: five “Triumphs” in 1665 (for Neptune, Partenope, Ceres, Flora, and Pomona); and four plays in 1668 (Gli Horti Esperidi, Il Monte Parnaso, The Triumph of Ceres, and Le Sireni baccanti).42 Worth noting is the extraordinary list of ninety-six virtues identified as individual statues in the Largo di Castello staging ground in 1668. Portraits of the king and queen, viceroys and vicereines continued to preside over the invocation of St. John’s blessing for the beginning of the year and for the favors of good harvest, good fortune, and godly virtue personified by the mythical sirens and local Neapolitan deities. On St. John’s vigil in 1668, an overflow crowd of more than 5,000 people from the city and its environs packed the procession route so full that many visitors had to be satisfied with seeing the apparati only the day before (on 22 June) or up to even two days later (on 25 June). Despite this fact, many titled grandees and nobles boycotted the St. John’s procession in protest against the eletto del popolo Francesco Troise and the viceroy Pietro Antonio d’Aragona (1666–1672) occasioned by a dispute over meat provisioning in Naples that had split the town council and effectively blocked all its business from the previous month of May. During the procession itself, a large part of the cavalcade turned off the customary parade route near the beginning of the march at the Strada dei Lanzieri to avoid the popolo apparati, and proceeded directly to the end of the route at S. Giovanni a Mare, which the popolo interpreted, according to Fuidoro, as an act of disrespect for the eletto Troise.43 Fuidoro never again records the procession, and does not record the feast itself again until 1671, when he notes only the vigil’s evening fireworks, without mentioning, as does an anonymous chronicler, that the celebration on 24 June took place in the safer confines of the Spanish-controlled city center at S. Giovanni dei Fiorentini instead of at S. Giovanni a Mare.44 Although the parish priest Carlo Celano’s famous 1692 guidebook on Naples reports that the feast of St. John had become extinct some fifty years earlier because of its superstitious practices,45 Fuidoro’s chronicle notes the vigil’s fireworks as late as 1671, albeit, as above, without the anonymous diary reference to the change of venue to S. Giovanni dei Fiorentini; and Confuorto’s chronicle continues to indicate the election of the Santissima Annunciata officers on 24 June through the 1680s and 1690s, albeit without mentioning the procession or the merchant fair on the vigil.46 When the moveable feast of Corpus Christi interfered with St. John’s Day—both feasts fell on the same day in 1666 and the octave of Corpus Christi fell on the 24 June feast day in 1661 and 1672—the calendar itself furthered the assimilation of the feast of St. John into the Church’s more acceptable eucharistic holiday.47 Thus, formal patronage of the feast by the local clergy and the viceregal government eroded for a number of festering causes: the continued pressure from the post-Tridentine Church against the feast’s oft-criticized paganlike customs; the harsh repressiveness of Spanish rule after the 1647 revolt of Naples that was ever wary of popolo power and crowds; the demographic decimation and sharp economic depression in the popolo’s mercantile and artisanal base after the 60 percent mortality of the 1656 plague; and the gradual decline of Spanish fortunes after the 1659 Treaty of the Pyrenees, the 1665 death of Philip IV,

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and the regency of his four-year-old son, Charles II. Finally, since the St. John’s vigil procession was so identified as the feast of the eletto del popolo’s accession, the immediate cause for its disappearance seems to have been the divisions and rivalries in city government that pitted the nobility against the viceroy, a split in the old nobility of the three seggi of Capuana, Nido, and Montagna against the newer seggi of Porto and Portanova, and, above all, the nobility against the eletto del popolo, all of which came to a head in the vigil procession of 1668. The celebration of the feast of St. John’s Day in Naples had changed in response to the urgency of circumstances and the intervention of Spanish government, the Church, and social groups in the city. Spanish viceroys appropriated the feast as a means to strengthen ties between the Habsburg monarchy and the popolo. Under Charles V, municipal statutes in 1522 linked urban charity and commoner political representation to the St. John festivities. Under Philip II, the viceroy began to lead the procession on the feast’s vigil through the popolo quarter in his first year in office; but by the 1620s under the viceroy Duke of Alba, the viceroy had begun to lead the procession every year until the disruptions of the 1647 revolt. The ideal of communal cohesion came up against the realities of caste/class conflict, as the gathering of large groups of people on the feast during the fiscal and provisioning crisis near the end of the Thirty Years’ War could as easily be occasions of violence as solidarity. The harsh reprisals to the 1647 revolt against Spanish rule (followed by the plague in 1656) prolonged the economic downturn; and the viceroy’s tightening social control from 1661 to 1672 witnessed changes in the feast’s procession route away from S. Giovanni a Mare in the popolo quarter to S. Giovanni dei Fiorentini close to the Spanish center outside the old city. At the same time, as the calendar aligned the moveable feast of Corpus Christi closer to St. John’s Day on 24 June, the Church seized the opportunity to redefine the feast consistent with the century-long, Counter-Reformation practice of taking control of popular local cults and confraternities to make them conform to postTridentine discipline and eucharistic spirituality. The popolo’s indigenous spontaneity and autonomous governance of St. John’s Day gave way to the external transformation of the feast by state and Church. What had anchored a covenant between God’s beneficent promise of nature’s abundance and man’s material needs through a hierarchy of contractual exchanges, both private (marital and mercantile trust) and public (monarchical and imperial rule), had given way to military repression and ecclesiastical authority.

The Iconography of St. John’s Day To understand the iconography of St. John’s Day in Naples, we should first remember that the art, literature, emblems, and ceremonies were intended for multiple audiences—both those present at the feast and those who could return to it in the words and images of printed books. The hierarchical patron-client system began with the spiritual audience of the saint himself who was praised, thanked,

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and petitioned. The political patrons invoked for the same purposes were the king together with his surrogate king, the viceroy, and their respective houses, both in genealogical time and through their clientele networks in space. Government officials in Naples were next in line as officers in the various councils, or, in the bureaucratic arms of the state machinery, as part of the viceroy’s household, as judges and lawyers serving in the judicial system, and as members of the learned professions who might act as intermediaries between the people and the viceregal administration. Popolo officials, the eletto, the captains of the twenty-nine ottine, and the consuls of the numerous guilds would greet and make offerings to the viceroy for the artisan and merchant guildsmen and the people as a whole. Last and least were the lowly plebs, who were unincorporated and considered to be outside of the working-class members of urban society. For every group, the feast was above all a time of allegrezza or joyful celebration that simultaneously reinforced their differentiation one from another and their articulation one with another. Spiritual meanings grounded in biblical stories and their allegorical interpretation formed the bedrock upon which the feast was built. As the precursor of Christ, St. John the Baptist prepared the way for the true Messiah just as the viceroy stood for the true king, and the feast near the summer solstice pointed to the coming harvest. St. John’s baptisms by water in the New Testament continued their purification power on his day in the Bay of Naples, and his prophecy of baptism by the Holy Spirit and fire was reenacted in countless St. John’s fires and fireworks. St. John’s foretelling of Jesus as the Messiah extended to the prognostications done on his feast day, his pronouncements against Herod and Herodias on the sanctity of marriage made him beloved of prospective brides, and his martyred blood fructified the barren earth just as his liquefied blood insured the annual fruitfulness of the kingdom. Processions through the popolo quarter on Corpus Christi and St. John’s vigil used the same triumphal arch in the Piazza della Sellaria. In 1629, a statue of St. John crowned this fireworks-machine arch borrowed from Corpus Christi (figure 9.3), and it stood on a central pedestal above two friezes of Old Testament figurae—one of Moses delivering the Ten Commandments, the other of David singing and playing the harp before the Ark of the Covenant. The feast of St. John verified the fulfillment of the covenant between God and his chosen people, from Moses to David to John the Baptist to Christ, and it confirmed all new contracts with the same divine solemnity. For the Church and its ritual practices, the New Testament provided a direct link between John the Baptist and the celebration of the Eucharist. At the communion of the faithful in the traditional Latin Mass of the Tridentine rite, the priest turns toward the congregation with a ciborium of consecrated hosts in his hands and, holding up one host in his consecrated fingers, he repeats three times, “Ecce Agnus Dei, ecce qui tollit peccata mundi.”48 These are the exact words of the Vulgate in John 1:29 when John the Baptist identified Jesus as “God’s chosen one” for whom he had borne witness and why he had come, baptizing in water. In the mass, then, the congregation responds three times, “Domine, non sum dignus,” and the priest distributes Holy Communion to the faithful. Every mass,

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defined by Trent as a sacrifice and sacrament, relied on the words of John the Baptist to acknowledge the miracle of the Incarnation, the central mystery of Christianity, that the Church affirmed happened not only once in historical time, but was continually repeated at every mass. The biblical coming of the Messiah and the keeping of God’s promise joined with the mythological founding of the city of Naples and its promised fertility. From the siren song of its founding goddess Partenope to the waters of its underground river of origin, the Sebeto, personifications of Naples’s singing Siren and sacred stream became commonplaces of the myth of Naples as the Golden Age (see figures 9.7 and 9.8).49 Statues of Partenope and Sebeto in the Strada dei Lanzieri in 1623 and 1631, or individually in every other year’s displays in the 1620s, linked Naples to the goddesses of the Golden Age, Astrea and Virgo, to the winged horse Pegasus and the discovery of the sweet inspirational spring of the Muses, and to Annona and Abbondanza, who, along with Ceres, brought the bounty of Naples. The myth engendered desire and nostalgia, for the Siren expressed the attraction that Naples holds over visitors who come near her shores and the longing that those far away feel pulling them back. The mythology of the Sun and the Dawn with the Golden Age merged into the astrological underpinning of the reign of Philip IV, the “Planetary King.” Calderón de la Barca’s La Vida es sueño of 1635 may be the most famous work that trumpeted the prophecies swirling around the king’s birth in 1604.50 The 1605 solar eclipse in Scorpio, the 1604 nova in the constellation Ophiuchus, and the 1603 Jupiter-Saturn conjunction in Sagittarius presaged the heaven-sent ruler whose birth corresponded to the AD 33 death of Christ. Good rulership depended on such propitious horoscopes, and many ancient writers had connected the virtues with the signs of the zodiac such that Leo was identified with Fortezza, Virgo with Justice, and Sagittarius with Wisdom. Birth and rebirth of the seasons with the fruits of abundance, as much as the birth and rebirth in baptismal waters and purification fires, connects John the Baptist with the promise of renewal and return of the heavens and the earth. The four elements reinforce a natural and a supernatural history whose promise is fulfilled with the coming feast. St. John’s prophecy marks the end of the cycle of eternal return and announces the end of time itself. The human body both in its spiritual attributes or virtues and its physical properties or senses is the steering metaphor throughout the St. John celebrations. In the displays of the merchant fair, the five senses are bombarded with the sights of art and architecture, the sounds of choirs and musicians, the smells of flowers and perfumes, the tastes of candies and sweets, and the touch of silks and satins, all of which are meant to lead to an experiential way of knowing the truths beyond the senses. The human body and the body politic speak the same language and share the same principles of good government through the moral and other virtues. Their goal, which is achieved in the enthusiasm of the festival, is the breaking of fortune’s bonds, transcending the limits of the body in the earthly city, and literally making time stop. This fusing of time and space is achieved in the Heavenly City and the Golden Age inscribed in the streets, portrayed in the

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paintings, sculptures, and architectural apparati, and flung to the sky in exploding bursts of light and color. Such allegrezza is the true happiness of paradise in the New Jerusalem found in baroque Naples under Spanish rule.

Conclusion The social and spatial context of such rituals and their complex iconography connected the participants in a symbolic geography to particular places and to a polemical history, which was shared by the winning parties in the family rivalries of the city and in the dynastic wars for the kingdom of Naples from the end of the fifteenth century. These public manifestations and representations of Spanish government had an elaborate development and eventual decline over the two centuries of Spanish rule from about 1500 to 1700, as the ceremonies and decorations of Neapolitan civic life reflected changes in power relations and social structures. The feast of St. John in early modern Naples was enacted in a baroque political lexicon of ephemeral structures, images, words, and music as an amalgam of religious and secular celebrations (the saint’s protection, the merchant fair, and the procession), of pagan and superstitious practices (fireworks and bonfires, naked immersions in the sea, music and wild dancing), and of charitable and political office (elections to the Santissima Annunciata and of the popolo representative) that the Spanish viceroyalty appropriated as the paramount political ritual pledging felicity and fidelity between monarchy and popolo. A beneficent and vigilant monarchy and its minister presided over the measured allegria of a Golden Age as it attempted to rewrite time and space from above—whether through the Christian theology of covenant and communion, the mythological figures of classical erudition and local lore, the obscure language of emblematic invention and astrological prognostication, the mannered poetry of marinismo conceits, or the conspicuous display of bourgeois pretension. The baroque splendor of a feast like St. John in Naples, propped up and patronized as it was by its Spanish lords, could not but ossify—with Spanish rule in defensive disarray in the last quarter of the seventeenth century—as such support wavered and such power waned. In the flickering light of ephemeral urban decoration, the iconic content of art and architecture, poems and epigrams, or spirited songs and sonorous music were like the faint echoes of the cannon salutes and the fireworks bombardments blown out to sea by the wind, so that by the end of the Spanish viceroyalty in Naples, the celebration of St. John’s Day had become a disapproved memory whose lightning flashes had dissipated into the dark night.

Endnotes 1. Robert A. Schneider, The Ceremonial City: Toulouse Observed 1738–1780 (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1995).

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2. Rose Marie San Juan, Rome: A City out of Print (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2001); Edward Muir, Civic Ritual in Renaissance Venice (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1981); Maria Antonietta Visceglia, La città rituale: Roma e le sue cerimonie in età moderna (Rome: Viella, 2002). 3. Herman Tak, South Italian Festivals: A Local History of Ritual and Change (Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press, 2000). 4. Valerio Petrarca, La festa di San Giovanni Battista a Napoli nella prima metà del Seicento: percorso machine immagini scrittura (Palermo: STASS, Quaderni del Servizio Museografico della Facoltà di Lettere e Filosofia dell’Università di Palermo 4, 1986); Gina Iannella, “Les fêtes de la Saint-Jean à Naples 1581–1632,” in Les Fêtes urbaines en Italie a l’époque de la renaissance: Vérone, Florence, Sienne, Naples, ed. Françoise Decroisette and Michel Plaisance (Paris: Klincksieck, 1993), 131–85; Teresa Megale, “Gli apparati napoletani per la festa di San Giovanni Battista tra cinque e seicento,” Comunicazioni sociali 1–2 (1994): 191–213; and Giovanni Muto, “Spazio urbano e identità sociale: le feste del popolo napoletano nella prima età moderna,” in Le Regole dei mestieri e delle professioni, secoli xv-xix, ed. Marco Meriggi and Alessandro Pastore (Milan: FrancoAngeli, 2000), 305–25. 5. Giulio Cesare Capaccio, Apparato della festività del glorioso S. Giovan Battista (Naples, 1623); idem, Apparato della festività del glorioso S. Giovan Battista … à 23 di Giugno 1624 (Naples, 1624); idem, Apparato della festività del glorioso S. Giovan Battista … à XXIII di Giugno MDCXXV (Naples, 1626); idem, Apparato della festività del glorioso S. Giovan Battista … à XXIII di Giugno MDCXXVI (Naples, n.d. but 1626); idem, Apparato della festività del glorioso S. Giovan Battista … à XXIII di Giugno MDCXXVII (Naples, 1627). See also, idem, “Relatione dell’ apparato fatto dal popolo Nap.no nella festività del Glorioso S. Gio. Battista all’Ecc.ze di Don Pietro di Castro, e D. Caterina Sandoval nell’anno 1614,” Biblioteca Nazionale, Naples MS. XIX.97. 6. Giovanni Bernardino Giuliani, Descrittione dell’apparato di San Giovanni … L’anno M.D.XXVIII (Naples, 1628); idem, Descrittione dell’apparato fatto nella festa di San Giovanni … L’anno M.D.XXXI (Naples, 1631). 7. Francesco Orilia, Lo Zodiaco, over, idea di perfettione di prencipi (Naples, 1630). 8. Andrea Rubino, “Notitia di quanto è occorso in Napoli dall’anno 1648 per tutto l’anno 1669,” Bibloteca della Società Napoletana di Storia Patria, Naples (BSNSP), MSS. XXII. D.14–17. 9. Francesco Divenuto, ed., Napoli, l’Europa e la Compagnia di Gesù nella “Cronica” di Giovan Francesco Araldo (Naples: Edizioni scientifiche italiane, 1998), 301–6 attributes eleven Neapolitan church foundations to the Emperor Constantine after AD 325. In reality, Bishop Severo probably founded the baptistery in the late fourth century, but still at least a generation before that of S. Giovanni in Laterano. 10. Ibid., 165–6. 11. Francesco Divenuto, Napoli sacra del xvi secolo: Repertorio delle fabbriche religiose Napoletane nella cronaca del Gesuita Giovan Francesco Araldo (Naples: Edizioni scientifiche italiane, 1990), 89, 97; Bartolommeo Capasso, “Napoli descritta ne’ principii del secolo XVII da Giulio Cesare Capaccio,” Archivio Storico per le Province Napoletane 7 (1882): 89; and Enrico Bacco, Nuova descrittione del regno di Napoli diviso in dodici provincie (1629; reprint, Bologna: A Forni, 1977), 85–6. 12. Giulio Sodano, “‘Sangue vivo, rubicondo e senza malo odore.’ I prodigi del sangue nei processi di canonizzazione a Napoli nell’età moderna,” Campania Sacra 26 (1995): 309, n. 66. Saints’ bodies, in life and after death, were considered to have efficacious healing powers. Their blood was believed to be able to transmit grace and virtue, a symbolism that connected aristocratic values and noble blood to the religious fervor of saintly virtue. Per Binde, Bodies of Vital Matter: Notions of Life Force and Transcendence in Traditional Southern Italy (Göteborg: Acta Universitatis Gothoburgensis, 1999), 49–54 explains that the liquefaction of blood was the object of special veneration in Naples, where the spontaneous changing

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from solid to liquid state and the “manna” or sweat that would appear on statues and relics were signs of the transference of vital force or “grace.” Giulio Cesare Capaccio, Il Forastiero (Naples, 1634), 990. Giovanni Muto, “Sacred Places in Spanish Naples,” in Frontiers of Faith, ed. Eszter Andor and István György Tóth (Budapest: Central European University, 2001), 103 cites the anonymous seventeenth-century list in d’Aloe. The various Neapolitan churches of S. Giovanni are described in S. d’Aloe, “Catalogo di tutti gli edifici sacri della città di Napoli e suoi sobborghi,” Archivio Storico per le Province Napoletane 8 (1883), and in Divenuto. Giulio Cesare Capaccio, Illustrium mulierum et illustrium litteris virorum elogia (Naples, 1608), 225–7 provides the earliest reference to the premarital customs of young Neapolitan maidens on 23–24 June from an anecdote about Alfonso of Aragón dated 1448. Binde, Bodies of Vital Matter, 52–3 describes the beneficial properties of baths and dew on the feasts of the Ascension and S. Giovanni for purification and fertilization or vitalization. Muto, “Spazio urbano e identità sociale,” 308 confirms that the earliest contemporary testimony of the Neapolitan custom of naked immersion in the sea for expiation of one’s sins on St. John’s Day dates from the poet Velardinello ca. 1500 and is reaffirmed in 1535 by Benedetto di Falco, Descrittione dei luoghi antiqui di Napoli e del suo amenissimo distretto, ed. Ottavio Morisani (Naples: Libreria scientifica, 1972), 46–7. Richard Trexler, Public Life in Renaissance Florence (1980; Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1991), 216–78, analyzes St. John’s Day in medieval and Renaissance Florence with six themes, and argues that the merchant city’s ideology of “communality over familial individuality, and sacrifice over conflict” shows “that public feast was quintessentially private, that private festivities were very political.” Early modern Naples venerated the blood not only of S. Gennaro, but numerous other blood relics. Divenuto, Napoli sacra del xvi secolo, 97 lists the blood of eight saints in Naples (S. Gennaro, St. John the Baptist, St. Stephen, St. Bartholomew, St. Lawrence, St. Francis of Assisi, S. Nicolò di Tolentino, and S. Patrizia); Capasso, “Napoli descritta,” 89 lists six (not St. Bartholomew, St. Lawrence, or St. Francis, but includes S. Pantaleone); Bacco, Nuova descrittione del regno di Napoli, 86 lists six (not St. Lawrence or St. Francis). Capasso, “Napoli descritta,” 797 dates the anonymous description 1607–08. Maria Antonietta Visceglia, “Nobiltà, città, rituali religiosi,” in Identità sociali: La nobiltà napoletana nella prima età moderna (Milan: UNICOPLI, 1998), 173–205. Carlos José Hernando Sánchez, El reino de Nápoles en el Imperio de Carlos V: La consolidación de la conquista (Madrid: Sociedad Estatal para la Conmemoración de los Centenarios de Felipe II y Carlos V, 2001). Francesco Imperato, Privilegi, capituli, e gratie, concesse al fedelissimo populo Napolitano, & alla sus piazza (Naples, 1624), 56–7, cap. 29; Camillo Tutini, Del Origine e fundatione de’ seggii di Napoli (Naples, 1644), 299, cap. 18. Vittorio Lanternari, “Cristianesimo e religioni etniche in Occidente. Un caso concreto d’incontro: la festa di san Giovanni,” Società 1 (1955); reprinted in Occidente e Terzo Mondo: Incontri di civilità e religioni differenti (Bari: Dedalo libri, 1972), 329–60. Bartolommeo Capasso, “Breve Cronica dai 2 giugno 1543 a 25 maggio 1547 di Geronimo de Spenis da Frattamaggiore,” Archivio Storico per le Province Napoletane 2 (1877): 520–1. Megale, “Gli apparati napoletani,” 192, n. 4. See F. Torraca, “Sacre rappresentazioni del napoletano,” Archivio Storico per le Province Napoletane 4 (1879): 157. Rosario Villari, The Revolt of Naples, trans. James Newell (Cambridge: Polity Press, 1993), 19–33. Giuseppe de Montemayor, ed., Diurnali di Scipione Guerra (Naples, 1891), 41. Ibid., 77–8. Michelangelo Schipa, “La pretesa fellonia del duca d’Ossuna,” Archivio storico per le province napoletane 35 (1910): 459–84, 637–60; 36 (1911): 56–85, 286–328, 475–506, 710–50; and 37 (1912): 211–41, 341–411 is the classic examination of Osuna’s recall in disgrace

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31. 32. 33. 34.

35. 36. 37. 38.

39. 40.

41. 42. 43.

44. 45.

46. 47.

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and accusation of lèse-majesté because of his attempt to forge a special relationship with the Neapolitan popolo and create an independent state for himself. J. H. Elliott, The Count-Duke of Olivares: The Statesman in an Age of Decline (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1986), 41–45, describes the court intrigue from the king’s illness in March 1621 and the turbulent succession of Philip IV that caused Osuna’s arrest only seven days after the death of Philip III. Giuseppe Coniglio, I Vicerè Spagnoli di Napoli (Naples: F. Fiorentino, 1967), 219–32 describes Alcalà’s numerous problems and conflicts. Giuliani, Descrittione dell’apparato (1631); and Pedro Martinez de Herrera, Principe advertido y declaracion de las Epigramas de Napoles la Vispera de S. Iuan (Naples, 1631). Orilia, Lo Zodiaco, unnumbered p. 4v. Joannes Genesius Quaja, Liber de civitate Christi (Reggio nell’Emilia, 1501), lists the twelve signs of the zodiac, beginning the year with Aries (21 March–19 April) and associating each sign with a virtue and one of the twelve gates of the New Jerusalem. Capaccio, Apparato della festività … 1624, 71–8. Orilia, Lo Zodiaco, 358; 291. Capaccio, Apparato della festività … MDCXXVI, 13 says the decollation “rapprentava al vivo.” Gérard Labrot et al., Collections of Paintings in Naples 1600–1780 (Munich: K. G. Saur, 1992), 624–5 (John, thirty-four items), 625–6 (John the Baptist, forty-four items), 626 (John the Baptist Sleeping, one item), 759 (John the Baptist identifies Christ as the Lamb of God, one item), 759 (Baptism of Christ in the river Jordan; John the Baptist pouring water on Christ’s head; the Holy Ghost descends, twenty-one items), 759 (John the Baptist reproaches Herod and Herodias, one item), 759-60 (Beheading of John the Baptist, twentyfour items), 760 (Salome with the head of John the Baptist on a dish, nineteen items), 760 (Salome gives the head to her mother, one item), 760 (The head of John the Baptist on a platter, one item). Capaccio, Apparato della festività … MDCXXVII, 55. Alessandro Giraffi, Ragguaglio del tumulto di Napoli (Venice, 1647), 8–9; and Rubino, BSNSP, XXIII.D.14, 24–6. See Peter Burke, “The Virgin of the Carmine and the Revolt of Masaniello,” Past and Present 99 (1983): 3–21; and Rosario Villari’s rejoinder to Burke in its expanded version, “Masaniello, Contemporary and Recent Interpretations,” in Villari, The Revolt of Naples, 153-70, revised from Past and Present (August 1985): 117–32. Rubino, BSNSP, MS. XXIII.D.14, 24–6. Ibid., BSNSP, MS. XXIII.D.16, 321–341 and MS. XXIII.D.17, 131–161. Innocenzo Fuidoro, Giornali di Napoli dal MDCLX al MDCLXXX, 4 vols., ed. Franco Schlitzer et al. (Naples: Società Napoletana di Storia Patria, 1934–43), 2:81–3 (23 June 1668). For the meat dispute, ibid., 2:78 (May 1668); and for the context, Giuseppe Galasso, Napoli Spagnola dopo Masaniello, 2 vols (Florence: Sansoni, 1982), 2:143–54. Fuidoro, Giornali di Napoli, 2:211 (23 June 1671); G. de Blasé, “Frammento d’un diario inedito napoletano,” Archivio Storico per le Province Napoletane 14 (1889): 51 (24 June 1671). Carlo Celano, Notizie del bello dell’antico e del curioso della città di Napoli, ed. Giovanni Battista Chiarini (1856–60; reprint, 5 vols. in 8, Naples: Edizioni dell’anticaglia, 2000), 4:233; and Gennaro Aspreno Galante, Guida sacra della città di Napoli (1872; reprint, Naples: Società editrice napoletana, 1985), 300. Domenico Confuorto, Giornali di Napoli dal MDCLXXIX al MDCIC, 2 vols., ed. Nicola Nicolini (Naples: Lubrano, 1930). For 1672, neither Fuidoro nor de Blasé mentions the feast of St. John, which is omitted in favor of the octave of Corpus Christi. Fuidoro, Giornali di Napoli, 3:43–4 (23 June 1672) and de Blasé, “Frammento d’un diario,” 311 (23 June 1672). Priest: “Behold the Lamb of God, behold Him who takes away the sins of the world.” All: “Domine, non sum dignus et inters sub tectum meum; sed tantum dic verbo, et anabitur

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anima mea” (Lord, I am not worthy that You should come under my roof. But say the word and my soul will be healed.) See Fordham University Center for Medieval Studies, “Medieval Sourcebook: Mass of The Roman Rite Latin/English - [using HTML tables],” Internet Medieval Sourcebook, http://www.fordham.edu/halsall/basis/latinmass2.html. (accessed September 4, 2003). 49. Michele Rak, “Napoli no plus: Cinque icone dell’immagine di Napoli nella letteratura in ‘lingua Napoletana’ fame, corpo, natura morta, specchio, sirena,” and Dinko Fabris, “La città della Sirena: Le origini del mito musicale di Napoli nell’età Spagnola,” both in Monika Bosse and André Stoll, eds., Napoli Viceregno Spagnolo: Una capitale della cultura alle origini dell’Europa moderna sec. XVI-XVII, 2 vols. (Naples: Vivarium, 2001), 1:267–95 and 1:473–93. 50. Frederick A. De Armas, “Segismundo/Philip IV: The Politics of Astrology in La Vida es sueño,” Bulletin of the Comediantes 53, no. 1 (2001): 83–100.

Chapter 10

A SETTING FOR ROYAL AUTHORITY The Reshaping of Madrid, Sixteenth to Eighteenth Centuries

d David Ringrose

M

adrid became the capital of the Spanish Empire in 1561 and by 1600 ranked among the half-dozen largest cities in western Europe.1 Most visitors of the time, however, described it as dirty, unimpressive, and squalid. An Austrian in Madrid in roughly 1565 is said to have reported that open sewers ran down the middle of the streets and it was most unpleasant to walk in the city at night. One never knew when a resident would shout “agua va” and empty a chamber pot out the window without looking. By the late eighteenth century, contemporaries projected an image of Madrid that included streetlights, paved streets, monumental buildings, fountains, museums, and tree-lined boulevards— an image that persisted into the twentieth century. Figures 10.1 and 10.2 document the contrast between the caustic description of the ambassador and the idealized representations of the eighteenth century. While both pictures are images of the city, not the city itself, they suggest to viewers of two different eras how the city ought to have looked. While a number of factors contributed to the physical transformation that prompted the two images, one of the most important was the interaction between royal authority and urban morphology. This paper analyzes that interaction from two analytical perspectives. One is based on the well-established fact that European rulers used their capital cities as stages for displaying and legitimizing their authority. They did so in part with recurrent displays of grandeur in the form of festivals, processions, and ephemeral architecture. When they could afford to do so, rulers also endowed their capitals with monuments, fountains, and impressive

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Figure 10.1. Approaches to Madrid and the Alcazar Palace, early seventeenth century.

government buildings, using architectural styles associated with royal power and patronage. Habsburg Madrid in the seventeenth century saw numerous processions but few royal buildings; Bourbon Madrid of the eighteenth century saw a remarkable amount of royally sponsored reconstruction. The second perspective is derived from the observation that, whether temporary or permanent, royal display was a form of propaganda. For any propaganda to be effective, it has to relate to the nature and interests of the intended audience. The way in which Madrid was reconfigured indicates the sensitivity of the Crown (king and key ministers) to this relationship. Changing cultural pursuits

Figure 10.2. Paseo del Prado and Plaza de Cibeles, late eighteenth century.

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and new relationships among urban elites required new kinds of urban space, and, in Mediterranean Europe, this included open-air venues. These developments coincided with a striking change in the kinds of monuments sponsored by the Spanish Crown as part of royal self-legitimization. The result was a dramatic change in the physical appearance of Madrid as depicted by contemporaries. The discussion that follows is something of an experiment for this historian. It depends primarily on images and visual documentation and only secondarily on archival sources in the conventional sense. The interaction of Crown, city, and urban society is inferred, thus, from changes in the way the city was depicted. This use of images has limitations, since what we see is what the artist or his or her patron wanted the viewer to see. Even so, the images depict a striking redefinition of Madrid as a city and provide a suggestive guide to further research on the individual agents and sponsors of that outcome.

Entradas and El Escorial: Transitory Displays of Authority The Habsburg rulers of Spain did relatively little to shape Madrid as an urban setting for royal authority. Public statements of royal power were largely in the form of processions and ephemeral symbolic arrays or else took place within the confines of palace and court. We see one aspect of this in early images of Madrid as exemplified by Felix Castello’s view of the Alcázar Palace (ca. 1625; see figure 10.1). The perspective is from west of the Manzanares River and shows the city situated on higher ground. The skyline includes several modest churches but is dominated by the Alcázar Palace; the foreground highlights the impressive Puente de Segovia, built by Philip II.2 While the painting highlights Madrid’s two important royal monuments of the time—the palace and the bridge—the land around the palace (a converted Moorish castle) and west of the city is barren and of little interest to the painter or his audience.3 It is simply space that must be crossed in order to reach the palace and the city. This pattern recurs in engravings featuring the Alcázar as late as 1690, when the skyline is a bit more elaborate but the foreground is depicted as farmland, rather than as an extension of urbanity.4 This visual emphasis on “the city on the hill” is symptomatic of the way in which the Habsburg court thought about the function of its capital.5 The Crown had no fixed residence until 1561. The Trastámara and early Habsburg courts were peripatetic—Isabel I and Charles V are famous for their travels. Of necessity, the ritual and display that objectified the authority of Isabel I and Charles V centered on the court and its formal processions. Early displays of royal authority had to be temporary and mobile. The symbolic importance of these displays meant that the Crown was slow to change this pattern, and the emphasis on temporary spectacles persisted long after the court had settled in Madrid. Indeed, the capital was treated not as an autonomous municipality but as an accidental extension of the court. Much of the city’s governance was long controlled by a royal agency originally created to provide food, fuel, and lodging for the royal entourage.

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The city was simply a “place where the king and his court happened to reside” and was little more than a backdrop for rituals that illustrated and legitimated royal authority. Indeed, the requirement that large buildings include lodgings that could be assigned to the court encouraged a sprawl of low and unimpressive buildings.6 Habsburg processional displays highlighted both elaborate protocol and temporarily decorated ceremonial routes that brought the ruler to his or her residence in whatever city was being visited. Such displays reiterated the formal social hierarchy, including the premise that the aristocracy was subordinate to the king. Thus, the permanent physical appearance of sixteenth- and seventeenthcentury Madrid owed little to the royal instinct for self-justifying display because most court ceremonial was descended from an era of constant royal travel and temporary settings. To the extent that “city planning” took place as the city expanded, it was designed to keep certain streets open for ceremonial purposes. As the city expanded outward, therefore, certain medieval roads became arterial streets running through an otherwise chaotic urban layout. The result was a largely laissez-faire situation in which, as Madrid grew to 175,000 inhabitants by 1630, aristocrats, churches, monasteries, and convents built where they chose. Beyond that, whatever plans Philip II (d. 1598) had for Madrid, he paid little attention to the city and left it with few royal monuments. The most prominent was the Segovia Bridge, which allowed access from the royal palace (Alcázar) to his suburban refuges and to his monastery-palace at El Escorial. Philip II also added an imposing Renaissance façade to the Alcázar itself, but built only a small part of his projected Plaza Mayor. The real focus on royal display under Philip II was on the palace as a canvas for advertising his authority. He invested a great deal of money and attention in the new palace at El Escorial, fifty kilometers northwest of Madrid. This huge complex embodied numerous architectural references that evoked Philip’s role as God’s appointed ruler. While this display reached the courtly audience around him, Philip’s lack of interest in urban Madrid is suggested by the fact that he avoided the city as much as he could.7 Under Philip III (1598–1621), the court spent more time in the city, but even then Madrid was treated as a setting for processions and temporary displays of authority. Borrowing from Burgundian tradition, processions of entry (entradas) started at a royal site outside the city and visited its ritual centers, including the city hall and the main church. This symbolically confirmed the bonds between royal and local authority on the ruler’s way to his local residence. The entrance into Madrid staged for Prince Charles of England in 1623 is typical. As did all entradas of the period, the procession began at the Royal Monastery of San Jerónimo east of the city. It traveled up the Carrera de San Jerónimo to what is now the Puerta del Sol, then along the Calle Mayor to the Church of Santa María de la Almudena and the Alcázar Palace. As the see of the Patriarch of the Indies, the Almudena was the most prestigious church in the city.8 This route is seen in figure 10.3, which uses the “Plano de Madrid” of Antonio Marceli of 1622.

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Figure 10.3. Madrid, ca. 1610, with axis for royal processions and mid-sixteenthcentury limits.

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A depiction of this occasion shows the procession arriving in the courtyard in front of the Alcázar (figure 10.4).9 The stylized presentation pays great attention to the arrangement of participants. The royal personages ride at the midpoint of the procession under a palio carried by dignitaries, probably members of the city council. The first part of the parade is arranged in ascending order of prestige, with the most important participants nearest the royal figures. A bevy of ambassadors and other dignitaries follows the king and prince, again with the most prestigious people nearest the royal persons. Philip II’s new palace at El Escorial, however, was a better predictor of the kinds of permanent space that the Spanish Habsburgs had in mind for their royal stage; the entire palace was an iconographic billboard that proclaimed the king’s authority.10 Under Philip III (1598–1621) and Philip IV (1621–1665), the emphasis shifted from the king’s relationship to God to royal authority over the aristocracy. Court ritual focused on a human audience and became more elaborate,11 but the palace, rather than the city, remained the physical environment for this world. This is apparent in the biggest Habsburg building project in the city itself, the palace of the Buen Retiro, built in the 1630s. Jonathan Brown and J. H. Elliott suggest that Olivares’ model for the moral authority of the Crown focused on that aristocratic audience and on hierarchical display within this palace.12 While the Escorial spoke of the king’s relationship to God, the Buen Retiro directed aristocratic attention toward the ruler himself and used interior spaces to do so.13 Those spaces, filled with enormous paintings, sculpture, and other furnishings, emphasized the greatness of the empire and its ruler to a specific audience.

Figure 10.4. Entrance of Charles of England, 1623.

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As an artifact, the Buen Retiro was designed to place that audience in a position of deference before the rey planeta, anticipating Louis XIV’s Versailles and his image as the Sun King.14 The court continued to use lavish formal entradas and royal celebrations, but few other royal buildings were added to the urban landscape. Habsburg Madrid emerged, thus, as a sprawling, unimpressive city. The three Philips kept certain roadways reasonably open to facilitate processional display and thus gave Madrid relatively clear arteries for an early modern city. Few royal monuments appeared and little attention was paid to the city or its open spaces. We saw this in Castello’s painting of the Alcázar and the western approaches to the city. Leonardo’s painting of the new Buen Retiro (mid-seventeenth century— see figure 10.5) shows the same treatment of the palace foreground on the eastern edge of the city.15 The prado (pasture) and arroyo (now the Paseo del Prado) that separated the Retiro Palace from the city are equally barren and dreary. The palace itself had immense gardens, but they were the preserve of the court elite.16 Periodic processions and festivals temporarily enhanced the physical city along an established ceremonial route, but permanent royal monuments were scarce.

Palaces and Plazas: Social Change and the “Royal Gaze” Not until the eighteenth century do we see an awareness of the city itself as a coherent artifact conceptualized as a larger context for elite society. The tradition of ceremonial processions persisted, but two other factors helped direct royal attention toward the physical reconfiguration of the city. One was money. By eighteenth-century standards the fiscal health of the Spanish monarchy was good and the Spanish Crown could afford more monumental building than most ancien-régime monarchies. This is reflected in the number of royal buildings and monuments erected at focal points around the city. The eighteenth century also saw important changes in the material culture and social habits of the Spanish elites resident in Madrid. The change is apparent

Figure 10.5. The Buen Retiro Palace, ca. 1640.

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in countless illustrations that depict a new social context, a new conception of urban space, and a new appreciation of open-air space. This, in turn, coincided with a remarkable shift from the placing of royal monuments in ritually significant locations to placing them in settings that endorsed new cultural and social patterns. The result was a sweeping change in the physical layout of Madrid. The social change behind this shift is encapsulated in Robert Darnton’s essay “A Bourgeois Puts His World in Order: The City as a Text.”17 Darnton used the mental universe of a local observer of Montpellier in 1768 to illustrate the changes taking place in European urban society in the eighteenth century. His most interesting observations dealt with the reconfiguration of the upper levels of urban society and the concurrent changes in elite material culture. He shows the blurring of social boundaries between the upper bourgeoisie—financiers, lawyers, officials, rentiers—and traditional nobility. Neither was adopting the lifestyle of the other; both were developing a common pattern of socialization and consumption distinct from their earlier habits. Similar changes were taking place in Madrid.18 The Bourbon monarchy systematically favored university-trained bureaucratic and mercantile nobility over the traditional landed aristocracy. In the eighteenth century, traditional commerce in Madrid took on modern business forms, developed connections with the dynamic economies of France and England, and became a major source of credit for the monarchy. The Crown expanded the relatively narrow titled aristocracy by granting titles to business and bureaucratic families. The government made growing use of market-based economic arrangements to guarantee the supply of the capital, drawing men with business and legal backgrounds into the highest offices in urban supply, royal finance, and general administration. This more diverse affluent class was eager to affirm its status by assimilating cultural forms from the rest of Europe. They read French, English, and Italian books produced by the Enlightenment, supported technical and agricultural training schools via the Royal Economic Societies of Friends of the Country, and sponsored such institutions as the Royal Academy of Fine Arts, which opened its doors in 1754. At every step the monarchy participated in these ventures. Charles III (1759–1788) formally joined and contributed funding to new learned societies, promoted university reform, paid to build new highways and canals, and bought stock in various new trading companies. While his favorite diversion was hunting, which he did every afternoon, we also have pictures of the king and members of his family playing string quartets. The Crown’s awareness of and participation in the cultural changes of the eighteenth century was an integral part of a conscious policy of modernization. The new bourgeois lifestyle was more sumptuous than the austere habits of the earlier bourgeoisie. It included colorful clothing, domestic architecture that enhanced the household domain of women, and a range of “tasteful” (and expensive) accessories. As consumption became more elegant, socializing became more public and more decorous. The emerging notability shied away from tavern hopping, cockfighting, and popular gambling, and instead frequented concerts and

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academic lectures, sometimes with their spouses. Social dinners featured smaller and more intimate groups. Even the menus changed as the stream of roasts, stews, and exotic oddities of earlier aristocratic feasts gave way to relatively few elegantly prepared and presented courses. In this environment, and helped by improved finances, the Crown engaged in royal self-legitimation in three ways. First, the traditional public processions and royal entrances continued, although their representations of society appeared increasingly archaic. Despite this static quality, eighteenth-century kings readily modified them to advertise changes in royal policy.19 Second, and to a much greater degree than their Habsburg predecessors, the monarchs of eighteenth-century Spain engaged in the baroque practice of planting royal buildings and monuments at key points in the city, de facto placing the city under “the royal gaze.” Many of the new monumental structures were located along Madrid’s ceremonial axis, providing permanent reminders of the authority evoked by ephemeral displays. The third and most striking approach to royal self-legitimization reflects the changing urban culture of Madrid and the changing predilections of the rulers themselves. The Crown began to sponsor new kinds of royal monuments, ones that associated the ruler with the new forms of urban culture that were emerging. Moreover, these new projects were placed in reorganized spaces at the edges of the old city. The result was a new urban landscape, one that proclaimed a new relationship between monarch and city. Rather than an accidental appendage to an aristocratic court, the capital was now seen as an entity in its own right and as the locus of a broader public whose attitudes were important to the political life of the country. These inferences are supported by a host of contemporaneous images of eighteenth-century Madrid. In what follows we look first at the more traditionally baroque monumentalizing of the city’s ceremonial axis. Then we will see some of the projects that responded to and objectified the new urban society and its relationship to the monarch. The framework for this is the ceremonial route shown on the map in figure 10.6, drawn in 1771, along with the placement of several new royal structures. One of the most remarkable royal monuments of eighteenth-century Europe was the new Palacio de Oriente. Two hundred yards long on each side and the equivalent of ten stories high, this enormous classical wedding cake was built between 1738 and 1764 on the ruins of the burned-out Alcázar Palace and served as the western anchor for Madrid’s ceremonial axis.20 Between the royal palace and the Plaza Mayor was a smaller palace built by the Duke of Uceda in the early seventeenth century and used until the 1690s by the mother of Charles II. Philip V (1700–1746) bought the derelict building and refurbished it as a Palace of Councils. Thus, royal authority physically dominated the plaza where royal processions stopped to attend services in the church of the Almudena.21 A short distance to the east was the Plaza de la Villa. A medieval plaza, it was dominated by the City Hall (Ayuntamiento), begun in 1617 and completed in the 1690s. Two hundred yards farther east was the Plaza Mayor. Built in 1619, the Plaza was rebuilt and re-

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Figure 10.6. Madrid, Map of 1771 (A), with ceremonial route and royal structures. Top left: Royal Palace; top center: Cibeles and Alcalá; top right: Buen Retiro Palace; bottom left: Plaza Mayor; bottom center: Casa de Correos; bottom right: Real Aduana.

furbished under Philip V as the all-purpose center of civic activity. It was a marketplace, the setting for royal proclamations, the venue for autos de fe, and an arena for bull fights that seated 50,000 people.22 Its most important function was as a market, but, as the seat of royal authority for oversight of the city, the Plaza Mayor was a point on the ceremonial route visited by every significant royal procession. Further east, the Calle Mayor opened into the Puerta del Sol. Before the 1760s, this was an irregularly shaped open space where highways had come together in the sixteenth century before the eastern gate of the town. Its most prominent features were a fountain and a modest church at the eastern end of the open area.23 This changed dramatically in the 1760s, when Charles III (1759–1788) built the imposing Royal Post Office (Casa de Correos) on the south side of the plaza. Designed by Ventura Rodríguez, this building embodied royal authority and gave the Puerta del Sol a new focus, placing it under the royal gaze.24 Two major streets ran east from the Puerta del Sol toward the Retiro Palace, the larger being the Calle de Alcalá. While it offered open vistas, until after 1750 its only notable buildings were monasteries and aristocratic houses. Under Ferdinand VI, however, the Calle de Alcalá acquired the handsome Royal Academy of Fine Arts (1754). Then, in the 1760s, Charles III built the massive Real Aduana (Royal Customs House), one of the largest brick and stone buildings in the city. Surrounded by low buildings of rammed earth with low tile roofs, it had a visual impact that is hard to capture when we see it in its modern downtown context.25

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Charles III gave the eastern end of the ceremonial axis a more concrete and imposing terminus. Until the 1760s, the Calle de Alcalá opened out on the scruffy open area that separated the Buen Retiro Palace from the city, while the highway from the east meandered over the hill alongside the palace grounds, passing through a decrepit gateway built in the 1630s (see figure 10.6). Charles III installed two monuments that gave the city and its ceremonial axis an imposing boundary and confirm the idea that contemporaries saw the city as a whole as an artifact. The first of the two was the handsome Fuente de Cibeles. Located in the open space at the foot of Alcalá, it defined the area as the Plaza de Cibeles. Charles also extended the Calle de Alcalá beyond the plaza and built the huge city gate known as the Puerta de Alcalá at the top of the hill next to the palace gardens. Situated on high ground above the Plaza de Cibeles, this gate defined the visual boundary of the city and moved it to a higher vantage point. As a result, anyone who arrived at Madrid from the east was greeted with a panorama of the city as he passed through this enormous gate.26 By 1770, every point along Madrid’s processional axis was within sight of at least one impressive building or monument that embodied royal authority.

Boulevards and Public Spaces: Royal Authority and Social Change As suggested a few pages back, monumentalizing the ceremonial axis of Madrid was only one facet of the interaction between royal self-legitimization and urban morphology. Madrid’s urban elite and its cultural predilections were changing, and an astute ruler had to adjust his propaganda to those changes. Ferdinand VI and especially Charles III were responsive to this reality. They and their ministers saw Madrid not as an accidental adjunct of the court, but as a politically significant entity and a setting for social interaction outside the palace context. Hardly unique to Spain, this perception shaped the royal instinct to mold capitals into statements of royal authority, channeling this instinct in a direction that responded to change in urban society. This implies a new vision of audience and of the context for that audience. Two things stand out in the resultant reconfiguration of Madrid. One was the appearance of large parks and boulevards open to the urban public and provided by royal action. The other striking aspect was the degree to which the new urban spaces included embodiments of a royal association with Enlightenment culture. In addition to royal buildings that were literal expressions of royal authority, such as the Royal Customs House, the new urban spaces acquired royally sponsored institutions dedicated to cultural and scientific pursuits. Royal self-representation had adapted to the new audience. Early in his reign, Philip V had built a short boulevard along the Manzanares River below the Alcázar Palace, but when the palace burned in the 1730s, the court moved to the Retiro Palace just outside the city to the east. This made the open, unkempt area between the city wall and the Retiro Palace the first target

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for renovation (figure 10.7). This barren space, known initially as the Prado de San Jerónimo, was the remnant of just what the Spanish word means—an uncultivated pasture. The stream down its middle was alternately a dry creek, an open sewer, and a flooding torrent. The court painter Joli gives us an idea of how this space looked as of 1750, and the setting is little changed from that suggested by pictures and maps from the middle of the seventeenth century.27 The 1740s saw the first of several plans to convert this nondescript space from a spatial barrier between city and palace into a public space that connected the two and had a function of its own (figure 10.7). The plans included tree-lined walkways, carriage paths, and monumental fountains—one version proposed a neoclassical peristyle that provided a visual axis between the Retiro Palace and the city. This new kind of urban space was not merely a garden—it was an outdoor salon that assumed public access and included a covered colonnade that offered shelter from rain and sun.28 The reconstruction of the Paseo or Salón del Prado was only part of a remarkable royal project that included parks, tree-lined boulevards, realigned city walls, and new city gates that improved access between the old city and new public spaces. As the Crown’s urge to project its legitimacy interacted with the changing habits of the urban public, the city was literally turning itself inside out.

Figure 10.7. Madrid, Map of 1771 (B). Top center: Estanque in Retiro Gardens; right side: project of Paseo del Prado; top left: Plaza de Cibeles looking south; bottom left: Bridge to Casa del Campo gardens; bottom center: Paseo de Delicias.

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As part of the process, the immense gardens of the Retiro Palace were turned into a public park. Under the Habsburgs in the seventeenth century, these gardens were restricted to the royal family and an aristocratic elite. When Charles III moved his residence to the new Palacio de Oriente in 1764, the Retiro Gardens were opened to the public. The change is seen when we compare Juan Mazo’s painting of the enormous pool (estanque) that is still the centerpiece of the Retiro Park with Jose Castillo’s painting of the same location in 1780. A quiet, somber space with a few courtiers in evidence has become a setting for a variety of Madrileños. The people enjoying the gardens hardly look like indigent beggars, but they evoke a more bourgeois urban elite.29 As other boulevards were completed, the tree-lined walks of the royal gardens became part of a huge network of open-air public spaces. The change in urban design suggested by the Salón del Prado and the conversion of the palace gardens into public space illustrate how the habit of reminding viewers of royal authority was being adapted to a new social situation. No one using the palace gardens as a public park could fail to notice that their availability was an expression of the royal will. Then, as now, advertising only worked if it reached the right audience, and, by adapting the royal gardens to the new demand for outdoor socialization, the Crown was going beyond the insertion of more imperial iconography into the old urban world. It was responding to new fashions and to the use of urban spaces for open-air socialization. Madrid’s new urban spaces clearly reflected eighteenth-century social change. For instance, the Paseo del Prado resembled the enclosed royal gardens of the previous century but, in fact, related to a larger urban context and was public. Embellished with the Fuente de Cibeles, the Fuente de Neptuno, and many lesser fountains, the Salón del Prado became the tree-lined expanse of walks, cafes, and carriage roads that we associate with the Madrid of more recent memory. These public spaces were a permanent statement of royal authority designed for an audience with new habits that included use of outdoor spac e for socialization. This inference is strengthened when we realize the scope of the new public spaces and consider a few contemporary depictions. The Paseo del Prado was but the most emblematic example of the new approach to urban design. By the end of the eighteenth century, Madrid was surrounded on three sides by such boulevards. On the eastern perimeter, near the modern Plaza de Colón, the gardens of the royally sponsored Convent of the Salesas Reales extended eastward to the modern Paseo de Recoletos, where Charles III built a substantial new city gate. He realigned the eastern wall of the city and developed the space outside that wall into a broad boulevard that linked the gardens of the Salesas and the Puerta de Recoletos with the newly defined Plaza de Cibeles and the Paseo del Prado. The Plaza de Cibeles, meanwhile, was soon dominated by the massive Buenavista Palace.30 This setting, evoked by an anonymous painting, shows a cityscape of elegant boulevards and buildings.31 Looking south from the same viewpoint, Isidro González gives us a similarly elegant panorama of Cibeles and the Paseo

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del Prado.32 The Salón del Prado, originally the area immediately in front of the Buen Retiro Palace, had been extended south to the Puerta de Atocha. This complex of boulevards, together with the now public palace gardens, surrounded the old Retiro Palace and was the setting for another new form of royal self-assertion. Situated in the Retiro Gardens on a hill above the Paseo was the new Royal Observatory. Charles III also built the palace that is now the Prado Art Museum. With its huge façade along the Paseo de Prado, this impressive building was originally planned as a museum of natural science—a project that resonated with the Enlightenment interests of European cultural elites in the eighteenth century. The Paseo del Prado and the museum are depicted in a painting by Brambilla (see figure 10.8).33 Adjacent to the projected science museum, Charles III started to develop the Royal Botanical Gardens in 1765. The degree to which such an institution could serve as a focal point for open-air socialization is hard for a modern American to appreciate, but is well illustrated by the paintings of Luis Paret, which show affluent Madrileños congregating at the entrance.34 This redesign of the eastern periphery of the city was matched by another project that involved the area between the southern wall of the city and the Manzanares River. The Paseo del Prado was extended to the Paseo de las Delicias. Started by Philip V, this boulevard ran south to the Manzanares River, where it met a tree-lined carriage road built along the new Canal del Manzanares.35 Mean-

Figure 10.8. Madrid, Map of 1771 (C). Top left: Puerta de San Vicente; top right: Palacio de Benevente and Cibeles; bottom left: Puerta de Ambasadores; bottom center: Prado Museum; bottom right: Entrance to Royal Botanical Gardens.

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while, the rugged terrain that sloped south from the city to the canal acquired a network of tree-lined boulevards. They extended along the city wall from the Puerta de Atocha to the new Puerta de Embajadores and the Puerta de Toledo, then descended to the Calle de Segovia. As a result, several boulevards radiated out from a point near the imposing Royal Hospital.36 At the southwest corner of the city, the Calle de Toledo was rebuilt from the city gate south to a magnificent new bridge across the Manzanares River. This entrance to the city, known best for its proximity to Madrid’s slaughterhouses, was given an enormous new gate.37 The same development of new public spaces changed the western boundary of the city. Just as the Retiro Gardens became a public park, royal preserves near the new royal palace became public spaces. The boulevard Philip V had begun along the Manzanares River between the palace grounds and the river was later enlarged and extended so that it connected with the new peripheral boulevards south of the city. Meanwhile, the gardens of Philip II’s Casa del Campo were opened to the public and connected to the new boulevard with a pedestrian bridge.38 The system of boulevards was also extended north along the Manzanares River. If we accept Gossard’s rendition, the proximity of this new boulevard along the river below the palace made it one of Madrid’s more elegant public spaces.39 This new Paseo de la Florida met the boulevard along the river, with its bridge to the Casa del Campo, at one corner of the palace grounds. There, Charles III built the elegant new San Vicente gate (see figure 10.8), which not only was a new entrance to the city but provided convenient access to the Sabatini Gardens on the north side of the palace.40 This gate thus became the western counterpart to the Puerta de Alcalá on the eastern side of the city.41 The scale of this reconfiguration of Madrid is best seen when the new public spaces are shown together on a contemporaneous map.42 By late in the century, miles of tree-lined boulevards, walkways, and monuments had been constructed around the city, an approach to urban design dramatically different from that of the Habsburg era. This was a major shift in the nature of Madrid as a stage for the display of royal programs and for material culture. Elite socialization had turned itself inside out. In the Habsburg era, urban planning had reflected the use of interior spaces in palaces and palace courtyards. Periodically, the court appropriated a ceremonial route and embellished it with temporary spectacles that briefly created a magic corridor across the city. More routine displays took place inside palaces and addressed an aristocratic audience. The ephemeral entradas persisted in the eighteenth century, and were reinforced as the monarchy placed permanent reminders of royal authority at every key point along its ceremonial route. Meanwhile, the king also installed royal symbols of enlightened learning and culture in the new urban spaces on the edge of the city. Thus, the eighteenth-century approach to urban design both encouraged and responded to the use of open-air public spaces as settings for socialization. Madrileños had developed the same appetite for the refined material culture that presaged the bourgeois notability of the nineteenth century all over Europe. The

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fact that many of the monumental buildings of later eighteenth-century Madrid had cultural and educational functions, combined with the fact that they were not located along the old ceremonial axis, suggests that both ruler and ruled were developing new conceptions of society, sovereignty, and cultural priorities. A mental review of the display of finery, entourages, coaches, and disparate groups in the public spaces that we have been describing supports that inference. The people using the new public spaces include a wider range of urban elites than in the past. Wealthy individuals and elite coaches mingle with people of more moderate means. This evolving urban stage for a royal program and for material display shows that, as elsewhere in the eighteenth century, Madrid’s middling social groups were using new urban spaces in new ways. The Crown itself responded to and participated in this contextual change. In this, Madrid (and Spain) were part of a pan-European process of urbanization and social development that laid the basis for a less aristocratic and more inclusive political system.43 All of these inferences are supported by a host of other images that suggest new forms of social behavior. They range from engravings of mildly iconoclastic male and female behavior44 to touchingly bourgeois scenes of doting parents buying roasted chestnuts for their child.45 We also find depictions of elegant versions of everyday objects,46 and exclusive galas such as a masked ball staged in a theater47—so public a context would have been unthinkable a century earlier. Finally, this era saw elegant, intimate dinners and salons (tertulias),48 as well as female participation in the Academy of Fine Arts and the publishing industry in Madrid.49 This dimension of the Spanish image is another aspect of the social change seen in the new emphasis on public space and cultural institutions. Madrid is, thus, an artifact with a complex heritage. It grew rapidly under the Habsburgs, who used it in ways reminiscent of a peripatetic court world. In the eighteenth century, baroque Madrid was reshaped by a well-financed Crown. That Crown not only planted the royal presence at every symbolically important site, but, also responded to the new social and cultural context by expanding the repertoire of sites it appropriated. A city of dingy, dirty streets became (at least in perception) a city of boulevards. Sites of royal authority, such as the Royal Customs House and the Royal Post Office, were now matched by sites of royally sponsored Enlightenment. These included the Prado (as a science museum), the Royal Observatory, and the Botanical Gardens. Eighteenth-century Madrid thus exemplifies the ways in which an effective monarchy used its capital city as a vehicle for royal propaganda. It also exemplifies the interaction between a changing urban society and the nature of the agenda embodied in royal propaganda. The result was a conceptually, perceptually, and physically reconfigured capital city.

Endnotes Abbreviations: BN = Biblioteca Nacional (Madrid) Inv. = Inventory number

MMM = Museo Municipal de Madrid VM = Villa de Madrid (Journal title)

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1. The best estimates suggest that Madrid had 35,000 inhabitants when it became the capital and 100,000 when Philip II died. Maria Carbajo Isla, La población de la Villa de Madrid, desde finales del siglo XVI hasta mediados del siglo XIX (Madrid: Siglo Veintiuno, 1987); David Ringrose and Santos Juliá, Madrid, historia de una capital (Madrid: Alianza Editorial, 1994), 196–9. 2. [Felix Castello ?] “Vista del Alcázar,” ca. 1625, MMM, Inv. 3132. See also Anton van den Wyngaerde, “Vista de Madrid,” detail, 1562, in Eduardo Alaminos López et al., Guía del Museo Municipal de Madrid: La Historia de Madrid en sus colecciones (Madrid: Museo municipal de Madrid, 1993), 39. 3. J. Miguel Morón Turina and Fernando Checa Cremades comment on Philip II’s plan for a greenbelt between the Casa del Campo and the Torre de la Parada, but their illustration leaves the Alcázar surrounded by a barren landscape. “Vista de Madrid desde la Casa del Campo,” in Viaje de Cosme de Medicis, Biblioteca Nazionale de Firenze, found in J. Miguel Morón Turina and Fernando Checa Cremades, Las Casas del Rey: Casas de Campo, Cazaderos y Jardines, siglos XVI y XVII (Madrid: El Viso, 1986), 50–1. 4. Anon., “Eighteenth-century engraving of a seventeenth-century view of Madrid,” MMM. The engraving is a copy in which the engraver, unfamiliar with the city, reversed the image. Similar vistas include Pierre Aveline, el Viejo, “Vista de Madrid,” ca. 1680, and Julius Milheuseur, “Vista de Madrid,” early seventeenth century, in Villa de Madrid 28, no. 105–6 (1991): 3, 78–9. 5. Richard Fox, Urban Anthropology: Cities in their Cultural Settings (Englewood Cliffs, NJ: Prentice-Hall, 1977). 6. Ana Oliver et al., Licencias de exención de aposento en el Madrid de los Austrias, 1600–1625. (Madrid: Instituto de Estudios Madrileños, 1982); José Antonio Martínez Bara, Licencias de exención de aposento del Madrid de Felipe II. (Madrid: Instituto de Estudios Madrileños, 1962). 7. Felix Castello, “Torre de la Parada,” (ca. 1637), MMM, Inv. 3131; and Felix Castello, “Casa del Campo,” (1630), MMM, Inv. 3130. 8. Madrid had no bishop until the nineteenth century. The Patriarch of the Indies fulfilled the ceremonial tasks of an archbishop. 9. Anon., “Llegada al Alcázar de Madrid del Príncipe de Gales el 23 de marzo de 1623,” MMM, in Alaminos López et al, Guía del Museo, 21 and Ringrose and Juliá, Madrid, 124. Also in Pedro Montoliu Camps, Madrid: Villa y Corte, vol. 1 (Madrid: Silex, 1987), 71. 10. Juan de Herrera, “El Escorial, Real Sitio, Corte y Capital,” grabado, 1587, BN, Estampas, Inv. 28,847. A more accessible engraving is in George Kubler, Building the Escorial (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1982), plate 6. 11. Theresa Ann Smith, “Court Ritual in Early Seventeenth-Century Valladolid” (paper presented at the conference of the Society for Spanish and Portuguese Historical Studies, Toronto, March 1995). 12. Jonathan Brown and John H. Elliott, A Palace for a King: The Buen Retiro and the Court of Philip IV (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1980). 13. The very structure of the Escorial was a monumental evocation of the grill upon which San Lorenzo was roasted as a martyr. 14. Jonathan Brown, Velázquez, Painter and Courtier (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1986), 242, 248–9. 15. Jusepe Leonardo, “El Palacio del Buen Retiro,” 1636–7. 16. Domingo de Aguirre, “El Palacio del Buen Retiro, visto desde cel Jardín de la Reina,” ca. 1788. 17. Robert Darnton, The Great Cat Massacre and Other Episodes in French Cultural History (New York: Vintage Books, 1985), 107–44. 18. Jesus Cruz, Gentlemen, Bourgeois, and Revolutionaries: Political Change and Cultural Persistence Among the Spanish Dominant Groups, 1750–1850 (Cambridge: Cambridge University

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19.

20.

21.

22.

23.

24.

25. 26.

27.

28.

29.

30. 31. 32. 33.

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Press, 1996); David Ringrose, Spain, Europe, and the “Spanish Miracle”, 1700–1900. (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996), chs. 13, 14. David Ringrose, “King, Corte, and Capital City: Imaging the Social Order in EighteenthCentury Madrid” (paper presented at the conference of the Society for Spanish and Portuguese Historical Studies, Toronto, March 1995). Illustrated by José María Avrial y Flores, “Vista del Palacio Real desde la Montaña del Príncipe Pío,” 1836, MMM, Inv. 6570; and by the engraving of the Royal Palace in Ringrose and Juliá, Madrid, 172. See A. González González, “Vista de la Calle Mayor,” ca. 1765, Villa de Madrid 28, no. 105–6 (1991): 50; the view of the palace and plaza decorated for a procession in Lorenzo de Quiros, “Arco de Triunfo de Santa María en la Calle Mayor,” 1760, MMM, Inv. 3075; and the engraving in Ringrose and Juliá, Madrid, 136. Another version of the façade is in Pascual Madoz, Madrid: Audiencia, Provincia, Intendencia, Vicaría, Partido y Villa (1848; reprint, facsimile edition, Madrid: Abaco, 1981), 237. Lorenzo de Quiros, “Ornato de la Plaza Mayor, con motivo de la entrada de Carlos III,” 1760, MMM, Inv. 3077; Anon., “La Plaza Mayor durante una fiesta de toros regia,” late eighteenth century, MMM, Inv. 3153 and 4004; Pieter van den Berge, “La Plaza Mayor, en un dia de mercado,” Villa de Madrid 28, no. 105–6 (1991): 123; “Auto de fé celebrado en la Plaza Mayor de Madrid en 1680,” BN, Raros, sig. 3571 (308). Another version of the bullfight configuration is “Vista de la Plaza Mayor de Madrid en la tarde del 20 de julio de 1803,” in Ringrose and Juliá, Madrid, 130. Louis Meunier, “La Puerta del sol,” ca 1665, Villa de Madrid 23, no. 86 (1985): 73. See also Anon., “La fontaine de la place du soleil a Madrit,” ca 1680, Villa de Madrid 28, no. 105–6 (1991): 7. “Vista de la Real Casa de Correos en la Puerta del Sol de Madrid,” ca. 1770, designed by Ventura Rodríguez; in El arquitecto D. Ventura Rodríguez (1717–1785): Museo Municipal, noviembre 1983 (Madrid: Ayuntamiento de Madrid, Concejalía de Cultura, 1983), 121. José Gómez Navía, “Real Aduana y Calle de Alcalá,” ca. 1800, MMM, in Alaminos López et al., Guía del Museo, 29. See Ginés Andrés de Aguirre, “La Puerta de Alcalá y la Fuente de Cibeles,” 1785, MMM, Inv. 1785; “Vista de la Cibeles y de la Puerta de Alcalá,” grabado, late eighteenth century, in El arquitecto D. Ventura Rodríguez, 112. An eighteenth-century print showing the Puerta de Alcalá used as a city gate is in Ringrose and Juliá, Madrid, 176. See also the illustrations in Thomas F. Reese, “Hipódromos, carros, fuentes, paseantes y la diversión pública en la España del siglo XVIII: Un programa agrario y de la antigüedad clásica para el Salón del Prado,” in Centro de Estudios Históricos, IV jornadas de Arte: El Arte en tiempo de Carlos III (Madrid: Editorial Alpuerto, 1989). Antonio Joli, “Vista de la Calle de Alcalá hacía el Prado,” ca. 1750–4, in Reese, “Hipódromos, carros, fuentes,” 3; Pedro de Texeira, Topografía de la Villa de Madrid descrita por Don Pedro de Texeira, año de 1656 (reprint, facsimile edition, Madrid, n.d., ca. 1960). In El arquitecto Ventura Rodríguez, 160–1 and Reese, “Hipódromos, carros, fuentes,” 35, figs. 26 and 27. Reese shows alternative designs and a detail of the area from a map by Antonio de Espinosa (1769). José del Castillo, “El Jardín del Buen Retiro hacía las tapias del caballo de bronze,” 1779, MMM, Inv. 1790; José del Castillo, “Un paseo junto al Estanque Grande del Retiro,” ca. 1780, tapestry design, MMM, Inv. 1780. This palace is now the home of the high command of the Spanish Army. Anon., “El Palacio de Buenavista y la Fuente de Cibeles,” ca. 1816, MMM, Inv. 1475. Isidro González Velázquez, “El Paseo del Prado desde la Plaza de Cibeles,” MMM, in Ringrose and Juliá, Madrid, 157 and Reese, “Hipódromos, carros, fuentes,” 8. Fernando Brambilla, “Vista del Museo del Prado,” 1833, MMM; Isidro González Velázquez, “El Real Observatorio de Madrid,” ca. 1800, MMM, in Guía del Museo Municipal, 29.

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34. Luis Paret, “Paseo frente al Jardín Botánico,” ca. 1770, Villa de Madrid 28, no. 103 (1991): 22. 35. Ramón Bayeu y Subías, “El Paseo de las Delicias,” ca. 1785, MMM, Inv. 1787. Only a few miles of this canal were built, but it was an important part of the “greening of Madrid” and provided a bucolic setting for such paintings as Bayeu’s Baile junto al puente en el Canal del Manzanares, tapestry design, MMM, Inv. 1788. 36. This building is now the home of the Centro de Arte Contemporánea Reina Sofia. 37. J. Cebrian, “La Puerta de Toledo,” in Montoliu Camps, Madrid, 113; also in Ringrose and Juliá, Madrid, 244. 38. “Vista de la Real Casa de Campo de Madrid a la rivera del rio Manzanares,” in Ringrose and Juliá, Madrid, 172. 39. Gossard, “El Paseo de la Florida,” ca. 1820. 40. Ginés Andrés de Aguirre, “La Puerta de San Vicente,” tapestry design, 1785, MMM, Inv. 1794. 41. Ginés Andrés de Aguirre, “Puerta de Alcalá y la Fuente de Cibeles,” 1785, MMM, Inv. 1785. 42. This model is in the Museo Municipal de Madrid. 43. This is seen in the blending of social backgrounds in the Sociedades económicas de amigos del pais in the later eighteenth century. 44. Anon., “La Petimetra, en el Prado de Madrid,” end of eighteenth century, MMM; “Petimetre,” “Petimetra,” and “Curutaco,” MMM, in Ringrose and Juliá, Madrid, 148. 45. Engraving, 1780s, in Ringrose and Juliá, Madrid, 217. 46. For example, the still life of an elegant porcelain tea set, painted about 1782 by Jean Leotard, Getty Museum. 47. Luis Paret, “El Baile de máscaras del Colesio,” ca. 1770s, in Ringrose and Juliá, Madrid, 207. 48. J. M. Moreau, el Joven, “Cena Galante,” 1789, Villa de Madrid 28, no. 103 (1991): 27; M. Tremuellos Roig, “Tertulia,” ca. 1760–1770, Villa de Madrid 28, no. 103 (1991): 35. 49. Theresa Ann Smith, “New Visibility: Women and the Public Sphere in Eighteenth-Century Spain” (Ph.D. diss., University of California, San Diego, 1999), 263–358. Published as The Emerging Female Citizen: Gender and Enlightenment in Spain (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2006), 50–73. At least thirty females were accepted as académicas in the eighteenth-century academy.

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INDEX

d A Adalbert, St., 57 Alba, Duke of, 209–218, 222 Albrecht V, Duke of Bavaria, 176, 181 Augsburg, 44, 67, 90–91, 98, 165, 171, 181, 184, 186 August (Augustus), Elector of Saxony, 98, 122, 123, 128 August (Augustus) II, King of Poland (Friedrich August [Augustus] I, Elector of Saxony), 104, 111–113, 122, 128, 134, 135, 137–139, 143–145, 147, 153, 155 Augustus III, King of Poland (Elector Friedrich August II), 104, 112–113, 142, 147, 153 artworks as models for further artistic activity, 58–59, 66, 130, 133, 137–139, 146, 150 authenticity of faith in creation, 67–68 competitive factors in production of, 4, 66, 127, 136, 145, 155, 185, 203 decorum as a factor in modernization, 19–23 patronage of, 5–7, 65, 68, 111, 127, 144, 147, 164–186, 191–201, 230–231 power to instruct and move, 55, 68, 72–73, 124–126, 178, 195

B Bähr, George, 113–114 Balbín, Bohuslav, 57, 68

baptism, 204–207 Baronio, Cesare, 196 Bečková, Kateřina, 90 Bellarmine, Robert, 197 Bendl, Jan Jiří, 53–64, 68 commissions, 55, 56, 57, 59, 61 early life, 54 faith, 68 influences, 54 Berlin, 115, 136–139, 141–142, 145–147, 150, 155–156 Bernini, Gianlorenzo, 101, 138–139, 145, 150 Bérenger, Jean, 10 Borromini, Francesco, 103 Brown, Jonathan, 235 Burke, Peter, 59

C Candid, Peter, 179, 180, 184, 186 Capaccio, Giulio Cesare, 203–204, 209, 212–218 Carlos II, King of Spain, 139 Castello, Felix, 232, 236 Charlemagne, 166 Charles II, King of England, 133 Charles III, King of Spain, 237, 239–240, 242–244 Charles V, Holy Roman Emperor (Charles I, King of Spain), 167, 191, 193, 198, 212, 215, 222, 232 Charles VI, Holy Roman Emperor, 109, 184 Christian I, Elector of Saxony, 122, 124, 128–129, 131, 133, 144

278

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Index

Constantine, Emperor of Rome, 139, 191, 192, 195–197, 201, 204 “donation” of, 195–196 construction in Dresden, 111–112, 121–122 in Innsbruck, 29 in Kraków, 104 in Madrid, 231, 236 in Nuremberg, 171 in Prague, 84, 89–90 in Rome, 200, 201 in Salzburg, 46, 47 in Vienna, 83 in Wrocław, 86 of Charles Bridge statuary, 65–67 of St. Peter’s basilica, 191–192, 198, 201 Corpus Christi, 113, 207–208, 212, 221–223 Cranach the Elder, Lucas, 124, 126–127 Cranach the Younger, Lucas, 124 Cyril, St., 57

D Dario, Giovanni Antonio, 47 Darnton, Robert, 237 de Bodt, Jean, 137–139, 142, 146–147, 150 demolition of buildings in Dresden, 113–115 in Graz, 21, 24 in Innsbruck, 27, 29 in Salzburg, 46, 47 in Wrocław, 105, 108 devotional literature, 67 Dresden, 97–98, 111–116, 120–156 Altendresden, 141–142, 144–145 bastions, 122–123, 126, 128, 133, 134 Jungfernbastei, 111, 122, 124, 128 Neue Bastei, 122 burghers, 113, 139–140, 144 city gates, 126, 128 Brückentor (Schönes Tor), 121, 128, 135–136 Kronentor, 148–150 Pirnisches Tor, 121–122, 129, 132–133, 144 Salomonis Tor, 124 Wilches Tor, 121, 128

construction, 111–112, 121–122 demolition of buildings, 113–115 equestrian statues, 129–133, 135– 145, 155 festivities and festivals, 147–148, 150, 153 Goldener Reiter, 144 Großer Stall, 153, 155 Grünes Gewölbe, 113, 137, 143– 144, 153 Japanese Palace, 111 Kreuzkirche, 114, 124, 126 Moritz-Monument, 122–124, 126 nobility, 113 Obeliscus Augustalis, 143 population, 113 Pulverturm, 122, 124 Riding Hall, 132–134, 144–145 river Elbe, 121, 122, 128, 133, 141, 144, 153 Royal Palace of Science (Palais Royal des Sciences), 113, 155–156 royal residence, 121, 144 tradition, inertia of, 128, 144, 150 Zwinger, 111, 113, 145, 147–150, 153–156 Dürer, Albrecht, 165, 167–168, 175

E Ehalt, Hubert Christian, 10 El Escorial, 233, 235 Elliott, J.H., 235 Erlach, Johann Bernhard Fischer von, 43, 47–48, 89, 106 Eucharist, 60, 63 Evans, R.J.W., 10

F Fejtová, Olga, 90 Felmayr, Johanna, 29 Ferdinand I Habsburg, King of Bohemia, 98 Ferdinand II, Holy Roman Emperor, 13–17, 84 Ferdinand III, Holy Roman Emperor, 107 Ferdinand VI, King of Spain, 239–240 Ferrata, Ercole, 106 Foggini, Giovanni Battista, 139 Frankfurt, 116 Frederick II, King of Prussia, 109 Frederick V, Elector Palatine, 56, 59, 63

Index

Friedrich III, Elector of Brandenburg (Friedrich I, King of Prussia), 136–137, 144–146 Friedrich Wilhelm I, Elector of Brandenburg, 136 Friedrich der Weise (the Wise), Elector of Saxony, 124

G George, St., 132–133, 139 Girardon, François, 137, 139 Giuliani, Giovanni Bernardino, 204, 210–212 Graz, 10, 13–26 burghers, 24–26 citadel, 15 church, 17–18 city gates, 15 defenses, 14–15, 17, 24 demolition of buildings, 21, 24 development of baroque style in, 17–26 imperial residence, 13, 15–17 Landhaus, 14 monuments, 13–14, 24 nobility, 18–24 population, 14 remnants of Renaissance style in, 15–26 river Mur, 13 Grimmenstein, Castle, 124, 128

H Henri IV, King of France, 136 Henry VIII, King of England, 191, 197 Herod, King, 205, 207, 223 Hilliger, Wolf, 124 Hohe Straße (High Road), 97–98, 115–116 Hojda, Zdeněk, 90 Hussites, 58, 75

I Icander (Johann Friedrich Nilsson Eosander), 121, 146 indulgences, 167, 191, 198 Innsbruck, 10, 13–14, 26–34 burghers, 32–34 church, 28–29 construction, 29–30 demolition of buildings, 27, 29

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development of baroque style in, 27–34 imperial residence, 13, 26–28 Landhaus, 14 monuments, 13–14 nobility, 29–32 population, 14 remnants of Gothic style in, 26–34 river, 13 streets, 29–31 inscriptions, 124, 128, 142, 144

J Jamnitzer, Christoph, 168, 172, 174 Jesuits. See religious orders. Jews, 58, 73–75, 85 Johann Friedrich der Großmütige, Elector of Saxony, 120, 124 Johann Georg I, Elector of Saxony, 128 Johann Georg II, Elector of Saxony, 120, 132–133, 141, 144 Johann Georg III, Elector of Saxony, 135 Johann Georg IV, Elector of Saxony, 135 John the Baptist, St. (San Giovanni), 203–225 blood of, 204–205, 207–208, 215 cult in Naples, 204–207 feast day iconography of, 222–225 in Florence, 206–207 in Naples, 205–208, 221 procession in Naples, 203–222 Joseph I, Holy Roman Emperor, 109, 139, 184 Julius II, Pope, 191–192

K Kaltemarckt, Gabriel, 130 Kašparová, Jaroslava, 90 Kiev, 116 Klengel, Wolf Caspar von, 128, 132, 134 Klingensmith, Samuel John, 180 Knittler, Herbert, 83 Kraków, 97–98, 101, 111, 115–116 burghers, 104 Cloth Hall, 100, 115 construction, 104 Missionaries’ church at Stradom, 102 property ownership, 104 Senators’ Staircase, 101

280

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Index

Sigismund Chapel, 98 Trinitarian church in Kazimierz, 103 University Church of St. Anne, 101–102 Wawel Castle, 101, 115 Wawel Cathedral, 98, 104, 115 Zbaraski Chapel, 101 Krumper, Hans, 179, 180, 184, 186

L Lancinger, Lubomír, 90 Leipzig, 139–140 Leopold I, Holy Roman Emperor, 107–109, 184 Lepanto, Battle of, 195–196 Leplat, Raymond, 139–140 Liechtenstein Palace, 83, 90 Lodron, Paris Count, 43, 47 Longuelune, Zacharias, 111, 139, 142, 144, 150–152, 155 Louis XIV, King of France, 137, 139, 143, 186, 236 Ludmila, St., 57 Ludwig Jagiellon, King of Bohemia, 98 Luther, Martin, 74–75, 124, 167, 191

M Maderna, Carlo, 101 Madrid Alcázar Palace, 232–236, 238, 240 Buen Retiro Palace, 235–236, 240, 243 changing habits of elites, 236–238, 245 construction, 231, 236 Enlightenment culture in, 240, 245 Manzanares River, 232, 240, 243–244 parks and boulevards, 240–245 Paseo del Prado, 231, 242–243, 245 Plaza de Cibeles, 231, 242 Plaza Mayor, 233, 238 population, 230 representation of power in, 230–231, 233 audience for, 231, 235, 240, 242 monumentalizing of processional axis, 238–240 “the royal gaze,” 238

processions (entradas), 231, 232–236, 244 royal residence, 232–235 sewers, 230 streets and roads, 230, 233, 236 Marcus Aurelius, 129–130, 139 Marcus Curtius, 130–132, 139 marriage, 205–208, 222 Martin, St., 174 Mary, 206 Marian columns, 57–59, 180 Maximilian Emanuel, Elector of Bavaria, 184–186 Maximilian I, Duke of Bavaria, 176–180, 183–184 Maximilian I, Holy Roman Emperor, 26–28, 168 Medici, Cosimo III de’, 139 Melanchthon, Philipp, 167, 169 Merian, Matthäus, 121–122, 176 Methodius, St., 57 Michael, St., 128, 186 Morales, Ambrosio, 192 Moritz, Elector of Saxony, 98, 121, 123– 126, 128 Munich, 164–165, 174–186 burghers, 176 commerce, 165 Frauenkirche, 175, 177, 179 Jesuit college, 177–178 Marian column, 180 nobility, 175 patronage, 177 population, 164 Residenz, 175, 180–186 St. Michael’s church, 177–178 Muslims, 73

N Naples, 203–225 abbondanza, 210, 212, 220, 222 arches, 210, 212–215 churches, 204–205 cult of St. John in, 204–207 eletto del popolo, 205–206, 208–210, 221–223 fireworks, 205, 207, 212 Piazza del Mercato, 204, 207 procession of St. John in, 207–222 revolt, 204, 218, 222

Index

river Sebeto, 218, 224 Santissima Annunziata, 206, 208, 221 seggio del popolo, 204–207, 209, 212, 218 S. Giovanni a Mare, church of, 204– 205, 209, 221–222 Spanish viceroy, 205–206, 208–218, 221–222 statues, 210–212, 215–218 Napoleonic Wars, 115 neighborhoods, 23–24 Nepomuk, John (Johannes), St., 25, 65, 66, 68, 71–72 nepotism, 43, 46–47 Nicholas, St., 97 Nuremberg, 98, 164–175, 186 after the Reformation, 167–170 art academy, 174–175 commerce, 165 construction, 171 guardian of regalia and relics, 166, 168 patronage in, 170–171, 173–174 population, 164, 168 Rathaus, 171–173, 183 regulation of crafts, 166–167

O Orilia, Francesco, 204, 209–218 Ottoman Turks, 81, 83–84, 87, 184–185, 198 Ouden-Allen, Volprecht van, 86–87

P Partenope, 204, 218, 221, 224 Pelikánová-Nová, Zdena, 83 Philip II, King of Spain and Naples, 194, 196, 212, 221–222, 232–233, 235, 244 Philip III, King of Spain, 233 Philip IV, King of Spain (rey planeta), 209, 215, 224, 235–236 Philip V, King of Spain, 238–239–240, 244 pietas Austriaca, 60 pilgrimage, 60, 71, 84 Pokorný, Jiří, 90 Pöppelmann, Matthäus Daniel, 111, 113, 122–123, 134–135, 138, 141–142, 144–150, 155–156 power, 10–12, 25, 28

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in early modern Austria, 10–11 centralization of, 82 representation of, 11–12, 25, 28, 34–36, 115, 144–145, 155 Prague, 53–75, 166, 180 Charles Bridge, 54, 64–75, 86 dubious reputation of, 64–65 patriotic and civic function of, 69–71 role in conversion, 72–73 role in popular devotion, 66–69 construction, 84, 89–90 development of baroque culture in, 89–91 historiography of baroque period in, 80–83, 88–89, 91–92 infrastructure, 82 Jews, 58, 83 Marian column, 57–59 New Town, 61, 71, 84, 90 nobility, 89, 90 Old Town, 54, 57–58, 61, 83 Old Town Square, 54, 57–58 population, 83, 90 Prague Castle, 88 Prague University, 88–89 Protestants, 74 processions, 24, 58 St. Wenceslas church, 55 trade, 91 Troja Palace, 91 veduta of, 86–87 water, 90 Preissler, Johann Daniel, 169, 175 processions, 58, 69, 113, 203–222 Procopius, St., 57

R Raitenau, Wolf Dietrich von, 43–45, 47–48 religious orders Augustinians, 17, 65, 104–105, 168–169, 178 Benedictines, 46, 48, 168–169 Camaldolites, 101 Capuchins, 17, 46, 178 Carmelites, 17, 168, 180, 210 Carthusian, 168 Cistercians, 65 Clarists, 104, 107

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Dominicans, 46, 65, 74, 101, 104, 168, 175 Fransiscan Poor Clares, 168 Fransiscans, 17, 28, 46, 168–169 Jesuits, 17, 28–29, 46, 55–57, 65–66, 69, 75, 84, 86, 88–89, 101, 107, 176–178 Knights of St. John of Jerusalem, 204–205 Minims, 179 Minorites, 17 Order of St. Clare, 17 Premonstratensians, 65, 104 Red Star Knights of the Cross, 104 Reformati, 105 Servites, 65 Teutonic Knights, 168 Theatines, 65, 180 Trinitarians, 65, 72, 73, 103 Ursulines, 29, 33 relics, 57, 59, 60, 69, 166, 168, 204–205, 207–208 residency, royal, 10, 13, 15–17, 82, 89, 97, 109, 121, 165, 180–186 Rome, 191–201 and Spanish political theology, 196–197 construction in, 200–201 economic stagnation of, 200 Il Gesu, 101 population, 192, 195 Spanish defense of, 193–194 Spanish immigration to, 195 Spanish patronage of, 197–201 Spanish political support for, 197 Rubino, Andrea, 204, 218–221 Rudolf II, Holy Roman Emperor, 168

S Salome, 205, 207 Salzach river, 44–45, 48 salt, 45, 83, 121–122 Salzburg, 43–48 construction, 46–47 demolition of buildings, 46–47 expulsion of Protestants, 47 mountains, 44–45 population, 45 squares, 45–46 streets, 45–46

Sandrart, Joachim von, 174–175, 186 San Genarro, 206–208, 210 Scamozzi, Vincenzo, 45 Schlüter, Andreas, 136, 145–146, 150 Sigismund, Holy Roman Emperor, 166 Sigismund I Jagiellon, King of Poland, 98 Sigismund II Augustus, King of Poland, 98 Sigismund III Vasa, King of Poland, 101, 177 Sitticus von Hohenems, Marcus, 43, 46 Škréta, Karel, 53–64, 67 early life, 54 faith, 67 influences, 54 role in decoration of Charles Bridge, 65 works, 58–61, 63 Solari, Santino, 45 St. Peter’s basilica, 136, 147, 150, 155, 191–192, 198, 201 Fabbrica, 198, 201 style “anti-Italian,” 43 baroque, 17–34, 86, 89–91, 111, 115 Gothic, 18, 25–34, 86, 106, 179–180 Italian, 45, 98–104, 127, 129–131, 135, 146, 147, 173, 186 mannerism, 16, 46 neoclassical, 111, 113–114, 241 Reichsstil, 9 Renaissance, 15–27, 86, 115, 233 rococo, 103, 111 Suarez, Fransisco, 197

T Thirty Years’ War, 9, 24, 47, 56, 59, 61, 81, 84–85, 90, 104, 170, 173–174, 180, 209, 222 Thun, Guidobald Count, 43, 47 Thun, Johann Ernst Count, 43, 47, 48 Torgau, 121, 124, 126 trade, 44–45, 97, 114–115 Trent, Council of, 104, 178 iconography after, 54 lack of funding after, 193 reform of local cults, 222 pressure against pagan customs, 221 Trevano, Giovanni, 101 Turks. See Ottoman Turks.

Index

V Valla, Lorenzo, 195 Versailles, 135, 139, 145, 186, 236 via regia (royal road). See Hohe Straße. Vienna, 153, 166, 184 Congress of, 115 construction, 83 defenses, 83–84, 87 Harrach Palace, 83 nobility, 83 population, 83 royal residence, 82 Schönbrunn, 9–10, 12 seat of Habsburg Empire, 84 trade, 91 veduta of, 86–87 Vilímková, Milada, 89 villa suburbana, 46 villegiatura, 46 virtues, 122, 124, 128, 132, 172, 210–212, 215–216, 218, 221 Vlček, Pavel, 90

W Walther, Christoph Abraham, 141 Walther, Hans II, 126–127 Warsaw, 101, 104, 145, 155 Weck, Anton, 120–121, 134–135 Wenceslas, St., 57, 59–64

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White Mountain, Battle of, 53–57, 65, 69, 71, 80–81, 180 Wilhelm V, Duke of Bavaria, 165, 176–178 Winterling, Aloys, 10 Winter King (Frederick I, King of Bohemia). See Frederick V, Elector Palatine. Wittenberg, 121, 126 Wolff, Jakob the Elder, 173–174 Wolff, Jakob the Younger, 171–172 Wrocław, 97–98, 104–111, 115–116 burghers, 104, 106 construction, 86 defenses, 85 demolition of buildings, 105, 108 education, 85–86 Jews, 85 negotiation of the Reformation, 104–105 Odra river, 98, 104, 109 population, 85 royal residence, 109 trade, 82, 84, 91 university, 107–109 Wrocław Castle, 107

Z zodiac, 204, 210, 212 Zuccalli, Enrico, 180, 185 Zuccalli, Giovanni Gaspare, 47