Preachers, Partisans, and Rebellious Religion: Vernacular Writing and the Hussite Movement 9780812295399

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Preachers, Partisans, and Rebellious Religion

THE MIDDLE AGES SERIES Ruth Mazo Karras, Series Editor Edward Peters, Founding Editor A complete list of books in the series is available from the publisher.

Preachers, Partisans, and Rebellious Religion Vernacular Writing and the Hussite Movement

Marcela K. Perett

u n i v e r s i t y of pe n ns y lva n i a pr e s s p h i l a de l p h i a

Copyright © 2018 University of Pennsylvania Press All rights reserved. Except for brief quotations used for purposes of review or scholarly citation, none of this book may be reproduced in any form by any means without written permission from the publisher. Published by University of Pennsylvania Press Philadelphia, Pennsylvania 19104-​­4112 www.upenn.edu/pennpress Printed in the United States of America on acid-​­free paper 1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

Library of Congress Cataloging-​­in-​­Publication Data Names: Perett, Marcela Klicova, author. Title: Preachers, partisans, and rebellious religion : vernacular writing and the Hussite movement / Marcela K. Perett. Other titles: Middle Ages series. Description: 1st edition. | Philadelphia : University of Pennsylvania Press, [2018] | Series: Middle Ages series | Includes bibliographical references and index. Identifiers: LCCN 2018008681 | ISBN 9780812250534 (hardcover : alk. paper) Subjects: LCSH: Hus, Jan, 1369?–1415. | Hussites—Czech Republic— Bohemia—History. | Religion and literature—Czech Republic— Bohemia—History. | Bohemia (Czech Republic)—Church history. | Hussites—Czech Republic—Bohemia—History—Sources. Classification: LCC BX4915.3 .P47 2018 | DDC 284/.3094371—dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2018008681

For Benoît and John Amaury

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Contents

Introduction 1 Chapter 1. From Golden Boy to Rabble-​­Rouser: Jan Hus and His Preaching Career

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Chapter 2. Creating a Faction: Jan Hus and the Importance of Moral Victory

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Chapter 3. Battle for the Minds: Vernacular Propaganda For and Against Hussite Reform

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Chapter 4. The Parting of the Ways: Prague and Tábor

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Chapter 5. Combining Education with Polemic: The Price of Theology in the Vernacular

143

Chapter 6. The Dangers of Popularizing Wyclif: The Eucharistic Debates That Fragmented Bohemia

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Chapter 7. Writing History to Shape the Future: Historia Hussitica by Lawrence of Březová and Historia Bohemica by Aeneas Silvius Piccolomini

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Conclusion 215 Notes 227 Bibliography 263 Index 283 Acknowledgments 289

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Introduction

Describing the situation in Prague in 1421, Lawrence of Březová, the chief chronicler of the Hussite movement in Bohemia, records a surprising incident. He tells of a group of women in the New Town district of Prague, who were so dissatisfied with the way in which the councilmen managed the religious affairs in their district that they wrote what we might call an open letter to them. In the letter, recorded in the vernacular in an otherwise Latin chronicle, the women complain that numerous priests in Prague do not believe that the Eucharist really is God’s body and blood and that this heresy is taught to the laity. The women write: “We are afraid that many of the new priests, who hold heretical beliefs, continue to be appointed to parishes where they blaspheme against God and doctrine and against the rituals of the church. Meanwhile, you, councilmen, watch it happen and do nothing to stop it. . . . ​ Therefore, we beg you to take action, for example, you could tell the priest in Poříčí that you will no longer tolerate the violence that he inflicts on the holy sacrament. If you do not wish to do this, if you continue to ignore the true faith, we will be forced to turn against you and so help us God.”1 This petition captured the squabbles between two major pro-​­reform factions (Prague and Tábor), characteristic of the period between 1419 and 1436, which was generally seen as the main phase of the Hussite revolution and is the central focus of this book. For most of the period, the two main reform factions struggled against each other for adherents and for control over parishes in Prague and across Bohemia, with the Eucharist looming as the most divisive subject, as some were swayed by Wycliffite and other reform ideas and others rejected them.2 The standard narrative of the Hussite reform assumes that the only notable theological discussions were held among the educated clerics. Scholars have dismissed exchanges such as this one as mere complaints by the laity who were, it is implied, naturally garrulous and had little to contribute to the theological reflections at the university. This latter assumption is partly true. The laity had little to add to the theological deliberations among

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the reform’s leaders, but the example shows that they knew enough about them to debate with each other and to form their own opinions. The narrative needs to be refocused to take into account the real importance of the women’s official complaint: it shows that theological debates were not confined to the clerical caste, nor were they confined to Latin. The women clearly understood the basic ramifications of the debate and officially—​­and in their vernacular—​ protested against the priests’ Wycliffite understanding of the mass, even ­ threatening disobedience if their request, which was theological in nature, went unheeded. Moreover, the women were convinced that they—​­and, this is important, not their priest—​­held the “true faith” and swore to commit acts of civil unrest, such as turning against their councilmen, in order to promote what they understood this to be. This shows that disagreements about what constituted “true faith” divided also the laity, who held their own conclusions with impressive confidence, even in the face of powerful city magistrates. Such was the nature of religious disagreements in fifteenth-​­century ­Bohemia—​­one man’s true faith was another man’s heresy, but accusations to that effect did little to weaken the determination of those who held it. The above example illuminates the specifically late medieval context of this disagreement. It involved proliferation of a semi-​­learned doctrine (based in an academic program) among a highly motivated laity, by clerics, often university educated and in possession of a good living, but who nevertheless distanced themselves from the “institutional” clerics, harshly criticizing the established church and its servants.3 In the case of Bohemia, clerics disagreed about the nature and extent of church reform, and since agreement proved elusive, they turned to the laity for support. To reach their audiences, these clerics, many of whom were university masters, wrote a new kind of vernacular text, trying to persuade the laity to side with them against other clerics.4 The opening example shows that they were successful. One of the (perhaps unintended) consequences of such writings was the emergence of an opinionated, and deeply divided, lay population. Indeed, as the examples in this book suggest, in the 1420s and 1430s, Bohemia was full of laypeople brimming with opinions, willing to debate theology on the slightest provocation. Much like the Roman province of Cappadocia in the fourth century, where—​­as reported by Gregory of Nyssa—​­one asked for bread and received an opinion about the nature of Christ’s hypostatic union, Bohemia’s laity was abuzz with debates that resisted any clear-​­cut resolution.5 The laity was drawn into debates about the mass (the central sacrament of the church and exclusive preserve of priests), about rightful authority in the church, about salvation more broadly,



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even taking a stance against the city authorities.6 Open debates among people and clergy about central teachings and claims of the church did not first begin in what is called the Protestant Reformation. We see it full-​­blown in Prague, the late medieval imperial capital, one of the most important cities in the European world at that time, a full century earlier.

Vernacular Writings: Indispensable Yet Often Ignored Given how much attention the reform leaders in Bohemia paid to their lay followers, it is striking how little those who study these leaders have. Most of the scholarly work on the Hussites has revolved around the careers of the movement’s movers and shakers, their treatises, their ideas and the origins of those ideas, their political and diplomatic negotiations. The two most extensive and influential works on the Hussite movement, Howard Kaminsky’s comprehensive History of the Hussite Revolution and František Šmahel’s Die hussitische Revolution, both focus on the Latin texts that gave shape to the movement. Kaminsky is primarily interested in the intellectual history of the Hussite revolution and deals with the writings and cogitations of the revolution’s erudite leaders, whereas Šmahel offers a social portrait of the movement in order to round out his discussion. And although both of these influential scholars take into consideration the popular element, their analyses deal mainly with Latin treatises and compositions, perpetuating the tacit assumption that the really interesting and important conversation was the one conducted in Latin. Only more recently have scholars turned their attention to the Hussite movement’s vast vernacular output in an attempt to understand the importance it held for the reform leaders themselves, who poured tremendous energy into it throughout the entire period. In the course of the Hussite reform, the emphasis on vernacular communication was so great that the inherited literary genres were themselves completely transformed. Literary genres that had previously enjoyed high popularity among the laity were no longer perpetuated and practically disappeared.7 In this shift, genres that were previously popular, such as romances and chivalric poetry, were replaced with compositions intended to communicate a political or religious message, such as sermons, tractates, spiritual songs, manifestos, and various other dialogues and monologues, as well as chronicles and annals.8 These were disparate kinds of writings, but they shared an important feature: the educated clerics composed and disseminated them because they were

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ideologically useful.9 These vernacular writings parallel the enormous expansion of religious literature in German and Dutch and, to some degree, English in this era, but their intense factionalism sets them apart from the vast amount of catechetical and devotional writings circulated elsewhere. In Bohemia, these vernacular works set out the fundamental issues, both theological and ecclesiastical, at stake in the reform, taught the laity about proper scriptural exegesis, and lambasted their opponents. Here catechesis was not politically neutral but served to demarcate the doctrinal lines of the different factions. The interest in literature of entertainment returned after 1436, when the Council of Basel endorsed toleration of Utraquism and sealed a kind of status quo among the religious factions, with such works once again being copied and disseminated. But the kind of literature that was written during the heyday of the Hussite reform, between 1419 and 1436, continued to be written for other occasions of ideological conflict, in which the laity’s consent became important, for example in later debates within the Hussite leadership about the future direction of reform.10 In the span of a mere generation a lasting change was wrought in how theological arguments were conducted, how they were decided, and who participated. The dominant school of thought that dates back to the 1960s interprets this disappearance of genres as a sign that literature had ceased to be the domain of clerics and nobility and instead came to be “owned” by the laity. This view is attributed to a Marxist reading of the Hussite movement, which projected it as the first serious attempt to overthrow the feudal system, for which the church was only a stand-​­in.11 The same scholars talked about a shift ­toward “popularization” of literature, in which the laity began to penetrate the sphere that was previously dedicated to the clergy. However, they overlooked an important point. Although they were composed in the vernacular, all of the new kinds of writings (such as songs and poems) containing the seeds of the alleged revolution remained firmly in the hands of clerical authors, who used the texts to communicate a specific message for a specific purpose. As noted by Thomas Fudge, this message was often propagandistic and fueled by a desire to gain the laity’s support over other groups of clerics and their followers.12 Fudge first opened up the role and function of the vernacular compositions and drew attention to their marvelous variety. This book aims to rethink the role of religious instruction, literary production, and the blurring of social and ecclesiastical ranks by analyzing the entire spectrum of vernacular production, from songs and simple compositions to lengthy theological treatises, all of them already edited but never be-



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fore made the subject of a book-​­length study. Reformers rarely reflected on their use of the vernacular, but what and when they chose to write in the vernacular speaks volumes about what they thought vernacular writings could accomplish. Vernacular writings coincided with, and largely affected, the formation of different factions, which coalesced around a few select questions of doctrine and ritual. Rather than to focus on the theological or philosophical arguments as such of these various writers, this book examines the role of these texts in the creation of symbols, myths, and rituals that forged allegiances and constructed enemies, thereby serving to solidify distinct religious communities.13 This is the first book to analyze a wider spectrum of Czech vernacular texts and their function in the religious controversies of the fifteenth century, focusing on how they challenged and transformed the Latinate culture. Although there is extensive literature on Hussites, it is for the most part quite insular, relegating the movement to the eastern margins of European affairs or framing it in terms of sixteenth-​­century concerns. Here, the Hussites are examined against the context of early fifteenth-​­century religion and culture and of Prague, the vibrant capital of the Holy Roman Empire, one of the largest cities in Europe and the home to the first university in the empire north of the Alps. This illumines what is truly revolutionary about the movement: in early fifteenth-​­century Prague, disagreements about religion were shouted in the streets and taught to the laity in the vernacular, giving rise to a whole new kind of public engagement that would persist into the early modern era. The Hussites brought theological learning to the people, not mere catechesis or moral education, and employed a variety of genres, including songs, poems, tractates, letters, manifestos, and sermons. The leaders, many of whom were also university masters, provided the laity with the tools to discuss contentious issues and arrive at their own conclusions, empowering the semi-​ ­learned and unlearned to make up their own minds about important theological issues. While there exists a literature on theology as an institutional practice, it is mostly restricted to studies of universities or framed as the province of “subversive” laymen. None of this explains the marketplace of competing religious ideas in the vernacular that emerged in Bohemia a full hundred years before the Reformation. This is also a new way of telling the story of Jan Hus and the Hussite movement, recasting the ways in which Hus’s vernacular works formed a discrete religious faction in what is now the Czech Republic, Germany, and Poland. The vernacular writings of all genres are considered, instead of merely “official,” Latin, erudite reports. What emerges is a rich

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portrait of a society in transition, a polyphony of voices discussing religion and other influential questions, which made the Latin academic discussions irrelevant, ushering in an era of new and previously unimaginable possibilities for the laity.

Mass Movements Before the Printing Press The Reformation of the 1520s is generally accounted the first large-​­scale grassroots campaign rooted in a theological agenda. The traditional narrative holds that the invention of the printing press enabled these reformers, for the first time in history, to shape and channel a mass religious movement.14 However, religious movements employing the vernacular, such as the Lollards in England or the Hussites in Bohemia, had mobilized lay populations long before the invention of the printing press. While there are scholarly questions about the actual extent and influence of the Lollard movement, despite the elaborate attention given it by a generation of scholars, there is no question that the Hussite controversies turned the capital of the empire into the site of religious dissent and unrest, evident by public acts of violence against people and property, the extent of which astonished observers in the empire and beyond. The Hussite reformers in the early fifteenth century offer an especially striking case of a successful late medieval mass movement driven by a theological agenda. Marked by strong ethnic or even nationalistic overtones, it was precipitated by the Council of Constance’s decision to put Jan Hus to death as a heretic in July 1415. Hus’s former colleagues at the university in Prague continued his work, preaching the message of reform, and, with time, they incited the laity to disobey the ecclesiastical authorities. Within a few years, the movement’s leaders—​­with the tacit support of the king—​­won a number of important ritual and administrative victories. For example, the Hussite priests offered the sacrament of the mass in both bread and wine (sub utraque specie), a practice discontinued in the twelfth century and banned as heretical by the Council of Constance in 1415. Hussite leaders also secured a de facto independence from the archbishop in matters of parish appointments and other administrative decisions, making the university in Prague the official head of the Hussite parishes in the realm. Between 1420 and 1432, the Hussite leaders succeeded in fighting off successive armies of crusaders. At the Council of Basel in 1436, the Hussites even gained the grudging approval of a church council to continue their own particular religious practices within Bohemia.



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The Hussites were the only medieval “heresy” ever to achieve such concessions from a council. The Hussite success, achieved without the benefits of the printing press, would, however, have been unthinkable without the direct and active support of the laity. Their involvement had been planned for from the start. In order to mobilize the laity for their reform agenda, the Hussite leaders wrote different kinds of vernacular writings that combined catechesis with severe criticism of the church. First, they persuaded the laity that the medieval church was in need of reform. Later they claimed that they, and not the pope, represented the true church.15 Making the laity privy to these intra-​­ecclesiastical disputes gave rise to what Jürgen Habermas later came to call the public sphere.16 In Bohemia, this sphere grew out of disagreements about how religious, political, and social life ought to be arranged, disagreements that were now openly expressed. It transformed the expectations for how religious or political discourse would be conducted in the future. Obviously this touches upon themes first raised by Habermas17 but argues for notions of “publics” in the plural that were distinctively medieval, diverse, sometimes overlapping, and as yet broadly understudied. In fifteenth-​­century Bohemia theology became vernacularized in intellectual, literary, and social terms, thus allowing the laity for the first time to organize themselves into discrete religious factions and to participate in the discussion of religious and political issues. It was a brazen move and a virtual revolution with profound consequences in Bohemia and throughout the empire. The Hussite message gained a large number of followers because it answered a growing desire among the laity for theological education in the vernacular as laymen made conscious commitments to Christian life that transcended indifferent observance.18 In Hussite studies, this kind of popular support is generally presumed to be self-​­evident. Jan Hus and the Hussites are regarded as national heroes, whom the laity would naturally have supported. In addition, this narrative was first written by theologians who saw the Catholic Church as necessarily headed t­oward the Reformation. But this is the stuff of hindsight and special agendas, both national and religious. We need rather to appreciate the artfulness and cunning with which the reformers addressed their contemporaries. Many of the pro-​­Hussite compositions imparted new theological information, quoted scriptural passages, paraphrased church fathers, and explained relevant points of doctrine. This is not to say, of course, that the pro-​­reform compositions are only educational. Many of them are deeply polemical and argumentative, presenting only those theological

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arguments that favored their cause. Thus, the genius of the pro-​­Hussite campaign: they gave the people what they wanted but wrapped their educational message in a coating of antagonism against the established church and its directives. This demand for religious literature was not limited to Bohemia. Elsewhere in Europe the production of vernacular works increased steadily since the 1380s, especially in German, Dutch, and English. The tradition of vernacular religious texts began as early as the thirteenth century and paralleled university and monastic traditions of learning.19 However, in the late medieval period the kind of writing that would originally have been meant for a monastic audience was now written explicitly for the laity. This included all sorts of catechetical writings, that is, works that introduced the fundamental tenets of the faith and their correct application in every day life, such as explanations of the Paternoster, Ave Maria, the working of the mass, as well as instruction on the sacraments and teaching about virtue and sin. In addition to catechetical works, collections of sermons, as well as contemplative and mystical texts, were also increasingly finding an audience outside of the religious houses.20 Clearly, this growing desire among the laity for theological education was not limited to Bohemia. The demand was also fueled by growing establishments of church and city schools for the children of middle-​­class parents and a sense of prestige that religious literacy bestowed. The majority of the authors of these vernacular texts were among learned and high-​­ranking officials of the church. This is important, because it means that this tradition of writings was never seen as independent from the clerical class, their goals and preferences, as some modern scholars would like. There were exceptions, of course, such as Thomas of Štítný (1333–1401/1409), Czech lay nobleman who wrote catechetical works in the vernacular.21 But for the most part, the vernacular texts were authored by members of the secular and regular clergy, many of whom considered themselves in favor of church reform and who wished to make university erudition useful to those laymen wishing to live pious lives. The notion of late medieval schoolmen as public intellectuals, such as Jean Gerson addressing laity with tracts of knowledge adapted to their pastoral needs, fits well with this larger trend.22 This was a new direction in theology, called by Bernard Hamm the “theology of piety” (Frömmigkeitstheologie); its goal was to “cultivate the proper, salutary form of the Christian life.” The method was one of simplification, boiling down complex scholastic theology (where possible) to elements considered fundamental to the “didactics of piety.”23 The consequence of these deliberate efforts by



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reform-​­minded clerics was to open up the content and language of theology for nonexperts in the vernacular in order to foster Christian piety and virtue. When we put the Hussite movement into the context of wider cultural debates, we can see how it coincided with the concurrent shift in the role of the theologian, from an academic, occupied with matters of his university inner circle to a clarifier and popularizer of orthodox doctrine. But unlike other places, in Hussite Bohemia, this task of explaining and catechizing was linked with factional struggle, which meant that masters and clerics sought to explain doctrines that found themselves at the heart of the controversy, such as transubstantiation or lay chalice, and did it in a way that accentuated distinctions rather than suppressing them. Not surprisingly, this massive catechetical effort, aimed as it was at faction formation rather than pure catechesis, undermined doctrinal and devotional unity rather than fostering it. The vernacular increased factionalism and, ironically, made it more difficult to come to an agreement. Indeed we must be careful not to idealize the vernacular medium, as contemporary scholarship is wont to do.24 This observation flies in the face of current wisdom about vernacular texts and literatures, and many may be surprised by the implication that using the vernacular to discuss matters of theology introduced serious—​­and sometimes fatal—​­new limitations. This is a crucial point, so much so that it encapsulates the argument of the whole book. Taking theological debates outside of the university widened access and the number of laypeople who were at least rudimentarily conversant with fundamental theological questions. But because the laity was uneducated, they were asked to accept arguments on grounds other than intrinsic theological merit, which they could not evaluate. This changed the way in which theological debates were conducted and decided: arguments about theology were resolved by political leverage and popular (often populist) appeals, rather than exclusively by sophisticated theological disputation in Latin. The switch to the vernacular as the language in which theological debates were conducted did not only contribute to the spread of heresy; it also transformed the rules by which such debates were adjudicated.25 This contention contradicts much of what has been written by scholars of late medieval vernacular texts, be they historians, theologians, or literature scholars. Many of them have used the phrase “vernacular theology,” brought into vogue by Nicholas Watson after Bernard McGinn used it to describe the third strand of literary tradition, besides scholastic and monastic, beginning in the thirteenth century.26 McGinn saw this third literary tradition as

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particularly influenced by women, as did many after him. In recent decades, much scholarship has been done to deepen our understanding of vernacular theology, especially investigations of the capacity of the vernacular, the subversive potential of the vernacular, as well as its various uses. The subversive potential of the vernacular has been explored by Nicholas Watson and his interlocutors, most of them writing about the particularly English phenomenon of Lollardy in England. They use the phrase “vernacular theology” with a specific set of assumptions, implying that the vernacular was always subversive of the Latin discourse, always battling against it, but always marking a positive development. This view has gained some influence, but the examples here will show that this was not always the case. In order to put some distance between Watson’s view of vernacular theology and its function, the longer, slightly clumsy phrase “theology in the vernacular” is used here instead. If anything, there is even less clarity now than there was before about what vernacular theology is and what its implications are. Beginning in the 1300s, the vernacular was used for all sorts of different purposes: to educate, to share (mystical) experiences, to retell and shape (previously inaccessible) narratives, to escape in various ways the limitations of Latin (and its audiences) and to control. Vernacular theology is now taken to describe a vast number of different kinds of writing, written for different purposes for different audiences and united by the fact that they were all written in the vernacular. It is a vast and analytically unwieldy category of texts that obstructs more than it explains. Curiously, there is comparatively little interest in the authors of vernacular theology, except when they happen to be women or heretics, or in the purpose for which they were written. But most were written by clerics, regular or secular, for a lay audience with a specific purpose in mind. Although a few of these works enjoyed many translations and circulated widely across linguistic boundaries, most did not, rather serving smaller audiences and communities, which began to emerge around specific textual traditions. The role of vernacular texts in the formation of the Hussite movement illustrates the full potential of vernacular learning, which—​­rather than fostering submissive piety—​­gave rise to distinct religious communities and their identities. The fact that the laity responded to these catechetical writings points to a larger desire to participate more actively in the daily practices of Christianity.27 Another way of putting that is that in the course of the late medieval period, laity increasingly wished to tailor and control the devotional experience of the religion into which they were born. Increased endowments of chantries and altars, new religious fraternities, and growing popularity of



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vernacular writings (both catechetical and moralizing) all belong to this same desire for participation and were evident in Prague at the turn of the fifteenth century.28 This increased participation came with a gradual encroachment of the laity on practices previously deemed to have been the preserve of the ordained religious. In the Early and High Middle Ages, monasticism was seen as the highest form of Christian spirituality. Anyone wishing to attain spiritual perfection could only have considered the monastic route, the right and proper place for professional and spiritual athletes.29 Moreover, living out in the world meant that one could, at best, attain a second-​­rate spiritual life. However, this entire ideal, resting as it did on a strict separation between the professional religious and the nonreligious, was crumbling. In the course of the fifteenth century, religion ceased to be “the preserve of the professed religious,”30 with the rest confined by these implicit limitations. A new kind of spiritual ideal began to take shape as various new groups were founded in order to appropriate monastic practices and disciplines for everyone. The Devotio Moderna, or the Sisters and Brothers of the Common Life, is perhaps the most famous of these attempts to eliminate the division between monastic and lay religious practice.31 Beginning with houses in Deventer and later in nearby Zwolle and Kampen, communities soon formed across the Netherlands, in Flanders, and in Germany. Their spirituality was urban, literate, disciplined, meditative, and immersed in the book culture, with brothers copying and composing texts as part of their spiritual exercises.32 Theological learning was not seen to be in competition with spiritual devotion; they were seen as two sides of the same coin. Thomas à Kempis, a member of the Brothers of the Common Life, wrote of the attitude ­toward theological study in his spiritual best seller The Imitation of Christ. The attitude was not one of rejection: “No reason why we should quarrel with learning or any straightforward pursuit of knowledge,” Thomas wrote, “it is all good as far as it goes, and part of God’s plan.”33 These authors of vernacular theological works had little intention to weaken the laity’s dependence on clerical ministrations. Quite the opposite. The concerted efforts at education sought to strengthen the integrity of the ecclesiastical hierarchy, perceived as having its credibility damaged by numerous late medieval scandals. The learned authors’ focus on everyday piety was, in effect, a reminder to the laity about what was most important, a gesture in favor of reforming lay life and morals at times when any other form of church reform remained a deeply controversial topic. However, the controversy about

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reform in the church did, at times, trickle into the vernacular writings with catastrophic results for the clerical establishment. Bohemia in the early decades of the fifteenth century is a case in point. When Jan Hus began denouncing clerical corruption and immorality in sermons to the laity, he found himself facing charges of heresy almost overnight. The charges were later dropped, but Hus continued to labor under suspicions of scandalous preaching and of inciting the laity against clerics. In his vernacular writings, the message of lay piety was inextricably linked to an exhortation to disobey immoral and corrupt clerics. This is how the Bethlehem Chapel, where Hus delivered most of his sermons, became both a source of vernacular catechesis and complaints against clerical colleagues. Hus was not the only charismatic preacher who criticized his fellow clerics; this practice was endemic to sermons of numerous reformers, such as Johann Geiler, and it may have contributed to the church’s loss of authority in lay circles.34 In Bohemia, Hus’s followers continued this trend and their public complaints against other clerics produced a laity watchful of clerical immorality and escalated into a kind of civil war between clerical factions, which would be repeated with the ­sixteenth-​­century Reformation. The Hussite writings for the laity fit well in the burgeoning genre of vernacular theological writings, but by combining catechesis with an invitation to dissent they became dangerous. They also became antithetical to the original goals of vernacular writings, which were to strengthen, and not undermine, the church’s unity. The ease with which vernacular theological writings were repurposed reflects their popularity. It also underscores how divided the church was, with the main division running not between laity and clergy, as is often maintained, but between different groups of clerics. This process of fracturing extended seemingly in all directions, including, for example, the Franciscans and Franciscan Spirituals. The fact that university masters should become leaders of groups reaching into the laity—​­a phenomenon that is not at all obvious—​­is a product of these increasingly irreconcilable divisions among the Latinate class. When they reached a stalemate, masters turned to the laity and joined forces with them in a way that would previously have been unthinkable. Understood in this way, the Hussite movement was an attack of one group of clergy against another. This is the broad context for this book about theology in the vernacular: increased desire for participation that challenged the exclusivity of clerical learning and monastic devotional practices and that gave rise to diverse groups within the church, competing for influence and authority. Groups like the De-



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votio Moderna undermined the monastic monopoly on spiritual perfection. It was no accident that both of the fifteenth-​­century popular heretical movements, the Lollards in England and the Hussites in Bohemia, grew out of university reform programs.35 These programs were nothing new, but the potency of their popular appeal was. The laity wished to participate in semi-​­academic discourse, clearly evident, for example, in the intense debates over the Eucharist in Bohemia and in England, with a number of vernacular treatises on the topic.36 The lack of consensus among the Lollards or Hussites on a subject as fundamental to Christian life as the Eucharist also suggests that in the absence of a central enforcer, different groups of clerics and laity settled on whichever understanding most appealed to them, giving rise to factionalism.37

A World in Decline? According to the older standard accounts, this was a world in decline, on the brink of a catastrophe. And by some standards, it was. Academic heresies proliferated into massive popular movements. Anticlericalism was on the rise. All ranks of the society called for church reform. Papal authority had been damaged by decades of schism yet unwilling to do anything that would weaken its control. Other institutions, both religious and secular, hardly fared better. To them, the so-​­called “long fifteenth century” brought discord, divisions, and disorder.38 But this is a one-​­sided and distorted picture. Judging by other standards, the fifteenth century was brimming with religious vitality, even if, like all other transformational periods, its narrative history is rather messy around the edges.39 This is certainly true of Bohemia, whose fifteenth-​­century developments were once—​­and influentially—​­described as an aberration in medieval history.40 But the Hussite wars are not an aberration. They mirror spectacularly tensions existing under the surface of the religious status quo. In Bohemia, as in England and elsewhere, many clerics aligned with the laity to bring about changes or reforms that they thought necessary. The alliances took a number of different forms, such as preaching circles, religious fraternities, or communities, but all were primarily fueled by the nascent vernacular textual production. In turn, the texts contributed to the breaking down of the traditional divisions and separations between laity and clergy, reconfiguring them into new kinds of groups and communities. It is no accident that the Council of Constance ruled specifically against such alliances, banning “any alliance made between the laity or between the laity and the clergy to the detriment of the holy council, the

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apostolic see and the Church in favor of those condemned heretics Jan Hus and Jerome and preachers of that sect . . . ​apparent by the letters written to the sacred council.”41 The religious controversies of the fifteenth century brought about changes in the fabric of the church that are not yet well described. In order to illuminate the link between theology in the vernacular and the formation of factions in the church, the terms “heresy” and “heretic” are avoided in the chapters that follow. The Hussites were declared heretics by the church and deemed dangerous enough to merit the interest of five crusading armies. Accepting the label means accepting a one-​­sided category that defines groups by their opposition to the authority of the church or the pope. Worse, the label imposes a kind of artificial unity, obfuscating the very real differences and disagreements among those declared heretics.42 The term “heresy” evokes a marginalized, sidelined, and isolated group of people, completely obscuring the fact that in Bohemia, religious observances deemed heretical became in some areas mainstream. The label also obliterates variations among heretical groups. These differences often proved so serious as to be insurmountable, in a similar way that the label “orthodoxy” obliterates differences between different orthodox groups, among whom there existed “sets of ideas and modes of worship that enjoyed distinctive and to some extent separate existences, whilst coming under the broader umbrella of ‘orthodoxy.’ ”43 Finally, these labels turn late medieval Europe into a binary landscape and religion into a yes-​­or-​ ­no proposition. The following chapters seek to uncover the textual production that gave rise to different factions and guided their exchanges with others, some deemed heretical. This allows us to see what divided the heretics and what brought them together. It is only when we sidestep the label of heresy that we can finally recover some of the importance of the Hussite movement: a series of debates and discourses about topics at the heart of laity’s religious experience of utmost importance to fifteenth-​­century Christians. Another note on nomenclature: there is some (friendly) disagreement among scholars of fifteenth-​­century Bohemia regarding the precise words to use in describing the reform movement that gains momentum in the early decades of that century, becomes divisive by Jan Hus’s martyr’s death at Constance, and is transformed into a violent struggle, with the reform’s adherents alternating between fighting the pope’s crusaders and fighting each other until the Council of Basel recognized the establishment of a legitimate, national church in Bohemia, called the Utraquist Church after its practice of offering communion to the laity in both kinds in 1436.44 At which point can we talk



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about Utraquism? Does it obfuscate more than it clarifies when we refer to the reformers as “Hussites,” a name coined by their detractors to associate them with the condemned heretic? It turns out that it depends on who you ask. In the pages that follow, I will use the adjective “Hussite” to refer to the reformers. Although the term started out as an expression of opprobrium, by opponents of Hus and his supporters, it quickly became the “conventional term for the Bohemians in the wider European consciousness.”45 As for distinguishing among the different pro-​­reform factions, my discussion will move between the commune at Tábor (peopled by the Taborites) and Prague, whose reformers tended to be more theologically moderate and will sometimes be referred to as “the moderates.” However, their churches in which they offered communion under both kinds to the laity since 1414 will be referred to as “Utraquist” although the official recognition (and tolerance) of that fact would not come until 1436 and the Council of Basel.46 This book also contradicts some accepted wisdom about the kinds of changes that were supposedly only results of the sixteenth-​­century Reformation. The following chapters show that, in Bohemia, learned culture began to impact popular culture long before the sixteenth-​­century reformers responded to the laity’s desire for theological information.47 But other groups and initiatives suggest that even in other areas, the laity tried to increase their participation in Christian practices and to understand it in a way that suited them best, well before Martin Luther appeared on the scene.48 When he did appear, Luther’s nascent movement could rely on a “rather well-​­read and critical urban readership among the urban elites . . . ​that had educated itself largely through its independent study of religious literature in the vernacular.”49 The rejection of Latin and of the scholastic modes of settling theological disputes brought about a number of unintended consequences. Among them was a deep crisis of authority that deepened during the sixteenth-​­century Reformation and was never again universally resolved. In Bohemia, Scripture and God’s law were thought to provide authority, but the daily squabbles revealed only too well the limitations of texts as decisive arbiters of anything.50 It was clear that human readers were needed to interpret them, but without a single and agreed-​­upon arbiter of doctrine, the veracity of theological arguments directly related to their persuasiveness. What the lay followers came to accept became, in effect, the truth. One only needs a passing acquaintance with recent political campaigns in the United States in order to understand the disastrousness of this approach. Accordingly, in fifteenth-​­century Bohemia, writers looked for ways to be persuasive in the vernacular in order to endow their

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words with authority. But because laymen and laywomen were asked to accept arguments on grounds other than intrinsic theological merit, which they were not able to evaluate, writers resorted to a number of misleading strategies, such as reading biblical texts out of context or interpreting certain passages literally where previously allegorical readings had been preferred. Authors resorted to Bible-​­tweaking, accusations, and invective, or sought alternative markers of authority such as morality or martyr status of leaders.51 As a result of bringing theological debates into the vernacular, discourse became more deeply polarized and discussions became increasingly polemical, with diminishing chances of arriving at an agreement. In seven chapters, ordered chronologically, this book analyzes the role of vernacular writings in the formation of different religious factions, focusing on the shift to theology in the vernacular and the repercussions of that shift for Bohemia in the first third of the fifteenth century, between 1412 and 1436. The book covers the beginning phase of the so-​­called Hussite revolution, between 1412, when Jan Hus first radicalized his followers, and 1436, the agreement between reform leaders and the Council of Basel permitting the Hussite ritual practice to continue. This was a time when the reform movement’s leaders most needed to garner the laity’s support and employed the vernacular for that purpose. Vernacular production was at its most frequent and most creative, translating and simplifying basic theological arguments (about the Bible, about the church’s ritual practice, about authority in the church) and presenting them to the people in a variety of formats. However, this level of access came at a price. While the process of translation and simplification made basic theological arguments intelligible to the laity, the education contained therein had an ulterior motive: not only to educate but to persuade. This is why theological arguments were often augmented by appeals to emotion and fearmongering, deemed persuasive in a way that to a layperson mere theology could not be. And there was an additional cost of theology in the vernacular: Divorced from the traditions and conventions of the university milieu, there was no agreed-​­upon arbiter of disputes, and the Bible, which many touted as the New Law, proved simply too malleable in the hands of competing interpreters. Due to these hidden costs of theology in the vernacular, vernacular learning actually deepened the ideological divisions that had engulfed Bohemia rather than assuaging them. The following chapters illustrate that the vernacular discourse, even if it revolved around the same topic, was different from the Latin debates. Theological arguments were simplified and often sacrificed in favor of more intelli-



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gible arguments from the Bible or appeals to emotion. These strategies did speak to the laity and persuaded them to side with the reformers, as the nationwide resistance to five different crusading attempts makes clear, but they made agreement about theological issues impossible. The theologically moderate Prague party prevailed only after its followers chose to destroy their former reform brethren in the battle of Lipany in 1434, having joined forces with the Catholics. The scholarship presents this victory in the positive light, as necessary to secure peace and the backing of Rome for reform in Bohemia. But this book complicates this optimism by suggesting that vernacularization of theology increased—​­ rather than decreased—​­ religious factionalism and radicalism, minimizing the chances of an agreement among the leaders. The first chapter discusses the public activities of Jan Hus up until his excommunication and exile in 1412. It offers a reinterpretation of Hus’s role as a preacher, arguing that although Hus encouraged interior conversion like many other pro-​­reform preachers, his vernacular preaching proved contentious when he used his pulpit at the Bethlehem Chapel (set up for preaching in the Czech language) to air complaints about the clergy in Prague and to encourage the laity to judge the moral standing of clerics, even to withhold tithes from priests they deemed undeserving. The second chapter analyzes events subsequent to Jan Hus’s excommunication in 1412. With nothing to lose, Hus’s interactions with the laity became increasingly deliberate, and he used a number of public media, such as wall inscriptions, treatises, open letters, and proclamations, all in order to persuade the laity that although he had lost his legal case against the curia, the moral victory was his and that he, rather than corrupt officials, held authority in the church. In so doing, he deliberately created a religious faction of followers that would continue to push for reform in the church even after his death. Chapter 3 takes up the short vernacular compositions in verse and song that proliferated in Prague after Hus’s death. Written by leaders of pro-​­(and anti-​­) reform factions, these street ditties were meant to persuade the laity to support (or reject) the political agenda of Hus’s successors. This effectively widened the subject areas that the laity were invited to take sides on and prepared the ground for much longer compositions on a variety of theological and political subjects that began circulating by the early 1420s, analyzed in later chapters. Chapter 4 analyzes the textual production of the radical commune at Tábor or what was left of it after extensive purges in the wake of Tábor’s defeat in the 1430s. The few extant poems that were composed for Tábor’s adherents

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display a high level of biblicism; they are steeped in the Bible, often quoting it at length. But Tábor’s biblicism is problematic: it is selective and radicalizing. Chapter 5 focuses on longer compositions written against Tábor. Combined, these compositions show that questions of correct exegesis and rightful authority, among others, were being debated among the laity in different reform and anti-​­reform factions. Such tractates democratized access to theological learning. But this level of access came at a price: Theological education came to serve political and ideological agendas, and each side translated and disseminated only those arguments that helped them. The goal was to persuade, which meant that being coherent or well informed mattered less than being persuasive. This, in turn, deepened rather than resolved the disagreements between Prague and Tábor to the point that moderate reformers resorted to military intervention against their radical brethren, defeating and marginalizing the commune in the battle of Lipany in 1434. The sixth chapter focuses on the mass, which traditional accounts held to be at the center of the Hussite dispute. Sidestepping the issue of the lay chalice, the usual focus of scholarly narratives, I argue that in the course of the 1420s Wyclif ’s critique of the doctrine of transubstantiation gave rise to a host of vernacular treatises on the nature of the sacrament in Bohemia. This group of treatises, previously unexamined, offers abundant evidence of lay doubt about transubstantiation and debates that aimed to offer alternative definitions of the Eucharist. I show that the laity was asking incisive theological questions and answering them in a variety of ways, some of them deemed heretical. The seventh and final chapter explores historical writing about the Hussite reform on the example of two chronicles, Historia Hussitica, written in late 1420s by Lawrence of Březová, a Hussite supporter, and Historia Bohemica, written in 1458 by Aeneas Silvius Piccolomini (the future pope Pius II), a harsh opponent of the Hussite movement. Both were Latin chronicles and both circulated widely. They provide a fitting end to the narrative of vernacular compositions and their import, because—​­although written in Latin and for educated audiences—​­both authors not only responded to the concerns expressed in the vernacular treatises discussed in the first six chapters but also adopted their means of persuasion. Forgoing theological explanations, their narratives appealed to emotion, incited fear, and exaggerated the violence perpetrated by the faction that the given author opposed in order to incite hatred against it. This shows how quickly the concerns discussed in the previous chapters were cast as historical narratives. Moreover, it shows that the same persuasion strategies developed for vernacular discourse (that proved so



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divisive) found their way into Latin official accounts of the Hussite reform outliving the formative decades of the movement discussed here and continuing to divide Europe long afterward. As evident from examples of writers discussed in this book, however, not all masters responded to this pressure to publish in the vernacular in the same way. Some insisted that theological learning was not to be put into the language of the laity, while others seemed keen to translate, simplify, and circulate doctrine among the laity. This is another example of how, in the course of the fifteenth century, new arrangements of what institutional Christianity would look like were being created through a series of disagreements and controversies, some labeled heretical. The dynamic that emerges is a complex one: it is a world in which a university man reaches out to the people as a performer while also remaining a Latinate university man and cleric; a world in which scriptural commentaries and university disputations are turned into vernacular verse, while the same university men continue their work in Latin; and a world in which university masters form alliances with laity and together with them push for what they consider the true faith and the correct form of religious observance. This picture underscores the diversity contained in the late medieval urban landscape and the multiplicity of lay and clerical discourses present within it. And yet, this entire discourse in the vernacular has been ignored and its importance downplayed. Scholarship has ignored not simply a song here and a tractate there, but an entire discourse in the vernacular, actually a number of different discourses, so important to their contemporaries that they antagonized councils, frightened popes, and ushered in an era of new (previously unimaginable) possibilities for the laity, a full hundred years before the start of the Reformation.

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Chapter 1

From Golden Boy to Rabble-​­Rouser Jan Hus and His Preaching Career

The career of Jan Hus exemplified both the opportunities and limitations of the fifteenth-​­century church.1 As a boy of humble background, born around 1370, Hus had originally decided to become a priest because of the increased status and higher social standing he would gain.2 He enrolled at the University of Prague in 1390; three years later he received his bachelor’s degree in liberal arts. In 1396, Hus received his master’s degree from Stanislav of Znojmo and began teaching at the university while studying t­ oward a bachelor in theology. In 1400, he was ordained a priest. When the opportunity to obtain a post presented itself six years later, Hus did not hesitate, and, in a decision that would prove momentous, in 1402 he agreed to take over preaching at the Bethlehem Chapel, a nonparochial institution with links to the university dedicated to Czech preaching. At the time of its founding in 1391, the chapel was the first ever secular establishment dedicated solely to vernacular preaching. And Hus did well there. In the chapel’s heyday, thousands of listeners would come to hear him preach. Thanks to his unique venue, Hus was able to reach thousands of listeners and speak to them in their native tongue. But his preaching alarmed the authorities. Six years later, the first set of charges against him was submitted to the archbishop. Four years after that, his preaching was banned altogether. His influential position made him uniquely dangerous because of his power to incite the laity against his fellow clerics. Unlike other contemporary religious experimenters, Hus could not find a workable compromise with the ecclesiastical hierarchy. The question of why he was unable to do so illustrates the fault lines between what was and was not negotiable in Prague’s

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fifteenth-​­century religious culture, illuminating the opportunities and limitations of fifteenth-​­century religion. When Jan Hus started his clerical career, he was a favorite of Prague’s archbishop Zbyněk, who spoke of his admiration for reform in general, and for Hus in particular.3 A charismatic, university-​­educated cleric, dedicated to preaching and spiritual care for the laity, he encapsulated the hope and promise of the Bohemian tradition of reform, to which he proudly adhered.4 From his pulpit in the Bethlehem Chapel, he encouraged interior conversion and moral renewal and also lambasted corrupt and immoral clerics. But using the pulpit at Bethlehem to air complaints about the clergy in Prague crossed the boundary of permissible reform behavior, and Hus’s vernacular preaching soon marked him as a rabble-​­rouser. Hus was always critical of underperforming clerics, but his preaching against clerical error and immorality intensified around 1410, and he became increasingly aggressive in response to escalating sanctions against him. He had previously faced a few accusations of seditious and heretical preaching, but those he had been able to dispute, explain, or otherwise avoid. His legal difficulty resulted from defending Wyclif. Specifically, Hus disagreed with the archbishop of Prague’s order that all in possession of Wyclif ’s books turn them over to the archbishop’s office, a decision confirmed by the Prague ecclesiastical synod in June 1409.5 Hus and a few others appealed the decision to the pope, but in the meantime, the archbishop gained the support of Pope Alexander V, whose bull issued in December 1409 also banned preaching at Bethlehem Chapel. (After Alexander V’s death, Hus filed his appeal with his successor John XXIII, which began his legal case at the curia.) The archbishop publicized Alexander V’s bull at the ecclesiastical synod in June 1410 and a month later had Wyclif ’s books publicly burned much to the dismay of the king and many university masters. It is tempting to think of the appeal, which would ultimately prove Hus’s undoing, as a heroic stance in support of Wyclif and his ideas. In reality, it had as much to do with local politics and personal animosities as with principle. Hus believed all books deserved to be studied, thus he did not hesitate to speak up against an odious archbishop and support the king’s objection to the book burning. But once initiated, the legal proceedings could not be stayed and eventually led to further convictions. On October 18, 1412, the annual synod in Prague pronounced a sentence of major excommunication against Hus and, employing the threat of interdict against the entire city, forced him into exile.6 The legal proceedings sparked by this appeal haunted Hus all the way to the tribunal in Constance.



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The ecclesiastical sanction had a curious effect on Hus. Instead of skulking away in shame or pleading with his superiors, he responded by involving the laity in his acts of defiance, and by exhorting them to disobey corrupt authorities. And although Hus preached that each individual should decide which authorities to respect, in reality his own opinions on the subject commanded considerable sway with the laymen. In the summer of 1412, responding to a new wave of accusations, Hus made a number of public statements that the church held no authority in its statements against him. In order convincingly to make his case, Hus made a number of statements about the nature of the church’s authority and argued that the pope and his cardinals were not legitimate heirs of the apostles because of their immoral and avaricious ways. This may perhaps seem as a mere invective, but Hus spoke from a theologically sophisticated, if not immediately obvious, standpoint. Drawing on Wyclif ’s understanding of the church, Hus defined it as an invisible “community of the predestined ones,” communitas praedestinatorum.7 This was a difficult concept when it came to organizing and governing the church, because the fate of each individual in it—​­whether it be eternal salvation or ­damnation—​­was known to God alone. This in turn meant that individuals who saw themselves as being a part of the church, even members of the high hierarchy including the pope, might not in actuality be among the saved. This introduced tremendous instability and vagueness into church affairs. Is this priest really a part of the communitas praedestinatorum? And this bishop? Or the pope? In this conception, it was not entirely clear who in the contemporary hierarchy was actually a member of the church. Some of the more scrupulous among the ordinary faithful began to have doubts about their own status in the church, wondering if they were among the saved or destined for eternal torment. To the troubled ordinary faithful, Hus advised that they trust that their faith, nurtured by acts of charity, would suffice.8 When it came to judging the salvation of others, matters became more complicated. Of course, ideally, one did not need to and ought not to judge. New Testament epistles seemed to support this view. But, in the life of an institution such as the church, ambiguity is not always workable. Not knowing who was really a member of the church made it impossible to know whose dictates were to be obeyed and whose were not. With self-​­serving cleverness, which has gone unacknowledged as such by Hus’s biographers, Hus offered a solution to the ambiguity that he himself had created, repeating Jesus’s words “By their fruits you shall know them” (Matthew 7:16), in effect inviting the ordinary faithful to judge those tasked to lead them.9 In so doing, the behavior of clerical elites became open to judgment by

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the ordinary faithful. He invited the laity to decide for themselves whose authority was legitimate and whose was not, but also insisted that they listen to and obey him. Or in theory he did. Although his sermons and later writings were peppered with exhortations that the faithful do just that, the reality was somewhat messier: Hus put himself into the role of the new arbiter, the one passing judgment on his colleagues, deciding which cleric was credible (and to be obeyed) and which was not. In this way, Hus offered a solution and a way out of instability and confusion in the church ranks, which he had himself created through his writing and preaching in various contexts.10 In the course of his career, Hus transitioned from the the archbishop’s favorite preacher to a rabble-​­rouser who rejected all temporal authority. What set Hus apart from other difficult clerics was the fact that, at every crisis moment, he turned to the laity with a direct and deliberate message. He advised, exhorted, and cajoled, eventually creating a kind of parallel church structure, an invisible church defined by the believers’ loyalty to himself.

Bethlehem Chapel: The Perfect Venue for Hus’s Subversive Message Knowing how his life would end predisposes us to see Jan Hus as a tragic figure, grossly distorting our understanding of Hus’s day-​­to-​­day life. In fact, many of his contemporaries might have thought him a lucky man, someone whose sense of his own vocation in life combined perfectly with the needs and possibilities of his professional situation. Hus was dedicated to working with the laity and the office of preaching in particular. Conveniently, there was a demand for preaching in Bohemia, encouraged by two generations of pro-​­reform clerics in Prague starting in 1360s or so.11 Preaching campaigns by preachers, such as Conrad Waldhauser and Jan Milíč of Kroměříž, who were not attached to regular parishes or monastic orders, that were aimed at spiritual renewal of the laity were a frequent occurrence, sometimes even annoying local clerical establishment.12 The question of Hus’s reform “forerunners” has been debated extensively and lies outside of the scope of this book.13 Primarily Czech-​­speaking scholars have argued that Hus’s reform trajectory was native in origin. Other scholars pointed to the influence of Wyclif as formative and decisive in propelling Hus on the reform path.14 The truth lies somewhere in the middle. Wyclif ’s ideas certainly made an impression on Hus and his circle of colleagues, as will become



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evident in later chapters. But Hus was also, and perhaps originally, shaped by the reform ideals that had arisen among reform-​­minded masters at Prague University, emphasizing frequent Eucharistic communion and moral life. Hus certainly learned from clerics often described as his “forerunners,” such as Conrad Waldhauser, Jan Milíč of Kroměříž, Matthew of Janov, as well as John Wyclif.15 This is, of course, not to say that the outcome of Hus’s career was in any way preordained, but it does explain how Hus’s affinity for reform ideals shaped his sense of his own vocation: all of his role models saw preaching as extremely important. Preaching was an “essential duty of the cleric and the fulfillment of his role in the order of salvation,” and it marked the community of preachers as living in harmony with Christ’s law.16 In other words, preaching was at the heart of the reform and served as a marker of a pro-​­reform cleric. As for what marked pro-​­reform laity, this was less clear. But Hus would eventually create a marker: for the laity to be pro-​­reform would mean supporting him. Bethlehem Chapel: A Reformed Place

In a rare confluence of passion and opportunity, Jan Hus saw preaching as his life’s vocation, and he was given the perfect space for it. Bethlehem Chapel was founded solely to provide space for preaching in the Czech vernacular, quite a novelty for a chapel that was neither parochial nor attached to a monastic order.17 The incentive came from the upper echelons of the Prague society: John of Milheim, who served as confidential adviser to King Wenceslas IV, went to great lengths to secure the foundation. He obtained the archbishop’s consent as well as royal protection for the chapel with the king himself authorizing the charter. The chapel was founded in 1391 and consecrated three years later, in 1394. It was a large structure measuring 798 square meters that could hold about three thousand faithful, which made it one of the largest structures for that purpose in Prague. The chapel still stands in Prague’s Old Town, not far from the well-​­known astronomical clock in the Old Town Square.18 The difficulty of carving out the necessary physical space for the new chapel illustrates how crowded the urban landscape had become by the end of the fourteenth century. When the project was first conceived, it proved impossible to find a new building site anywhere; the chapel was literally squeezed into the urban landscape.19 It was impossible to build an entirely new building, so walls and pillars from surrounding structures were used in the construction. The new chapel was built over the garden of another building, on

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top of a graveyard belonging to the neighboring church, and even over the local well. Before the construction could begin, multiple financial and legal claims needed to be settled. It was necessary to ensure public access to the well, which ended up on the inside of the chapel’s building, and to compensate the priest in the adjacent church for his losses of income with an annual donation.20 The chapel must have done well financially in its early years: when in 1403 the priest in the adjacent church died and the compensation agreement was renegotiated, his successor’s annual compensation was doubled.21 The chapel’s founders made preaching in the Czech vernacular central to Bethlehem’s mission.22 In the charter, issued on May 24, 1391, they explained that “no center could be found in which preaching would be the main part of the service” and that “clerics desiring to preach in Czech struggled with enormous difficulties and have to be satisfied with private homes or obscure places.”23 The charter stipulated that there would be two sermons on all feast days, in the morning and after lunch, but during Advent and Lent only one (in the morning) so that the faithful could attend services in their own parishes.24 The charter allowed for masses to be celebrated but did not specify their number or frequency. Those were left to the priest’s discretion, confirming that mass was not considered central to the mission of Bethlehem Chapel in the same way as preaching in the vernacular was. Although the emphasis on vernacular preaching is often cited as the most defining feature of the chapel, the founders were aiming even higher: their intention was to create not so much a place for reform but a reformed place, not only a place from which reform would be announced but a place that had already enacted it. The chapel’s financial arrangements stipulated by the charter make this abundantly clear. They were even more elaborate than the ritual arrangements, suggesting that money—​­or a certain way of handling it—​­was at the core of what constituted a reformed place, a view that fits with common fifteenth-​­century concerns about clerical greed and corruption, which were, incidentally, central not only to Hus’s preaching but to the local reform tradition that preceded him. The different provisions anticipated numerous possible ways in which a less-​­than-​­dutiful cleric might try to take advantage of the post and made those impossible. The charter’s provisions were intentionally specific and elaborately set out so as to combat three grave sins that, according to the charter’s authors, plagued the contemporary church: plurality of benefits, clerical laziness, and greed.25 In order to eliminate these vices, at least from the chapel’s premises, the charter stipulated that the priest must reside at the chapel and not take on



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additional benefices while serving at Bethlehem. The charter recognized that “it is often the case that some seek their own good and not that of Jesus Christ, so when they receive a benefice, they care little for the work involved.” The charter also stipulated that “if the preacher leaves for any reason not deemed reasonable and approved by the local ordinary or general vicars, his rent is to be cut in accordance with the length of his absence and that money be used for building, equipment or other needs of the chapel.”26 If the priest left his post for another, for any period of time, he lost a part of his salary. This provision aimed to remove the attraction of taking on additional benefices. It is clear that the founders meant to ensure that the chapel would not fall prey to priests interested in the money but not in the work. The chapel’s provisions spelled out the priest’s compensation in no less detail and were also tailored to preemptively combat potential embezzlement by imposing controls and limits on how money was to be spent and by whom. The priest was to live off the endowment, but was to be paid no more than twenty groschen and was specifically prohibited from asking for more money.27 The provisions allowed for no pay raise except in the case of the priest deciding to use his own money to do so. The charter was also specific about the way in which gifts, alms, and other contributions were to be handled, again making it preemptively difficult to cheat. The knowledge that his income was fixed and that there was no further available funding was probably supposed to free the priest from plotting to make money and dreaming up ways for how. This was eminently important to the chapel’s founders, who—​­along with Prague’s pro-​­reform clerics—​­saw greed as the greatest stumbling block in the life of a priest and, therefore, of the church. In order to lessen the temptation and also to weed out candidates interested solely in additional incomes, the founders spoke explicitly about the problem of greed in the charter’s provisions. The charter described greed as the “mother of all temptation leading many to their downfall.”28 Underscoring the temptations of greed, the charter’s author wrote, for the first time switching to a first-​ ­person narrative, “I decided that gifts, alms, and other contributions will not be handled by the preachers for any reason; they are to be locked in a common chest and kept under three locks. The first key will be in the hands of the preacher, the second in the hands of the masters, and the third in the hands of the patron or whomever he entrusts the key to.”29 This arrangement was supposed to make it impossible for the priest to embezzle the chapel’s funds. To ensure honesty and fairness, the funds were to be handled only by the three overseers. It was an intricate arrangement. The gifts were to be used for the

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following in this order: to pay the priest from the adjacent church (ninety groschen twice a year); if anything was left over, it was to be used for the building and reconstruction of the chapel. If there was no need for such expenditures, it was to be used for books for the chapel and for the preacher, and when there were enough of them, all surplus money was to be kept and used to increase the salary for the chaplain. If there was money left over, it was to be used to establish another preacher, and—​­if there was not enough money in the ­endowment—​­to supplement his income from the surplus money; and after that, the surplus was to be used to buy an annual rent; once that was established, it was to be used to support one able student, who was poor but dedicated to the study of theology. If there was yet additional surplus, then two (or more) students were to be financed in this way; the establishment of the students (duties, rule, manner of life) was left up to the preacher and the three masters of the university at the time.30 The charter spelled out a hierarchy of payments: the priest in the adjacent parish church, whose revenues were bound to shrink with the establishment of Bethlehem and whose opposition could create problems for the fledgling foundation, the building itself, then books for the preacher and for the chapel. Any surplus was then to be used to augment the salary of the chaplain up to a specific amount and, with his payment ceiling having been reached, for the establishment of another preacher (whose duties were to be shared with the chapel’s original preacher) and, last, for the establishment of students. These financial arrangements show that the founders saw careful money management as integral to the chapel’s success, as a reformed place, that is to say, as a place that preemptively combated what the founders perceived to be the worst and most persistent errors of the contemporary church, with the chapel’s provisions mimicking the complaints made by reform clerics of the clerical culture as a whole. This suggests that the reform efforts at this time were primarily aimed at clerics, making the reform a curiously clerical affair. The laity, on the other hand, appears almost peripheral to the efforts of reforming the church. Hus’s Tenure at Bethlehem

Bethlehem did not become instantly popular. Little is known about the decade immediately after the chapel’s founding, but frequent personnel changes (three different priests in six years) suggest some uncertainty about its direction. However, the chapel began to draw big crowds with the arrival of Jan Hus in 1402.31 Hus was about thirty-​­two years old when he was appointed to



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Bethlehem Chapel.32 And while the income from the chapel was not large, to the best of our knowledge, Hus never sought another, better-​­paying job.33 He worked there tirelessly, preaching sermons that drew vast crowds, until he was excommunicated and forced to leave Prague in October 1412.34 The chapel was not a part of Prague’s parish network, but rather a kind of para-​­church organization, adherence to which was voluntary and constituted a commitment beyond regular church attendance. This suggests that the audience was self-​­selecting and motivated, both of which would become important characteristics in Hus’s quest to build a reformed faction. During his tenure at Bethlehem, Hus preached about 3,500 sermons,35 many of them extant.36 According to contemporary accounts, the chapel was usually full to the bursting point. Given the fact that many would first attend mass in their own parish church and then go to hear Jan Hus speak, we can assume that Hus had a charismatic presence and a message that resonated.37 Indeed, Hus was a performer, combining spiritual exhortations with sharp critique of his contemporary society and its higher echelons. On some days, he would hold his audience’s attention for hours, occasionally even preaching two sermons back to back. The vast majority of his sermons were recorded in Latin and not in Czech, which was the language in which they were delivered, and so we will never know exactly how he spoke, what jokes he made, or if his words were infused with irony or sarcasm. But we do know that he was lively and his words had traction. However, Hus’s vernacular preaching eventually proved contentious because he used the pulpit at Bethlehem to air complaints about the clergy in Prague. That is to say, Hus’s seditious preaching was the original reason why he was noticed by the authorities. He first came under attack in 1408, six years after he took over the pulpit at Bethlehem,38 when the clergy of Prague accused him of sedition before the archbishop. The fact that the first complaint came from the clergy of Prague, in effect from among Hus’s colleagues, suggests that the case against him grew out of local conflict. The accusers found Hus’s sermons to be inciting the people against the ecclesiastical hierarchy and subverting clerical reputations. The complaints show us how Hus irritated his colleagues and superiors, which in turn helps us understand his popular appeal. The document against Hus contained three articles. The first article alleged that Hus had spoken against simony, the purchase or sale of spiritual things.39 The article was not attacking simony, which clerics continued to practice. The doctrinal issue was that not ceasing the practice

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after being warned produced mortal sin and made those clerics unfit for office. What Hus’s accusers objected to most vigorously was the fact that Hus preached against persistent simony “before a large number of people of both sexes,” even advising them against attending the churches of persistent sinners. Hus’s accusers alleged that these sermons contradicted the teaching of the holy church, damaging and scandalizing both clergy and laity.40 The second article alleged that Hus berated a well-​­known and wealthy priest and master, Peter Všerub. This must have been a phenomenal moment: Hus is reported as having said that he would not accept the entire world if it meant he would die while in possession of so many and so large benefices as Master Peter had held. This might not have been so bad, if Hus had not chosen to make this statement at Peter’s funeral. Instead of praising the deceased, which was expected then as it is now, Hus turned the dead cleric into a figure of what was wrong with the church. This was typical of the kind of rhetorical performance that must have irritated his colleagues and his superiors. But Hus had clearly gone beyond being merely an irritant. His accusers feared that such preaching would not edify the people but would only incite them to turn against the clergy.41 The third and final article alleged that Hus, in a public sermon, berated the clergy of Prague. In so doing, he was allegedly in violation of synodal decrees, which ruled that all priests were prohibited from preaching excessively against the priestly rank. The accusers argued that Hus used his sermons to turn people against all clergy and to incite hatred against them.42 They also alleged that Hus’s sermons damaged devoted minds, extinguished charity, and rendered the clergy unpleasant to the people, leaving his audiences agitated and discontent.43 From the perspective of the authorities, these accusations were a part of a larger problem that was brewing in the capital in the first decade of the fifteenth century: Wyclif ’s ideas.44 Wyclif ’s works first arrived in Prague in the 1380s, reaching a critical mass in the 1390s, and the reception was a complicated and strife-​­ridden affair. The scholarly exchange was, in part, the result of a newfound closeness between England and Bohemia. The two countries had been enjoying a period of rich cultural and religious cross-​­pollination that started with the outbreak of the Great Schism in 1378, which diverted Czech students from Paris (obedient to the Avignon popes) to England (which, like Bohemia, remained loyal to the popes in Rome). This new affinity intensified in the wake of Richard II’s marriage to Anne of Bohemia in 1382. The universities in Prague and Oxford benefited from this new connection, with numer-



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ous academic exchanges of students, as well as books, and with a new scholarship for Czech students studying at Oxford.45 Brought back from England by Jerome of Prague, Wyclif ’s tractates, such as Dialogus, Trialogus, and two unspecified Eucharistic tractates (possibly De Eucharistia and De Apostasia), began to circulate around the university, launching a serious study and discussion of Wyclif ’s ideas there, especially of his teaching about the nature of the church.46 Wyclif ’s teachings, in particular his philosophy of extreme realism, found an eager and accepting audience among the Czech masters at the university in Prague.47 Since then, it not only gave a unifying program to the pro-​­reform masters at the university (answering many of their questions that were already in the air but that had stumped the Czech-​­speaking reformers), but also became intertwined with the Czech-​­German antagonism at the university, giving a distinct voice to the Czech minority there over and against the prevailing philosophy of nominalism among their German colleagues.48 Wyclif ’s teachings found ardent supporters at the university, but the church authorities tended to view this support as suspect. In 1403, the first set of forty-​­five articles (which would be cited again at the Council of Constance) was condemned in Prague, to the great chagrin of many university masters there. Between 1406 and 1408, the synods in the city took up the problem of Wyclif ’s remanence, banning all teaching of Wyclif ’s treatises. This escalated in the archbishop’s order that all of Wyclif ’s books be handed over in 1409 and culminated in the public burning of Wyclif ’s books in 1410. Hus was drawn into this general nervousness about Wyclif ’s influence in Prague. In 1408, a group of parish priests from Prague filed a host of accusations against Hus, arguing that he criticized other clerics from his pulpit and insulted their reputation, even claiming that Hus had preached Wyclif ’s Eucharistic doctrine of remanence. The synod’s interference reveals how nervous the authorities felt about Hus’s influence on the ordinary faithful. In fact, Hus spent most of his time in the pulpit proclaiming the need for a personal, inner conversion of every individual. Occasionally, he preached on the subject of priestly immorality, arguing that it put an obstacle in the path of the lay faithful if the priests did not serve as moral exemplars and guides on the path to salvation. In accusations against Hus, the problem was one of context. Although Hus delivered sermons critical of the clergy at synods as well as on the university soil, he attracted the suspicion of the archbishop only after saying the same things in Bethlehem Chapel before the laity.49 The rules for castigating clerical immorality were different at synods or on the university soil, where

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only clerics were present. In those situations, his fellow priests welcomed his harshness and even sought it out. The archbishop of Prague invited Hus to preach at the local synod, not once but twice, in 1405 and again in 1407. The invitations stopped after the first set of accusations in 1408. But before Hus was enmeshed in legal action, he was chosen to be a kind of ecclesiastical keynote speaker at both synods, setting the tone for the entire gathering. On both occasions, Hus delivered a searing critique of simony, clerical laziness, and immorality evident in the two extant synodal sermons. In the first meeting on October 19, 1405, Hus chose to preach on a verse from the Gospel of Matthew (22:37), “Diliges Dominum Deum tuum.” In his sermon, he speaks about the church as the bride of Christ, lambasting those clerics who had turned away from God’s love and from following Christ. In the meeting two years later, on October 18, 1407, Hus preached on a verse from Ephesians (6:14), “State succincti lumbos,” and criticized clerics who lived with concubines, calling them heretics.50 Hus’s sermons at the university, six of which are extant, were no different. In Hus’s sermon delivered at the university on December 5, 1404, he especially railed against hypocrisy among the clergy, which was directly related to their negligence of clerical duties and, of course, greed and simony.51 Greed was, in Hus’s view, the root of all evil in the church, and he especially despised those who strove after ecclesiastical honors and appointments, and those who possessed multiple benefices. He continually reminded his audience of the church’s own rulings against multiple benefices and simony. He also reminded his listeners that the general synod itself banned payments to priests for holy services, including baptisms, funerals, and holy communion. Hus lamented the fact that this rule had been consistently disobeyed, and complained that very few priests did not receive money in exchange for spiritual services. It bears repeating that Bethlehem’s charter was set up in order to counter these very customs that were rife among the clergy. Hus’s high view of the priestly vocation is evident from his insistence that those who did not live up to a strict—​­and somewhat radical—​­standard of behavior ought to be removed from the preaching office and from the church. Citing the words of Jesus to his disciples, Hus admonished his fellow clergy in unequivocal terms: “you are the salt of the people,” he told them, “by your exemplary life and illumination through your salubrious teaching.”52 The priest who failed to live well also failed to show the path of salvation to the faithful entrusted to his care and therefore was no longer effective. The sermons delivered before the clergy were as critical as those before the people.



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Hus did not flatter the clergy to their faces and complain about them behind their backs; if anything, he spoke with even greater candor and indignation to his colleagues. Hus’s case shows that complaints against clerical greed and immorality were an accepted (and applauded) part of life in the clerical circles, but were not tolerated when raised before the laity. And Hus used the pulpit in Bethlehem to air complaints about the clergy in Prague, addressing criticisms of fellow clerics to the laity. This simply was not done. The clerics believed that the laity should not be dragged into what was, they thought, the church’s internal business. One was supposed to reserve such criticisms for gatherings of the clergy, in the same way that present-​­day political parties try to deal with internal issues internally, and frown upon their members leaking internal disputes to the public. Hus transgressed this boundary, a decision that was the first sign of the movement that took his name: addressing internal clerical business to the laity. But it is clear that the laity enjoyed listening to Hus speaking on these topics and berating fellow clerics. This created the kind of intimacy that arises between two parties when they unite in criticizing a third, and it won Hus a sizeable following of like-​­minded clerics and laity. In 1409, Hus was confronted with another set of accusations. This time, he was accused by the inquisitor of Prague, Jan Protiva. The inquisitor accused Hus of preaching excessively against the clergy and of inciting the people against them. He argued that Hus’s preaching damaged the reputation of priests and discouraged lay obedience. The inquisitor also accused Hus of urging the faithful to leave their parish and come to Bethlehem Chapel instead, even exhorting the faithful to disobey those prelates and priests who lived in sin. Finally, the inquisitor accused Hus of preaching that priests in mortal sin could not celebrate a valid mass or any other sacrament.53 As before, Hus answered all complaints against him, arguing that he had not violated any decrees. But the archbishop would not be placated. In his view, Hus’s preaching posed a threat, and Bethlehem Chapel came to be seen by the ecclesiastical hierarchy as a font of error and sedition. The nature of the accusations is significant: if Hus even hinted that the faithful who were dissatisfied with their parish priests—​­or whose priests were judged to live in sin—​­ought to leave their parish and come to Bethlehem instead, then this is evidence that he began to see his chapel as an alternative place of worship and that he was beginning to see his supporters and sympathizers among the faithful as a kind of para-​­church organization. Telling the faithful to disobey sinful prelates—​­or those Hus described as sinful—​­and leave their parishes may have made sense

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in light of Hus’s Wycliffite ecclesiology, but it amounted to a piece of advice that was both disruptive and subversive. This was no longer merely a local trouble. Soon after, the archbishop turned to the curia. And in response, in December 1409, Pope Alexander V issued a bull authorizing the archbishop to prosecute error. This was the bull that legitimized the collection (and later destruction) of Wyclif ’s books in Prague mentioned above. It also banned preaching in places other than the cathedral, collegiate, parish, or monastic churches, a decision that was clearly aimed against the Bethlehem Chapel, though neither Hus nor Bethlehem was mentioned by name. The authorities may not have wished to add fuel to the fire by singling out Hus specifically, but the intent of the ban was clear. This ban also confirms that the authorities had identified Bethlehem as a source of trouble, well aware of the kind of dangers that Hus’s growing organization posed to the hierarchical church. Hus’s Later Sermons: Evidence of Radicalization

As a direct result of the charges, Hus’s message intensified, and he began speaking out against clerical corruption and immorality with the kind of harsh candor that he had previously reserved for addressing the clerics directly. The tenor of his sermons shifted noticeably: the collection of sermons preached in the Bethlehem Chapel between 1410 and 141254 shows a different kind of a preacher from the one in 1403. Salvation of the faithful remained the cornerstone of Hus’s preaching efforts, but that subject was now intertwined with a critique of the inefficacy of his fellow clergy in a way that was absent in earlier sermons. This development signaled a shift in Hus’s thinking: a radicalization of Hus’s stances and opinions. Hus did not hesitate to criticize the clerical rank to the point of separating himself from all morally corrupt clerics. In doing so, he adopted what has been described as an extraclerical position, that is to say, using his position as a member of the elite clerical establishment to criticize the behavior of other clergy for failing to live out the ideals that they espoused.55 It accomplished two goals. It allowed him to distance himself from the institutional clergy that he criticized and to appeal to the laity, letting them know that he was a viable alternative. It seems clear that Hus used the chapel as a venue for voicing his dissent. After he was banned by the papal bull from preaching, Hus spoke publicly against the decree and about his intent not to comply. The pulpit in Bethlehem proved the perfect venue, and the audience he had cultivated for the past



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eight years were the perfect recipients for his message of public dissent. In a spectacular sermon delivered on June 25, 1410, Hus announced his disobedience of the papal bull and read from his appeal. Then he turned to his audience, asking those gathered if they supported him in this decision, and they shouted out that they would. This event signaled that the laity gathered at Bethlehem was willing to defy authorities in order to stand with Hus. In effect, he took his appeal to the laity and presented them with the choice of obeying the church authorities or obeying him, a move that would have serious and lasting implications for religious life in Bohemia.56 This was the beginning of his open campaign of disobedience, one of the first moments in which Hus can be seen as deliberately creating a party of followers loyal to him as opposed to the official authorities. In a number of subsequent sermons Hus then declared that he did not wish to obey the prelates or even the archbishop in this matter.57 He then exhorted the faithful to disobey the counsel of those in authority (parents, both natural and spiritual) if, in their view, the judgments of these authorities went against God’s commandments.58 “Let us not obey the king himself or a prelate should they order us to do something which defies the example of Christ, because by disobeying the mortal’s erroneous command we are obeying Christ.”59 This is an invitation with serious and lasting consequences. Hus says that it is at times possible to obey Christ by disobeying the church hierarchy, in other words, he presents a divide between Christ and the church. In light of Hus’s ecclesiology, this makes perfect sense. As of 1410, Hus distanced himself from ecclesiastical authorities and began styling himself not so much their reformer but their alternative. One of the strategies that Hus employed to present himself as a reformed alternative to the corrupt authorities was to speak about the church as already divided, as composed of “us” and “them,” two camps, one containing himself and his followers, the other his opponents. To underscore the depth of the chasm, Hus equated his opponents with the party of Judas, explaining that, like Judas, they followed Christ solely for the sake of alms. Hus equated this with serving as priests for the sake of benefices and taking holy orders so as to have an easy life.60 The “us versus them” mentality is evident throughout these later sermons. In one example, Hus illustrated the division between the two parties by saying that, whereas Christ said, go preach God’s word, they (meaning Christ’s and, fittingly, Hus’s opponents) say do not preach, do not offer God’s word gratis. Whereas Christ said not to bring gold or silver with you, they say the opposite, and whereas Christ said, we do not want to be served, the

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corrupt clergy claim the opposite. At the end of the sermon, Hus appealed directly to his listeners: “let us not act like this [meaning like Christ’s and Hus’s opponents], but let us compare our lives with the life of Christ, so that with him we could enter the eternal kingdom.”61 In order to underscore the differences between the two camps, Hus described the pope and prelates as the enemies of God and the Scriptures. In a direct allusion to the papal ban on preaching, Hus argued that because the pope and prelates ignored God’s command that his word be preached in the whole world, they showed themselves as “enemies of the Scriptures . . . ​and false witnesses.” Such enemies of the Scriptures ought to be condemned, Hus insisted, by all who love God and also by God. Hus styled himself and his followers as the party of God, of the Scriptures and of such authorities as the apostles, and also Augustine, Gregory, Pope Leo, Bede, John Chrysostom, and Anacletus, with whom Hus agreed that “one should not obey [another man] in evil.”62 As a way of discovering who belonged to which party, Hus invited his faithful to test the lives of those around them. In one memorable sermon, he advised them: “When you see any Christian, immediately think whether his life agrees with the Scriptures. If you think that it does”—​­Hus here emphasized each person’s responsibility for his own discernment—​­“then he is a true Christian, if he does not act the way that Christ had ordered he is false.“63 This invitation illustrates Hus’s conviction about the importance of the Scriptures in the life of the laity. However, it is a deeply unsettling proposition. In effect, Hus gave the laity the license to judge the clergy’s spiritual mandate and to decide for themselves whether they would recognize (and obey) it or not. Hus’s status as a reformer is unassailable. His preaching marks him (and others in his generation) as a pro-​­reform cleric. But laity existed as a kind of afterthought in this pro-​­reform world. What kind of action or behavior marked them as being in favor of reform? Hus was the first to stir the laity into (what he considered) reform action by giving them a discernible identity: attendance at Bethlehem, willingness to ditch clerics seen as corrupt or immoral, disobedience of commands seen as unjust, and loyalty to himself. This was a way of being and of doing that distinguished them from those who were less committed to the goals of reform. The following sections will explore the ways in which Hus used different vernacular media to persuade the laity to take his side over that of the authorities.



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The Speaking Walls of Bethlehem: Exhorting the Laity to Dissent

The pulpit in Bethlehem Chapel was crucial to Hus’s work as a preacher.64 But the chapel’s physical space had another function: its decoration and configuration underscored the message contained in the daily sermons, first of compliance and later of dissent.65 Probably the most surprising feature of the chapel’s interior design is that three texts, rather than images, served as the main focus of the chapel’s decorative program.66 It is possible that images also adorned Bethlehem’s walls but this is not entirely clear.67 All three of the texts now appear on the walls of the reconstructed chapel. What is important for our analysis, and what is not immediately clear from the modern appearance of the chapel, is the order in which each of these texts was put up. From contemporary letters and chance remarks in other documents, it appears that the three texts were not all introduced at the same time. The vernacular confession of faith and the Ten Commandments came first, sometime in 1411 and were followed by Hus’s own treatise On the Six Errors (De sex erroribus), dealing with errors that Hus perceived as rampant in the church, a little over a year later.68 The timing and selection of the particular texts that would be inscribed on the walls of Bethlehem Chapel illustrate the increasing radicalization of John Hus’s reform initiative. The gradual rollout of these texts suggests that the chapel space reflected and responded to the unfolding historical events: whenever external developments forced the Hussites further into opposition, a new treatise was added to one of the walls inside the chapel. Furthermore, each successive message that was put up was more radical than the previous one, confirming the evidence gleaned elsewhere. As the ecclesiastical sanctions against him tightened, Hus responded by posting more polemical texts. The shift in tone and message between the first set of texts, inscribed sometime in 1411, and the polemical treatise, inscribed contemporaneously or shortly after Hus’s exile in October 1412, bespeaks a massive change in strategy. The Ten Commandments and the confession of faith were inscribed in the vernacular and do not depart from the contemporary standard of orthodoxy. Their display served as a reminder of the essentials of the faith, fully in keeping with the chapel’s mission to advance the goals of lay catechesis, serve the spiritual needs of the Czech speakers in Prague, and promote interior conversion to Christ. The Ten Commandments, especially, were being increasingly displayed on tablets or walls in churches around Europe. The confession of faith (credo) was not in any way controversial. It was

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said during the Latin celebration of the mass, but Hus wrote it out in the vernacular, to remind his followers what they held as most important. For an added effect, Hus changed the grammar in the credo, from the usual first person singular to a singular imperative, to convey the impression that he was addressing each of the individuals directly. Thus, the walls admonished those present to “believe,” as a command, “in the Holy Spirit, the holy catholic church, and the communion of saints,” instead of the usual “I believe in the Holy Spirit, the holy catholic church, and the communion of saints.” The entire confession of faith was retold in this way, commanding faith according to the belief of the church. Along with the Ten Commandments, also in the grammatical form of a singular imperative, the walls featured an unimpeachably orthodox exhortation to faith and set the rules of observance for the community of Czech faithful at Bethlehem. The writings on the walls served not as much as a reminder but rather as a command. The remarkable thing about the writings that Hus commissioned to be put on the walls of his chapel, in addition to the fact that he selected textual ornamentation, is the fact that both texts appeared in the vernacular. This decision was a conscious, premeditated move, in keeping with the chapel’s mission, which was to serve the spiritual needs of the Czech-​­speaking population of Prague. This use of the vernacular would send a powerful message to all who came to hear Jan Hus preach. But the fact that the two texts were displayed in the Czech vernacular was important for other reasons as well. It signaled a tacit exclusion of those for whom the preaching space was not intended: the Germans. At the beginning of the fifteenth century, Prague had a sizable German community. Many Germans were associated with the royal court, others came by way of ecclesiastical and other appointments. Still others were descendants of German colonists, who had settled there back in the thirteenth century. The two linguistic groups generally coexisted peacefully, but resentment was at times felt t­ oward the Germans, who despite being relative newcomers occupied many of the highest positions of authority in the state and the city. Many if not most citizens of Prague were probably functionally bilingual—​­business was conducted in both Czech and German—​­but even if the Germans were able to read the texts on the Bethlehem walls, the language would have signaled exclusion to them. Although by 1411 Jan Hus was already calling for the reform of clerical life, the space where he preached did not contain any physical displays of his reform agenda. It was not until his excommunication and exile in October of 1412, which followed the pope’s ban on preaching in Bethlehem Chapel, that



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Hus added a polemical treatise, written in Latin, to the wall decorations. In comparison with the earlier inscriptions, this later one, made in Latin, was highly polemical. It is this move from the uncontroversial to the polemical that signaled a shift in Hus’s view of his reforming mission to the laity. And indeed, much had changed since 1411. One of the most important domestic developments had been the king’s decision to support Pope John XXIII’s policy of selling indulgences in order to finance a crusading expedition against a political adversary. King Wenceslas, who for reasons of his own needed to maintain his alliance with John XXIII, allowed the collection of indulgences to begin in his territory. In response, Jan Hus and his followers spoke up sharply and repeatedly against this decision. Ultimately, Hus’s opposition to the king would amount to political suicide, but that would not become clear until a few years later when Hus’s falling out with the king deprived him of a patron who could have protected him from condemnation at the Council of Constance in 1415. However, back in the year 1412, Jan Hus was not to be deterred by the loss of his most powerful ally. In fact, he attempted to compensate for it by recruiting an entirely new constituency, the people of Prague. After October 1412, Hus began deliberately to mobilize the laity in support of his interpretation of what was wrong with the church and commissioned his treatise On the Six Errors to be inscribed on the walls of Bethlehem Chapel. The new inscription was a declaration of war on corrupt clerics and the church that shielded them, but also a veiled declaration of his own innocence in the curia’s continuing lawsuit against him. The treatise, written and displayed in Latin (though a vernacular version did circulate), was entirely composed of quotations from patristic authors addressing six errant practices that Hus saw plaguing the contemporary church.69 In the treatise, Hus refuted the claims that priests could create God (that is, in the sacrament of the Eucharist) and forgive sins against others. He also warned against holding belief in the Virgin Mary, the saints, and the popes in the same sense as in God. Here he drew on Augustine’s distinction between different kinds of belief: believing in someone, believing about someone, and believing someone.70 In the fourth section, Hus argued against the notion that the clergy, the prelates, or even the pope ought to be obeyed without question. Hus’s fifth argument was that a condemnation could only be considered valid if it was in accord with God’s law. Finally, Hus argued against simony, the purchase or sale of spiritual things. He viewed this as a pernicious vice, spreading through the body of the church, as he put it, like leprosy.

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In order to make his criticism more authoritative and scathing, it consisted entirely of quotations from the Bible and the church fathers and was inscribed in this way on the southern and northern walls of Bethlehem Chapel. Because the inscriptions could hardly be deciphered by those present, being written above the audience’s head and in Latin, their significance was largely symbolic. They were there and Hus could point to them if he liked.71 In this way, it was as if Jesus, the apostle Paul, Augustine, and Gregory the Great were themselves directly criticizing the errors in the contemporary church, with Hus merely serving as their messenger. The quotations later appeared together with his commentary as a book (discussed later in this chapter), but only the direct quotations were inscribed on the walls in Bethlehem. It is possible that Hus expanded upon the quotations in his sermons, but his choice to display texts by esteemed and unshakable authorities of the ancient church rather than his own words of commentary is of great importance. By posting them publicly, Hus was, in effect, claiming that he (and the ideals that he stood for) had the authority of the early church behind him. With the church fathers figuratively by his side, Hus channeled the authority of the Scriptures as well as of revered figures such as Augustine, Gregory the Great, and Jerome, in support of his preaching and reform agenda. The small site of his preaching, the Bethlehem Chapel, was thus transformed into a repository of apostolic truth. A space intended to meet the spiritual needs of the Czech population in Prague became the headquarters of a movement calling for disobedience to papal authority. The decoration of Bethlehem Chapel bears witness to the shift: whereas the two original texts, the confession of faith and the Ten Commandments, could not be found objectionable by any ecclesiastical authority, the quotations had highly polemical implications. Whereas the two original texts served as instructions in obedience to the teaching of the church, the later text served as a moral justification for disobedience. Hus’s public criticism of clerical privilege and immorality was not unusual among pro-​­reform preachers. But Hus disseminated his opinions publicly, encouraging the laity to identify and speak against clerical immorality, in effect telling them that they could decide what was right and moral. But this was no invitation to follow one’s personal truth: Hus used a number of strategies to persuade the laity to follow his own judgment on what was right and moral. His implied leadership was apparent everywhere, even in the choice of wall inscriptions. The excerpts from the church fathers were left in Latin, unlike the Ten Commandments and the confession of faith. By leaving these quotations untranslated, Hus put himself in the position of a leader and inter-



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preter, necessary to explicate the meaning of an otherwise unintelligible text to his audience.72 Again, the shift is apparent. Now, the walls are intended to speak not only to the Czech inhabitants of Prague, but to all of Christendom. And we can assume that—​­in light of Hus’s exile from Prague—​­the walls bearing his inscriptions assumed a memorial as well as catechetical function.

Hus’s On the Six Errors: Educating the Faithful About Clerical Abuses From this time on, educating the laity about corruption and wrongdoing in the church was an indelible part of this public campaign. Hus’s decision to write and circulate a vernacular treatise On the Six Errors coincided with his exile in October 1412.73 The treatise included vernacular translations of the wall inscriptions and added Hus’s interpretation of them.74 Given Hus’s impending departure from his pulpit, it is likely that the treatise was created to replace Hus’s physical presence at Bethlehem, by providing the necessary explanation and contextualization of the wall writings that he would have offered in person when present. The purpose of the treatise was educational: by instructing the laity directly, it taught them to distinguish between proper and improper use of clerical powers and, implicitly, between legitimate and illegitimate use of authority by clerics. This kind of education, Hus thought, would enable the laity easily to recognize and resist clerical abuses. In that sense, Hus offered an education that was potentially quite subversive. Hus’s discussion of the six errors not only undermined the authority of morally corrupt clergy, it gave the laity permission to decide which clerics could be deemed “in error” and therefore not worthy of obedience. This opened the door to lay disobedience of authority figures based on criteria that Hus himself thought important. However, Hus did not frame this discussion in terms of disobedience or even dissent. Rather, he spoke in positive terms, of reforming the church. For laity, to participate in the reform movement meant, according to Hus, to decide which clerics are corrupt (or maybe to take Hus’s word for it) and ignore their dictates. But as mentioned above, Hus also had personal reasons for selecting these particular six articles. All of them grew out of Hus’s personal experience with contemporary clergy. Taken together, they build the justification for Hus’s recent disobedience of curial mandates, by using church-​­sanctioned theological teachings to defend his position. The treatise, circulating in both Latin and

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the vernacular, was a declaration of what was wrong with the clerical elite and why they ought not to be obeyed. The fact that he translated it into the vernacular implies his desire to convince both the clerics and the laity to support him instead of his persecutors. In the fall of 1412, Hus was already forming a faction of supporters by expanding his core audience at Bethlehem, the same people who shouted their agreement with Hus’s appeal against the papal bull that banned preaching in private places. After reading the bull from the pulpit at Bethlehem on June 25, 1410,75 Hus encouraged his listeners by saying, “If you wish to side with me, do not fear excommunication, because you have appealed alongside me according to the rules and order of the church.”76 His treatise O šesti bludiech (On the Six Errors) and others that followed aimed to influence the laity to take a stand against church authorities. In his criticism of ecclesiastical errors, Hus might have chosen any number of erroneous practices and aberrations, but he focused on those that most affected him personally. In the first error, Hus criticized “foolish priests” (blázniví kněžie), who boasted to be creators of their Creator and able to create him as many times as they pleased. This declaration put the priests above Christ himself, a scandalous aspiration. Hus drew on Augustine’s complicated distinction between four different ways of creating something, but the underlying message was simple: priests did not have the power to make something out of nothing. The celebration (and making) of the Eucharist did not make the priest a creator, but rather a servant of God. Hus admonished boastful clerics: “You cannot create the body of Christ, but God does so through you. Try to offer the sacrifice with due honor.”77 Hus referred to the priests with honor and deference due to a priest, while teaching the laity to see the clergy as instruments of God, who channel but do not control God’s power. The second error addressed belief in the saints and the pope, but it was really a meditation on the fallibility of humanity, coupled with a warning not to believe any one person unconditionally. Drawing again on Augustine, Hus drew a distinction between three ways of holding a belief: to believe in something, to hold a belief about something, and to believe something.78 As an example, Hus used the apostle Paul. Hus insisted that the faithful ought to believe that the Holy Spirit spoke through Paul, but despite Paul’s privileged status in the church, the faithful were not to believe him if he had lied or swore mendacious oaths. This comment suggests that Hus thought that the faithful needed to scrutinize Paul’s sayings carefully. If given a chance to converse with him face-​­to-​­face, they should not automatically believe all of his



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statements because of his elevated status in the church. As for other saints—​ ­popes included—​­he urged the faithful to believe them only when they spoke the truth, again implying that the faithful needed to be on their guard and actively sift through the saints’ pronouncements. When the saints spoke falsely, they should neither be believed nor obeyed. The fact that Hus included the pope among the saints was no coincidence: he was alluding to the recent papal bull banning preaching in private places. Throughout the treatise, Hus repeatedly reminded the reader of the ultimate fallibility of the ecclesiastical authorities, especially those with whom he was in conflict.79 After exhorting the laity to question even the most exalted of church authorities, Hus disputed the clerical power to forgive sins and the control that this allowed the priests to exert over the laity. Evidently, Hus had encountered priests who argued that they held the power to decide which sins God would forgive, an opinion that Hus was eager to refute. Hus explained that “forgiveness depended on the will and power of God and Christ and on the penitence or hardness of heart of each man in his soul, if anyone suffers grief on account of his sins and is sorry that he angered God, then God forgives his sins through Christ.” For forgiveness to take place, the collaboration of only two parties was needed: God and the penitent. Hus expressed ideas that would surface again during the sixteenth-​­century Reformation, with the priest’s role as a conduit of God’s power contributing very little to the act of forgiveness itself. He was clear on this point: “And so it is written on the walls of the Bethlehem chapel so that people would be forewarned and know that priests do not have the power to forgive sins.”80 Priests possessed no power of their own to grant forgiveness and could do nothing to prevent it from taking place. Hus concluded with a sharp criticism of those clerics who exaggerated their powers of forgiveness or, even worse, used them for profit or control. He implored the faithful not to be manipulated by clerics who refuse them absolution. Given his recent track record with the papal curia, Hus was personally most affected by the fourth error, the idea that all faithful—​­including h ­ imself—​­owed unconditional obedience to all authorities. Hus listed bishops, lords, and fathers as examples of such authorities but his main target was the papacy.81 Drawing on his own recent experience in the ecclesiastical courts, Hus argued that unconditional obedience was owed to no one human or institution. In fact, all needed to obey God even if it meant defying ecclesiastical authorities. He used Saints Catherine and Dorothy as examples, to make the point that God is to be obeyed over any other authority. Hus praised the two women, who both refused to take a husband, insisting that they had been called by the

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Holy Spirit to pursue a life of virginity. He argued that they were right to persevere in their calling, despite the protests of their mothers and fathers, adding that they would have been right to persevere even if the pope himself had tried to dissuade them. This was a hypothetical scenario; of course the pope did not interfere with Catherine’s and Dorothy’s decision to take the veil. But this scenario introduced the possibility that the pope could be mistaken and oppose something unquestionably good and authentic, in this case a saintly life of virginity. Hus then transitioned to a more controversial example: the pope’s recent ban on preaching in the capital, which Hus understood to be a personal attack. He argued that this ban was not to be obeyed, as it countered the judgment, will, and glory of God: “And so it is written in Bethlehem that people ought not to obey their prelates unless they command what is right to do.”82 He wrote: “the pope also bans priests from preaching God’s word in chapels, he bans priests from celebrating mass, priests who preach well and whose heart is in the right place. In that case, the priests ought to disobey the pope’s order, because it is contrary to God’s commandments. And so it is sometimes beneficial to disobey prelates and one’s superiors.”83 Hus insisted that no ban on preaching (or on celebrating the mass), regardless of the authority behind it, should ever be obeyed. This was a highly polemical move. Unauthorized preaching had been a thorn in the church’s side since the times of Peter Valdes in the twelfth century, and never quite went away in spite of repeated legislation and persecution against offenders. Hus’s hypothetical example of a pope who opposed the saintly life of virginity established a conjectural possibility that even the pope might err in judgment. Thus, Hus could suggest that the pope made an error in his ban on preaching. In a court of law, a vague suggestion is worth very little. But in the court of public opinion, it was enough to sow doubt and dissatisfaction among Hus’s lay supporters. In the fifth error, Hus took up a discussion of ecclesiastical condemnation. Once again, this was in direct response to his recent experiences with the curia and served to undermine, however implicitly, the authority of ecclesiastical authorities. Hus allowed that sometimes condemnation was an appropriate punishment but argued that a distinction needed to be made between just and unjust condemnation, depending on whether or not it was issued in accordance with God’s commandment of love. Hus did not address the question of how to determine this or who could do so. He simply implied that the decisions of clerical authorities are not automatically valid or trustworthy; one has to re-



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view and judge them for oneself. Hus presented a hypothetical scenario: if a man, innocent of mortal sin, was punished with unjust condemnation, yet continued to stand firm and endured the shame humbly, he would not be harmed by the condemnation. Quite the opposite: his soul would profit. Of course, this situation was hardly hypothetical. Hus was, of course, this man. The legal case against him, beginning with his appeal against the burning of Wyclif ’s books, dragged on with new and stricter injunctions.84 Hus wrote: “And, for this reason, false condemnation abounds and it is clear that such condemnation harms those who issue it rather than those who suffer it. Because if one is innocent of mortal sin and if they use said condemnation in order to separate him from God’s truth and if he stands firm suffering in humility, the condemnation does not harm him but instead benefits his soul.”85 Hus’s voice resounded clearly here, insisting that he had been unjustly condemned, yet incurred no spiritual harm from it, and even encouraging the faithful not to shy away from contact with him as they would have been instructed to do. But Hus openly stated that if he was not guilty of wrongdoing, his accusers were. With this statement he moved the discussion away from the question of his own guilt or innocence and t­ oward the use of condemnation and excommunication by those in authority in the church. Hus insisted that ecclesiastical excommunication and condemnation ought to be used to ensure the overall health of the body of the church, by amputating diseased members rather than punishing or crushing opposition: “Condemnation and excommunication ought to be like medicine, which can heal rather than destroy a person.”86 Condemnation had become a weapon in contemporary church disputes, and it was also widely used for a variety of nonspiritual purposes, even to punish secular offenses or to extract debts. Accusations of heresy had been bandied about for the same reasons.87 But Hus quickly zeroed in on the problem closest to his own heart, moving on the offensive and putting the church authorities on trial. He wrote, “Whoever condemns [another] except in the case of mortal sin, condemns himself, the same holds true for when he condemns for his own vengeance or out of greed or anger or pride.”88 In other words, ecclesiastical condemnation issued out of any sort of personal reasons, private vendettas, or attempts to squelch or control opposition, according to Hus, not only is invalid but also condemns the person issuing it. And since Hus was very vocal about his belief that he had been condemned unjustly, his discussion of the fifth error turns into an open accusation of his accusers. It is no wonder that both the king and the archbishop,

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who had previously supported and even admired Hus, began to regard the Bethlehem preacher as a disruptive troublemaker. Hus ended his treatise about clerical malfeasance and corruption by addressing the problem of simony as the sixth error,89 but the discussion seems more like an afterthought. His treatment is very brief as Hus directs his readers to his earlier treatise, entirely dedicated to the subject.90 Hus explains the rudiments of simony, insisting that “no spiritual goods were to be exchanged for temporal rewards, money, or services”91 and that “everyone who wished to trade a material thing, such as money, service, gifts, in exchange for ordination as a priest or bishop was guilty of simony.”92 However, it would have been difficult to find anyone who had received an ecclesiastical office without greasing a hand or two. Also, payments for weddings, baptisms, funerals, and other services abounded, so it is not clear whether Hus really meant to indict the entire clergy or only a select few. (His views on the subject would become more pronounced in his vernacular Expositions, discussed below.) However, this general critique eventually turned into a rant about his hypocritical contemporaries, who did not suspend their services even when they knew Hus was in town, in direct violation of the interdict: “And Prague clergy along with the archbishop, knowing that I am here and that others have seen me, they did not interrupt God’s services despite the pope’s commandment that they do so. And so, themselves disobedient, they are cursed and profani, and they have lost their priesthood.”93 It seems strange that Hus would complain that his visit to the city did not reactivate the terms of the interdict, which would only have been inconvenient to himself. But the double standard, the fact that the clerics disobeyed the very same papal order that they punished Hus for disobeying, is at the heart of his final complaint. Hus’s vernacular treatise On the Six Errors educated the laity about the proper extent of clerical privilege. Hus brought important theological distinctions to the people, teaching them about the true nature of divine authority and the very real limits of clerical powers. This is where he sailed into forbidden and quite polemical territory. Hus insisted that the priests held no authority over an individual’s eventual salvation or damnation. And if the priests behaved badly, they held no authority at all. He exhorted the laity to evaluate for themselves the edicts and pronouncements of ecclesiastical leaders, including the pope. Thus, On the Six Errors is both an attempt to help the laity understand the religious matters of their day and a theological justification of Hus’s own defiant disobedience of the papal curia. Between the lines, we hear Hus quietly assuring his followers that those in accordance with God’s law



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would be claimed as God’s own, regardless of the ritual or legal prohibitions of the church. By insisting that the church hierarchy had no authority over his eternal fate, Hus inserted an element of individualism: the power to decide for oneself whether one lived in accordance with God’s law. Divorcing the dictates of one’s conscience from the prescriptions of the church was among the first steps in building his own faction of supporters. This was also one of the long-​­lasting effects of Hus’s theological education, teaching his followers not to fear the clergy on account of their powers, but rather to examine their actions and test them against their conscience. As an education, this was a highly polemical and divisive one. Hus’s decision to display this polemical treatise says much about Hus’s intention to shape an antiestablishment faction under his own direction.

Hus Appeals to Christ Hus’s legal troubles culminated in the fourth excommunication, announced on October 18, 1412, at the meeting of the Prague synod. Since the curia did not give him justice, Hus turned to a court that would, the court of public opinion. Instead of appealing the verdict through appropriate legal channels within the twenty-​­three days allotted to him, Hus published what came to be known as his “Appeal to Christ.” This document was addressed to “all faithful Christians” and explained the failures of due process. Hus argued that the present interdict, as well as the excommunication imposed upon him, was unjust and resulted from an abuse of the law.94 In a deliberate act of public theater, Hus announced his appeal to Christ from Bethlehem’s pulpit and concurrently had a translated version nailed to the gate of Mostecká tower in Prague’s Malá Strana as “broadsheet.”95 Hus’s long-​­time lawyer John of Jesenice may have advised against bringing the case before the laity.96 But John was momentarily away from Prague, and Hus acted in a way that maximized his public exposure even if it meant opting out of the legal system.97 The appeal was unprecedented in the history of medieval canon law and, in effect, illegal: “From the perspective of the papal court and its officers, the appeal was a deliberate breach of legal procedure, an effort to obfuscate canon law, and an act of defiance against the jurisdictional authority of the church.”98 There was some legal precedent, but no one before Hus had only appealed to Christ (all others also directed their appeal to some earthly institution). Moreover, Hus was the first to appeal a legal decision made by a

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court.99 Hus’s appeal was perhaps legally unwise, but it ultimately proved a public relations coup. Because he was unable to win the lawsuit brought against him by the curia, Hus reframed the contest as something he could win and claimed a moral, if not a legal, victory before a large audience of clerics and laity. The “Appeal to Christ” consists of two parts, incongruent in their content but well suited to rally Hus’s supporters and demonstrate his innocence. The first part uses Old Testament language to frame Hus’s experience at the hands of the curia, depicting Hus as an innocent, unjustly persecuted victim of evildoers. There is no mention of canon law in the first section of the document; Hus relies solely on biblical allusions to victimhood and persecution.100 The document opens with a powerful invocation of God. Hus referred to Psalms 144 and 145 in calling on God the Father, the defender of those who suffer wrong, who is near to those who call upon him in truth, who frees those in fetters, fulfills the wishes of those who fear him, who preserves those who love him and crushes unrepentant sinners. Not coincidentally, Hus underscored the role of God as a helper to the oppressed, that is, in this case, himself. Hus turned next to Christ, who was unjustly hounded by prelates, masters, and Pharisees, priests, corrupt judges, and witnesses. The parallel between Christ’s and Hus’s lives was unmistakable. He couched his appeal in the language of the Psalms and the prophets, calling on Christ to be his helper and protector. His enemies were plotting against him and wished to cut him off from the land of the living (Jeremiah 11:18–20). Hus pleaded that Christ deliver him from his enemies (Psalm 58:2) and begged God to see and consider him (Lamentations 1:11). He complained that the enemies who afflicted him had multiplied (Psalm 3:2) and consulted together, that they were free to pursue and capture him (Psalm 70:10–11). Convinced that God had forsaken him, Hus continued to plead with Christ to look upon him, for many dogs had surrounded him and the council of the evildoers had besieged him. They had spoken against him with deceitful tongues, assaulted him with words of hatred and fought against him without cause. They denigrated him (Psalm 108:3–4) and repaid him with evil for good, and hatred for his love (Psalm 108:5). However, the tone and content shift abruptly as Hus begins refuting the legal charges brought against him by the curia.101 Hus’s failure to appeal before the pope was the core of his legal troubles and also of his appeal. Hus used precise legal terminology to explain that he failed to appear before the judge (contumacia) not out of pride (contemptus), as he had been accused.102 Hus reasoned that it would have been too dangerous for him to undertake the trip



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to Rome back in 1410 when summoned. Two of his university colleagues, Stanislav of Znojmo and Stephen of Páleč, did try to appear before the curia in Rome two years previously, in order to clear themselves of charges of Wycliffite heresy. But they made it only as far as Bologna, where they were robbed, imprisoned, and generally mistreated as if they were the “worst of criminals.”103 Given what had happened to these two masters, Hus judged that he would have been in danger as well. Hus also argued that the trip had become unnecessary, because he and the archbishop had long ago officially reconciled. Hus was telling the truth, although he did not mention that the king had coerced the archbishop into the reconciliation, in order to claim that his realm was free of heretics. Overall, Hus argued, the legal case against him was riddled with holes, and the proper legal procedure had not been observed: the court denied him impartial judges and witnesses and chose a location for the proceedings that was inaccessible.104 The real reason behind his persecution was, Hus argued, a personal vendetta by Michael de Causis, a compatriot and one of his longtime enemies, who was leading the prosecution again him. Hus describes himself as oppressed by unjust excommunication (“per excomunicacionem pretensam oppresso”), instigated by his enemy and accuser Michael de Causis (“per instigatorem et adversarium meum”). Not only had he not received a fair hearing, the court, taking advice from de Causis, had also rejected any testimony of extenuating circumstances. They refused the notarized and sealed testimonies of university representatives.105 De Causis delayed the proceedings when it suited the prosecution and refused to hear Hus’s witnesses. In Hus’s view, the charges brought against him were based on personal hatred rather than proper legal procedure, an allegation that fits with his self-​­presentation as an innocent victim, akin to Christ. The document has been interpreted in various ways: Václav Flajšhans has argued that the document served the purpose of announcing Hus’s rejection of ecclesiastical authorities in favor of secular courts, a revolutionary act in itself. More recently, Thomas Fudge has tempered this view by suggesting that Hus’s act “makes sense and is not an act of radicalism or revolutionary intent” but rather an expression of Hus’s commitment to imitate Christ whereas Pavel Soukup has drawn attention to the public aspect of the act.106 All three have their basis. Although God was ostensibly the intended recipient of the appeal, Hus clearly planned to be overheard by a human audience—​­there is no other reason why he would have devoted so much space to explanations of the curia’s legal proceedings. Hus wished everyone else to know how he had been

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mistreated, by whom, and why and planned to use any resulting sympathies ­toward assembling his own opposition party. The document addresses the lords of the realm directly, in the same order that their names would appear on official documents and charters, which infused the document with a semblance of legitimacy.107 Hus must have hoped that the lords would be sympathetic to his plea and able to offer an alternative jurisdiction, in the High Court. A precedent did exist. In the previous year, the king appointed a high-​­ranking committee to study and resolve a standing conflict between the archbishop and Hus regarding the ban on preaching.108 And it seems that a royally sponsored resolution was within Hus’s reach again. Within two months, on January 3, 1413, the king ordered the clergy to meet “in order that the pestiferous dissension among the clergy of our realm . . . ​be removed and completely extirpated.”109 It appears that the king promised to support Hus over the pope if the preacher stopped his incendiary preaching. This, however, was not the kind of resolution that Hus had in mind, and the meeting eventually came to nothing. Hus’s identification with Christ and the self-​­portrayal as the innocent victim in his “Appeal to Christ” endowed him with an aura of moral authority, which he continued to exploit in order to make a compelling case in his favor.

Conclusion Jan Hus, Bethlehem’s most famous preacher, went from the archbishop’s golden boy to a persona non grata within only a few years. His downfall illustrates the concerns of ecclesiastical authorities as well as their desperate efforts to remain in control over what was preached in Bohemia’s capital. While they welcomed his reforming efforts within the close circle of the clerics, they were suspicious of his taking the same message to the laity. This is understandable. In Hus’s hands, the message of reform gained a distinctly subversive tint when—​­instead of catechesis—​­Hus began teaching the laity about the limitations of clerical authority and telling them to leave their parish if it happened to be led by an immoral or corrupt priest. In this view, lay reform consisted of passing a judgment about their clergy and deciding to act on that judgment by disobeying them and even leaving their assigned parish church. This was in keeping with Hus’s Wycliffite ecclesiology. If the communitas praedestinatorum is distinct from the visible church, then it makes sense to take precautions to



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ensure that one is not ensnared by clerics who are not, in fact, part of God’s church. However, the archbishop thought differently and accused Hus of inciting the common people to sedition and rebellion against the pope, and the curia launched legal proceedings against him in an effort to ban him from Bethlehem Chapel. In the fall of 1412, the archbishop would succeed and Hus would be exiled from Prague. Hus’s repeated run-​­ins with the archbishop and later with the curia show the profound unease of the authorities with Hus’s ability to reach thousands and with his potential to rouse the masses against the authorities. Hus did not back off, however, and by early 1412 he used the pulpit in Bethlehem to point out what he regarded as his opponents’ erroneous ways, their disrespect for the gospel, for God, and for the salvation of the faithful. As the complaints against him grew, Hus’s interactions with the laity became increasingly deliberate. From his pulpit at Bethlehem, Hus communicated to the laity that although he may have fought a losing battle with the curia, the moral victory was his and that he, rather than corrupt officials, held authority in the church. In voicing his disagreements publicly, he began cultivating a faction of supporters, who relied on him, and not on the clerical establishment, to supply the correct understanding of God’s law and of salvation. The following chapter will turn to Hus’s increasingly radicalized activities after his exile from the capital in the fall of 1412, analyzing his strategies for faction formation and exploring their implications for Hus’s career and Bohemia’s religious landscape.

Chapter 2

Creating a Faction Jan Hus and the Importance of Moral Victory

The exile from Prague, following his “Appeal to Christ” discussed in the previous chapter, hit Hus very hard. But instead of accepting the injustice and backing down, he hit back with the only weapon available to him, his words. In the weeks and months following his departure from Prague, Hus campaigned on his own behalf through letters, sermons, and treatises, all in the vernacular, in an effort to persuade the laity that he was in the right and the curia in the wrong. To the extent that late medieval media allowed him, he “went public” with his disagreement, a decision that had lasting consequences. In the last three years of his life, Jan Hus used vernacular communications deliberately in order to present himself as an innocent victim of injustice and to create a faction of followers and sympathizers. To that end, he used his letters and his vernacular treatises, each with a different message and emphasis. The letters depict Hus’s quarrel with the curia as a cosmic battle between good and the Antichrist, with Hus in the guise of an Old Testament prophet, another apostle, or saint. The vernacular treatises, On Simony, the three Expositions (of the Faith, of the Ten Commandments, and of the Lord’s Prayer), and Hus’s vernacular Postil belabor these points, adding a devastating criticism of contemporary clergy as well as spiritual advice. They show that Hus’s experience at the hands of the curia also influenced his view of the spiritual life, how it could best be lived, and what was at stake. These writings reveal a pastorally minded Hus, a preacher striving to point his followers to the beauties of the interior life of the faith and a university master eager to educate the faithful in the Scriptures. But they also show a bitter critic of clerical shortcomings and of the clerical culture in general, a disappointed man whose



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spiritual advice demanded rejection of contemporary religious customs, discord, and partisanship. Hus’s quest to clear his tarnished reputation before the laity brought the latent divisions and disagreements out into the open and into the vernacular, creating a faction of supporters. Hus’s vernacular communications became an instrument of a “newly defined mode of political communication, in which, besides the economic and political elites, the social strata which had had no say in power decisions thus far—​­burghers, artisans, women, and the municipal poor—​­also played their part.”1 This effort to captivate a larger audience was born of an immediate need; because he could not win the legal case brought against him by the curia, Hus retold the events in such a way that allowed him to claim moral victory. These interactions between Hus as the leader of the reformist party and the aristocratic and urban society “gave momentum to the formation of the late medieval public sphere in Bohemia.”2 They were key to the creation of the public sphere in Bohemia and proved an important prerequisite for the success of the Hussite revolt. But how did Hus’s communications bring about “this creation of the new public”? In what way did the vernacular become “an instrument of a newly defined mode of political communication”?3 Hus did so by bringing the disputed questions out among the laity, effectively creating a kind of public forum, in which everyone, lay and cleric alike, was asked to have an opinion and to take a stand. In the last three years of his life, Hus deliberately polarized and offended; his was not pious catechesis but a manifesto of cosmic battle in which everyone was called on to participate. The so-​­called public sphere grew out of disagreements about fundamental matters of religious and political life, expressed publicly, disagreements that were made seem so momentous that they called for the audience’s immediate response, eventually fueling the Hussite revolution.4

Mightier Than the Sword: The Evidence of Hus’s Letters Hus’s excommunication and exile in 1412 were the culmination of struggle over indulgences, in which Hus took an uncompromising stance against the sale of indulgences in the capital.5 It was costly. Hus lost not only the patronage of the king but also the support of most of his university colleagues.6 At that time, Hus had chosen to take a radical stance for something that he considered true; he would do the same when difficult times came again two years later. As before, he declared his intent to oppose the authorities to the laity

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and continued to write vernacular treatises explaining why he had chosen his course of action and, increasingly, why others should follow in his footsteps. Words were the only weapons permitted to Hus in his ongoing war against the curia. In the wake of the fourth excommunication issued against him, and with a threat of interdict on his beloved city, Hus left Prague on October 14, 1412.7 He found refuge at the castle Kozí in southern Bohemia that belonged to Jan of Ústí, one of his noble supporters. While there, he continued to write treatises both in the vernacular and in Latin. The majority of his vernacular output comes from this period, as does his most controversial treatise De ecclesia, in which he drew heavily on Wyclif ’s teaching about the church. A few years later, the councilmen at Constance would mine De ecclesia for evidence of his heretical views. After leaving Prague, Hus also kept busy writing letters and vernacular treatises, but he did not take any official steps to have the excommunication revoked.8 It seems that he had given up on proving his innocence by canonical means, instead turning to the laity for support. Because Hus no longer had access to a pulpit from which he could proclaim his message,9 he turned to a written medium to address his followers and sympathizers. Hus often used biblical language to depict himself as a prophet or a Christlike victim, single-​ ­handedly battling the forces of evil in the church and the world. This was hardly the first instance of message manipulation in the history of heresy, but it was both effective and memorable for its boldness and its wide-​­ranging distribution. Because he could not win the legal case brought against him by the curia, Hus retold the events in such a way that allowed him to claim moral victory. The Antichrist as Hus’s Chief Enemy

In his letters, which were, in effect, public documents, Hus interpreted recent events as a simple story of good versus evil. Hus chose the Antichrist as his enemy and did not hesitate to equate the evil figure with the pope and his cardinals. Saying that the pope was the Antichrist marked a new departure in Hus’s thinking. His earlier writings, prior to 1412, described the Antichrist in perfectly orthodox terms: an impersonal force opposed to God, actively luring clergy into enforcing their own commands rather than God’s will.10 Hus’s reluctance to align the Antichrist with any specific person or faction is evident.11 In fact, Hus’s teaching on the Antichrist was at that time more traditional



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than that of his great teacher, John Wyclif.12 But excommunication and exile drastically changed Hus’s view of his opposition. After the fall of 1412, many of his letters openly stated that the pope or the cardinals were the Antichrist or Antichrist’s servants. But these letters were all addressed to the university masters, inhabitants of Prague, and, on several occasions, “all faithful Czechs,” never to the pope or the cardinals themselves.13 Hus believed his defiance of the curia was not simple disobedience of canon law, but rather a preamble to a cosmic battle between good and evil, in which neutrality was impossible. Only weeks after he had left Prague, Hus exhorted his followers there not to be led astray by the Antichrist, meaning the ecclesiastical synod in Prague, who had issued the final excommunication.14 Using this kind of indirect language, Hus advised his sympathizers to be wary of all decrees, regulations, and instructions that came from the same ecclesiastical body, in effect telling them to be selective about accepting its authority. Hus spoke more directly in a letter to his friend, colleague, and mentor Master Christian, in spring 1413, calling the pope “Satan” and “Antichrist” and his disciples (the cardinals) the “satellites of Antichrist.”15 This is one of the most explicit attacks on the pope and his cardinals, describing the church as completely captivated by the forces of evil, with “Satan incarnate” residing in the place of Peter (“in loco Petri resideat Sathanas cum 12 superbissimis dyabolis incarnates”).16 In another letter to the same master, Hus stated his resolve to fight against the Behemoth, whom he described as the pope and his masters, doctors, and lawyers, who “cover up the ugliness of the beast by a false name of sanctity.”17 Hus’s harsh pronouncement came on the heels of his refusal to accept a ruling by the theological faculty at the University in Prague. They put forth what they considered an orthodox definition of the church, but Hus instead clung to his own understanding of the church, inspired by Wyclif and recently formulated in his treatise De ecclesia. By stating that Satan resides in the place of Peter, Hus declared that he considered the authorities in Rome to be illegitimate.18 The conflict between Hus and the authorities was no longer an internal matter within the church, but a battle between the forces of good and evil. By calling the pope and cardinals the Antichrist, Hus distanced himself from the authorities, creating a divide between himself and his followers on the one side and the pope and cardinals on the other. Applying such damning words to the pope also helped clarify why the curia persecuted Hus in the first place: the pope and cardinals opposed goodness and could not help attacking

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an innocent man who threatened them. In fact, to be prosecuted and exiled by the Antichrist spoke exceedingly well of Hus and further underscored his innocence. His overall strategy served two ends: Hus was able to distance himself from the curia (creating his own faction) and, at the same time, to force the undecided to take a stand in the conflict. Hus as an Old Testament Prophet and Another Christ

Every good narrative needs a hero, and Hus willingly cast himself in this role. In his letters from exile to his colleagues, noble supporters, and lay sympathizers, Hus employed Scriptures to present himself as an innocent victim of unrighteous persecution and interpolated contemporary events into his preconceived framework of a cosmic battle between the people of God and the forces of the Antichrist. Hus’s wish to sway the public opinion in his favor is best displayed in one of his open letters, written to the people of Prague in November 1413.19 A year into his life in exile, Hus continued to exhort his followers to persevere and emphasized the manifold rewards for those who did, along with the painful punishment for those who fell astray. But what were the letter’s addressees supposed to persevere in doing? When Hus visited the city, which was seldom because of the threat of an interdict, perhaps they could host him in a city filled with hostile clerics, but it would seem that Hus demanded something greater than help with travel arrangements. Hus needed his sympathizers to believe his interpretation of contemporary events and trust him when he told them who was a friend and who was an enemy. In speaking to laymen, Hus drew parallels between himself and various scriptural persons, as well as between his situation and various scriptural events. He thought that his recent persecutions and suffering were signs of his innocence, and he used the Bible to legitimize this claim. For example, in one letter (in which Hus also rejected the advice of the theological faculty in Prague to stop preaching), Hus argued that it was better to die well than to live poorly. He especially elaborated on the blessedness of suffering and mused about the heavenly reward it would ultimately bring, alluding to a number of New Testament passages.20 When writing from exile in November 1413 to the inhabitants of Prague, Hus underlined the fact that, like him, the apostles also suffered unjust persecution.21 Writing from his jail cell in Constance, mere weeks before his death, Hus cited a similar passage: “Blessed shall you be when men shall hate you, and when they shall separate you, and shall re-



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proach you, and cast out your name as evil, for the Son of Man’s sake. Be glad in that day and rejoice; for behold, your reward is great in heaven.” He saw himself as an apostle, stating that he would ultimately partake of the same crown of glory and imagining that they passed through fire in the same way that he soon would.22 In this schema, his suffering and persecution served as a proof that he was innocent. Hus’s persecution and suffering confirmed that he was, indeed, a chosen servant of God. Hus used Old Testament prophets, apostles, and Christ as examples to underscore this point. Referring to Luke 6:22–23, in which Christ stated that the world hated true prophets and loved false ones, Hus argued that the world’s hatred for him proved that he was, in fact, a true prophet.23 This parallel was expanded in a letter, written in the vernacular to his friends in Bohemia from his jail cell at the end of June 1415, twelve days before his death. In it, Hus instructed the citizens of Prague to not be afraid if they saw his books burned in a public spectacle (in the manner of Wyclif ’s books, burned by the archbishop in July 1410). The letter then listed a number of Old Testament prophets who had suffered a similar fate, such as Jeremiah, Baruch, and other, esteemed biblical figures.24 Hus also alluded to Christian saints, such as John Chrysostom, twice accused of heresy by priests, but whose reputation God cleared after his death. By associating himself with those whose saintliness had stood the test of time, Hus appeared equally blameless and innocent, vindicated by God against all his earthly opponents. Hus also claimed that the circumstances of his persecution and arrest were similar to those of Jesus. The parallels began to appear shortly after Hus’s departure for exile in October 1412. In a letter written from an unknown location to the inhabitants of Prague, Hus addressed his audience in the vernacular. His words were reminiscent of the apostle Paul, speaking to those who love God in truth, await the Savior, and follow his law.25 Of course, “following his law” meant acting in the manner determined by Hus. In the body of the letter, Hus encouraged his audience to resist the temptation to be afraid. It is left unclear what the audience might fear, presumably the clerics who persecute Hus. Not only should they not be afraid, Hus wrote, the faithful ought to rejoice in their trials. In a seamless transition, Hus turned from talking about his own troubles to the persecution of Christ, emphasizing the parallels between their situations. In Hus’s recounting of Christ’s life, Christ was called a heretic and was excommunicated, condemned, and crucified. In Hus’s view, Christ had endured heavy abuses from bishops, priests, and scribes. They called him a

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ravenous drinker, demoniac, and blasphemer, saying “this man is not from God” and exposing him as a slanderer. Hus’s paraphrase of Christ’s life emphasized Christ being a heretic, someone not from God, and someone excommunicated, all of which paralleled Hus’s experience. By this time, Hus had been exiled from Prague, banned from preaching, called a heretic, accused of spreading error and bad teachings, and excommunicated. Another reference to the life of Christ that paralleled Hus’s own life appeared in a letter written shortly before December 25, again to the inhabitants of Prague. In the letter, Hus advised the audience to ignore the ban on attending Bethlehem Chapel. “They have no reason to keep you away from the word of God being preached, especially now that I am away.”26 But the main focus of the letter was for Hus to justify his departure from Bethlehem and from Prague. Citing instances when Jesus would deliberately elude his persecutors (like Hus, choosing to leave his hometown in order to preach elsewhere), Hus praised Jesus for his (and, implicitly, Hus’s own) foresight and cunning in avoiding his persecutors and fleeing the city.27 In his own view, Hus fled in the same way and for the same (good) reasons as Jesus did. And because no one could possibly dispute Jesus’s infinite, divine wisdom and accuse him of cowardice, Hus’s actions were, by association, to be understood in the same (indisputably good) way. Hus’s manipulation of Scriptures must have caused quite a splash, since in winter 1413 the doctors of theology at the university in Prague officially criticized his practice of scriptural interpretation. In the document entitled Consilium doctorum facultatis theologiae studii Pragensis, they argued that Hus read the Bible according to his own ideas and not the church’s.28 The criticism suggests that Hus employed the Bible for his personal ends and deviated from the acceptable interpretation. The masters especially objected to Hus’s use of biblical verses to justify his calls for disobedience of ecclesiastical authorities. However, Hus’s response to the Consilium in June 1413, addressed to Magister John, cardinal of Rejnštejn, indicated that he had no interest in changing his practice. Hus would continue to interpret his own persecution as suffering for the sake of truth.29 And in this narrative, accepting Hus’s interpretation of contemporary events and his role in them was necessary for salvation. Hus’s vernacular letters describe his predicament using the language of the Bible. Hus depicts himself as a hero of biblical proportions: an unjustly persecuted fighter for the truth who must battle the Antichrist himself. In a telling example of Hus’s use of the Scriptures, Hus applied Jesus’s words that his elect were “those who hear my word and obey it, and who suffer with me.”30 This kind of rhetoric was instrumental to how Hus managed to create



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such a tight-​­knit group around himself, a veritable faction. Not only did Hus keep tabs on who did and did not belong among his followers, he insinuated that this state of belonging had eternal consequences. Remaining faithful to Christ’s law (as taught and proclaimed by Hus) now served as the litmus test for determining eternal reward or punishment. The followers’ willingness to suffer for the sake of truth marked them, in Hus’s view, as the chosen ones of God. At the final judgment, Christ’s apostles would show special recognition to the apostles of Hus.31 In this way, Hus’s own partisan interpretation of the Scriptures became for his followers synonymous with the law of Christ. It is likely that the laity was unaware that Hus was presenting them with highly polemical interpretations. The Bible became a weapon that Hus used for his own end.

Hus’s Vernacular Catechesis: Spiritual Call to Practical Action Since his exile in October 1412, Hus also wrote vernacular treatises, in fact, most of his vernacular works date from this period of exile.32 These “exilic” treatises are seldom subject of scholarly inquiry, although there has been interest in them as evidence regarding the development of Hus’s spirituality. Thomas Fudge offered an analysis of them in his discussion of Hus’s spirituality, with useful summaries of the different works not addressed in this chapter.33 Antonín Váhala offered another reading of these treatises, suggesting that we take them as a testament to Hus’s “calling to holy orders and the cure of souls.”34 This latter view paints a recent view of Hus as the pastor of souls and contains an entirely unexamined assumption that these pastoral treatises are not polemical, not written against someone or something. The analysis here assumes the opposite. Having been banished from the capital, Hus smarts from punishments that he views as unjust and wishes to inculcate the faithful with the kind of learning that would eventually vindicate him. These vernacular treatises mostly addressed the common people and aimed to inculcate Hus’s particular vision of a healthy spiritual and moral life. Like his letters, these works have often been ignored until recently, seen as secondary to Hus’s life work, mostly because they were thought to contain little in the way of theological or spiritual novelty, and much of the content appeared elsewhere in Latin either in Hus’s own works or in Wyclif ’s.35 This section will consider his five principal vernacular works, Hus’s trilogy of

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Expositions (of Faith [that is, of the Apostle’s Creed], of the Decalogue, and of the Lord’s Prayer),36 his vernacular Postil,37 and his work On Simony.38 Through his vernacular works, Hus tried to teach his listeners what he considered a productive spiritual life, giving them advice for how to deal with enemies both spiritual and worldly. However, much of his advice consisted of lambasting corrupt clerics and general criticisms of the state of the church and as such was deeply divisive. To live a good spiritual life, according to Hus, necessitated standing up to corrupt authorities, much as he did. The Expositions Trilogy

The Expositions were a trilogy, intended to teach the laity the fundamentals of belief, of moral action, and of prayer. That those formed a self-​­contained unit is evident from the first chapter of the first of these three treatises, where Hus stated that there were “three duties of a Christian: to believe, fulfill God’s commandments, and pray to God,” which correspond to the three works, on the creed, on the Ten Commandments, and on the Lord’s Prayer.39 His Exposition of the Faith focused on key concepts of the Christian faith: sin, forgiveness, and salvation, while the Exposition of the Lord’s Prayer explained each of the lines of the Lord’s Prayer. The middle work in the trilogy, the Exposition of the Decalogue, is the largest and the most comprehensive of the three, taking up not only the Ten Commandments, strictly defined, but addressing different kinds of sins as well as different life situations (for clerics, nobles, and ordinary faithful) and various questions that might arise. The breadth of potential scenarios is so vast that the Exposition of the Decalogue can be seen more like a comprehensive guidebook to life than a mere commentary on ten Old Testament prohibitions. Combined, the three Expositions go much beyond any discussion of the three duties of a Christian, but offer spiritual and practical advice for both clerics and laity in all walks of life. Hus’s Vernacular Postil

The fourth work considered here is Hus’s Postil, a cycle of vernacular sermons for every Sunday in the liturgical year with a few extras, completed on October 27, 1413. It was a dedicated attempt to deepen the audience’s knowledge of the Bible, most likely composed as a continuous text rather than a report of actual sermons.40 Its inner logic unfolds over the course of the entire work, which may be why it was (to our knowledge) so seldom excerpted from, circu-



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lating instead as a whole set.41 In the Postil, Hus translated the relevant biblical pericope into the vernacular and followed it with additional explanations of the passage. As he explained in the Postil’s introduction: “And because they do not generally have [biblical] readings written in Czech, and interpretation is accepted without a foundation, that is why I wish first to give the reading and then my interpretation, so that the word of our Savior would sound the loudest and be given to the faithful for salvation.”42 In making the Postil available in the vernacular, he deliberately went against clerics who would rather have kept biblical knowledge to themselves. They did so, Hus explained, so that the laity would be unable to compare them to the biblical models and criticize and punish them, that they would not lose esteem in the eyes of the laity, and that the laity would be less likely to discern bad preaching.43 Clearly, Hus considered the struggle over the Bible to be one of the key struggles in the ongoing war against bad clerics. On Simony

Hus wrote his treatise On Simony “so that the faithful would avoid it and so that some simoniacs would repent.”44 Hus defines simony as the “selling and buying of holy things” and develops a comprehensive understanding of what is involved in such transactions.45 Hus takes up every rank in the church in turn and shows the different ways in which the people occupying it could theoretically be involved in simony, concluding that nearly all clergy are involved in the practice unless they specifically exclude themselves. Hus had a junior priest, who wished to avoid being implicated in simony but who served under a more senior cleric, ask how he could avoid simony. The advice coming from Hus is uncompromising: “stand up to it and refuse to participate in it” even it means risking jail, for “it is blessed to suffer for the truth . . . ​and even if he were to die in jail, what better fate can one meet in the world than holy martyrdom?”46 Hus’s discussion of simony leads to many an excursus about the nature of the church, which is distinctly Wycliffite. Conceptualizing the church as an invisible communitas praedestinatorum allows Hus to question and undermine the authority of those authority figures who live immoral and corrupt lives, stating, for example, that popes and bishops who do not follow Christ lack authority in the church.47 Of all of Hus’s post-​­1412 vernacular treatises, On Simony is addressed largely—​­though by no means exclusively—​­to a clerical audience, which is why he relied on venerated church authorities (Pope Innocent, Pope Gregory, St. Augustine,

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and St. Bernard) to support his arguments as much as on his more usual resource, the Bible. All five works, the Expositions, the Postil, and On Simony are works of spiritual instruction, but they also contain a lot of information about Hus’s life, as well as criticism, much of it quite severe, of contemporary clergy.48 Regarding the spiritual advice contained therein, none of the five treatises is entirely original, but rather each repeats ideas expressed elsewhere. The treatise On Simony is a translation and adaptation of his earlier Latin work De simonia.49 And whereas in the Expositions Hus reworked Wyclif ’s Latin work Decalogus seu de mandatis divinis,50 the vernacular Postil is a reworking of Hus’s Latin Postil, written between 1410 and 1411, the so-​­called Sermones in Bethlehem.51 In the reworking, Hus eliminated church authorities in favor of scriptural quotations and added more contemporary context at the expense of scholastic commentaries.52 What was new is the sheer number of comments about Hus’s own life and about the state of the contemporary church, either justifying his conduct or lambasting bad priests and corrupt authorities. It is clear that Hus’s interpretation of his life, his struggle against injustice and persecution, indelibly influenced his view of the spiritual life, what was at stake, and how it could best be lived, which he communicated through his vernacular writings. Thus the treatises also show a bitter critic of clerical shortcomings and of the clerical culture in general, a disappointed man whose spiritual advice instilled rejection of contemporary religious customs, division, and partisanship. Hus lambasted immoral priests (whom he sometimes identified by name), complained about the blindness and outright corruption of the church’s higher-​­ups, and stressed the importance of choosing the right side in the ongoing spiritual struggle against the forces of the Antichrist. Hus’s spirituality has been the subject of a number of scholarly investigations and much ground has already been covered. A very helpful overview of Hus’s spirituality has recently been offered by Thomas Fudge.53 After considering Hus’s vernacular works written mostly after 1412, he synthesized a number of principles that governed Hus’s spiritual outlook, contextualizing them within late medieval culture and showing that Hus’s spirituality followed rather traditional lines. His spirituality focused on love, nurtured by mystical, or quasi-​­mystical, experiences of Christ, shunning or even rejecting outward forms of religion should they interfere with the inner.54 To put it in the words of another biographer, “Hus combats the external, mechanical piety of the time by opposing it to the piety of the heart and the spirit.”55 Prayer was central in this life, and it was to be humble and social,56 the latter emphasis on



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community being perhaps a surprising aspect of spirituality in someone as committed to the inner life of a mystic. Perhaps this insistence on communality in prayer and in spiritual pursuits in general is a sign that Hus was fundamentally thinking about communities and groups and not necessarily individuals, which, in turn, helps us understand his focus on creating a community of faithful followers. Importantly, Hus wrote works of pastoral care even from his prison cell at Constance, dedicating them, somewhat poignantly, to his jailers.57 This detail alone looms large: what Hus chose to do in the last weeks of his life shows clearly where his priorities lay, not with theological argumentation but with works of pastoral care. The persistent theme, a thread woven through all of Hus’s writing from the last three years of his life, is one of contemptus mundi: the idea that temporal life ought to be shunned as unimportant and even potentially deleterious to spiritual ambitions.58 And while holding to this principle is nothing out of the ordinary for a spiritual writer, Hus elevated his rejection of the world to a new level, a level at which it actually became quite problematic. In addition to shunning worldly temptations, Hus’s rejection of the world encompassed also a rejection of worldly authorities (those with whom he disagreed, that is), even including the courts. More than a principle of internal introspection, contemptus mundi thus in Hus’s hands became an animating—​­and deeply ­polarizing—​­political principle. And Hus acted on it often. Most memorably, in publishing what came to be known as his “Appeal to Christ” on October 18, 1412, discussed in the previous chapter. This document, circulating in both Latin and Czech, was addressed to “all faithful Christians” and publicly announced Hus’s rejection of temporal jurisdiction on account of its abuse of the law.59 The appeal was unprecedented in the history of medieval canon law and, in effect, illegal. But it was a public-​­relations coup: Since he was unable to win the lawsuit brought against him by the curia, Hus reframed the contest as something he could win and claimed a moral, if not a legal, victory. But Hus was no mere rebel; his rejection of authorities—​­when he explained it publicly—​­was always meticulously documented from the Scriptures, allowing the Bible to speak directly into his situation as a live voice of divine disapproval. Virtually all of Hus’s complaints about clerical failings (and there are many such complaints) come with a direct quotation of a New Testament passage in support of it. When speaking about interdicts, for example, Hus asks, “Because what is worse for Christians than to deny them funerals, baptisms, confessions, communion? . . . ​And this is the great suffering

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which the Savior talks about” in Matthew 24:21–22.60 When he criticizes clerics for disallowing preaching, he rails against them saying, “They do not preach against evil and prevent others from doing so. They ‘stop Jesus from speaking’ as Luke says in 11:53, and they curse those who believe in him as John 9:28 says.”61 Hus is clearly intent on acquainting his audience with what the Bible has to say and showing specifically how the Bible proves his opponents to be in the wrong. To be sure, many of his interpretations were partisan and controversial, but the Bible was strictly at the heart of his catechetical effort and of his spiritual advice throughout the Expositions. In his Exposition of the Decalogue, Hus wrote that the laity must “honor the books that contain God’s commandments.”62 In his Exposition of the Lord’s Prayer, Hus justified his project by stressing the fact that the prayer was taken strictly from the Bible, that it was something that “the merciful lord himself taught to his disciples.”63 In his Exposition of the Faith, Hus stated that what was not in the Bible was not necessary to the faith and also admonished that everyone should accept truth pointed out to them from the Bible.64 This was a direct attack against the clerics who attacked him (as well as an eerily accurate prefiguration of Martin Luther’s stand at Wittenberg). Hus believed firmly that the Bible belonged in the hands of the laity. His explanation for why it was unacceptable—​­and unbiblical—​­to keep the Scriptures away from the laity hinged on his interpretation of the kingdom of heaven. In his view, the kingdom of heaven could sometimes be used interchangeably with the Scriptures, which, in turn, allowed him to insist that not only must the Bible be kept open to anyone wishing to enter into it but also that clerics were obligated to invite the laity to partake of it. But Hus went even further. His stated intention was to empower the laity to make their own decisions about what was true and whom to follow, the kind of decision making that prelates wanted to prevent by keeping the Bible a closely guarded secret.65 In the background of Hus’s decision to bring a vernacular Bible to the laity were audible echoes of Hus’s own experience with the church’s hierarchy: by now he had been maligned, refused hearing, and excommunicated. Bringing knowledge of the Bible to his followers would equip them to act with similar resolve should something similar happen to them. In addition to his partisan interpretations, Hus also devoted much attention to concepts fundamental to the faith. He did not shy away from notoriously difficult Christian subjects such as God, the nature of Christ, his crucifixion and resurrection, or the kingdom of heaven. He even tackled sub-



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jects that Christian preachers tend to avoid, then as now, bravely explaining a definition of the Holy Trinity.66 And regardless of the subject, he showed where and how his explanations were contained in the Scriptures. It is clear that Hus was serious about catechesis and preferred to give as much biblical background explanation as was possible. However, Hus did not limit himself to fundamental questions of the faith but also addressed less elevated subjects, answering questions that any believer might feasibly ask. Among them were queries such as why are some prayers answered and others not, why should we love our neighbor even when he or she treats us badly, what is the best posture for prayer, or why did the Savior actually spend time with sinners?67 In each case, Hus considered the question at hand with seriousness and responded not with pat answers but with compassion and theological insight. He explained the following: God does not answer some prayers, because some people are not worthy of being heard and because some requests are not good for salvation.68 We should love our neighbor even if he or she is evil, because all were created by God, in God’s image and likeness.69 The best body postures for prayer are kneeling down or prostration.70 And the Savior spent so much with the sinners for several reasons, to lead them out of sin and to show them that he was the Savior of sinners, as it is written in Luke 19:10.71 Hus also found the time to entertain lesser subjects, those that did not have a bearing on one’s salvation at all, honoring the sheer curiosity of the faithful. For example, he paused his discussion of Jesus’s preaching in Galilee to remark on New Testament geography and culture, explaining that Tyra and Sidon were both towns and that Galilee was the term one used to describe the whole region in the Jewish land and that it was also where Christ was born.72 Elsewhere, Hus explained words like “scribe . . . ​in Latin ‘publicanus,’ ”73 and “ ‘tabernacula,’ which means eternal tents.”74 The explanations might seem superfluous, pertaining neither to salvation nor moral goodness, but they were important enough for Hus to include them for the sake of knowledge. Throughout the Postil, Hus paused to address questions of translation, often giving his audience the Latin term or phrase before reflecting on how best to translate them. Sometimes, he admitted, the Czech vernacular did not have an appropriate term, in which case he attempted to find a phrase or circumlocution that would convey what was needed. Most controversially, Hus frequently admitted that a multiplicity of interpretations of the scriptural text at hand was possible, both in the Postil and in the Expositions. For example, in a sermon written for the second Sunday after Easter, Hus explained that some

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understood the “sheepfold” mentioned by Jesus to refer to the ultimate conversion of Jews to the Christian faith, but others thought it referred to a full conversion of the elect.75 Drawing attention to the Bible’s potential for multiplicity of meaning appears counterproductive to Hus’s stated intention to educate, as it might usher in confusion and uncertainty. However, acknowledging that multiple readings existed allowed Hus to make a clear distinction between the biblical text and its interpretation, moreover underscoring the importance of a competent interpreter. The injunction to make sure one obeys the right kind of cleric is at the heart of Hus’s spiritual advice but has seldom been commented upon.76 Yet it seems clear that Hus’s advice to the laity was influenced by the events of Hus’s own life, especially the way he has been treated by the ecclesiastical authorities since his excommunication and exile. The external events that proved especially formative (and that he mentions frequently) were his excommunication, the interruption of divine services, the ban on preaching in Bethlehem Chapel, and the threat of the chapel’s destruction.77 Related to these events were personal decisions that Hus made in response to them. They too shaped Hus’s spiritual advice to the laity, especially those that he was not fully sure about, often wondering in writing whether he had made the right choice and reassuring himself that he had. Two decisions especially haunted him: his refusal to travel to Rome to defend his appeal in 1410 and his subsequent decision to abandon his post at Bethlehem Chapel in face of excommunication and interdict in the fall of 1412. The events framing Hus’s life influenced Hus’s spirituality: he called for struggle against unjust authorities, promoted active discernment of which clerics were worth obeying, and called on the believers to stand up against the forces of the Antichrist. Indeed, Hus interwove serious criticisms of priests who abused their power or failed in their duties all through his spiritual exhortation. In On Simony, Hus told his audience how to recognize those who are the inheritors of Balaam. They were “those who preach for money and wrongly condemn people.”78 This contains a contemporary reference: an accusation of those who preached in favor of indulgences and who excommunicated him. And there were other contemporary references. For example, Hus lambasted the decision, by a papal bull by Alexander V, to ban preaching in private chapels, a decision that was clearly supposed to put a stop to Hus’s preaching in Bethlehem.79 But excommunication proved to be his most frequent example. Hus explained on more than one occasion that the authorities were excommunicat-



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ing people (such as himself ) for the wrong reasons, certainly not out of love, wishing for amendment of their ways. “But they excommunicate a lot of priests but Christ accepts them, and I too hope for his holy mercy that he would accept me even though they have rejected me, because I preach his word in spite of them.”80 Hus insisted that any spiritual punishment meted out in error could not harm the soul, because clerics could not override God’s decision. And although the clerics might threaten and say that any excommunication was damaging, “know that if you are certain that you are innocent, you need not fear that this excommunication would harm you, for it is impossible that anything should harm your soul if you are free of sin.”81 This was a recipe for rebellion: According to the canon law, of course, even excommunication that was thought to be unjust had to be obeyed, otherwise the system would fall into pieces.82 But Hus ignored that and advised his followers likewise to ignore decisions that he or they considered erroneous. In telling the faithful to be discerning about decisions made by his clerical superiors, he communicated to them that the punishments meted out against him were unjust and invited them to consider carefully any church ruling issued against them. But not only that. He also suggested that being persecuted was in itself a proof that he (Hus) was following Christ, because those who did not lived well and without disturbance and those who preached the truth were put to death.83 This was by now a familiar refrain of Hus’s writings. Hus underscored that Christ would reward all clerics who suffered false punishment and that obeying Christ sometimes necessitated disobeying the authorities. He wanted the laity to resist any command or decision made by the authorities that was unjust and contrary to the will of God. He found justification for his stance in the fourth commandment. He extended the seemingly simple commandment (to honor one’s mother and father) to apply to the mother church as well, arguing that it was a sin not only to commit acts of dishonor but also to witness others committing them and do nothing to stop it, concluding that “he who does not awaken brother from sin sins also.”84 According to this logic, all of Hus’s attempts to fight back against authorities were justified (he was trying to prevent dishonor from happening) as were his efforts to rile up the laity against offending clerics (in order to prevent them from doing wrong). Hus believed that such selective obedience was necessary because many if not most clerics had lost their sense of what was right and proper, which is why one had to be careful and, above all, vigilant. Hus stressed this conviction repeatedly. In his sermon on the seventh Sunday after Christmas, Hus wrote

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that “the prelates do not know the difference between bramble and wheat, and what is worse, they are more likely to destroy wheat than brambles, . . . ​ holding lies as the truth and vice versa, thus fulfilling the prophecy of Isaiah 5:20.” Hus took his cue as usual from his own experience, pointing out in the same sermon that they burn a lot of good things in order to get rid of one iota of bad things; “they even confirmed that they attained a bull from Pope John XXIII where he commanded to burn both good and bad books by John Wyclif, because they were annoyed that people write about their simony, pride, fornication, miserliness.”85 Here Hus made the argument that because the prelates made the decision to burn the books of John Wyclif, which was—​ ­according to Hus—​­a wrong decision, it shows that they were completely confused about what was right and what was wrong, about what was, to use gospel language, wheat and what was bramble. But Hus took his complaint one step further, imputing a motivation to the prelates. In his view, they were “annoyed that people write about their simony, pride, fornication, miserliness.” In other words, the prelates had many good books of Wyclif destroyed in order to avoid people using the books to criticize them. This was not a momentary lapse of judgment on the part of the prelates but a sign of deep error, that they were in some fundamental way no longer aligned with the fundamental truths of the faith. Hus feared that “surely now there are a lot of such blind men.”86 In order for the lay faithful to distinguish which clerics were blind and which were not, Hus devised a system of external signs, or markers, of clerical blindness. In the Exposition of the Faith, Hus wrote about bad clergy: “you will know them by their works.”87 The markers all have to do with money, wanting more or extracting it from the wrong people or for the wrong reason. Bad clerics, Hus insisted, would always look for opportunities to make more money, would always strive to ease their workload, employing substitutes (at a fraction of the income) or generally disappearing from view.88 They would also sell holy remains and, above all, indulgences.89 Instead of preaching repentance, they asked for money, thus lying to the people especially when they preached that whoever helped the pope finance his war against King Ladislaus of Naples would have their sins forgiven.90 Because Hus’s falling out with the university and with the king in the summer of 1412 could be attributed to a disagreement over indulgences, it is perhaps not a surprise that indulgences played a central role in Hus’s catalog of clerical failings. He thought them to be contrary to the teachings of the Bible and shared his misgivings freely with his audiences. “If a servant lived



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very badly for fifty years, not doing what he knew God wanted from him,” Hus inquired rhetorically, “can he simply give money to the pope to make up for that? . . . ​And again, Christ had to suffer, entering into his glory, but [the man] living badly, in sin and excess, for fifty years, suffering nothing, would simply enter into heaven?” “Not at all,” Hus answered. “Not even [the apostles] got saved without repentance but only with great suffering. That is why they did not give indulgences, but preached that we repent their sins if they wish to be saved and stay away from cunning, false Christs and prophets,” saying, “there will be among us lying ‘masters’ as it says in Matthew 24:11 and Peter 2:1.”91 There are many more instances of Hus railing against indulgences and against those “false prophets” who sell them. Hus’s definition of monetary wrongdoing seems so extensive that almost anyone who participated in the operations of late medieval religion could, potentially at least, qualify to be a blind cleric. This means that Hus’s criticisms amounted to a wide-​­scale rejection of the prevailing clerical culture. Perhaps that was exactly the point, to give the laity a reason, justified from the Scriptures, to turn only to those clerics who self-​­identified as members of the nascent reform movement.92 Hus insisted that the decision of whether or not a cleric was blind could not be made lightly, as it had eternal consequences. He saw blind clerics as no less than a force of the Antichrist, which was why disobeying their (unjust) commands amounted to standing up against the Antichrist. But Hus acknowledged that it was a difficult decision and a potentially dangerous one, because all false clerics had weapons at their disposal: they condemn those who speak God’s truth and stay divine services, a custom that the pope had started.93 Because Hus had been treated unjustly at their hands, he thought that everyone else might be as well. In fact, being persecuted was a marker that one was doing the right thing: “But if someone earnestly loves truth, suffers defamation from evil people, him the Lord offers himself as an example of humility . . . ​[teaching his faithful that] the more they suffer, the more they honor God and the greater will be their reward.”94 Here Hus spoke of himself, generalizing what had happened to him for all the faithful: if they do as he did, they would have a reward in heaven. A good Christian, then, would do as Hus did, resist corrupt authorities and incite others to do the same. Hus was aware that he could hardly expect the clerical establishment to give up their lifestyle and authority in the church willingly. Something else needed to be done. Indeed, as was suggested already by Thomas Fudge, Hus’s “spirituality had social implications.”95 Much like Wyclif, Hus believed firmly

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in the threefold division of estates and did not advocate any changes in that fundamentally medieval ordering of society, each with its duties, responsibilities, and rewards.96 And although Hus was no social revolutionary, he did believe that secular lords had the responsibility to uphold and, if necessary, enforce that clerics discharge their duties and obligations to the faithful. He expressed this sentiment most openly in On Simony when he called on secular lords to put a stop to clerical abuses: “O faithful kings, dukes, lords, and knights, awaken from the dream with which the clergy put you to sleep and expel from your dominion the heresy of simony”; or otherwise there will surely be a “calamity and no true peace.”97 This is one of the few places in the text where Hus threatened with a consequence should the secular lords fail to obey his advice: a “calamity” that—​­it would seem—​­he tried to bring about himself. In Hus’s view, the corruption levels in the church were catastrophic. Part of the problem was that almost everyone performing sacramental functions in the contemporary church was thought to be implicated. Hus’s catalog of simoniac behavior is staggering in its extent. And while Hus admitted that many argued that to offer money for “confession, funeral, sacrament, baptism, and for other holy things” was simply a tradition, a harmless custom, Hus disputed such a benign reading. In his estimation, to do so was not a holy custom but a custom of simony.98 Hus believed that a serious change would come only as a result of a committed involvement of secular lords, until the priests were rid of secular property and dominion throughout the land.99 He was most outspoken about the urgent need for this kind of solution in On Simony, but he alluded to this preferred and conclusive solution in his other treatises as well. Everything short of secular lords taking charge of priestly possessions would only be a stopgap measure, but, even so, Hus devoted much attention to explaining what to do in the meantime. Until that above-​­mentioned “calamity” came to pass, Hus invited everyone, cleric and laymen alike, to resist being drawn into the church’s heretical dysfunctionality by being discerning, discriminating, and willing to go to jail if necessary. There are only two kinds of people, Hus seemed to be saying. Those who desire money and those who desire to serve God. The two groups do not intersect at all. The former group cannot be relied upon to serve God, because, as Christ says, one can only serve either God or mammon.100 What is worse, their allegiance to money came at the expense of the laity, which is another reason why they ought to be shunned and disobeyed. He identified this untrustworthy group of mammon-​­seekers in contemporary terms elsewhere,



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when he stated that they were those who “commit simony, hold multiple benefices, and have women.”101 These were most of the clerics that the faithful would have come in contact with, but, even so, Hus advised resistance and disobedience even when it would prove costly: one ought to stand up to those who commit simony and refuse to participate in it even if this means risking jail, for it is better to die in jail than participate in that heresy.102 Hus’s advice sowed divisions and deepened existing disagreements, especially by portraying them as a kind of cosmic battle between good and evil. The question of audience for these treatises is key to determining their intended effect. František Šmahel has argued that both the catechetical Expositions and the Postil were written for Hus’s fellow clerics, some of whom had not mastered Latin and who were to become Hus’s chosen “media” in educating the laity about the faith.103 This would mean that Hus never intended to present his criticism of other clerics before the laity and would certainly limit the extent to which Hus was taking any of his misgivings “public.” To support his thesis, Šmahel quotes a handful of passages, in which Hus seems to speak directly to other clerics, reminding them to beware of lurking dangers of women (“Milý brachu, varuj se ženy!”) or tells them to be on their guard (“Protož, kněže, měj na tom dosti!”).104 However, there are many more instances of Hus addressing himself directly to laypeople. Even his stated mission, expressed in the first chapter of the Exposition of the Faith, speaks of educating the laity (rather than educating the priests who then, in turn, educate the laity): “I am a priest sent by God that I would teach people to believe, to fulfill God’s commandments and to pray well to God, which is why I want these three things to explicate to the ‘little people.’ ”105 Indeed, Hus addressed lay Christians more often than his fellow clerics. In his Exposition of the Faith, Hus also often turned to “faithful Christians,” exhorting them to “seek the truth, hear the truth, learn the truth, love the truth, speak the truth, defend the truth unto death.”106 In the Exposition of the Decalogue, he similarly turned to his audience, saying, “not like that, o faithful little Christians.”107 In the Exposition of the Lord’s Prayer, Hus turned to his audience, saying “my dear brother” when discussing the proper way to pray.108 But elsewhere, in the Exposition of the Faith, Hus turned to his audience, saying “dear brother or dear sister,”109 suggesting that when he wrote “brother” he did not necessarily mean “fellow cleric.” Rather Hus seems to have used “brother” interchangeably with “sister” or “fellow cleric” or “fellow Christian” or “faithful Christian.” All of these signal inclusion and are, therefore, polemical terms, used either descriptively to denote those who have true faith as

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defined by the reformist party in Prague and those who remained faithful to it in spite of repressions110 or prescriptively to inspire faithfulness. Aside from the forms of address, the language and style of the treatises also suggest a nonclerical audience. They were described as simple in style, reflecting the simplicity of life of common people, as did the composition and language.111 It is telling that Hus chose to equip his Expositions trilogy (as well as his work On Simony)112 with an index, a list of terms arranged alphabetically and in a way that made it possible even for laymen, unaccustomed to searching through such indexes, to find what they were looking for.113 All of this suggests a mixed audience, both clerics and (semi-​­)literate laypersons, composed of Hus’s colleagues among the university masters, students, and fellow clerics, as well as his core lay audience at Bethlehem, such as rich merchants, landlords, officials, and their families.114 This is important. If he addressed only clerics, his efforts could be interpreted as an attempt to reform the church by reforming the clergy. But he made laymen privy to his exchanges with the clerics, suggesting that he was already seeking to create an alternative faction in the church, with reformed clerics conducting the church’s services and laity choosing to obey them while, by their disobedience of unreformed clerics, putting pressure on them to conform. The mixed nature of the audience gives a subversive reading to Hus’s persistent and virulent criticisms of the clergy, which permeate these treatises. In his effort to indict the hierarchy for doing wrong in accusing and excommunicating him, he insisted that the leaders were wrong about many other things, many of them fundamental to the faith. Some of them, Hus asserted, might not even attain salvation. For example, in the Postil, Hus turned to “faithful Christians,” asking them to “think about this in your mind, whether the pope follows his savior.” But there are numerous instances in the texts when Hus pursues his questioning further, as he did here: “If you say that [the pope] [follows his Savior], you will be disappointed. They deceive you, the cardinals, who ride with you in such pomp and in golden shoes, they do not walk barefoot like the apostles alongside a donkey; they are also mistaken who kneel before him, and they think they are doing the right thing. I thought so too back when I did not know the Bible or my Savior well enough, but now I know . . . ​all of that is from the Antichrist. . . . ​If the gates of Jerusalem, Kingdom of Heaven, are closed to the pope, [they will be closed] also to some cardinals, archbishops and other proud prelates.”115 Having planted the idea that the highest representatives of the church erred so badly as to be excluded from salvation, Hus commanded his audience not to follow “strangers,” by



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which he meant, “thieves and robbers” who were the equivalent of false shepherds. Here again, Hus invited the laity to think for themselves, about who might or might not be a “stranger” and, therefore, not worthy of obeying: “Know, you who are willing, who is the thief among Christians,” who do not take care of their sheep but rather kill their souls. The identity of these clerical “strangers” is left opaque (they are not of Christ and they do not preach Christ), certainly including those who (unjustly) accused and persecuted Hus as well as the colleagues and supervisors, who had turned on him.116 It is possible that Hus equated good clerics with clerics who were a part of the reform movement, but nowhere did he state that explicitly. Instead, he supplied his listeners with abundant descriptions and markers of what bad clerics did and how they behaved. The image of a disobedient, bad, corrupt cleric who might not even be saved permeates Hus’s vernacular treatises, along with an invitation to his audience to evaluate for themselves the merits of their clerical superiors. The Expositions trilogy along with the Postil were the most widespread of Hus’s treatises in the fifteenth century,117 the manuscript transmission testifying to the works’ popularity and remarkable reception,118 showing that the laity responded to Hus’s ideological program with some interest. And even though Hus’s overt goal may have been to inculcate his mixed audience of clerics and (semi-​­)literate laity with his vision of the spiritual life, he presented an extremely polarized view of the world, composed of “us” and “them” with no place in-​­between. The spiritual vision that Hus presented to his audience drew intimately on Hus’s own struggle against injustice and influenced Hus’s view of what was at stake and why. Not surprisingly, Hus’s vernacular works reveal an ardent critic of contemporary clerical culture and its money economy of salvation. Hus castigated corrupt and greedy priests, lambasted persecuting authorities, and despaired of misleading and mendacious preaching. While his spirituality ran along traditional lines, interior and devout, with an underlying motto of contemptus mundi, Hus took this rejection of the world to a new level: in his view devout faith could not coexist with the prevailing corruption in the church; in fact, the two were locked in a cosmic battle, whose outcome was far from certain, and the faithful had to take care to choose the right side—​­with Hus or with the forces of the Antichrist. Taken together, these two snapshots of Hus’s vernacular works written in the midst of the turmoil and uncertainty of the last three years of his life show a very specific kind of public figure, or public intellectual: a university man who turns to the lay public with the intention of teaching or explaining

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something, but here with a twist.119 Although like the other so-​­called public intellectuals Hus aims to spread what he considers the correct and orthodox views, his actions polarize the laity, bringing divisions and disagreements out into the open and forcing everyone to take a stand.

Building a Faction: “If You Are Not with Me, You Are Against Me” In his vernacular works, Hus addressed the world as if it had already been divided, divided between those who favored church reform and those who opposed it. But it was his work, his public stands that helped exacerbate the division of society into two, seemingly irreconcilable camps. To be sure, there was disagreement in clerical circles about how to deal with church corruption long before Jan Hus appeared on the scene. But Hus expanded the audience for those disagreements when he took those same debates to the public in his sermons and vernacular writings. He did that in spite of repeated warnings that he ought not to. Those warnings were not only ignored by Hus; they seem to have increased his commitment to get the public involved, preferably on his side. In order to get the laity on his side, he needed to show them what the alternatives were: the reform of clergy as defined by him or the status quo. Not only did he present them with two choices, he also exaggerated the need of choosing, of taking a stand, infusing his messages with eschatological urgency. As a result, all of Hus’s writings from this period depict the world as already divided: a small band of God’s true followers, led—​­inevitably—​­by Hus, against the rest of the world. And indeed, a small band of Hus’s supporters did continue its activities on Hus’s behalf even after their leader’s enforced departure from the capital. The existence of some such group is sometimes implied but has yet to be documented. In fact, it is customary for scholarly histories of Hus and Hussites to shift their narrative focus away from Prague to Hus’s activities in exile. Only Kaminsky’s History of the Hussite Revolution pays attention to what is happening in Prague after Hus leaves it, in a chapter tellingly entitled “The Utraquist Revolt,” but he does not connect this revolt directly with Hus and his activities.120 Šmahel’s three-​­volume work also discusses the rise of Utraquism, but as somewhat divorced from Hus’s own activities and teaching, arguing instead that both Hus and Havlík (Hus’s successor at Bethlehem) “underestimated the appeal of the chalice.”121 In his biography of Jan Hus, Šmahel focuses on Hus’s



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teaching and preaching, as if the reform program carried itself forward.122 The same interpretative step, from Hus’s teachings to events surrounding the Council of Constance, can be found in Fudge’s The Magnificent Ride and Soukup’s Jan Hus.123 However, Hus’s letters to his lay friends and learned associates in Prague reveal the existence of a coherent group of supporters there. The evidence of the letters is fragmentary and somewhat elusive, but taken together all the hints strongly suggest not only that a group of supporters remained but also that they continued the work on behalf of Hus. For example, in a letter to inhabitants of Prague, written in December 1412 (a few months after his departure from the capital), Hus alludes to the fact that some (unidentified) people tried to prevent his supporters from attending Bethlehem.124 This, in turn, suggests that some in Prague continued to perceive the Bethlehem Chapel as a potential source of disobedience or even insurrection in spite of the fact that Hus no longer preached there. In fact, much of contemporary scholarship described Hus’s replacement at Bethlehem, the priest Havlík, as lukewarm in his enthusiasm for church reform and, more generally, as a disappointment. And yet, the place and the people frequenting it continued to be seen as a threat. Hus, as one might expect, counseled the faithful to persevere. The attacks must have escalated in the course of the following spring and summer, because in his letter from July 1413, addressed to the same group, Hus sounded almost hysterical, exhorting them to “keep to the true faith.”125 The phrase “true faith” might seem sufficiently innocuous, but in Hus’s handling it gains a polemical meaning. The “true” faith was the faith that Hus preached. Even more interesting perhaps, Hus called on his distant supporters to obey those whom the Savior sent them and mused about the very real danger posed by false prophets, who, dressed in sheep’s clothing, infiltrate the faithful and destroy them. The image is stereotypically biblical, but the sudden mention of it suggests that, even from afar, Hus sensed danger posed by clerics who did not share his reform vision taking charge in Bethlehem. This sense of escalating conflict is borne out by the subsequent letters in the corpus. Sometime in Lent of the following year, Hus, while at Kozí, praised the letter’s recipients, inhabitants of Prague, for being “steadfast in hearing and obeying God’s word” and thanking Christ for continuing to “provide competent leaders in the truth.”126 Hus had breathed a sigh of relief. Whatever danger this small community was facing had been overcome. Even so, its fortunes must have remained somewhat volatile, because later that year Hus again warned against “mendacious and hypocritical” preachers.127 And

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writing from Constance in November of the same year, Hus again urged his community to avoid “legates of the Antichrist, who do not preach against sin.”128 This points to an effort to mislead or dissuade Hus’s supporters, possibly by a person or persons who were well known to Hus. But in spite of dangers, Hus’s supporters—​­both clerical and lay—​­held fast. Another one of Hus’s letters from the time of his exile documents the continued existence of clerics who remained faithful to Hus’s message. Specifically, they refused to obey the pope and cardinals and instead insisted that the Bible alone ought to be made the only rule of faith.129 This same group of clerics was also accused of undermining the authority of the church’s hierarchy by telling the laity to disobey those clerics whom they judged to be living in sin. This message was a hallmark of Hus’s preaching and, in fact, continued to dominate his vernacular writings from exile. This group of lay and clerical supporters gained visibility in the fall of 1414 when clerics sympathetic to reform began offering communion under both kinds (both bread and wine, unheard of in the contemporary church) to the laity in four of Prague’s churches: St. Adalbert in Prague’s New Town, and St. Martin-​­in-​­the-​­Wall, St. Michael, and Bethlehem Chapel in Prague’s Old Town.130 The decision to offer the chalice to the laity was much debated in the pro-​­reform clerical circles and proved controversial even among staunch supporters of reform.131 Now, in addition to being against the church’s various decisions and opinions, reform supporters gained a positive identity entwined with the church’s most visible sacrament, the Eucharist. Kaminsky describes this important moment as a creation of an “alternative church.”132 No longer being defined by what they opposed, Hus’s supporters gained a positive agenda communion in both kinds, which, with its egalitarian distribution of the consecrated chalice, functioned as a silent reproach to the majority church and its preference for clerical elitism at the expense of biblical witness. The laity needed to be educated in this new way of receiving communion. There was no doubt copious preaching on the subject, and a number of vernacular songs (to be discussed in the next chapter) were composed as well. And in the Bethlehem Chapel, there was also a visual reminder of the importance of communion under both kinds. Jakoubek of Stříbro decided to add to Hus’s treatises on the walls and have his own treatise inscribed. His was the Latin treatise Salvator noster, on the necessity of communion under both kinds.133 The text was inscribed on the wall probably in early 1416, immediately after Jakoubek took charge of Bethlehem. Sometime in the summer of 1419, Jakoubek followed it with another Latin treatise, De communione par-



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volum, in which he argued that communion ought to be offered to children as well as adults, a practice that was forbidden by the contemporary church.134 Both treatises were composed of biblical texts and patristic authorities on the subject.135 Through his letters, Hus continued to encourage his sympathizers to persevere in the “true faith” (which he had imparted before leaving) and worried especially about bad leadership, which might undo his work. Eventually, the situation stabilized and the community seemed to continue on without Hus. But this was not simply a group of laypeople bereft of their leader but rather a network of supporters, both clerical and lay. Rising from within the church and persuaded by Hus’s message to turn elsewhere for true Christianity, this church faction gained legible identity when it adopted communion under both kinds for all of its members whether ordained or not. No longer defined by what they opposed, Hus’s faction began to organize and, furthermore, to offer an alternative version of Christianity to those in Prague who were interested.

Conclusion Jan Hus moved Bohemian reform in the direction of dissent when he unified his personal grievance against the curia with the reform cause. According to his spiritual teachings, living morally entailed resisting corrupt clerics and taking a stance against clerical abuses. Through his vernacular treatises, such as the Expositions, the vernacular Postil, and On Simony, as well as his other public communications, including his treatise On the Six Errors, his “Appeal to Christ,” and assorted letters, Hus educated the laity not only about clerical abuses but also about the injustice that he personally suffered at the hands of the curia. Hus sought to clear his tarnished reputation through a series of vernacular writings that cast his complaints of the established church as a cosmic battle between good and evil. Through his communications, Hus styled himself as an unjust victim of persecution, an Old Testament prophet or another apostle, and imparted a vision of the spiritual life that called for a rejection of corrupt clerics in a way that proved deeply partisan and polarizing. Especially after October of 1412, when he was excommunicated and exiled from the capital, Hus distanced himself from the church’s leadership and presented his followers (and all laity) with a choice of allegiances: him or the official church.136 In his writings, Hus undermined the authority of the

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official church leaders, popes, archbishops, and bishops, and called on the laity to make up their own minds on whom they wished to obey. Yet by implication, he tried to persuade them to obey him. The strategies for winning the laity’s adherence oscillated between threats of eternal damnation (if one were to join forces with the Antichrist, that is, the pope or his minions), promise of eternal bliss with God (if one were to support Hus), and simple flattery (for only a thoughtful person could be so cunning as to see that Hus was right). In his rhetoric, Hus forced a decision between himself and the official church leaders, making neutrality impossible. In this schema, loyalty to him was equivalent to following God’s law and would be eternally rewarded, because this was no ordinary conflict, but rather an outright battle between good and evil. In this conflict, neutrality was impossible. This, then, marked the emergence of a new faction, a portion of churchgoers who declared their loyalty to Hus over the church. It was not Hus’s death in 1415 at the Council of Constance that divided the Bohemian realm, as is generally assumed, but rather Hus’s activities in the years directly following his exile. Hus’s communications with the laity during that time deliberately portrayed the world as already divided, between Hus and the forces of the Antichrist, between Hus’s faction and the rest of the world. Hus’s efforts to garner the laity’s support against the curia brought his complaints out into the open, giving rise to a faction of supporters as well as a sense that neutrality was impossible. Out of these publicly voiced disagreements about fundamental matters of religion grew a new kind of public forum, the so-​­called public sphere, in which competing ideas for how to arrange Bohemia’s religious life could be introduced and debated with lasting consequences in the Hussite revolt and beyond.

Chapter 3

Battle for the Minds Vernacular Propaganda For and Against Hussite Reform

The death of Jan Hus in July 1415 exposed the existing divisions inside the kingdom and ushered in a period of intense political and religious uncertainty. The pro-​­reform party vied for support from the king, nobles, and university while their opponents mounted a countercampaign.1 The group of Hus’s supporters, who had been left behind after Hus left the capital, had not been idle. They were organizing and deepening their message, eventually taking action, constructing an “alternative church” and, thereby, a “new visible community.”2 No longer merely a party of opposition, they took first steps ­toward setting up an alternative church when they began offering communion under both kinds to the laity in four select churches in Prague. The clerical members of this group, or faction, also strove to educate others about the why of communion in both kinds and about the various problems in the contemporary church more generally. Jakoubek of Stříbro, who presided over Bethlehem Chapel, had his treatise on the necessity of receiving from the chalice inscribed on the walls in Bethlehem, while other clerical leaders sought to educate the laity through a number of different media.3 What was unique about Bohemia (and what has not yet been adequately understood by scholars) is that the pro-​­reform leaders, much like Hus in the years before his death, turned to the laity for support, while anti-​­reform factions tried to dissuade the laity from trusting the reformers and their message. This entire conversation, conducted in the vernacular, has gone largely unnoticed by scholars with the exception of Thomas Fudge, who has discussed these compositions in a number of his published works. He was the first to

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describe the Hussite songs, slogans, and proverbial sayings as a form of oral propaganda.4 In addition to bringing these compositions before English-​ ­speaking audiences, Fudge has also analyzed them as sources for understanding popular (as opposed to elite) religion in fifteenth-​­century Bohemia.5 However, others have been primarily interested in the official, Latin writings by the reformers and their opponents, neglecting this discourse altogether. And yet between 1415 and 1420, leaders of pro-​­and anti-​­reform factions flooded the public arena with rhymed vernacular compositions similar to the Reformation pamphlets that flooded German society during the sixteenth century.6 In Bohemia, these compositions, likely sung or recited in street processions, addressed a wide array of political and religious issues, all contentious in nature. Much like the years 1521 to 1525, which ranked highest in Reformation pamphlet production and marked a period of intense tension and uncertainty,7 the years between 1415 and 1420 saw a proliferation of vernacular poems and proved crucial to the formation of stable constituencies on both sides of the dispute in Prague and in the whole of Bohemia. The circulation of these compositions is impossible to track as they were transmitted orally, but they had an effect: when the first wave of crusaders entered Bohemia in 1421, they encountered a hardened laity willing to fight for the right to reform their church. These compositions were a part of a larger effort at persuasion, one that included other media, such as portable placards and wall images, wall inscriptions, public events, such as demonstrations, protests, and processions, manifestos, and sermons.8 The reformers deployed all of them with the intention of spreading their message. There is evidence of visual propaganda, such as a series of images Tabule veteris et novi coloris, which survive as illuminations in manuscript books.9 They depicted antithetical scenes from the lives of Christ and the Antichrist. Even Hus described one pair of these images in a sermon: Christ riding a donkey contrasted by the pope riding an expensively harnessed white horse.10 These sets of images circulated or were at least well known, but their format is not clear. They survived in a manuscript form, but the original format is not known. Some argue for portable placards, while others posit wall paintings, but it is generally agreed that these images (whatever their format) were in existence as early as the second decade of the fifteenth century.11 Preaching was an important vessel for the dissemination of the reform message, popular even before Hus’s tenure at Bethlehem.12 However, sermons could not be easily repeated, which was their main disadvantage.13 The same



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held true for Bible recitations. A complete translation of all biblical books into Czech was available sometime before 1385, with an improved systematic translation complete sometime in the 1420s.14 To find a vernacular Bible among the possessions of a wealthy reform leader was not unusual, although it does not necessarily follow that they were read.15 Few could read. But there is anecdotal evidence of laity actively listening, memorizing, reflecting on scriptural passages encountered in sermons, sometimes even taking radical action based on them.16 And because the Hussite wars diminished rather than increased literacy, the reformers’ reliance on alternative forms of dissemination became crucial.17 This is why rhymed, vernacular compositions became a crucial means of disseminating the reform message, especially among the municipal and rural population, whose understanding of the Christian faith might have been limited and who were, largely, illiterate.18 This is also why they remain the focus of this chapter, as the fifteenth-​­ century equivalent of the Reformation pamphlet.

Kingdom Divided: Processions and the Subversive Potential of Singing Hus’s death deepened the divisions that had already existed at all levels of society: in the local church, at the university, among the nobles, and at the royal court. The news of Jan Hus’s death in Constance on July 6, 1415, reached Prague in August of the same year. It traumatized his followers in the capital and across Bohemia.19 Soon, Hus’s final letters began to circulate, and the mistreatment he suffered at the hands of his jailors, the betrayal by his former friends and reform collaborators, and the indignity of his death all became known. Hus’s death became the latest outrage in a long list of perceived grievances against the church in Bohemia. Gradually, the mood in the capital began to shift as the laity took to the streets to vent their frustration.20 A pro-​­Hus chronicler would later decribe the situation following the death of Hus: The Bohemians and Moravians were filled with indignation and a number of priests both in Prague and throughout Bohemian and Moravian towns began to give the body and blood of Christ, under

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both kinds, to the ordinary people. They elevated the host in monstrances and it was customary for the multitudes of people to march behind the elevated host in praise to God. When the common people began to celebrate Holy Communion under both the elements of the body and blood of Christ, they were ridiculed as Husses, ­Wycliffites, and heretics. Then the people were divided, both priests and laypeople, into two groups. There were many adherents to both sides. These two groups ridiculed and fought the other to such an extent that even the king was unable to prevent it.21 The nobles, many of whom sympathized with Hus, decided to make a political statement. During an emergency meeting in early September (about a month before the regularly scheduled meeting), some fifty-​­eight Hussite barons and nobles wrote a joint statement, officially protesting the council’s decision to execute Hus. They argued that Jan Hus had lived a pious life in Christ, serving God and others, living humbly and without ostentation, and always encouraging others to do good works and observe the commandments. They stated that he did not preach or teach any heresy or error. The intent of the council was, the nobles claimed, to tarnish the reputation of the Christian realms of Bohemia and Moravia before the world. They went on to call the councilmen liars, criminals, and heretics, veritable sons of Satan, filled with evil and error. The nobles threatened to appeal to future popes and pledged “to defend and protect, to the point of shedding our blood, the Law of our Lord Jesus Christ and its devout, humble, and constant preachers, disregarding all human statutes to the contrary.”22 In this bold proclamation, the nobles publicly defied the Council of Constance and its rulings. A total of 452 seals, visibly affixed all around the document, proclaimed the support for Hus among the nobles in Bohemia. Upon receiving this missive, the councilmen described the document as “horrendum . . . ​et ridiculosum spectaculum”23 and immediately ruled to excommunicate all of the document’s signatories. In one ruling, all of the realm’s pro-​­reform nobility was excluded from the church’s communion, and any willingness to build political and diplomatic bridges with the council was gone. The excommunication made it clear that Hus’s supporters would not be heard. There would be no negotiation, no exchange of ideas, and no hope for a compromise. Along with targeting Hus’s supporters, the councilmen in Constance also resorted to political scheming on the highest levels. For example, the council



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demanded that the king of Bohemia, Wenceslas, take decisive action against the heretics in his realm. When Wenceslas attempted to stall for time, the council turned to his younger brother and rival Sigismund, offering him political support against Wenceslas in exchange for a crusade in Bohemia.24 Eventually, due to Wenceslas’s indecision, the council sidestepped the king and began negotiating with Sigismund directly about the fate of the heretics. The council also attempted what can only be described as a hostile takeover of the Bohemian church by appointing a special legate, Jan Železný.25 Jan was appointed by the Council of Constance and granted extraordinary powers of citation, excommunication, interdict, deprivation of benefice, and revocation of fiefs held by laymen deemed heretical.26 What seemed most egregious, however, was the fact that Jan’s powers, which were entirely discretionary, superseded all existing constitutions of the church in Bohemia and Moravia.27 Church affairs were a mess, and appointing an outsider to sort it all out hardly improved matters. To counter the actions of the council, the pro-​­reform leaders turned to the laity for their support. They used a medium perfectly equipped for the purpose: vernacular songs set to preexisting rhyme structures, which made their compositions memorable and easily teachable. News of the compositions and their subversive potential reached the councilmen relatively quickly, probably through their legate in Prague. The songs were banned immediately, especially those celebrating Jan Hus and Jerome of Prague, both of whom died at the hands of the council. Clerics and laity were also forbidden to sing vernacular songs in churches, public squares, and taverns.28 Jan Želivský, a prominent pro-​­reform preacher in the New Town, complained about the ban in one of his sermons, lamenting that the church higher-​­ups punished anyone “who would offer the sacrament to a child or sing new songs.”29 It is clear that the singing of songs appeared dangerous, even mutinous to the council. The singing of vernacular songs features prominently in several key sources from the time period. For example, the annals of Prague describe an atmosphere of tension and specifically recount the singing of vernacular songs by the different camps in the city of Prague. “And for that reason there was much acerbity and discord among the people and they, composing songs, paraded around Prague singing mocking songs.”30 Another, later source, the Latin Chronicon Procopi, corroborates this picture: “For the Hussites composed new songs against the church and against the Catholic practice, and the Catholics, on the other hand, composed songs against them.”31 It appears that the two

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factions communicated (so to speak) by singing insulting songs within earshot of each other, not a difficult feat in the crowded urban landscape of Prague. Processions were the perfect venue for singing contentious songs. Processions were quasi-​­religious events that took place outside of the church. It seems likely that they were used to divide up the urban landscape, demarcating territories, both political and ecclesiastical, controlled by different factions. These processions, leading from one church to another, often passing urban landmarks on the way, involved the singing of songs, many of which were rebellious and polemical.32 The sources tell us that, when two factions encountered one another, they resorted to insults and name-​­calling, violence, bloodshed, and even death. A picture emerges of a crowd assembled in a procession, led by a priest carrying the sacrament. The crowd sang songs that identified them as proponents (or opponents) of the chalice, which became a symbol of reform as a whole. Many songs could serve this function.33 They rhyme, which makes them especially suitable for singing on the march. They also invariably end with a prayer and invocation to God, as would be suitable for the quasi-​­religious, public occasion of a procession. In the years immediately following Jan Hus’s death, the kingdom of Bohemia became torn with uncertainty on all levels, as existing institutions were unable or unwilling to influence events in a decisive way. In order to seize control, the leaders of the main religious factions attempted to gain adherents by composing songs, effectively communicating what each side stood for and how it ought to behave. In the sections below I will discuss several key themes, around which the extant songs revolved: Jan Hus, the lay chalice, the Bible, and money.

The Legacy of Jan Hus in Vernacular Song and Verse The fight to shape Jan Hus’s memory began shortly after his death. Some argued that he was a saint and a martyr, willing to suffer for the truth. Others described him as an enemy of the traditional order, a preacher of sedition and heresy.34 Hus’s followers and sympathizers naturally set out to depict him as a saint. They gathered at Bethlehem Chapel, the first chapel in Europe dedicated exclusively to vernacular preaching and the site of Hus’s ministry, where they celebrated mass. During this mass, Hus was lauded as a holy martyr, whose suffering and death at the hands of unjust authorities was compared with that of Christ.35 This eagerness to celebrate the deceased preacher spread



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quickly across Bohemia and Moravia. By 1416, numerous masses celebrated Hus as a holy martyr, and many others included him as a venerated patron of the Czech-​­speaking people. Many churches expressed their sympathies by displaying images of Hus and Jerome (also martyred at Constance) as saints and by singing masses for them.36 Hus’s opponents, on the other hand, composed songs that described Hus as a heretic, traitor, and enemy of the traditional order. They, too, stretched the truth in order to advance their own anti-​­reform agenda. As a result, Hus’s life story figured prominently in the public discourse for several years after his death, with both parties actively attempting to appropriate it for their own ends. This protracted, organized effort to shape the laity’s perception of Jan Hus’s life can only be described as propaganda, defined as a “deliberate and systematic attempt to shape perceptions, manipulate cognitions, and direct behavior to achieve a response that furthers the desired intent of the propagandist.”37 The message generated by the pro-​­reform leaders was simple: Jan Hus was a pious preacher of biblical truths. He was unjustly put to death for speaking the inconvenient truth, truth that cost the church leaders money and cushy, comfortable careers, enjoyed at the expense of the laity. Hus’s successors took over many of the tropes deployed by Hus while he was still alive. The fact that the Czech popular historiography remembers Hus precisely in these terms and celebrates him as a national hero, with a statue and a street named after him in many Czech towns, is a testament to the propaganda’s success. The composers, many of them university-​­trained masters, took individual pieces of Hus’s life and career that the laity would be familiar with and put them into songs, attaching a rather partisan interpretation to them. The very first line of the oldest extant song about Jan Hus began with a strong affirmation that Hus was a man of God: “Master John Hus, trusting in God” (V náději boží mistr Jan Hus).38 The song is a meditation on the life of virtue and elevates Hus as its perfect exemplar, describing Hus as a humble worker of God, completely innocent of the charges brought against him at the Council of Constance. He preached nothing but the holy gospel and lived like a saint: Master Hus lived justly he hated sin and praised virtue taught the commandments and his life he devoted to God’s prophecies.39

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Hus’s innocence in face of powerful opponents was a consistent motif in the corpus of pro-​­Hussite compositions. David faced his Goliath, while Hus battled with the corrupt institutions of the church. While the Old Testament David enjoyed his victory in his earthly life, Hus could only be vindicated after his death, by his posthumous status as a saint. Fudge sees this song as describing the “apotheosis of St. Jan Hus,” and argues that this popular vision of Hus found its way into later liturgical texts about the saint.40 If true, this suggests an interconnectedness between popular songs and official modes of celebration that came later. According to Hus’s successors in the reform leadership, Hus was not only a saint, but also an example of virtuous behavior. The author of the oldest extant song urged his audience to suffer for the truth and live without hypocrisy like Hus, in order to join him in heaven. If we, sinners, wish to be there we need to suffer for the truth praise the truth eliminate injustice and live in God without hypocrisy. For God knows what is in the hearts of all people good and evil for he is the God of eternity.41 By foregrounding Hus’s act of standing up to the ecclesiastical authorities even to the point of death, the author encouraged willingness to resist the authorities in other contemporary instances. Implicit in this praise of Hus’s acts in 1415 is a suggestion that the followers of Hus’s virtuous example are facing the same kind of challenge in the present moment. They need to stand up to interference from overbearing ecclesiastical authorities. Since resistance proved the most virtuous course of action for Hus, it would prove so for his successors as well. In effect, this song turned Hus’s resistance in the past into an exhortation for a very specific course of conduct in the present: defiance of all of the council’s mandates. The life of virtue is thus equated with a very specific course of political action. But the song “Master John Hus, trusting in God” does more than merely



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encourage resistance to ecclesiastical authorities. It also identifies Hus’s enemies, stating that Hus was burnt for God’s truth in Constance by a troop of bishops.42 The author describes these bishops as angry and merciless by nature and argues that they had plotted to put Hus to death all along. In other words, their conviction was a result of an unfair hearing (as Hus himself had written in his letters from Constance) and a premeditated way of getting rid of Hus, involving a disdain for the holy gospels and false testimony. [Hus] preached the holy gospels as the Czech lands well know but the troop of bishops of canons and monks gave false testimony in Constance about Master John out of evil mercilessly.43 The song portrayed an unbridgeable gap between the two camps: the courageous saintliness of Hus was antithetical to the malicious deception of the bishops. The bishops whose decision had sealed Hus’s fate in Constance in 1415 continued to be the enemy in the present day as well. Hus’s opponents mounted their own propaganda campaign, disseminating their own interpretation of Hus’s life and death. In their view, Hus was an agitator and peddler of dangerous new beliefs. One of the most memorable songs about Hus from the anti-​­Hus (and anti-​­reform) camps was “Hear this you all, old and young” (Slyšte všickni, staří i vy děti).44 It describes Hus’s followers as vicious enemies of the traditional order and flatters those who oppose Hus, insisting that whoever has any common sense will understand and accept their point of view, whereas “whoever does not agree with you /

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him you call a robber.”45 At its heart is an attack against Hussite “novelty,” clearly a pejorative term in this context. The author accuses the Hussites of oppressing God’s faithful by leading them into error: And you twist it in every which way you do as you please. You do as you please oppressing faithful servants of God Rejoicing in this commendation.46 The signature error of Hus’s followers was, according to the author of “Hear this you all, old and young,” the fact that they considered Hus to be a saint. They make many mistakes about many things, the author insists, but this is the defining one: Also him you call holy and in that you are very much mistaken for no one has heard that he had been made holy . . . for he has not been canonized.47 To misinterpret Jan Hus’s life and death in such an astonishing way was the defining mistake of Hus’s followers. But even Hus’s opponents had to account for the deceased preacher’s persistent popularity. They attributed Hus’s appeal to the fact that he preached about how to steal from the clergy. He encouraged disobedience, presumably a popular subject with a rebellious crowd. John Hus born in Husinec and all his evil successors preached how to steal from priests and how to take their property saying, pay no attention to the fornicator.48 In this interpretation, Hus won his large following by inciting others to steal from the clergy. Money and profit were the reasons for his popularity, rather than his virtuous lifestyle. The author of this particular song does not spell out his claim that Hus incited others to steal from the clergy; it appears to be an



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oblique allusion to Hus’s teaching about dominion, which he had taken over from Wyclif. Another song, entitled “Now rejoice, o, holy church” (Již se raduj, cierkev svatá),49 openly contends that John Wyclif was the root of the present day trouble in Bohemia: Evil is suffocating goodness that happened because of Jan Hus who was the product of Wyclif who caused a lot of damage in the Czech lands woe to you, Hus. He made Bohemia hateful to all the world to his own condemnation he will suffer mightily on account of his ignoble deeds woe to you, Hus.50 In eighteen stanzas, the song describes the influence of John Wyclif, a known heretic, on Hus, with sixteen of those stanzas ending with a lament, “woe to you, Hus,” effecting a mood of mourning. The author stresses the connection between Jan Hus and John Wyclif to emphasize the foreign nature of Hus’s heresy. Hus’s teaching had consequences, the author argued, ascribing them to Hus.51 The consequences of Hus’s actions then preyed on the good people of Bohemia like a disease, a foreign interpolation that must necessarily be expunged. The point about the entire world hating Bohemia is an attempt to isolate the heretics, justifying the radical action taken to destroy them. Jan Hus might have sowed the seeds of evil and woe, but, according to the song’s author, Hus’s followers were even worse, guilty of murder, evil and robbery: Your little goslings [from Hus, meaning “goose”] now commit murder, robbery and all evil Woe to you, Hus!52 Jan Hus was detrimental to the realm, but his followers were driven t­ oward an even greater evil. The nature of this even greater evil is never defined and lingers in a vague but threatening accusation against all supporters of Hus.

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Much like the composers of pro-​­Hus songs, Hus’s opponents tried to forge a link between past and present-​­day actions. By doing so, they hoped to direct the disapproval that many felt for Hus t­ oward his present-​­day followers. The Council of Constance, in session between 1414 and 1418, proved another locus of contention. Hussite songs began criticizing the council after the deaths of Jan Hus and his coworker Jerome. They “ridiculed the conciliar fathers and condemned their sinfulness,” essentially criticizing them for making a mistake about Hus.53 If the pro-​­reform leaders could convince their followers that the council had erred about Hus, they could easily argue that the council erred about other things. The author of “O, the Council of Constance” (Ó svolánie konstanské) lamented the council’s decision to put Hus to death, arguing that the council killed an innocent man (Hus) on account of his preaching.54 The narrative unfolds in fourteen five-​­verse stanzas. O, you Council of Constance Who call yourself holy how could you, without any regard destroy without mercy a holy man! Did he deserve it by pointing out the sins of many by the gift of God’s mercy so that they would repent without any deceit? Pride, fornication and debauchery and insatiable greed from those he wanted you to turn away and bring you to the path of dignity.55 The author sets up the council as the enemy of holiness in general and of Hus in particular. “It would have been much better for you and more pleasing to God,” the author wrote, “if you accepted what he [Hus] had preached.”56 The mind-​­set of intransigence continues, which is why, the author argues, the council’s resolutions are contrary to virtue and ought not to be followed. It is no wonder that this composition was identified by name in the council’s deci-



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sion in February 1418 to ban the singing of vernacular songs, many of which, we are told, were sung in churches, taverns, private homes, and other places.57 Using the example of Jan Hus’s unjust execution, the author attempted to compromise the council’s moral standing and, by extension, all of its rulings. If the council members had been willing to repent, they would have accepted and, indeed, applauded, Hus’s message. The song established a clear demarcation between those who were repentant (followers of Hus) and the stubborn sinners (Hus’s opponents). The song also demanded its audience to choose between God’s truth and repentance (by following Hus) and sinfulness (by obeying the council). Much like advertising jingles of the present day, these compositions were written to be instantly familiar and memorizable. Possibly written as early as 1416, “O, you Council of Constance” (O svolánie konstanské)58 borrows an existing form and stanza structure from a Latin hymn, “Imber nunc celitus,” dating from the end of the fourteenth century.59 It comprises a five-​­verse stanza, often with aabbc rhyme pattern. The five-​­verse stanza became very popular after 1411 and was the prevailing form by the time of Hus’s death. The five-​­verse stanza had been used in Latin poetry, intended for limited elite audiences, but was appropriated to speak to mass, lay audiences by both pro-​­reform authors and their opponents.60 The fact the leaders of both camps availed themselves of this common structure suggests that it was a useful tool, while the common melody enhanced the laity’s ability to memorize and internalize them with great effect.

“Because Christ Commanded Us”: The Hussites and Their Songs About the Chalice If one’s stance ­toward Jan Hus was the litmus test of where one stood vis-​­à-​­vis church reform in Bohemia, receiving consecrated wine from the chalice during mass was a ritual proof of adherence.61 In late October 1414, Jakoubek, who had replaced Hus at Bethlehem after his departure for Constance, began offering the chalice to the laity during mass.62 Three other churches in Prague ­adopted the practice soon after.63 By 1416, Hussite leaders demanded that the chalice be offered to the laity in churches everywhere.64 In March 1417, the university declared itself in favor of the chalice, that is, communion in both kinds, of both bread and wine (in the Latin phrase sub specie utraque) though it is not clear whether the university saw the chalice as necessary for salvation.65

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Regardless of the fine print, this decision marked its first official decision openly to oppose the Roman Catholic Church and was, incidentally, also one of the first acts of decisive reform leadership.66 The university’s decision affirmed Hus’s supporters, who had been receiving from the chalice probably by the end of 1416.67 Aware of the rising popularity of the lay chalice and its importance for the Hussite leadership, the councilmen in Constance attempted several times to put a stop to the practice in Bohemia. In its declaration from June 15, 1415, three weeks before executing Jan Hus, the council claimed that the church had committed no error in keeping the chalice from the laity and reaffirmed its policy of withholding it.68 Similar rulings followed in 1418 (in the same resolution that also banned vernacular singing) and 1425, but they only strengthened the Hussite resolve. By 1436, the papacy would reverse these rulings and permit communion in both kinds in select churches across the kingdom of Bohemia. The chalice featured prominently in the vernacular compositions as a symbol of reform, and also as example of what was wrong with the contemporary church. At first, it presented Hussite propagandists with a challenge, because Jan Hus had been nearly silent on the subject, both in his sermons and in his academic writings.69 In the extant corpus of Hus’s writings, the chalice is rarely mentioned. In a letter written two weeks before his death, in June 1415, from his prison in Constance, he urged Havlík, his successor at the pulpit of Bethlehem Chapel, not to oppose the sacrament of the cup.70 Hus’s successors latched onto this one statement and championed Hus as one of the chalice’s chief proponents, even though this is debatable at best. The chalice lent itself beautifully to the needs of Hussite propagandists. It was a practice rather than a point of theology, which meant that it required doing rather than understanding, important if uneducated laity were the target audience. Within a few years, receiving from the chalice had become a mark of Hussite affiliation. Those who received from the chalice automatically identified themselves as adherents of the Hussite camp. The same held true for churches and, later, whole dioceses. The chalice was also a symbol of what the reformers stood for. It encapsulated the Hussite ardent rejection of priestly privilege, as well as their emphasis on the authority of the Scriptures over tradition. The chalice as a symbol of clerical privileges reduced a complicated story to a conveniently abbreviated form: the clergy kept the chalice to themselves, even though it had originally been offered to everyone. It was, the reformers insisted, simply a scandal.



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The vernacular songs reflect this outrage, with some of them claiming that the clergy hid the truth about the chalice from the laity in order to inflate their power and self-​­importance. The suggestion is clear: there now exists a clear contrast between “Judas clergy,” who actively and deliberately stand in the way of proclamations of the gospel, and Hussite clergy, who figure as Christ’s true priesthood.71 For example, one song alleged that even though they believe it permissible to serve (Christ’s) blood to the people, the clergy would not do so because the pope did not allow it (at the Council at Constance). “They esteem that proud man [the pope] more than Jesus.”72 The reformers presented the chalice as a matter of control and deliberate deception on the part of the clergy, who had, according to this song’s author, chosen to keep the chalice to themselves. The Hussites also offered a plausible explanation for why the church kept the chalice from the lay faithful: elitism and abuse of priestly power. The author of “Our dear creator, have mercy ” (Tvorče milý, zžel se tobě) offered a lengthy argument that unfolds over thirty-​­four stanzas, 136 lines in all. The song presents the Hussite claim (the chalice is meant for both clerics and laity) and discusses the scriptural authorities that support this claim (the evangelists and especially St. Paul) and their statements (Christ shed his blood for the salvation of everyone, not only the clergy). The song even addresses potential objections, explaining why the clerics refuse to follow suit (they are beholden to sinful leaders, the accursed popes, rather than God’s commandments), and offers solutions (clerics ought to hold no property, the chalice ought to be offered to the laity). At heart, the song is an attack on the culture of priestly privilege and elitism. It laments the clerical abuse of power, specifically the fact that clerics reserved the chalice for themselves, denying it to the people. The Hussite author accused the clergy of deliberately deceiving the laity in order to protect their clerical privileges: It is not true what you preach you lie to the simple folk saying to the laity: “you are not worthy to receive Christ’s blood.”73 The author explained that Jesus spilled his blood not only for the salvation of the priests but for the salvation of all. The author sets the very words of the Scriptures to music:

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In the Holy Scriptures it is written that whosoever should eat that holy body of Christ and drink his holy blood Christ will remain in him and he will have eternal life So the holy apostles testify, being the scribes of God Saint Paul also writes to all the people in Corinth saying “What I received from Christ that I am giving you his body to eat and his blood to drink until the day of judgment until the coming of God.”74 This argument is short, concrete, and comprehensible to the laity. It also identifies the culprit: duplicitous and abusive clergy. The contrast is drawn: between the corrupt, duplicitous clergy and the Hussites, who alone can shepherd the common people to salvation.75 The pro-​­reform masters saw the reintroduction of the chalice as a way of putting the errant church back on the right path. (In retrospect, the issue may seem self-​­explanatory to us, since the Catholic Church now freely offers the chalice to the laity, and it may seem unfathomable that it was not always so.) Another song addresses the problem of laymen refusing to partake of the communion wine, even when offered it. This reticence must be overcome, the author insists, because it is caused by sin. For they are opposed to the law many people for their sins and they look up to sinful people rather than for God’s eternal mercy.76 The chalice was not merely a fashionable option, it was a necessity. Making it so presented laity with a definite choice, to which only “yes” or “no” were acceptable answers. As in the spiritual fight against the Antichrist, neutrality was not an option. But the chalice encapsulated not only the Hussite disgust with priestly



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privilege, but also their belief in the primacy of the Scriptures as the leading authority in their thought and practice. Through their vernacular compositions, Hussite leaders argued that they, not the Roman church, were in agreement with hallowed ancient authorities on the subject of the chalice. In a song composed around 1417, entitled “Now there is one question” (Otázka nyní taková běží), the author insisted that it was fitting for lay Christians to receive from the chalice and adduced an astonishing list of authorities to support his argument.77 St. Matthew, St. Paul, St. Cyprian, Pope Gelasius, and St. Thomas had all, evidently, agreed that the sacrament ought to be given in both kinds.78 In a striking move, the author recited the names of esteemed church fathers as his argument against the claims of the contemporary church. According to the author, the chalice belonged in the hands of the laity, simply because Christ had commanded that it be so. This growing insistence that the contemporary church was wrong in keeping the chalice from the laity was endlessly reiterated in these songs and mirrored the learning process of the masters themselves. In 1414, the reformers in Prague first seriously entertained doubts about the church’s decision, when they learned that the Eastern Orthodox churches offered the chalice to the laity and, in fact, to all baptized Christians. Jerome of Prague brought this news from his trip to Lithuania, where he participated in worship of the Eastern Orthodox Church and took copious notes on its history and doctrine. He came away much impressed by two things: the chalice was routinely offered to the laity, and the church was independent from Rome. Jerome’s trip sparked further research and, one imagines, feverish debates inside the tight-​­knit circle of pro-​­reform masters at the university. It soon became evident that the custom of communion under one kind was only two to three centuries old, a relative novelty. Jakoubek emerged as the foremost champion of the lay chalice, writing a lengthy treatise that drew on an impressive array of authorities, including church fathers, doctors, councils, and popes. Next, he addressed the question of infant communion, arguing that all children should be admitted to Holy Communion as well.79 Like Hus before him, Jakoubek had his treatises inscribed on Bethlehem’s walls for maximum effect. First came the treatise on the importance of offering the chalice to the laity, sometime in late 1414, and then his treatise on infant communion. But it was the importance of the chalice for laity that dominated vernacular compositions. Jakoubek’s main argument—​­albeit in a simplified form—​­was featured in a number of vernacular compositions. In the song “Such is Christ’s Law,” the author carefully explained that Christ had offered both his body and his blood at the Last Supper, citing scriptural

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references to support his point. Drinking from the chalice was thus a matter of following God’s commandments, and it was necessary for salvation: Therefore, if we obey God’s commandments and fulfill his law and avoid sin we will rule with him forever.80 The very opening of the song signals where the author stood regarding the chalice. It is an indelible part of Christ’s law. To receive his body is for the salvation of our bodies and to drink his blood cleanses our souls.81 The composition did not feature all the technical language present in Jakoubek’s argument, but it conveyed the same message in a form digestible by simple laymen. The question of the chalice inevitably led to the question of salvation. The Hussites argued that the chalice was essential for salvation, that the church’s prescriptions were compromised, and that its priests had proved themselves incapable of leading the faithful to salvation. Their opponents, on the other hand, rejected the chalice as a novelty and deemed its practice erroneous and misleading. But both parties asserted that their opposition did not and could not lead the faithful to salvation. The Hussites relied on instruction in winning the laity for their point of view. Specifically, they argued that salvation must not depend on external monetary transactions, such as indulgences or any other clerical payments, but on personal acts of repentance and good deeds. This view is best encapsulated by “Conversing with Death” (Rozmlouvání člověka se smrtí), a chilling conversation with the personified figure of death.82 Death reveals her secret strategies for pursuing her victims and boasts that no one is safe from her, not even prelates or popes: I will throw down the most holy father from his proud throne; . . . ​His interdict will be of no use nor his glory



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cardinal, bishop, monk I will capture their offices will be of no use.83 At the heart of the poem lies a theological lesson: what helps a person in the final hours of life, what determines his or her final destination, is repentance not any kind of external religious acts. In the moment of death, all wealth, including indulgences, will prove completely useless: Indulgences will disappoint you profits of the greedy clerics they will not help you on your journey if you cannot move yourself.84 In the course of the poem, Death discourages people from pinning their hopes on anything external to them: Do not place your hopes in purgatory for purgatory is uncertain only serves to fill the cleric’s purse.85 What matters is repentance and a store of good deeds.86 The Hussite composition “Conversing with Death” is highly polemical. It is an attack on indulgences and purgatory; what is important is internal conversion and repentance, as Hus had insisted in his catechetical treatises (discussed in Chapter 2). As spelled out in another pro-​­Hussite poem, “This law we should obey” (Ten řád máme znamenati), one’s obedience to Christ could not be judged from external, visible markers. What mattered was not hierarchical distinctions but a life lived in Christ. Remember God’s law . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . let us praise God, saying amen and let us all be thankful that we are enlightened by the truth in which if we abide we will be saved.87

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This too was a catechetical poem that packed a rhetorical punch: clerics are not God’s favorites; all are equal before God and what matters is repentance and obedient life in Christ.

The Bible The Hussite leaders had established their party as the party of the Bible. This was a brilliant feat and allowed the reformers to claim that they stood for the Scriptures, without discussing different interpretations or teaching how one chose between them. Interpreting the Scriptures was anything but easy. The leaders of both sides, having been trained at the university, were well aware of the hermeneutical difficulties inherent in the task. But in vernacular compositions of this type, the authors seldom acknowledged that any complexity existed. They circulated their own interpretation of the Bible, presenting their songs simply as scriptural truths.88 For example, the pro-​­reform song entitled “Germans are evil” (Němci su zúfalí)89 identifies Bethlehem Chapel, formerly the site of Hus’s preaching and a Hussite stronghold, as the only place to learn the true meaning of the Scriptures. If you want to know the Bible you must go to Bethlehem and learn it on the walls as Master Jan of Husinec ordered to have it written there.90 Many opponents of reform were wealthy German-​­speaking Prague burghers. The Bethlehem chapel had come to represent all that they disliked about the reformers: they were upstarts, rabble-​­rousers and bad for business. In October 1412, a crowd of German-​­speakers attacked the chapel, with the stated intention to drive Hus and his “dangerous teaching” away from the capital. The incident increased the tensions between German and Czech speakers in the capital and also fueled enmity between the followers of Hus and those who despised him. This Hussite song interprets the incident to serve political ends. God, please, give them knowledge . . . . ​. . . . ​. . . . ​. . . . ​. . . . ​. . . . ​. . . lest they take up rocks [to throw at the chapel] because they do not know the Bible.91



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In this interpretation, it was ignorance of the Scriptures that led the Germans to attack Bethlehem. But the poem also took for granted that Bethlehem is where the truth of the Scriptures was to be found, denying that any kind of interpretative process was involved: Hus’s supporters simply stood for the Bible. This position was made easier by their opponents, who did not share the Hussite view that the Bible belonged in lay hands and did not, therefore, quibble over individual interpretations. Rather, they attacked those who purveyed them. Again, Bethlehem Chapel, as the site of Hus’s preaching and the symbol of pro-​­reform clergy, became the target of the attacks. That is where, the reform opponents averred, the unlearned fall into the clutches of the ignorant ones to their great amusement: This is what they teach the laborers tailors and shoemakers smiths leading them to their faith which the wise ones laugh about.92 The reform opponents conceded that the Hussite teaching might sound pleasing, but they continued, almost feverishly, to exhort the laity not to listen to the Hussites, not to frequent Bethlehem Chapel (seen as the font of all error), and not to be persuaded by them. Their message oppressed many good people and misled a number of simple folk into danger and error. “This is how they are known / that they deceive themselves and the people,” and “they inflict great violence on the people.”93 The poems dissuading laity from attending Bethlehem or listening to pro-​­reform clergy contain no actual explanation for why. Instead they relied on threats, invective, and fearmongering, such as in this emotional appeal to Bohemia’s national saints: Let us all together ask the saints that they might destroy the Bethlehem barn if they please. Many go there and learn the new faith.94 This was one of many anti-​­Hussite songs in circulation that invoked the patron saint.95 The author insisted that Bohemia’s national saints would have nothing to do with Hus, the Hussites, or anything they stood for. Among them was

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St. Wenceslas, traditionally the patron and protector of Bohemia. The author pleads directly with him: Saint Wenceslas, our priest you have the power from God to have mercy on us and drive out all the Wycliffites who do much evil.96 Implicitly, the author argued that the only true community of the faithful lies with him, another powerful reminder to the laity that they were in danger of being led into error by zealous Hussite proselytes, that any movement away from Rome was movement away from the true community, as represented by the illustrious Czech saints. Appropriating the national saints appears to have been a coup for the reform opponents, as the Hussites appear not to have appealed to them in any of their compositions, nor did they invoke them in their prayers or sermons at this time. This was a new development given the fact that Jan Hus, for example, invoked St. Wenceslas plentifully in his early sermons.97 Moreover, exempla of saints disappeared from Hussite preaching around this time, specifically all mention of the most important Bohemian saint, St. Wenceslas. This may be because Hussite reformers conceded the saints to their opponents, who invoked Wenceslas often in their sermons and even wrote an entirely new, anti-​­Hussite hagiography of him.98 The Hussite opponents insisted that the Bible should be kept from the laity altogether. That is why they responded with a barrage of songs satirizing lay Bible reading as a whole. Their songs ridiculed Hussite followers for “dabbling” in the Scriptures and called their knowledge laughable ignorance. In the vernacular song “The Beguine” (Bekyně), the author ridicules laywomen who, although not learned in Latin, insisted that they knew the Bible better than the university masters. The laywomen are depicted as prideful and ridiculous: They want to argue with everyone and let them know what they think they did not learn Latin those garrulous beguines.99 The song depicts them as foolish and utterly misguided in thinking that they “know better / thanks to [their] reading of the Bible.”100 Over the course of ten stanzas, the author mounts a robust critique of the women Bible readers,



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based on the contrast between that which is seen (overt piety) and that which is hidden (evil presumption and hypocrisy). Veiled by piety, the women may have refused marriage, but, the author contends, they chose a much worse evil instead. They pretend to live in piety and spiritual discipline, but instead, under their veils, they think evil thoughts. And though they wear humble veils and this is especially noteworthy they seem very humble but their hearts are immersed in sin.101 Rhyming kráčejí (they seem) and omáčejí ([their hearts] are immersed) underscores the contrast. They think that they know something because they read the Bible, but their authority is revealed to be completely hollow. Another satirical song originating in the Roman Catholic camp, “The Lollard Lady” (Viklefice),102 underscores the dangers of the Hussite interpretation of the Scriptures.103 Rather than reflecting the experience of real women, the song “mediates between standard clerical anti-​­feminist rhetoric and the specific social reality of fifteenth-​­century Bohemian women.”104 In fifteen well-​­crafted stanzas, the song describes the seduction of a young male by a Lollard female, who promises to teach him the doctrine. The song plays on the biblical sense of “knowing,” that is, having sexual relations, thus equating unauthorized interpretation with sexual immorality. Several stanzas are overtly sensual. In the eighth stanza: And then the lady bared the Bible she bared two chapters They were fair and so round Not unlike two pears And like them also very pure and white.105 The song mocks the Wycliffites’ fervor for the Bible: They have sweet interpretations complete, without any errors who is allowed to taste them can well be happy.106 The entire song equates Lollard desire for the Scriptures with illicit sexual longing. The message is clear: like adultery or fornication, unauthorized study

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of the Scriptures is an illicit and dangerous activity that endangers one’s life and salvation. This kind of attack might have been perceived as especially devastating in light of Hussite commitment to moral reform among the people, publicly punishing sinful and immoral conduct.107 Anti-​­reform writers relied on satire much more than their reform-​­minded opponents, whose songs tended to sound earnest and serious. In addition to tarnishing the reputation of the leaders, the reform opponents also attacked their followers. “Shoemakers from Bydžov” (Bydžovští ševci), composed most likely in 1415,108 is a versified description of a Hussite attack on a monastery by a group of simple shoemakers, who fancied themselves Hussite warriors but end up looking foolish and pathetically gullible. The poem opens with the humble monks pleading with their attackers, asking them to spare their lives and arguing that the attackers had no right to kill them and destroy their monastery: They begged the shoemakers not to bang on their gate because they had no right to beat them.109 The parody hinges on an amusing reversal: the shoemakers are depicted as thinking themselves fierce, swinging swords and threatening to kill the monks, but the monks are able to drive the attackers away without too much effort: Monk Kokos came up to him and hit the shoemaker in the nose saying, “Get away from here taking your big sword and learn how to make shoes instead.”110 Thus disarmed, the Hussite shoemaker slinks away, making it clear that though boastful, the Hussite shoemakers are weak, cowardly, and ineffectual. The author is merciless: They call themselves heroes? They ran away from cudgels running to and fro and all were calling retreat.111



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The ease with which the monks are able to defend themselves, using pushes and shoves against swords, underscores the pathetic nature of the attack, and of the attackers. The poem closes with a moral: The shoemakers would be better off had they left the little monks alone devoting themselves to their work rather than trying to work as abbots.112 The lesson is clear: the shoemakers were misled by pride into doing something that they had no business doing. The poem ridiculed the shoemakers’ credulity in the Hussite propaganda, which, in turn, served as a cautionary lesson to others not to make the same mistake. Satire was the chosen rhetorical weapon of the reform’s opponents. “The Lollard Lady” and “The Beguine” both argued against scriptural reading by the laity but did not present a counterargument. The frequent use of satire demonstrates the main difficulty facing the propagandists of the Catholic party: rationally refuting broadly appealing and self-​­evident messages, such as “some reform in the church is needed” or “the priests oppress their charges with their greed” or “some knowledge of the Bible is necessary to salvation,” was impossible. What was, however, rhetorically possible was to undermine.

Singing About Money Another way to define the conflict between the parties was in terms of money. The reformers alluded to the biblical injunctions that the love of money was “the root of all evil” to support their point. The reformers had a very specific interpretation of the kind of money that they saw as the “root of all evil”: the church’s secular properties. In their compositions, they proposed a solution: to rid the church of property, as Wyclif advocated in England. Money and property were a matter of deep contention throughout this period. In the years following Hus’s death, about 60 percent of all church property in Bohemia came under full administrative control of the Hussite leaders. This control involved collecting rents and incomes, appointing priests, and managing parish affairs. In effect, an autonomous church structure, parallel with the Roman structure, was created, complete with offices for oversight and

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management of dioceses and parishes. The university served as the head of the Hussite church, both theologically and practically. It assumed the role of consistory and became the highest arbiter in ecclesiastical appointments and other administrative functions.113 This new role had been in the making since the death of Jan Hus in 1415, when the Czech-​­speaking masters formed a political coalition with reform-​­ minded nobility. This coalition, called the Hussite League, established the theologians of the University of Prague as the chief authorities in all religious disputes.114 The letter protesting the Council of Constance’s treatment of Hus, discussed above, was one of the public manifestations of this new partnership. Another example of the Hussite League’s public actions was more violent. The nascent movement needed many new priests, but lacked a bishop willing to ordain them. In order to circumvent the problem, the league decided to kidnap a bishop. Čeněk of Vartenberk, a prominent noble member of the league, had Bishop Hermann imprisoned and ordered him to ordain Hussite priests.115 At its core, the Hussite reform was very much about who controlled money and property. This is why there are as many extant compositions that deal with money, corruption, and greed, as there are songs addressing Christian doctrine or ritual. Via their vernacular songs, the reform leaders tried to convince the laity that money in the church only led to corruption, thereby justifying their decision to take it from the church in the first place. For example, the author of “If anyone has heard” (Slýchal-​­li kto od počátka)116 turns to the clergy, asking them why they chose the priestly profession: Why do you corrupt Christendom you, who call yourselves masters, by corrupt doctrines? Is this why you went to university that you might amass properties by clever adulations?117 In the late medieval church, becoming a priest was a way to secure a comfortable life. Even Jan Hus confessed in one of his letters that he had become a priest because it would bestow him with status and afford upward social mobility. The song exploited the fact that becoming a priest conferred status and a steady income, depicting all clerics as interested solely in money, attending university in order to collect benefices, and as interested in wisdom only insofar as they could profit from its sale.118 They twist the doctrine to suit their own



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ends and praise the pope, the guarantor of their simoniac benefices. Because of this preoccupation, the laypeople are left to their own devices. They lament: From whom should I learn how to follow God’s commandments? From the pope or the masters priests, monks, canons who wield false advice?119 The clergy is so blinded by the glitter of coins that its members get their loyalties confused: “they look up to a prideful mortal [i.e., the pope] / rather than to Jesus.”120 The song’s argument is a simple one: members of the laity wish to live devoutly, but their efforts are continually thwarted by greedy, ill-​­willed clergy, who refuse to perform their duties and needlessly oppress their parishioners with a variety of financial demands. After a list of grievances against the clergy, the poet concludes with a heartfelt complaint: And so life is difficult for the poor in all the lands, but especially in Bohemia because of haughty clergy.121 Singling out Bohemia as the place with the most oppressive clergy served a rhetorical purpose: the gravest corruption requires the most radical response. Following the example of Jan Hus, many reform leaders decried simony, the act of buying or selling spiritual things. Simony was one of the errant practices that Hus campaigned against in his treatise On the Six Errors. In theory, priests were not to receive any payment for their spiritual services. The question was, how was simony to be defined? Was it wrong for a country priest to accept a dozen eggs and a loaf of bread after baptizing a child or performing a wedding ceremony? The practice had by now become tradition, but the reformers protested any kind of physical reward being offered for spiritual things. A long, very instructive composition of fifty-​­seven stanzas (171 lines), entitled “About clerical simoniacs” (O kněžích svatokupcích), offers a window into the parish practices the reformers found objectionable. According to this song, parish life revolved around remuneration. The Christian faithful were expected to pay their priest on all important milestones,

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major feasts, and other high points in the church calendar. The author lists all the different occasions in a person’s life during which a parish priest would demand payment for services: baptisms, confirmations, illnesses, high feast days (such as Christmas and Easter), fast days (such as Lent), weddings, confessions, masses, pilgrimages, indulgences, collections, and funerals.122 Every rite demands a fee. In a breathless spectacle, the song speeds from one example to the next. When during Lent they heard confessions they forgave nothing [but] they extracted what they could.123 The author makes it clear that such offerings were not voluntary. [The priests] ordered that masses be purchased that we place wax, eggs, money at the cross.124 The priests are depicted as grasping, greedy, and merciless, as they steal, deceive, and abuse their authority. The priest preached that we remember the souls of the departed that we give to the church and then he stole a little extra for himself.125 The song is suffused with monetary terminology. The priests steal, collect, extract, demand, take, rob, insist, impose, ask, and strip-​­search the parishioners (for money). The laity is on the receiving end of these actions, passive, imposed upon, robbed, and oppressed. But, as the reformers were quick to point out, this kind of oppression was a relatively recent phenomenon, pointing to a time in the past when the church was an oasis of virtue. Before the present-​­day corruption began (at an ambiguous point in the recent past), the saints met to read and interpret the Scriptures. But in the present-​­day church the author sees only blindness: unintelligible services and greedy priests dressed in flashy colors. Not like the present-​­day blind men who whisper all to themselves and in Latin mangle everything.126



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Those holders of benefices cannot come to God because their property entangles them like thorns (reminiscent of the biblical thorn of St. Paul). ­Property—​­rather than love of property—​­is at the root of the church’s problems, and it is presented as actively evil, ensnaring, and destructive of all virtue. The juxtaposition of an ideal past with a corrupt present day was an oft-​ ­used rhetorical device. Although Christ’s original followers chose poverty in order to devote themselves fully to the gospel, the poet alleged that they have since been supplanted by monks and priests, who once (perhaps) had wished to be true followers of Christ but have since turned into liars and frauds, holding onto their secular properties and reveling in luxury and its attendant pleasures. For example, the author of “If anyone has heard” (Slýchal-​­li kto od počátka)127 turned to the corrupt clergy, saying “You dress yourselves in silk / and you hold God’s truth in contempt.”128 The same poem accused priests of fleecing the poor and oppressing them with all sorts of financial hardships: And so is life difficult for the poor in all lands, but especially in Bohemia because of haughty clergy.129 Rather than serving God, present day clergy was depicted as preying on their parishioners. In “Prague’s disputation with Kutná Hora” (Hádání Prahy s Kutnou Horou), the Hussite author argued that priests ought to be poor but did not wish to be. This was another useful kind of comparison, between how things should be and how they are, because it also emphasized that the clergy’s defiance of Christ’s call to poverty was chosen and deliberate. Once again, money made it impossible for clergy to be efficient ministers of God “because he who serves greed / cannot be the servant of Christ.”130 Secular property sinks the soul into eternal damnation, and it is not an accident that God forbade it, the Hussite author averred. And this is what happens most often that they hold secular property which God told them not to do unto their own condemnation into which they had entered

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as if caught in thorns that they cannot approach God nor do anything virtuous because secular property suffocates all goodness.131 Those holders of secular property cannot come to God because they are entangled in property as in thorns (reminiscent of St. Paul’s thorn) nor can they do any good. Money is thus depicted as an active evil, ensnaring and destructive of all that is good in the church, with clerics motivated by only one ­interest—​­adding to their incomes. [The priest] is interested only in one thing how to gain a church through simony or increase his income.132 This was also the reason why so many priests clung to the status quo in the church, defending schismatic popes because they guaranteed their incomes. Continuing the theme of juxtapositions of good and bad religion, one Hussite author zeroed in on monasteries, channeling the popular dissatisfaction with monastic orders in favor of his version of reform.133 The reformers focused especially on the way in which contemporary monasticism failed to live up to Christ’s way of life. In “Prague’s disputation with Kutná Hora,” the author compared the state of present-​­day monasticism with the golden apostolic age. Monks were supposed to love poverty, but they did not care. “Now both poverty and humility / have been banished from their courts.”134 The author criticized monks for their hypocrisy, emptiness, seclusion from the world, deception, pretension to holiness, lack of charitable acts ­toward the poor but diligent care of the rich, such as offering funerals in exchange for money. In the poem, Christ gives his judgment regarding monastic orders: monks ought to preach God’s word, but instead they sit around and do nothing; they ought to work, but they do not; they ought to be humble, but instead are prideful; they ought to give up property, but they posses all; they ought to live lives of purity but instead are steeped in all sorts of sin, all of which is said to be rooted, again, in property.135 The reformers offered a solution to the problem that they had identified as plaguing the contemporary church: rid the church of all property. Their proposed solution had the advantage of serving also as an explanation of controversial Hussite attacks on churches and monasteries. In fact, it reinterpreted



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them in a new, positive light—​­not as violent, uncontrollable attacks, but as a solution to a long-​­recognized problem. If property was the root of all evil in the church, it would only be rational to insist on its removal (or destruction) so that all might be able to follow God’s commandments. Accordingly, the author of “Prague’s disputation with Kutná Hora” concluded the poem by having Jesus, the judge, rule in favor of the Hussite interpretation of events: the old order is corrupt, rotten, and to be dismantled. The proposed solution was also highly polemical, echoing as it did Wyclif ’s proposal to abolish the secular dominion of all clergy members. The reformers, however, acted as if they had found the injunction for such a course of action in the Scriptures. Although in the Old Testament God may have allowed priests to own property so that they could provide for their households, God called the priests of the present day to be spiritual priests. Accordingly, they were supposed to serve God with spiritual sacrifices and expect no other reward. The solution to the church’s many problems was, in the Hussite view, secular oversight of the church, with the king publicly punishing sinners and overseeing the activities (and financial dealings) of the church.136 This course of action had, according to the Hussite propagandist, the divine stamp of approval. In contrast, the anti-​­reform authors did not try to persuade the laity that corruption and greed were not a problem nor did they argue that money was of no consequence. Instead, they again turned to satire and fearmongering to diffuse the issue, mostly evoking lurid scenarios about how radically life would change with the Hussites in charge. One strategy was to emphasize the newness of the Hussite agenda, depicting the movement as shockingly new and, therefore, erroneous. Written in 1417,137 the anti-​­Hussite composition “Hear this you all, old and young” drew on numerous Latin disputations, tractates, conciliar documents, synodal decisions, and other public documents to make its attack on the Hussite beliefs.138 The author claimed that this “new testament” of the Hussites bore no resemblance to God’s law: Hear this you all, old and young what I want to tell you about the new law which has nothing in common with God’s law.139 The composition instructed the listeners to fear not only the “new testament” of the Hussites but also any new prophets coming in with alleged new revelations:

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Beware of every new prophet because they twist the faith in every which way and in doing so, they spread evil among the people.140 They are also said to lead the faithful people astray and they go astray themselves for in their hypocrisy, they do much evil.141 The poet argued that the Hussites refuse to uphold the traditional customs and ceremonies of the church out of a desire for disobedience. Whatever they dislike in the Scriptures, they turn upside down, saying that they prefer their own “doctors.”142 They mock the laws also masters and holy doctors Jerome, Ambrose Augustine, Gregory they do not wish to heed them.143 The clergy were said to be the worst. Deceitful, malicious, and of dubious education, they lead the faithful to destruction: “For the priests of your new faith / they deceive you without measure.”144 By continuing to emphasize the adjective “new” throughout the poem, the author tried to discredit the reform ideas by associating them with the fear of novelty and instability, implying that all such deviation from the established order was to be rejected outright. The misreading of the Scriptures was at the heart of the error: They mock the Holy Scriptures not wishing to understand it nor tolerate the Christian community Infelicitous ones.145 This novelty was not only theoretical, but it translated into strange actions, which the anti-​­reformers were only too eager to put before their bewildered audiences, choosing the most audacious ways in which the reformers amended the church’s ritual. The author of one such composition warned



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that they baptize their children in lakes that they do not pray the hours and [they] sing the mass in Czech. Who gave them this grace?146 They also ignore feast days and other church holidays, processions, and other practices.147 Here the author referred to actions of a very small minority of radical reformers, called Taborites, who would forsake all religious rituals not mentioned explicitly in the Bible in an attempt to return to the religious practice of the early church. Simplicity and scriptural faithfulness were the guiding principles of all of their religious celebrations. But the author tried to highlight only their absurdity by commenting on their Eucharistic celebrations, or lack thereof: They consider the sacrament [of the altar] to be nothing and in that they all share that no one should bow before it nor venerate it in any other way because it does not say so in the Scriptures.148 This was strictly untrue; even the most radical of the reformers who looked for ways other than transubstantiation to make sense of what happens in the sacrament of the mass valued the sacrament, but in the absence of external devotions and venerations, it often appeared to observers that they did not. Even so, the poem’s author made it seem as if such a truncated religious celebration were the norm among the reformers. In fact, this kind of minimalist practice (of which more will be said in the following chapter) was denounced by the reform circles in Prague and practiced by only the most radical reformers. Choosing the most radical deviations from the established religious ritual and presenting them as the norm for all reformers aimed to spread disinformation and disgust and turn laity against the reformers. Another strategy was to invoke fear of change. Fear is a powerful motivator for individuals and entire groups, which makes it into a powerful weapon in the hands of propagandists. In order to scare the laity from supporting the reformers, the anti-​­reform writers circulated images of fractured families and broken social networks. The author of “Hear this you all, old and young” gave specific examples of how the Hussites would subvert the traditional order if they were put in charge. For example, they would appoint simple craftsmen and laborers to be preachers:

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For the priests of our new faith deceive you without measure They made you into preachers from shoemakers, tailors [and a great number of lowly occupations].149 According to this writer, the Hussites would appoint the lowest classes to be leaders, ushering in a social revolution and destruction of the “social fabric.” They would allow even women to preach: Also they told women to preach and did not consult Saint Paul for in one of his letters he says as every priest knows well women are commanded not to preach nor to rule over men And you twist it upside down doing as you please.150 From what we know of the hierarchy inside the Hussite movement in Prague, the reformers were no social revolutionaries; in fact, they tended to be socially conservative and quite unwilling to upend the existing social order. The author here exaggerates what the Hussites might do, to create fear and distrust of the reformers’ agenda and goals, again in the hopes of dissuading the laity from supporting them. The opponents of reform also tried to win over the laity by describing the Hussites as instigators of social disobedience. Under Hussite leadership, the opponents alleged, the contemporary society would fall into pieces, and families would collapse. Already you brought enmity between mother and her son and also father and his daughter In this way you extinguish love You also brought enmity between godfather and godmother him, who does not obey you, you call a scoundrel.151 As seen by the author, the Hussite agenda brought division, enmity, and discord. It dissolved the traditional bonds that held the society together, be they



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bonds of family, kinship, or social group. In another song, the author warned against tension between lords and the church, urban dwellers, and peasants: They flatter many lords which is what they like they give evil advice and sow discord between them and the clergy and also townfolk and peasants.152 The author increased anti-​­Hussite sentiment by showing the ways in which their rule would subvert social and religious order in society. The options available to the laity were clear. They could support the reformers and watch their cherished values be turned upside down (to say nothing of failing to achieve salvation). Or, they could support the church and reject any kind of religious or social novelties. Neutrality was not an option. The combined message of the anti-​­reform compositions was to show that there was no such thing as reasonable reform; the only way to forestall absolute disaster was to cling to the status quo. This was a cunning strategy, interpreting the present-​­day situation in terms of only two stark choices, either to fight for the status quo or to embrace social mayhem, violence, and novelty.

Ideological Songs and Their Authors The vernacular compositions discussed in this chapter were deliberately crafted to convey specific, contentious messages to the laity. And they made their impact felt. How else can we explain the fact that authorities moved three times in ten years to ban vernacular song and singing. First in 1408, when the Prague synod banned vernacular songs in liturgy with the exception of four well-​ ­established hymns.153 The ban on new vernacular songs was reiterated in 1409.154 Then again in 1412 when the king prohibited the singing of songs mocking the lively commerce in indulgences.155 And again in 1418 when the councilmen at Constance banned Hussite songs. The council’s explanation of this ban shows just how effective these compositions had been in riling up the sentiment against the church and its representatives: “All songs introduced in a prejudicial manner concerning the position of the holy council and the living Catholic Church, with regard to the Wyclifites and the Hussites; or all songs commending the condemned heretics Jan Hus and Jerome, are prohibited in all cities, villages,

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and towns, and whatever singing [of these songs] remains, is under severe penalty of punishment.”156 Although we cannot match songs with individual authors, it is probable that most originated from university circles. Many of the compositions contain a high level of theological argumentation, however simplified for lay audiences. Moreover, they are coherent with each other, supplying a unified interpretation of key events and points of theology. They should be seen as a deliberate effort to communicate a specific, partisan message to the laity in a top-​­down kind of dynamic, which emphasizes their role as vessels of propaganda, as shaping the lay opinions. This emphasis complements Fudge’s view of the songs as “expressions of societal spirit,” which foregrounds the role of the community and the deliberate decision of its members to adopt the songs as “expressions of the representative attitude” that emphasizes the community’s adoption of the songs.157 In these tumultuous times, it was not unusual for a prominent university master to compose songs for the laity in order to influence their opinion. For example, Jerome of Prague, a prominent critic of the clerical establishment in Prague, wrote songs and taught them to the people until his death in 1416 ordered by the Council of Constance. Contemporary sources tell us that people sang his songs in the streets, day and night.158 This is only one example of a university-​­educated reform leader composing for the laity to disseminate his views, but it is feasible to posit the existence of others, as the sources do not present Jerome as an anomaly in this regard. University masters used vernacular compositions to talk with the laity, to persuade them of their point of view about the future of reform in Bohemia, and to influence their thoughts and behavior. Between 1410 and the 1430s, the only written and circulated compositions were pro-​­or anti-​­reform. The battle of propaganda that unfolded in the years after Jan Hus’s death in 1415 completely transformed vernacular literature in Bohemia.159 For two decades, politically motivated compositions came to dominate vernacular writing. Other genres such as romantic or chivalric poetry, previously popular among the laity, completely disappeared.160 They were replaced with compositions intended to communicate a political or religious message, such as sermons, tractates, spiritual songs, chronicles, and annals.161 These writings shared an important feature: they were ideologically useful.162 Scholars of Czech literature have noted the disappearance of genres that were not ideologically useful, but—​­owing to the prevalence of Marxist thought—​



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t­hey interpreted it as a sign that literature ceased to be the domain of the clerics and nobility and instead came to be owned by the laity. They talk about “popularization” of literature, but they miss an important point. All genres, even those deemed most popular, such as songs, remained firmly in the control of clerical authors, who used them in order to communicate a message. This effort to win the laity’s support naturally shaped the content of the compositions, and the laity became cognizant of the fundamental theological issues at the heart of contemporary disputes in the church. This knowledge allowed them to decide whether or not they were in favor of reform and to tailor their activities accordingly. The fact that large enough numbers decided to support the reform agendas proved instrumental in the realm’s ability to repel five successive waves of crusaders.

Conclusion The religious and political volatility, brought about by Jan Hus’s death opened up a public debate about the future of reform in Bohemia. The advocates of reform continued to gain support by composing vernacular compositions that addressed a number of contentious subjects. This robust outburst suggests that members of the laity were free to make up their own minds about what they thought of reform. Although the historiography has treated the growth of the Hussite movement as “unstoppable,” this is a grave misreading of the evidence.163 The emergence and success of the Hussite movement ought to be attributed to this savvy propaganda campaign. It was successful because it incorporated the concerns, fears, hopes, needs, and wants that already existed among the laity and did so through the accessible medium of vernacular songs. Topics addressed in these songs included the life and career of Jan Hus, simony, anti-​­clericalism, the chalice, and Scriptures. The Hussite leaders presented their message in a way that resonated with the laity’s concerns, identified the culprits behind their social and economic woes, and offered a course of action, much like successful political campaigns in present-​­day America. In comparison with the Wycliffite preachers and writers, who tried to spread Wyclif ’s ideas to the English laity in the decades after his death in 1384, the Hussite leaders did exceptionally well in persuading laity in Bohemia of their agenda and managed it in fewer than six years after Hus’s death. They had, for a while, the support of the king, which allowed them to move swiftly

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and use public communication channels, but their choice of medium contributed significantly to the success of their propaganda campaign. However, the laity’s appetite for theological understanding was not satisfied with these basic compositions and the information contained therein. Many wanted more than slogans or quick explanations; they wished to understand the different theological arguments and their bases in the Scriptures.

Chapter 4

The Parting of the Ways Prague and Tábor

In the years following Hus’s death, reform’s proponents continued the campaign of persuasion and were gaining supporters for the reform message. But what kind of reform? In Bohemia in 1419, this was a complicated question. Unity on the subject proved elusive: the university masters disagreed among themselves, and all kinds of preachers disagreed with them and with each other. The university managed to issue a unified program of reform in Bohemia, called the Four Articles, and the emerging factions did give their stamp of approval. However, it was skeletal at best, calling for communion under both kinds, free preaching of the word of God, secular dominion over church property, and the extirpation of public sins.1 The disagreements about the direction and extent of reform were deep but manageable while the king supported the reform’s goals. Howard Kaminsky was of the opinion that had there been peace and stability, religious agreement among the different reform factions would have been possible.2 But when the king began rolling back his pro-​­reform measures, a kind of panic set in, a fear that God had turned his back on reform in Bohemia. In this sudden reversal of reform fortunes, different leaders called for different responses, which in turn fragmented the movement.3 This rift soon divided the laity, creating a kind of threefold division in Bohemia’s population: opponents of reform as defined by Hus’s successors, reformers in Prague, who considered themselves heirs of Jan Hus, and reformers, sometimes called radicals, who were dissatisfied with both other options and proposed an alternative path. This alternative path soon acquired apocalyptic character, with clerics preaching the imminent end of the world.4 The reform leadership in Prague, often called the moderates, were not swayed by

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the apocalyptic cries of preachers.5 Instead, they preferred to work within the existing system, looking for a political solution. First, this entailed pressuring the king to allow a reform practice in churches across the realm; after he died, they focused their political energies on preventing an opponent to reform from ascending to Bohemia’s throne.6 Both groups used vernacular compositions to attract supporters for their agenda. In order to persuade their audiences to support their particular version of reform (or to oppose it), these compositions belittled the opponents, often using harsh and inflammatory language. It is impossible to analyze their impact with any precision, but judging by their continued proliferation in the vernacular and by the fact that some compositions answered other existing ones it would seem that they were considered an important tool in communicating with the laity. And if they proved persuasive, it was at the cost of exaggerating the differences between the factions and slandering the members of the opposition. This growing rift among the reformers would never be resolved and would often lead to violence, making any effective unification impossible.

Divisions Loom In early 1419, the trajectory of reform had seemed clear and hopeful. The Hussite party gained control of a number of churches in Prague, where they offered the chalice to the laity and supported pro-​­reform preaching. The reformers were also making inroads in the countryside, especially in southern Bohemia, where Hussite nobility began appointing like-​­minded priests who offered the chalice to the laity and criticized the contemporary church. Gradually, a network of churches and dioceses favoring the chalice began to emerge—​­a network that was fully controlled by the reformers. Within two or three years of Hus’s death, the Hussites organized themselves into a parallel church under the leadership of the masters at the university in Prague. Sources suggest a peaceful coexistence between reformers and their opponents, with clerical appointments left largely up to the preferences of individual noble patrons and with the whole system shielded from external interference by the king. However, the new status quo was extremely short-​­lived, and the reformers started losing ground almost as soon as they had gained it. The Council of Constance, in session until 1418, continued to legislate against Hussites and to implore King Wenceslas (d. 1419) and his younger brother Sigismund (d. 1437) to take action against them.7 In order to save his own position as king, Wenceslas



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eventually gave in to the council’s pressure and revoked most of the religious concessions he had granted to the reformers. For example, in February 1418, Wenceslas ruled that all of the church’s holdings be returned to anti-​­reform clergy. The number of places in Prague where it was possible to receive from the chalice was thus reduced to three: the churches of Our Lady of the Snows and of St. Ambrose (both in the New Town) and in the church of St. Benedict (in the Old Town). No doubt the decision to allow some reform churches to operate was meant as a compromise, but the reformers saw it as an enormous setback. In the same ruling, Wenceslas also forbade infant communion and the use of Czech language for the Gospels and Epistles in the mass and in evangelical preaching.8 These decisions ushered in a period of gloom for the reform sympathizers and intense doubts whether God had favored reform at all. The king’s decision to limit the Hussite church affected the countryside more severely: no churches offered the chalice, and the pro-​­reform laity in the countryside were excluded from this ritual practically overnight. The transition was not entirely free of conflict. The chronicler of the Hussite movement, Lawrence of Březová, reports that near Bechyně castle, Catholic priests and their vicars harshly assaulted laity receiving from the chalice, “forcibly throwing them out of their churches as heretics.”9 This suggests that many traditionalists eagerly abided by the new royal mandate, reclaiming their own possessions and banning the chalice wherever they could. Some laymen and clerics saw these setbacks as signs of the Antichrist’s imminent arrival, and tempers ran high. Many people, both lay and clerics, thought that something needed to be done, and some began to congregate on important feast days and holidays. The first appearance of radicalism in the countryside is usually dated to the time of Hus’s exile from Prague.10 But these gained a more organized, more visible character in spring 1419. These gatherings were often styled as processions or pilgrimages and seemed to be popular even in areas with chalice-​­offering churches. This suggest that the laity did not attend only to receive from the chalice, but also to seek out the company of other like-​­minded people. These gatherings were not spontaneous expressions of dissent, but carefully organized events from the start. Marxist historians claimed Tábor as the first grassroots movement, though hardly a religious one.11 This view saw chiliasm as devoid of any real religiosity. Indeed, religion (famously denounced by Marx) was seen as merely a handy expression of other kinds of forces, namely, the proletariat’s attempt to free themselves from oppression: chiliasm as popular atheism12 or as a utopian vision.13 In general, Czech historiography in this

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era tended to explain chiliast ideology as merely a projection of political, social, or economic interests. Even those who took note of the religious significance of the movement, understood the chiliast moment as the result of complex, mostly extra-​­religious forces.14 This approach was corrected by authors like Howard Kaminsky, Thomas Fudge, and Stanisław Bylina, who considered in greater detail the religious and social aspects of the movement.15 However, Lawrence’s chronicle account shows that from the beginning, the gatherings were organized by clerics, although we do not know their names.16 The first attendees, their personal circumstance and motivations, remain shrouded in mystery as well. Lawrence of Březová reports that some lords objected to these gatherings and tried to prevent their subjects from attending “on pain of losing life and property, but the peasants [rustici] and their wives gave little or no heed to an order of this sort, preferring to abandon all that they possessed and not to miss going to Tábor on certain feast days, drawn and attracted there as iron to a magnet.”17 It appears that these gatherings drew large crowds, probably fulfilling different needs for different people.18 They offered a venue to express one’s opinion about religious matters, to speak with the like-​­minded about reform, to collect interesting gossip about one’s neighbors, to hear provocative preaching, to receive from the chalice, and even to find comfort in numbers during tumultuous and uncertain times. There was nothing inherently radical about the form that these gatherings took. Religious processions and pilgrimages were appropriate venues for the expression of religious convictions and feelings in this time period. But the atmosphere there was described as rather “puritan.”19 As far as we can tell, the preachers at these gatherings lamented the church’s wealth, the immorality and corruption of the church’s servants, and the unbiblical perversions of its ritual life. But how did these messages relate to the spiritual and moral lives of those present? Were the gatherings an outlet for the listeners’ personal desires for moral purity and closeness to God? Or did they enjoy the critiques of the church and the insistence that others should reform their ways? The calls for public punishment of sins, cleansing of the church, and eradication of simony aside, these gatherings were subversive in that they took place without permission, which belonged to secular rulers.20 News of these crowds soon reached the capital. The reform-​­minded clergy began to hope that laity’s support might translate into political leverage, persuading the king to roll back the recent anti-​­reform measures. The pro-​­reform priest Jan Želivský, who presided over one of the last remaining lay chalice churches in Prague, called for a big gathering in a place called Tábor on July 22, 1419.21



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Pilgrims came from a number of regions across Bohemia, and the gathering at Tábor became a nationwide event.22 The pro-​­reform leaders met and considered ways to channel popular support into support for their own political needs in the capital. They sent a powerful message to the king by having his councillors in the New Town thrown out of their office windows. Želivský choreographed the event, which came to be known as the defenestration of July 30, 1419.23 The defenestration was an outstanding example of Kaminsky’s suggestion that “the spiritual battle against Antichrist, when worked out in terms of real people and real situations, must have tended to become a real battle, a clash of arms.”24 However, it is important to emphasize that the early reform calls to arms, by Jan Hus or Jakoubek of Stříbro, concerned spiritual fight and were merely metaphorical. This show of violence frightened the king, and he relented, retracting his earlier rulings against reform preaching and ritual. But he died within a few weeks, on August 16, 1419, probably from a stroke brought on by extreme stress. His brother Sigismund, who had earlier plotted with the pope against the Hussites, was to succeed him. The reformers were once again completely uncertain about the future of their reform agenda. Remembering the success of the meeting in Tábor, the reformers organized another gathering in Bzí Hora for September 17. This too was a peaceful gathering with no overt or implicit plans for future violence.25 Once again, the reform leaders turned to the crowds of laity for support. This was becoming a habit, one that is evident from the quantity of vernacular writings generated by these events. After the event, they circulated an open letter, letting their opponents know that although threatening in their numbers, they did not wish to cause any disturbance or harm. “Dearest ones,” the letter begins, “we wish to let all know with this letter that our gatherings to mountains and fields take place for no reason other than to hear the salvific proscriptions based in the word of God be preached freely and to receive the most noble sacrament of the body and blood (which is necessary) . . . ​we see insults and blasphemy, the suppression and rejection of all God’s truth . . . ​under the name of holiness and goodness, all of Antichrist’s hypocritical evil.”26 The author incorporated two of the Four Articles, but made no mention about where the contemporary church stood in this scheme, whether it supported or opposed it. This open letter, written in a simple style and in the vernacular, was primarily intended for the laity. It explains current events, focusing on the setbacks and persecutions, and frames them in terms of a biblical story. The author argues that those who fight for the good always suffer and uses biblical examples to prove his point, as if to prepare his listeners to endure any

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persecution against them. Alluding to the groaning of the Israelites in the Old Testament, who had been exiled in Egypt (Exodus, 2:22–24), he exhorts his listeners with an example from the Maccabees: “Now, my sons, show zeal for the law, and give your lives for the covenant of our ancestors. Remember the deeds of the ancestors, which they did in their generations; and you will receive great honor and an everlasting name. . . . ​My children, be courageous and grow strong for the law, for if you do what it commands you to do by your Lord God, you will gain honor” (1 Maccabees 2:50–51, 61, 64).27 The author also calls on his listeners to be united, “to form a unity for the freedom of God’s law and for the salvific benefit and good honor of the kingdom.”28 Here we see one of the first attempts to fashion the pro-​­reform laity into a kind of political block that defined itself as those who “abide by God’s law,” not dissimilar to Hus telling his supporters that when they stand with him, they stand with Christ. The manifestos of 1419 represent a struggle both to incite public discontent with the status quo and to channel it in a way that gave reform leaders leverage vis-​­à-​­vis the king.29 The defenestration of king’s councillors was one of the outcomes, showing the king the determination of the reformers as well as their ability to command the populace in Prague, while the gatherings outside of Prague served as demonstrations of the reach and influence of the reform message across the realm. However, the death of King Wenceslas had complicated the picture. The chalice was once again disallowed in the capital, and Hussites were actively persecuted and put to death on a number of occasions. These new martyrdoms along with the complete reversal of all reform policies intensified the feeling of crisis. Some clerics who supported the reform turned against it upon discovering that the new king, Sigismund, would not be making any concessions. Others expressed their desire for reform through political means, by working against Sigismund.

The Second Coming That Was Not and the Rise of Tábor In the course of that summer and fall, some of the preachers began interpreting contemporaneous events in starkly eschatological terms. The ongoing hunts for Hussite priests and sympathizers, the return of anti-​­reform clergy from exile, the betrayal by the leadership in Prague, the arrival of Sigismund (described by some writers as the “head henchman of the Antichrist”), and the appearance of a strange set of astral phenomena all seemed to confirm that something strange,



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something out of the ordinary, was afoot. Eventually, a number of pro-​­reform preachers began predicting the imminent coming of Christ, which would usher in Christ’s righteous reign on earth and purge it of all his enemies. This preaching (of which, unfortunately, little survives) strengthened the Adventist hopes of the laity, promising a radical solution to the realm’s troubles: the end of the world and a reign of Christ and the righteous.30 Those clerics who did not appease Sigismund preached, “At the completion of the termination of this age, Christ shall descend from heavens and come overtly in his own person, and will be visible with bodily eyes, in order to assume the dominion of this world, and he will arrange great feasts and a supper of the lamb for his bride, the Church, here on these early mountains.”31 One of the radical preachers, Jan Jičín, went as far as to commit himself to a specific time frame for Christ’s Second Coming, sometime between February 10 and 14, 1420. It must have been an attractive promise to those frustrated by the slow pace of reform and by the new wall of opposition. It also confirmed what the reform-​­minded laity needed to hear: God was on their side. The preachers painted a divisive picture. After Christ’s coming, only friends of Christ would remain, and the enemies of Christ would be vanquished. Christ’s friends were now defined largely in political and sectarian terms, and only they would be saved from the wrath of the upcoming Last Judgment. Through sermons and letters, preachers urged the friends of Christ to congregate in five cities in western Bohemia, Pilsen (Plzeň), Saaz (Žatec), Louny, Slaný, and Klatovy, because God would destroy the rest of the world.32 Lawrence reported that many responded to this call, with “the peasants selling their possessions and holdings and fleeing their homes across the Kingdom of Bohemia and Margraviate of Moravia to go to one of these five cities, placing all their money at the feet of these priests.”33 Little of the preaching that motivated this behavior survives, which did not prevent modern historiographers from exercising their judgment over the movement. Catholic authors, such as Josef Pekař or Jan Sedlák tended to be especially harsh judges, describing the movement as an aberration from what was religiously acceptable, a chronic disease, or a mental illness.34 Marxist authors, on the other hand, praised Tábor as an expression of the strength of the masses.35 The movement had also militarized somewhat, turning away from its initial pacifism. On September 30, 1419, one of the reform leaders in Pilsen (Plzeň), Václav Koranda, was recorded as saying: “The time to wander with the pilgrim’s staff is over. Now we shall have to march, sword in hand.”36 This turning point, the seemingly rapid progression from rejecting violence to embracing it, has been the subject of much scholarly discussion.37

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A handful of vernacular songs give us a glimpse into the way in which preachers addressed the laity regarding their Adventist hopes and expectations, songs in which these radical reformers communicated with their followers. How many of such compositions there were is hard to gauge. Two will be analyzed here: “Radujme se dočekavše” (Let us rejoice) and “Hlásný, vuolaj bez přestání” (Watchman, cry out without ceasing).38 Both can be dated to the period of Adventist expectation, both were written by an (unknown) preacher. These are both simple, rhymed compositions, of medium length (sixty-​­six and seventy lines respectively), but the authors managed to fit a lot into these stanzas. Each contains a succinct description of what the problem is with the world and ideas for how the problem can be fixed. The main problem, according to the author of “Radujme se dočekavše” is the priests, that is, priests who fail to live up to the duties of their vocation, who are corrupt and immoral, who take advantage of the sheep in their charge. The author writes, And again says Ezekiel who had a revelation from God about evil shepherds and told it. That God ordered them to stop ruling over their sheep and feeding on them because [God] wants to liberate them from the power of the priests, to rip them out from their grasp. God himself wishes to graze them in the mountains.39 These bad priests and evil shepherds not only fail to take care of the sheep (their main duty), but they also abuse them and fleece them. And according to the author of the second song: Look up and also down see your many enemies how they judge you and cause you suffering without any legal proceedings.40 Both of these descriptions of the ways in which priests in the contemporary church can be “bad” parallel Jan Hus’s writings about the problems in the contemporary church and his frank assessment of his fellow clergy. This is perhaps nothing new: all reformers speak about the flaws they see



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in the present-​­day situation and offer solutions for fixing them. What is striking about these songs is the fact that the proposed solution does not rely on human efforts. Instead, the authors believed that God would come and fix the problem, enforcing a sudden and lasting change in the status quo. And so while Jan Hus’s preferred mode of resistance was civil disobedience, these authors promised a solution by divine intervention: Announce the coming day of your lord and his great might which will soon come down.41 And elsewhere, because [God] wants to rescue what perished to renew what was obscured [zašlo] to harden, what was broken.42 This is not some random event; it is legitimated by biblical texts and prophesies, understanding the entirety of Bohemia’s reform efforts as a prelude to this event. It is no surprise then that the entire message of these vernacular compositions is wrapped in and reinforced by the Bible. Old Testament prophesies feature prominently, messages of sudden transformations wrought by God, punishments for sinners and rewards for the faithful ones. Whereas Hus’s message to the laity was, in effect, to find clerics worth obeying (if you are a layman) or resist being drawn into simony even if it means imprisonment (if you are a cleric), the author here promises immediate and powerful action by God. All one had to do was to be in the right place when it happened, joining the flock of the righteous. The reasoning and legitimation are taken entirely from Old Testament prophesies, especially Ezekiel 39:17 and Isaiah 25:6–8 and 2:3–22. Ezekiel speaks of a great sacrifice on the mountains of Israel, where those called will assemble and feast on bread and blood. Isaiah 25 repeats the theme of feasting in the mountains, on a banquet prepared by God Almighty himself. But he also focused on the mountains as a place where a special divine revelation would take place. God would “destroy the shroud that envelops all peoples” and “swallow up death.” Isaiah 2 also foregrounds the mountains as the site for the extraordinary, describing it as a place where God will teach his followers “his ways,” that they may follow him more perfectly, thus ushering in a complete transformation

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of mankind, settling their disputes so that they can live with each other in peace and harmony forever after. The message seems to allude to all of these aspects of God’s promise of the kind of events that would take place in the mountains. It is possible that the biblical text would have been covered, perhaps at length, in sermons that we know dominated the social life in this group. Both compositions insist that such a momentous kind of renewal and transformation could take place only in the mountains, away from established modes of life and society, in a liminal space where God can work unobstructed by contemporary custom and law, where the new and unexpected could and would happen. And there is biblical precedent for such thinking, as the songs show. The mountains are the place where the law had been given to the people (by Moses) and then the new law given again by Christ (in his sermon on the mount), for example. It then follows, or so the composition insists, that if a yet new dispensation is to be given to the faithful, it will take place also in the mountains. “For that reason,” the author exhorts his listeners, the evil ones will not oppose you go to the mountains where you will learn the truth.43 The mountains are also the place where the miraculous forces have free reign, argues one of the authors, asserting that Jesus’s miracle of loaf multiplication also took place in the mountains: “People were fed with bread on a mountain / when it was prepared for them.”44 He then paraphrases the account in the Gospel of Matthew’s chapter 15 (verses 29–38), emphasizing the detail about the miraculous multiplication taking place in the mountains which the Gospel text mentions only in passing. In effect, the mountains are presented as a place where normal social norms have been suspended and anything is possible. Isaiah testifies that many will march to the mountains saying: let us enter God’s mountain that he would teach us his ways there!45 These compositions probably reinforced the message that was preached and announced, exhorting the laity to forsake their normal lives and migrate to the mountains, or one of the five cities that would be spared from God’s wrath. The marker of those who are ready for this upcoming transformation and



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who await the Lord is a ritual one: receiving communion under both kinds (sub utraque specie), both bread and wine. In fact, one of the authors goes so far as to link this way of receiving the sacrament with God’s feast and eschatological satiety: Eat the sacrificed body and drink the blood all of you together until you become fully sated. Also Isaiah says that God will for all people in the mountains prepare a feast.46 However, this feasting and satiety are conditional: one has to be awake, vigilant, and ready to accept God’s will in the world. This offered a welcome call to action and may have been attractive to the laity, whose role in reforming the clerical order in the towns had been highly circumscribed and rather passive. The theme of active waiting and of preparedness is present in both compositions, though more prominently in the second one discussed here, perhaps because it was written in the winter of 1419–20. (There are references to cold and freezing weather and the need for warm clothes.) The author exhorts his audience: Announce the coming day of your lord his great might which will soon come down . . . . ​. . . . ​. . . . ​. . . . ​. . . . ​. . . To the sleepy ones, he will show a dark place in which there is a lack tears and the gnashing of teeth without mercy! To a very delightful garden he will invite the waking ones to enter to reside with the lord to always have joy. Therefore, be awake!47 Only those who are ready, and who know what to be ready for (that is, those who are receptive to Adventist preaching) will be rewarded.

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The evidence is fragmented, to be sure, but the few songs that do survive (which will be discussed below) chime perfectly with the little we know about the preaching. It seems reasonable, therefore, to suggest that these songs—​­like the songs discussed in Chapter 3—​­were composed by the leaders in order to impart a specific message to their followers. Steeped in biblical language and imagery, they communicate the main objectives in a simple, intelligible vernacular. They have another advantage, they can be easily memorized and repeated, which adds to their staying power in comparison with the spoken words of sermons, which would have been by nature ephemeral. Now that many believed in Christ’s impending return, the lives of the true believers began to change dramatically. Suddenly, all kinds of things became thinkable and even advisable: abandoning one’s life back home, living together in a commune, even committing violent acts on God’s behalf. The university masters tried to discredit this mode of thinking, arguing that it was largely based on a misinterpretation of a number of prophesies in the book of Revelation, but this had little effect.48 When, in February 1420, the date for the predicted end of the world had come and gone, the same preachers reinterpreted the meaning of Christ’s coming to suit the new reality. This was the beginning of the so-​­called chiliast period.49 The preachers taught that Christ had, in fact, already come (as was predicted) but not in the way that they had expected. Instead of entering with a great force and wiping out the forces of the Antichrist, he came in secret, and the task of vanquishing his enemies rested on the faithful. Those who remained loyal to the vision of Christ’s Second Coming fled to a new location in southern Bohemia, to establish a community that would embody all of their reform sentiments in its daily operations: a reformed commune. They settled in the abandoned fortress Hradiště perched on the tip of a peninsula formed by the Lužnice River and the Tismenice Stream. The fortress was renamed Tábor, a place associated with the Transfiguration in the New Testament, and it was here that all the elect were finally gathered in one community. The faithful had come from all across Bohemia: recent archaeological excavations revealed that Tábor was occupied by inhabitants from more than two hundred different towns and villages, which gives us a sense of the wide distance that the message that Christ’s coming was imminent had traveled.



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Opting for a Political Solution: Reform’s Headquarters in Prague The chiliast preaching campaign came under severe criticism from many moderate reformers, centered around Bethlehem Chapel and the university. The university theologians, led by Jakoubek of Stříbro, opposed the radical currents of reform and argued against it.50 The growing disagreements also, incidentally, revealed the fundamental differences in their respective understanding of reform.51 Whereas Taborites chose separation and isolation, the group that would come to be known as moderates favored political action. Emboldened by King Wenceslas’s support, albeit hesitant, of reform, the moderates cherished hopes for a political solution. To many, this seemed less likely after King Wenceslas’s death than while he was alive. They were not mistaken to be skeptical. The impending succession of Sigismund, a known hater of the reform, to the throne of Bohemia was seen as a major obstacle. Whereas Wenceslas seemed a lukewarm though fitful supporter of religious reform in the capital, Sigismund detested the reform efforts. Instead of supporting them like his late brother, he partnered with the councilmen in Constance and the pope to threaten Bohemia with a crusade.52 The only way to work a political solution consisted in resisting Sigismund’s accession to the throne. To that end, the moderate leaders worked to convince as many in the kingdom as possible that Sigismund was illegitimate to become Bohemia’s king.53 The Hussite manifestos were among the first attempts to inform the faithful at home and abroad about the stated goals of reform and to reassure them that the reformers’ intentions were peaceful.54 But some of these public communications had more specific goals. The manifesto addressed to “all Czechs,” released on April 20, 1420, advised its readers not to “submit to Sigismund.”55 While admitting that Sigismund was in possession of the requisite royal titles, the authors of the manifesto insisted that he ought not to be obeyed as king of Bohemia. Other manifestos would soon follow, both in Latin and the vernacular, but other venues for disseminating the message were being considered. The situation was becoming dire: on March 17, the papal legate Ferdinand had publicly read from the papal bull that proclaimed a crusade against the heretics in Bohemia, led by Sigismund.56 Faced with this crisis, reform leaders employed other genres to get their message out in addition to manifestos, such as satires and poetic compositions. Two satires will be considered here, both collected in the so-​­called Budyšínský (Bautzen) manuscript published by Jiří Daňhelka in 1952.57 The

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manuscript contains both Czech and Latin versions of both compositions, which are not, and this is important, mere translations but serve different audiences and different purposes, as will be discussed below.58 The Grievance of the Czech Crown Against the Hungarian King and the Council of Constance (or “the Grievance”) and The Czech Crown’s Rebuke of the Hungarian King, That He Accepted the Crown Improperly and That He Violently Oppresses the Czech Kingdom (“the Rebuke”) address the question of Sigismund’s kingship, each in a Latin and Czech versions.59 The Grievance was dated June 20, 1420, written before Sigismund’s furtive coronation on July 28, 1420; the Rebuke, sometime after, probably in August or September of that year. Lawrence of Březová, who shared the political and religious outlook of Jakoubek, wrote both versions of both compositions.60 (He also penned a Hussite chronicle discussed in Chapter 7.) However, there are important differences between the Latin and vernacular versions that pertain to their different functions. The Czech text of the Grievance, which was intended for the illiterate masses, was more inflammatory, more radicalized. In contrast, the Latin version, meant for the educated public across Europe, was subdued and diplomatic.61 This difference was even more pronounced when it came to the Rebuke, whose Czech version, written soon after Sigismund’s coronation, was quite scathing, but whose second Latin version (the first one had disappeared) was mild in comparison. An important event separated the two versions: the Hussites had won an important victory against the invading crusaders, defeating their opponents on Vítkov Hill, and wished to communicate to the world that they were serious statesmen, reasonable, and interested in negotiating.62 John Klassen has observed that both “Ferdinand Seibt and Jiří Kejř point out that on one level the satires wanted to justify and legitimate the people’s resistance to their crowned king, by using the legal and political arguments.”63 But it was no accident that vernacular versions of both these compositions were also disseminated. Clearly, the opinion of simple, illiterate laymen mattered as well. Collectively, their distaste of Sigismund would put pressure on the nobles to reject him and make plans to engage in high-​­level diplomacy with the goal of finding a different king for Bohemia’s empty throne.64 Lawrence’s compositions were supposed to aid in swaying the opinions of laypeople against Sigismund. The compositions out Sigismund as an illegitimate ruler of Bohemia, accusing him of coming to the throne not in accordance with the law.65 This is important, because one of the compositions was written after Sigismund’s furtive coronation and reflected on it. The coronation was illegitimate, Lawrence insisted, because Sigismund received the crown from some



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nobles (not all), and he tricked them into supporting him in the first place.66 Lawrence also stressed the fact that Sigismund had taken no oath of office and received no permission of those dwelling in towns and villages across the realm. Lawrence muses that what makes the king is not coronation but the worthiness of his person and the consent of towns, lords, and communities of the realm.67 But the compositions do not focus merely on the question of Sigismund’s alleged illegitimacy; they focus on the question of Sigismund’s majestas. In his thorough analysis of the compositions, John Klassen points out that the “establishment of majesty” was actually a necessary part of building royal government. Even though medieval subjects were not expected to participate in politics as is customary in modern democracies, their rulers “needed to persuade [them] of their own importance.”68 In this context, the importance of the satires lay in destroying the majesty of Sigismund in the mind of his subjects, because their consent was needed.69 Klassen finds five categories of medieval royal majesty, which Lawrence’s compositions attempt to trash. The first component is military ability, which, according to Lawrence, Sigismund lacked completely. The king is described as weak and effeminate, unable to fight effectively or lead others into battle. He even uses the example of recent warfare between Sigismund and Hussite armies, and Lawrence taunts him for being defeated by an army made up of peasants and women and children.70 There is also the distinguished lineage, which Lawrence repeatedly insults, depicting Sigismund “not as a branch but as a twig of a foreign noble root, diseased and covered with dung.”71 Royal majesty also requires a tie to one’s people, but Lawrence shows Sigismund as disinterested in cultivating any ties with the Czech people and, worse, in actively destroying their culture, economy, and, worst of all, their reputation.72 Royal majesty also relied, in Klassen’s telling, on the candidate’s princely and human qualities. Lawrence insisted that Sigismund was in possession of neither. He depicted him as an animal: alternating between dog, fox, deaf snake, wolf, even an ass.73 The most important for the present discussion is what Klassen calls the sacral character of majesty. This took different forms for different rulers, but invariably demanded that the ruler present himself as pious, emphasizing the “sacred character of his person” and identifying “his kingship with that of God.”74 In this context, Lawrence’s depiction of Sigismund as the enemy of Christ had serious political ramifications. But Lawrence goes beyond depicting Sigismund as the enemy of Christ, the subject of Klassen’s incisive discussion. For Lawrence, rejecting Sigismund becomes a question of one’s salvation: Sigismund’s rule must be rejected lest

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he lead all of his subjects into eternal damnation. Rather than being presented as a monarch with preternaturally close connection with the divine (which Bohemian kings before him succeeded in doing), Lawrence describes Sigismund as a disobedient and petulant subject, whose inner spiritual life was deeply disordered. What is salvific (God’s commands) Sigismund saw as heretical and vice versa. This is evident from the fact that Sigismund persisted in calling Bohemia’s reformers heretics, even agreeing to undertake a crusade against them. This, Lawrence maintained, was not just a question of opinion, but a matter of spiritual life and death, and in Lawrence’s view, Sigismund would lead his subjects to their spiritual deaths: his spiritual compass was astray, he ignored the rightful authorities (the Bible) and latched onto the wrong ones (such as the Council of Constance).75 According to this narrative, Sigismund’s decisions to roll back religious reforms in Bohemia became ready-​­made evidence of Sigismund’s spiritual confusion and decay. Lawrence brings forth two pieces of evidence, choosing episodes with which his audience would have been familiar. The fates of the realm’s saints come up first: “he did terrible things to my country,” Lawrence laments, “especially to Jan Hus and Jerome.”76 Rejecting communion under both kinds was, in Lawrence’s view, even more catastrophic: by enforcing this rejection, he threatened the salvation of all his subjects. Lawrence commented that Sigismund “is annoyed that we obey Our Savior and receive under both kinds as he had taught us . . . ​through it we have salvation.”77 And a few lines later in the composition: “this incontrovertible teaching [about the importance of the chalice for laity] he twisted by error.”78 Linking the chalice with salvation is nothing new. Like the authors of compositions discussed in Chapter 3, Lawrence drew on the popular sentiments in favor of church reform and revulsion at Hus’s treatment at Constance for a political purpose. But in his depiction, Sigismund’s decision to reject the chalice is seen as evidence of his political unsuitability to rule the realm. Lawrence’s final judgment is scathing: “by his fruit I judge him to be legate of Antichrist,” he concluded.79

Building Walls: Life at Tábor While the reform leadership in Prague was busy orchestrating political opposition to Sigismund, the radicals were busy building their own reformed community. For the time being, the commune, whose regime could be best described as a theocracy, was organized around the need for war, as its leaders planned to



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vanquish God’s enemies.80 The priestly elite presided directly over five (lay) captains responsible for Tábor’s security. Each captain was in charge of one-​­fifth of the lay population. In this way, the priests’ decisions could immediately be implemented by Tábor’s military leaders and by the faithful under their command. This governing structure, and especially the lack of any civic or municipal authority reveals the regime’s two priorities: correct religious practice and warfare against the enemies of God. These two priorities would become the target of incessant complaints and attacks from enemies of the commune, featured in the vernacular compositions written against Tábor. The priests took on the responsibility for the commune’s first objective, putting together a blueprint for Tábor’s ritual life. When finished, it was striking for its minimalism, including the rejection of altars, clerical vestments, and liturgical implements. Mass was celebrated daily, in the vernacular, and in a much simplified form that conformed to the biblical injunctions.81 Inside the settlement, a rigorous form of communalism was established, with the sharing of property as described in the book of Acts (private property was deemed a mortal sin at Tábor) and a strict devotional program of daily preaching and communion. Bible instruction was paramount to Tábor’s self-​ ­appointed mission, and soon vernacular songs were composed containing basic biblical teachings. (One such composition, to which Tábor’s opponents quickly wrote a counter song, will be analyzed below.) The leaders delegated the second objective, which was warfare against the enemies of God, to Jan Žižka, a seasoned warrior and a former mercenary, whom they put in charge of Tábor’s military operations.82 First, Žižka quickly built defense fortifications. He then set out to transform Tábor’s laymen into a workable army. Here too, vernacular compositions played a role. The Taborite leaders composed a vernacular song especially for the purpose of leading the faithful (many of whom would have been unskilled warriors) into battle. The song is called “Ktož jsú boží bojovníci” (Ye who are the warriors of God) and is regarded by some scholars as the symbol of the radical side of the reform movement.83 This song was sung probably during preparations for battle, which is why it contains reminders of how to act in certain battlefield situations. For example, “do not flee your enemies,”84 “remember, you all, the password you have been given,”85 “follow the orders of your company leaders,”86 “help one another,”87 and “stay with your formation.”88 These reminders suggest that the leaders harbored some doubts about whether simple laymen could remember and follow basic points of military discipline. Also, the fact that the vehicle for these instructions is a vernacular song is

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revealing about Taborite leaders’ conviction of how to best disseminate information and make sure that it can be recalled when needed. The nature of the prohibition suggests what kind of problems military leaders expected to face: for example, “do not stop for looting,”89 and “do not kill out of avarice and depredation.”90 It suggests that looting was a persistent enough problem and a threat to military discipline while the latter hints at instances of ill-​­advised recklessness of troops rather than strategy or daring. Interestingly, the song says nothing about not wasting the lives of the enemies, presumably because they did not need to be spared. “Ktož jsú boží bojovníci” is also deeply steeped in biblical language, but it twists the biblical message, suggesting that faith (according to the Taborite brand of Christianity) and victory were directly linked: Christ is worth any sacrifice he promises you hundred-​­fold more if anyone would lay down his life for him he will have eternal life blessed be everyone who dies for the truth.91 Fighting for Tábor, a radical offshoot of the pro-​­reform movement is here equated with fighting for God, with the song’s author suggesting that “if you lay down your life,” you will be rewarded, and “if you die for truth,” you will be blessed. Viewed from the outside, Tábor’s violence was seen as one of its most damning features, and the perception of unbridled violence and bloodthirsty and undisciplined warriors featured prominently in many of the anti-​ ­Tábor compositions. However, victory in battle and violence against enemies was a celebrated part of life at Tábor. The commune leaders viewed their battles to be “for the Lord” and instructed their fighters not to fear anything: Do not fear your enemies do not regard their number have your Lord in your heart battle for Him and with Him and do not flee from your enemies.92 The link between warfare and doing God’s work is here firmly established. It is a mentality that was common to religious battles, say, against crusading armies, five of which will confront Tábor between 1420 and 1434.93



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But Tábor’s first and primary warfare was aimed against civilians, inhabitants of neighboring towns and villages. Soon after the commune’s establishment, Jan Žižka sent warring parties into the surrounding countryside to extract taxes and provisions from the peasants. Strategically speaking, it seemed that attacks were the best kind of defense, and Tábor’s armies continued to strike against enemy settlements in the surrounding areas. On one of the holiest days in the Christian calendar, Good Friday (April 5) in 1420, Tábor’s armies attacked Vožice, a nearby center of royal power. Žižka and his men overtook the town and its sleeping mercenaries and burned it down, killing most of the enemy men.94 More attacks followed throughout the Easter season. Soon all of southern Bohemia—​­the region’s castles, towns, and monasteries—​­came to be within reach of an attack.95 By the end of May, the settlement turned from a military camp into a kind of city-​­state, with dependent satellite towns, along with its own industries and peasants.96 This merciless warfare against former compatriots was seen by Tábor’s leaders as strategically necessary, but it brought about an overwhelming negative campaign against the commune, coming from all corners of the religious spectrum, and vernacular compositions were written for and against Tábor. Indeed, both sides used vernacular compositions to disseminate their message. Moreover, both sides appropriated biblical language to bolster their claims to religious legitimacy. Both of the Taborite compositions are steeped in the Bible and rely on sophisticated biblical allusions to make their points, with Old Testament prophesies, Isaiah and Ezekiel, being of special relevance. In addition, both compositions anticipate a large feast; this anticipation is central to both poems. The author of “Radujme se dočekavše” put the expectation in this way: Also Isaiah says that God will for all people in the mountains prepare a feast.97 Indeed, the authors do not simply assume the theme of mountains as the place where extraordinary things can take place; they point to the Old Testament for evidence. The compositions retell biblical stories, allude to them, and even formulate reform’s goals using biblical language and paradigms. It is not unusual for a religious faction to appropriate biblical language to describe its mission in the world (even forsaking mainstream biblical interpretations in favor of one that fits better). But it is worth noting that Tábor’s opponents did not respond in kind.

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Instead of offering conflicting interpretations of relevant biblical passages and engaging in debates about the meaning of the Bible, they mocked and ridiculed. This strategy, discussed in Chapter 3, is also evident from the response to Taborite compositions. Some of them must have been leaked outside of the Taborite milieu, because we have at least one record of a mocking composition written by a Catholic author in response to a Taborite song. It is a vulgar parody that has previously been ignored by scholars; a blunt instrument of communication, to be sure, but one that contains valuable clues about the establishment’s chosen strategy of responding to Tábor.

The Parody of the Ten Commandments and the Vernacular Campaign Against Tábor Tábor’s military successes forced its opponents to find ways of limiting the commune’s influence among the laity. The perceived threat of Tábor was entirely justified by contemporary events: in the course of the early 1420s, Tábor remained militarily undefeated and controlled an extensive, seemingly ever-​ ­expanding network of castles and settlements across the countryside in southern Bohemia.98 The fear and sense of urgency is reflected in the vernacular compositions. Very little was now said about the subjects that dominated the short vernacular compositions of the previous decade, Jan Hus and simony. After 1420, the focus shifted entirely to Tábor. The traditional accounts note that these longer compositions show the laity’s interest in theological questions and point to a hunger for theological learning, earlier fueled by vernacular works by Tomáš Štítný and Jan Hus.99 But there is something else going on: these compositions are not merely catechetical or moralizing but deeply polemical, making arguments for the author’s faction in a savvy, thoughtful, but also inflammatory way. In the years between Tábor’s first military victory in 1420 and its military defeat in 1434, a number of vernacular treatises criticized the commune for faulty exegesis and a mistaken understanding of authority and of God’s law. These compositions, like the shorter songs composed earlier, were written in the vernacular with a lay audience in mind. And like the earlier songs, these compositions were polemical and catechetical at the same time, providing some theological instruction, but also imparting a partisan perspective. The three vernacular compositions discussed below offer a window into the persuasion campaign addressed to the laity about Tábor.



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In one known instance, Tábor’s opponents attack the commune by parodying one of its own songs, intended for internal use, most likely education and formation. The commune’s composition, “Now you Christians of the true faith” (Nuž křesťané viery pravé),100 seems like a straightforward example of lay catechesis. Composed in 1421 by Jan Čapek, one of the leaders of Tábor,101 the song versifies the Ten Commandments and exhorts the faithful to follow them. It belongs to a larger corpus of Taborite songs, some celebrating political victories and others imparting theological education.102 The song combines catechesis with very polemical assertions. It begins by calling the listeners to a faithful observance of God’s commandments with this opening stanza: Now, Christians of the true faith let us be diligent even if we did not care before now let us endeavor to fear God!103 The commandments then continue, “for the salvation of his people.”104 Six commandments are enumerated, each in an entire stanza of its own: This is how Moses described it in the book called Exodus saying: “You shall not have other gods before me” That is the first [commandment].105 The other commandments are abbreviated; the fourth, fifth, and sixth commandments, for example, are squeezed into one stanza: “Honor your father and mother” and also “do not kill, do not fornicate, do not steal” for eternal reward. This makes seven [commandments].106 The third stanza also speaks explicitly about the song’s function: the constant repetition “heard in the streets from the mouths of the little ones” was supposed to help the faithful to memorize it, and with it the Ten Commandments.107 The song purports to be a catechetical tool, but it is far more than that: it

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is also a proclamation of superiority, and a very polemical one at that. To say that the Taborite commune comprised Christians of the “true faith,” as the opening line asserts, was a deeply contentious statement. Continuing in this polemical vein, the first stanza emphasizes the differences between the present and the past. In the years past, the author insisted, we had neglected true faith, but now we ought finally to fear God. The list of the Ten Commandments follows this assertion, suggesting that only since the foundation of Tábor, its members finally practice Christian faithfulness. The ending is deeply mournful, acknowledging that not all who love God have the freedom to confess God’s truth and pleading: Dear God, please give freedom to all, who love you so that they may confess your truth wherever they are in Christendom.108 The Taborite song announced this deeply polemical conviction as an accepted truth. Tábor’s claim for religious primacy was contested by the means of a parody, composed most likely by a Catholic author. Although the reformers were the first to use popular genres, such as songs or poems, their opponents soon began to use the same genres in order to address lay faithful. But as evident in the compositions discussed in Chapter 3, the opponents of reform relied on popular songs not in order to educate but rather to satirize and mock. This case was no different. The Catholic author responded to the Taborite explanation of the Ten Commandments by the means of a parody. The result, “Now you shoemakers of the true faith” (Nuž křesťané viery pravé),109 clearly satirizes the opening line of the Taborite song “Now you Christians of the true faith” (Nuž křesťané viery pravé). As in the Taborite poem, each of the stanzas also concluded with the same line, enumerating the commandments: “this is the first” (toť jest prvé), “this is the second” (toť jest druhé), “this is the third” (toť jest třetie), and so on. “Now you shoemakers of the new faith” did not draw on any kind of rational argumentation, but rather undermined what the commune at Tábor stood for by the skillful twisting of words and concepts. For example, the very reference to shoemakers in the opening line played to the popular opinion that the Taborites were uneducated and incapable of offering any meaningful reli-



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gious instruction. The perception that Tábor’s religion was only good for laborers and craftsmen was cultivated by many Catholic authors. In the same breath, these authors would remind their audience that Tábor was a religious novelty and therefore not to be trusted. This “new faith,” considered a priori dangerous, is alluded to when the author considers the origin of the Taborite commandments. Rather than being credited to Moses, the Taborite commandments are described as “the scriptures that were found / behind the butcher’s shop”: This is how Moses described it in the book called Exodus.110 Tábor’s ritual minimalism was a hallmark of the commune and also a target of scorn in the composition by the commune’s opponents. The Taborites rejected any religious observance that was not explicitly mentioned in the Bible. They refused all customs or conventions, however harmless in appearance, including ornate vestments, priestly tonsure, elaborate altars, costly liturgical vessels and implements. This also meant that Taborites abandoned most of the daily and weekly customs observed by the fifteenth-​­century faithful. They did not pray the daily office or celebrate feast days of saints. They did not venerate the saints or the Blessed Virgin Mary, nor did they believe that any of them could intercede for them. They did not pray for the dead or celebrate masses for them, denying the existence of purgatory. They celebrated a minimalist version of the mass and did not follow the church’s prescriptions for baptism or confirmation; they did not hear confessions or offer absolution. They neither feasted nor fasted.111 At the heart of the commune’s social and religious life was a quest for evangelical simplicity contained in the Gospels, but from the outside it looked like blasphemy. In satirizing Tábor’s lifestyle, the author substituted the actual commandments found in the book of Exodus with the set of rules that, in his view, Taborites actually followed. Thus, the Taborite commandments were opposite to those of the traditional church: On Friday we shall eat meat and on Saturday too and on Sunday we will go burn [things] down that is holy work. That is the third [commandment].112

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The latter “commandments” were even more destructive. For example, the author changed the fifth commandment, to honor one’s mother and father, to the following: I will kill a father or a brother and will bathe in the blood; if my mother gets on my nerves I will kill the old cow, too. That is the fifth [commandment].113 Several of the other commandments highlight Tábor’s preponderance to violence, commanding Taborites to beat people with flails and cudgels. The author’s point is clear: the Taborites must be heartless and evil or else they could not abide by such perverted commandments. The closing stanza drives this home by having the Taborites themselves lament their fate: Amen our hearts have turned to stone they are hard as stone stone. Amen.114 In the Czech text, the punch line delivers a stark message, the biblical “amen” is rhymed with kámen, “stone.” According to this anonymous Catholic author, theft, hostage taking, and violent brutality were the hallmarks of Tábor. Let us take their sheep, horses and take hostage their cows they will curse us men, women and grandmothers. That is the eighth [commandment].115 Elsewhere, Taborites are commanded to steal all that they can rather than tilling the land themselves. This reflects the perception that Taborites were lazy and even predatory, feeding off of other people’s hard work by taxing them and stealing from them instead of farming themselves. This view was, in a way, right. The Taborites spurned liturgical and ritual prescriptions of the traditional church. They also seized cattle and property when they took over



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peasant holdings, both in the early weeks of the commune (to gain access to a food supply) and later (to ensure the survival of the commune). In both cases, however, the author puts a malicious spin on the information by withholding the context, in which it could be more favorably understood. The viciousness with which the author describes the life in the commune shows how much Tábor’s opponents feared the commune’s growing influence, at least in the early 1420s when it was still unclear how large or influential Tábor would eventually become. This, in turn, suggests that at its founding Tábor was not a small, marginalized, powerless, and largely isolated community, as scholars have later suggested based on documents written later by Tábor’s vanquishers. At first, it must have posed a real threat to the future of the reform, to the economic and social well-​­being of southern Bohemia, to Bohemia’s reputation abroad. But as has oft been repeated, history is written by the victors, who—​­after the military defeat of Tábor—​­underplayed the kind of influence that Tábor had posed.

Conclusion In 1419, Bohemia’s political and religious landscape was fraught with rifts and tensions. The two pro-​­reform groups not only held different views of theology but also preferred different methods of action to ensure that their theology could be put into practice. While the moderates in Prague schemed about how to prevent Sigismund from ascending to Bohemia’s throne, emptied by Wenceslas’s death in August 1419, the radicals first preached that Christ’s Second Coming was imminent and, when this prediction proved false, dedicated themselves to building a new community in which to live out reform ideals. Three distinct camps emerged in Bohemia. Each sought to discredit the other among the lay population using different genres of vernacular compositions for that purpose. In writing, each distanced itself from its opponents, but in reality they had to coexist. The reformers in Prague walked a tightrope. Although they had serious misgivings about the radical preachers and their Adventist and then chiliast message, they needed the support of Tábor and its armies in order to defend the realm against crusaders. Their opposition to Sigismund intermittently united both factions, giving them a common goal on which hinged their survival. But even as they disputed Sigismund’s legitimacy to become the next king of Bohemia, they were locked into an ongoing struggle

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for religious legitimacy with each other, much of which—​­judging by the vernacular compositions—​­trickled out to the laity and was indeed aimed at them. The verbal dialogue between Prague moderates and Taborite separatists explored in this chapter illustrates the interconnectedness of the two communities. The composition “Now you shoemakers of the new faith,” written by a Catholic author, responded directly to a song by a Taborite author, “Now you Christians of the true faith,” hinting at the kind of ribbing that went on among the different factions. However, it was not aimed at the Taborites; the chance that it would change their minds was slim. This satire exaggerating Tábor’s flaws was supposed to sway those who did not yet know where they stood on Tábor and solidify the conviction of those who were already against it. This was an exchange that demonstrates that each side was aware of what the other side was doing and responded to it directly. This is an important point because most secondary literature depicts the factions as separated by a wide unbridgeable gulf. But in the early 1420s, there was dialogue and verbal sparring. The exchange also encapsulates the different strategies prevalent among the leaders. The pro-​­reform leaders preferred educational compositions and filled them with theological teachings and Bible quotations. The Catholic party, on the other hand, tended ­toward satire and irony: of the extant poems, all of the heavily satirical ones have a Catholic provenance. Satire may have been the only effective way of responding to polemical biblicism that Tábor taught its followers, but it certainly did not promote actual dialogue, or even biblical discussion. And this was not because the compositions were short. As we shall see, longer compositions were no less polemical, offered no more nuance, only more arguments and more invective.

Chapter 5

Combining Education with Polemic The Price of Theology in the Vernacular

While it proved militarily useful to the moderate reformers in helping fight off the pope’s crusaders, the commune at Tábor loomed as a threat: it combined an impressive military capability with an uncompromising rejection of the accepted rules of social and religious conduct, evident in the commune’s ritual minimalism and refusal to compromise. Socially, too, it stood on the margins, first with its attempt at communism and even afterward given its distinctly nonnoble character.1 The leaders in Prague feared Tábor’s growing military power, also, no doubt, because the way Tábor waged war transgressed medieval norms: whereas the masters in Prague thought about Hussite warfare in scholastic terms of just war and the roles of the social orders, Tábor did not.2 Moderate reform leaders also had a distaste for the new kind of spiritual elites emerging at Tábor, leaders over whom the university could exercise limited control.3 Seen from Prague’s reform headquarters, there was little to love and much to fear from Tábor. The spread of its influence no doubt weakened the reform leadership in Prague. This chapter explores the vernacular compositions written against Tábor, composed in order to limit Tábor’s influence, both by moderate reformers and by Catholics. Prague’s pro-​­reform moderates had a complex job before them. They wished to limit Tábor influence even as they joined forces with them against foreign crusaders.4 As a result, and this may strike us as somewhat Machiavellian, while negotiations with Tábor went on at the highest level, those same negotiators also disseminated vernacular works against Tábor. In them, they argued that Tábor misinterpreted the Bible, that Tábor’s leaders lacked true authority, and that they had completely misled and abused their

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faithful. These were not only simple songs or poems of the kind discussed in Chapters 3 and 4, but also complex, lengthy compositions that simplified arguments taken from learned Latin tractates. This was a different kind of attack, one that not only relied on emotional propaganda but also purported to equip the laity with sufficient arguments to make the decision against Tábor for themselves. But it was not only the moderate reformers who worried about Tábor. The Catholics too feared the spread of Tábor’s radical and militarized religion.5 And so in the course of the 1420s, the moderates in Prague and the Catholics began circulating longer, more complex compositions that aimed to educate the laity in the fine points of theology and persuade them to unite against Tábor. Two such compositions written in the vernacular are analyzed here: a longer, unrhymed composition that mimics a learned disputation about Tábor written by a Catholic author and another longer composition by a pro-​­reform, but not Taborite, author. They both raise the same kind of complaints against Tábor: they rail against its ritual minimalism, lambast its leaders for luring the laity into error, and point to Tábor’s excessive violence as a sign of its general depravity. Tábor’s leaders did little to address these complaints. Their only attempt to lay out their beliefs systematically came in 1431 in a Latin treatise Confessio Taboritarum, written by one of the commune’s leaders. But this was never intended for vernacular consumption and did little to address the questions and concerns of the laity. And therein lies the irony: while the leaders of Tábor composed numerous vernacular songs (to say nothing of sermons) explaining the commune’s practices and ideals to those on the inside, they neglected to reach out to the undecided and to those already opposed to it, which allowed their opponents to set the (largely negative) tone in which Tábor would be perceived and discussed outside of its limited borders. These compositions have thus far been largely ignored. Yet they are unique: they enabled the laity to participate in theological debates, democratizing access to theological learning in an unprecedented way. As discussed in the introduction, late medieval laity has been described as being in possession of a kind of hunger for religious education, which was very much in evidence across Hussite Bohemia (judging by the reception and dissemination of vernacular treatises on various subjects). However, it was met for the most part with a partisan and polemical kind of learning, hardly anything that could be found in the church’s official catechism. This meant that the different factions’ leaders strategically harnessed the



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laity’s growing interest in theological learning by presenting them only with teachings that supported their faction’s point of view. The standard surveys of Czech vernacular poetry from this period all attribute this surge of theological compositions in the vernacular to a “popular interest in theological questions,” which supposedly testifies to a grassroots “hunger” for learning, sparked by the vernacular works of the previous generation, especially Hus.6 However, this level of access came at a price. The process of translation and simplification made basic theological arguments (about the Bible, about the church’s ritual practice) intelligible to the laity, but the education contained therein had an ulterior motive: not only to educate but to persuade. And because this learning was disseminated in order to serve a polemical purpose, it deepened rather than abated the ideological war that had engulfed Bohemia. In others words, once theological arguments entered the vernacular, the chances of a compromise or a resolution grew significantly smaller. Vernacular compositions aimed at undermining Tábor’s influence stopped being produced in the early 1430s: written means of persuasion became obsolete after Tábor was militarily defeated in the battle of Lipany, on May 30, 1434.7 The battle was a joint action by reform moderates and Catholic leaders, who overcame their considerable doctrinal differences to come together to attack Tábor. In the following years, Tábor’s influence waned. The commune was allowed to exist until 1452, when—​­in an effort to create a homogeneous Hussite church—​­King George of Poděbrady conquered the city of Tábor, dispersed its inhabitants, and imprisoned the last two of its priests.

A Tapestry of Arguments: The Nature of Authority and Correct Exegesis The leaders of anti-​­Tábor factions also wrote long, theologically sophisticated works in the vernacular, criticizing Tábor’s agenda. The vernacular composition “Václav, Havel, and Tábor” takes the dialogue to a much higher level, depicting an actual disputation between the church and the commune at Tábor.8 Much like the songs discussed in previous chapters, this composition is an attempt to persuade the laity to stay away from Tábor and to withhold any support or sympathies. It is much longer, numbering almost 1,200 lines and much more comprehensive in scope. It contains a large number of arguments from the Scriptures and other ecclesiastical authorities on subjects ranging from the lay chalice to the nature of God’s law. Key questions of

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rightful authority and biblical exegesis are implicit in the argumentation.9 This composition is not one argument for or against this or that, translated and simplified for vernacular audiences. Rather it comprises a whole tapestry of arguments, an entire tradition of Latin argumentation simplified, translated, and circulated in a versified form. The diligence and thoroughness with which the author addresses the Taborite agenda suggests the serious nature of the perceived threat of Tábor. The church’s sudden willingness to let the laity participate in discussions of theology is, incidentally, a sign of how troubled the times had become. Rather than an advertising jingle type of poem, short and to the point, “Václav, Havel, and Tábor” is a lengthy dialogue between three different protagonists, each representing one faction in the ideological battle in 1420s Bohemia. This composition aimed to teach the laity about relevant theological and doctrinal issues (as did Latin tractates on the subject), but as did other vernacular compositions, it presented a rather partisan interpretation of contemporary events with the intention to invoke emotion, namely, fear. Fear was, in turn, supposed to help guide the laity to the right conclusion about the meaning of contemporary events, namely, about the warfare perpetrated by Tábor. Composed in 1424 by an unknown author, “Václav, Havel, and Tábor” is an entertaining vernacular, versified composition that uses emotion and humor as a weapon in the war of ideology.10 The composition harks back to satires and romances of the pre-​­Hussite period in its “approach to life, mode of narration, psychological insight and entertainment value.”11 But it was not meant primarily for entertainment, in spite of the colorful protagonists, dramatic setting, and verbal quips. At heart, this is an erudite debate, the kind that could have been held among academics. “Václav, Havel, and Tábor” contains an argument against the Hussite reform and the reform’s radical incarnation at Tábor in particular. Each of the three protagonists represents one of the factions and bears a name that encapsulates his religious stance: Tábor, a lay sympathizer with Tábor, Václav (Wenceslas), a lay supporter of the traditional church, and Havel Vrtoch (the Waverer), the chronically undecided.12 At times, the speakers turn directly to the reader, requesting a decision for or against the different arguments that are being put forth. Havel the Waverer is asked to make up his mind in the course of the poem, mimicking the ­decision-​ ­making process that the audience is invited to undergo as well. Each of the characters personifies his particular religious conviction, as



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viewed by the author. Tábor is ill mannered, irascible, and violent, often resorting to vituperation. He loses his temper quite easily when faced with the slightest of criticisms. For example, he flares up when accused of breaking the fast on Friday, offering insults rather than explanations: Tábor responds, quite angrily, with his face pale, brandishing his club “You Václav, you are the enemy of God a fact which many of our brothers already know And you, Brother Waverer, should not listen to him eat meat [instead of fasting] like I do, it shall make you strong!”13 At other times, Tábor is uncooperative, irrational, and purposefully contrarian. Havel the Waverer, the undecided one, does not garner much admiration for himself either. He tends to agree with whoever is speaking, which comes across as weak and becomes infuriating (at least to this reader). The Waverer is only given one full speech, in which he criticizes Tábor for targeting the wrong demographic: I do not like your thirst for revenge you should focus your violence on Jews and pagans who clearly stand in conflict with our faith and the law of God.14 Václav rebukes him immediately, accusing him of being more interested in peace than in preserving the orthodox faith. You, Waverer, are only interested in peace because you are afraid to lose your earthly property and your life. Your intention, Waverer, is wrong you are little interested in faith or goodness.15 The Waverer remains undecided throughout the poem, asking questions of both sides, probing their points of view and ostensibly trying to make up his mind. His indecision is unattractive and presents the entire group of those undecided in a negative light. Through the character of the Waverer, the author suggests that only a morally corrupt person can sit inside a burned-​­down church (which is where the poem is set) and not come to the conviction that those who burned it down deserve to be punished and fought against. The

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setting is meant to evoke the irreconcilability of the two sides: one of them burns down churches (Tábor) and the other builds them (Václav). According to this author, neutrality is not an option here, in the same way that other authors talked about Jan Hus and the chalice. The traditionalist Václav is clearly the author’s favorite. Aptly named after the patron saint of Bohemia, he comes across as polite, reasonable, and humble, even saintly. Periodically, he invites the violent Tábor to lay down his weapons and make peace. He alone invokes God’s help and exhorts the others to good will.16 By the choice of his name, the author signaled that, in his view, the traditional church was the only legitimate church for all the Czech faithful. Indeed, the reader cannot help but sympathize with the peace-​­loving Václav. Even though the poem is skewed in favor of the traditional church, it points to the existence of an open debate that brought learned arguments to the laity in the vernacular. To be sure, the author wrote with the purpose of convincing the laity to fight for the traditional order, and his arguments were not only based on logic and theology. But in the course of his persuasion he, in effect, equipped them to make up their own minds. The debate covered a number of points: the nature of biblical interpretation, rightful authority in the church, lay chalice, communion of children, and God’s law. For every point, the author drew on contemporary Latin treatises, translating and simplifying the arguments contained therein, some of which are discussed below. It is a well-​­thought-​­out work. The composition continued to circulate long after Tábor had been defeated, serving as a repository of arguments against various aspects of the Hussite reform. It became relevant again when a new wave of debates about the lay chalice broke out in the second half of the fifteenth century.17 The poem has been described as a lament, and there is no doubt that the author was lamenting the religious factionalism that existed in the early 1420s.18 But another reading presents itself: the author exaggerates the depth and severity of existing divisions in order to frighten the undecided into agreeing with his interpretation of events, instead of sympathizing with Tábor. Military Victory as a Sign of God’s Favor

The nature of God’s law and the way in which it can be known were both questioned in this disputation.19 Both Václav and Tábor agree that the Holy Scriptures form the basis of God’s law. Tábor announces early on that



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God’s law is God’s commandment and also Holy Scriptures Scriptures that had been given to man, which contain no evil that which Moses wrote down and other holy prophets the full law is in the books of the Bible, if you want to know.20 Although both sides agree about the source of God’s law, there is, unsurprisingly, disagreement about its interpretation. Turning to the undecided colleague, Tábor opines: “Havel, if you want to know the letter of God’s law / you must adhere to the interpretations of our good priests.” And elsewhere: “That’s why, Havel, now you hear the good news / belong to us, abandon the old ways!” The author has Tábor voice a number of opinions that were traditionally attributed to heretics. In response, Václav argues that “as many good Christians already know about them / [the Taborites] mean well, but do evil.” A few lines later, Václav explains what he means more specifically, stating that love and mercy are the key components of God’s law: “All the law as well as God’s paths / are faith and mercy, that is the right stuff.”21 Because the Táborites act out of anger and with cruelty, they clearly do not observe God’s law and cannot, therefore, act as speakers for it. But Tábor has plenty of evidence that God favors his commune, namely, their military victories. His hubris is well founded. At the time of this composition, Taborite warriors helped defeat three waves of crusaders, in 1420, 1421, and 1422. They would defeat two more, in 1427 and 1431.22 Had Taborite warriors only fought against crusaders and other foreign invaders, their military victories might have been easy to celebrate. But Tábor also attacked domestic opponents, and by 1424 the commune had come to control a number of towns and large territories in southern Bohemia, posing a genuine threat to targets near and far. These victories fueled Tábor’s belief that God was on their side. Tábor thus argued: If God disliked our good works he would have put a stop to them long ago. But he allowed that his enemies be fought he allowed us to kill them and take their stuff.23 In order to support his reasoning, Tábor used the example of the Maccabees revolting against Egypt: “Do you not know that the Jews robbed the land of the Egyptians / killing all the pagans residing therein?” The Maccabean revolt,

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with Jews struggling against pagans, was seen by the reformers as a prefiguration of the Hussite struggle against the enemies of God and was also used in the pro-​­reform manifest circulated after the meeting at Bzí Hora (discussed in Chapter 4). The commune at Tábor was most often criticized for its violence and destruction of property, but Taborites were of the opinion that God blessed all their endeavors, violent or not. Tábor gives a long list of examples from the Old and New Testament of wicked people being crushed by people of God, such as Moses, David, and Saul. He concludes the list by quoting Jesus as saying: “I came not to send peace, but the sword” (Matthew 10:34).24 In this view, Tábor’s violence was actually a sign that the Taborite interpretation of God’s law was correct and condoned by God. Václav may have disagreed with this interpretation, but he was unable to disprove the argument solely based on the Scriptures. Lay Chalice and the Question of Correct Exegesis

Lay chalice had by now become a recognized symbol for the reform movement, so it loomed large in any disputation between different factions. Because the New Testament speaks directly about drinking Christ’s blood in communion, in addition to eating his body, the reformers believed their argument to be rock solid. As Tábor put it, Against [the lay chalice] no master can speak up let them be helped by their writings and doctors The faith is based in Holy Scriptures it cannot fall, because it rests on firm foundations. “If you do not eat my body and drink my blood, you cannot have eternal life.”25 The last line in the selection above is a direct quote from the Scriptures (John  6:53), which the reformers frequently included in their compositions and sermons. Václav tried to subvert Tábor’s argument from Scriptures by undermining his way of doing exegesis: “The fact that you can find a scriptural passage to support what you say / does not actually prove your point.”26 Václav is arguing that a spiritual or allegorical exegesis of a biblical passage is more valuable than a literal reading. Tábor, much like the Lollards in England, did read the Gospel literally, interpreting the act of eating Jesus’s body and drinking his



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blood as equivalent to eating a communion wafer and drinking communion wine. In Václav’s view, this interpretation is incorrect. He quotes a verse from one of the Gospels: “It is the spirit that gives life; the flesh is useless. The words that I have spoken to you are spirit and life” (John 6:63). In the analogy of this verse, literal interpretation is equivalent to the flesh, which is “useless,” whereas allegorical or spiritual reading is equivalent to the spirit, which “gives life.” The Taborite commune tended to read the Scriptures on the literal level, but this was a matter of tendency not a hard and fast rule as among the Lollards in England.27 But when it suited his purposes, Václav was perfectly willing to stay on the literal level of the biblical text. For example, referring to the thief on the cross, Václav said: “He did not eat nor drink but he was saved.” He stated that faith, love, and obedience were the keys to salvation, more important than anything proclaimed in the Scriptures. The most important of the three was, according to Václav, obedience. That comes as no surprise, given the fact that he thought obedience to the church’s hierarchy to be a virtue in short supply at Tábor. In order to make his point, Václav references a number of authorities, such as Augustine, Gregory the Great, and the New Testament (he alludes to John 6:53, 1 John 4:16, Romans 1:17, Galatians 3:11; Hebrews 10, 38, and Luke 23, 40–43).28 To talk about faith, love, and obedience was, of course, an attempt to neutralize Tábor’s most influential argument, namely Jesus’s explicit command: “If you do not eat my body and drink my blood, you cannot have eternal life” (John 6:53). Discussing faith and love steered the conversation away from questions of specific rites and ­toward a more abstract discussion of Christian virtues, especially obedience, easily interpreted to fit any situation. But Tábor responded with a barrage of ecclesiastical authorities to support his view. The author has him present his arguments at length, borrowing both from the Scriptures and church fathers and from the contemporary pro-​ ­reform masters such as Jakoubek of Stříbro, Nicholas of Dresden, and Andrew of Brod. The different arguments extend over several pages, one after another in a breathless sequence. In his defense of the chalice, Tábor mentions an Old Testament king who offered up wine (Genesis 14:18), apostles who offered bread and wine (Matthew 26:26–27; Mark 14:22–23; Luke 23:17–19), and St. Paul, who exhorted that people receive under two kinds, that is to say, both bread and wine (1 Corinthians 11:24). The list goes on. Tábor refers to the works of Cyprian and Donatus, thus firmly establishing himself in the

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tradition of Hussite polemic about the chalice. Jakoubek, the Hussite champion of the chalice, also relied on the authority of Cyprian and Donatus and often quoted from their works, especially Cyprian’s letter to Caecilius dealing with the sacrament of the cup.29 Like a cloud of arrows, these references, shot rapidly one after another, are meant to frighten the opponent into relinquishing the fight. But the Scriptures proved an ambiguous and malleable witness, and many of the disagreements revolve around interpretation. Václav even complains that “every heretic wants to use the Scriptures to defend himself.”30 He argues that the passages that Tábor referenced in his argument need to be interpreted in their proper context. The Old Testament king was also a priest, he explains, which is why he was permitted to partake of the wine from the chalice. In addressing the passages from the New Testament, Václav argues that they too described priests (namely, the apostles), and he points out that not even Jesus’s mother was offered the chalice. “Jesus commanded his apostles to distribute the sacraments,” he says, to highlight the distinction between the apostles and lay faithful.31 The Scriptures proved to be insufficient to settle the disagreements with any finality. Václav then invokes a mystical revelation, allegedly received by Pope Sylvester, to bolster his claim: Sylvester, the pope, received a voice from heaven When, wishing for revenge, Lord God unsheathed his sword: “Sylvester, pay close attention and make sure that the dreadful attacks may cease in which people offend themselves when they spill out his blood in such a vile way You ought to ban them from carrying it Because it tarnishes [the sacrament], that you should know.”32 This revelation was popular with the anti-​­reform masters. The frequent use of such extra-​­scriptural authorities in the debates about the chalice suggests that, at least in the context of such debates, the Scriptures could not be used as their final arbiter and the masters knew it. When all the arguments have been made, Václav turns to invective. He vilifies those who receive from the chalice, suggesting a link between drinking Christ’s blood and a propensity to spilling human blood.



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And when they received under both kinds the devil possessed them in that very moment as he possessed Judas. They receive the holy blood contrary to the command and that is why they readily spill Christian blood.33 The link is left unexplained, but the desire for Christ’s blood supposedly causes the Hussites to desire bloodshed. The lay chalice is thus seen as the reason why Taborites vandalize property, despoil churches and altars, and kill those who stand in their way.34 This train of thought allows Václav to argue that “whoever receives body and blood is a pupil of Satan, interested in discord, murder and robbery.”35 The lay chalice was seen as a chief agent of evil and a powerful instigator of discord and violence, as if it possessed mythical, bewitching powers and conferred them on all those who drank from it. Václav concludes his tirade with a threat: With your own sword I will defeat you the error of your lies I will easily disrupt for I see that you do evil, which you refuse to heed in Hell you will be sorry.36 Violence here seems to be the solution for all theological debates that reach a dead end. The persuasion campaign against Tábor was similar to the campaign that had engulfed the streets of Prague after Jan Hus’s death. However, the arguments described here were much more complex than anything shouted in the streets. The author of “Václav, Havel, and Tábor” translated and simplified a whole host of arguments that previously circulated in Latin only within the learned circles. This decision to expose the laity to these theological discussions was sudden and may have been a kind of last-​­ditch effort to prevent the laity from accepting the (seemingly) preposterous beliefs of Tábor.

Resorting to Invective and Fearmongering: Příbram’s Lives of the Taborite Priests “Václav, Havel, and Tábor” was not the last vernacular word on the subject of Tábor. The commune’s threat continued to loom large in the late 1420s, with

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Tábor’s military helping defeat foreign crusaders in 1427 and with the commune’s military reach extending over additional territories with occasional attacks beyond Bohemia’s borders.37 The next extensive vernacular work against Tábor came from the Prague faction, not so much a dialogue as in “Václav, Havel, and Tábor,” but a mixture of anti-​­Tábor invective and theological arguments against it. Composed by John Příbram (d. 1448), a prominent Utraquist master described as an “enemy of Tábor,” the Lives of the Taborite Priests (Život kněží táborských) was another vernacular attempt to dispel the influence of the commune.38 More will be said about Příbram in the following chapter; he initially had a low opinion of the vernacular as a suitable vehicle for theological reflections and was very hesitant to employ it, fearing that in the wrong hands (meaning lay hands) theology would do more harm than good. In Latin, he composed, for example, the Tractatus contra articulos errores picardorum, which listed and briefly discussed Tábor’s articles of faith.39 But he changed his mind about the value of the vernacular when confronted with the increasing influence of Taborite doctrines, and he wrote three vernacular treatises, the last of them against the priests of Tábor. Written in 1430, the Lives of the Taborite Priests offered ways, both theological and nontheological, to teach laity to identify heresy and shun it. The Lives of the Taborite Priests is a strange amalgam of theological explanations, translated theological excerpts, polemical attacks, and invective. The combination only makes sense if we understand it as Příbram’s attempt to present as many different ways as possible for recognizing heresy. This treatise in particular resembles a handbook for distinguishing heresy from orthodoxy by describing heresy’s distinctive markers, like a handbook for recognizing wild mushrooms that identifies characteristics to distinguish the safe from the deadly. Příbram’s language in the treatise is accessible; its style is simple, systematic, and clear. The overall argument is straightforward as well: no one in his or her right mind should support or even admire the commune at Tábor. It traces the rise of Tábor but interweaves a well-​­argued polemic against its leaders, whom Příbram blames for bewitching the laity into heresy. “I intend,” Příbram says in the introduction, “to describe their lives, how they based the beginning and the entire course of their lives in great error and heresy and unheard-​­of lies, and how they conceived their words and sermons from the devil, who is a liar and the father of lies.”40 His stated intent is to describe their lives and explain why they live in error. His point of view is unequivocal and his intention clear: to warn laity off of supporting Tábor. What is astonishing is the fact that on many subjects, he gives Taborites a fair hearing. For exam-



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ple, on the subject of their ritual customs Příbram is scathing, but his facts about what those customs are appear relatively solid. It is only when he turns to the social fabric of Tábor’s inhabitants and when he addresses their morality (or, in Příbram’s view, lack thereof ) that he resorts to exaggerations. How we understand these exaggerations affects how we read the treatise as a whole. Writing in the 1920s, Josef Pekař pointed out Příbram’s tendency to generalize and overstate. This tendency clearly caused Pekař some discomfort, but he explained it away by suggesting that Příbram wished to underscore the most scandalous of Tábor’s transgressions.41 Even when he finds a place in which Příbram contradicts himself, first complaining that Taborites disband all schools but elsewhere stating that Taborites teach all children of both genders and in Czech, Pekař rationalized the discrepancy.42 All in all, Pekař concluded, Příbram’s facts were accurate—​­to the extent that we can compare his account with other contemporary testimony.43 Pekař underscored Příbram’s veracity as a reporter and ignored any of his polemic or invective. This reading, however, no longer stands. It seems that reporting facts is the last of Příbram’s goals; what he wishes to do is produce a certain kind of response to these facts. To that end, he reports selectively, exaggerates, and makes inferences, all of which serve to tarnish Tábor and its theological project. The effect of the exaggerations and invective—​­however factual in their basis—​­is to offer a scathing portrayal of the commune. That many facts are, in fact, accurate may simply reflect the fact that the basic outlines of the life at Tábor was simply too well known to manufacture from scratch. Unlike “Václav, Havel, and Tábor,” the Lives of the Taborite Priests does not contain a character who would speak in defense of Tábor’s priests, which means, in turn, that Příbram did not entertain Tábor’s views directly. This changes the feeling of the tractate; rather than an attempt to present the different points of view and allow the laity to choose (however biased the selection process) as in “Václav, Havel, and Tábor,” Příbram’s Lives of the Taborite Priests is more of an open invective against Tábor and all that it stands for. Biblical Exegesis

Příbram’s treatise zeroed in on what he saw as Tábor’s erroneous exegesis from the start, much like “Václav, Havel, and Tábor,” suggesting that arguments over what the biblical text really meant were becoming a commonplace. This may have reflected both the forceful Hussite propaganda, which centered on the biblical text, and the proliferation of vernacular Bibles. It also suggests

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that many were of the opinion that the Bible alone could not settle the ongoing disputes. In the first section, Příbram argued that the Taborite priests interpreted the Bible too literally, using it to justify any action or belief that suited them. He began with the question of correct exegesis, explaining that just because something was mentioned in the Bible does not mean that one ought automatically to follow it. This was a direct attack on what Tábor held most dear: the conviction that the commune adhered to the Scriptures more closely than the Catholic church. The problem was, as Příbram saw it, that the laity at Tábor was taught “not to believe anything that is not literally [zjevně] and obviously [zřetedlně] in the Bible,” which is an error that “[the priests] hold themselves and preach to others.”44 In order to illustrate (and mock) the flaws in Taborite exegesis, Příbram opened with Tábor’s most obvious error: the imminent end of the world predicted for February of 1420.45 “First we say, and it is apparent to the whole land, that those priests of Tábor [twenty-​­seven of whom are named], after being possessed by the devil ten years ago, started prophesying, writing and proclaiming that in the summer of 1420, the Day of Judgment would certainly come.” When the end of the world did not come, the priests reinterpreted their original claim, a decision that Příbram ridiculed: “So the deceitful seducers, in order to comfort the people, came up with a new lie, saying that a reform of all the Christian church would dawn, that all sinful and evil ones would perish and only God’s elect would remain in the world, those who fled to the mountains.” They prophesized that after the Judgment Day, only five cities would be left standing and that the true faithful would congregate there in order to avoid punishment. Příbram explained that they based this prophesy on Isaiah 19:18, where the prophet spoke about five cities, but Příbram pointed out emphatically that Isaiah did so “according to a different sense.”46 Příbram did not go into greater detail in explaining why Tábor’s exegetical conclusions were not to be taken seriously. But he made it clear that it was their method of reading the Scriptures, rather than the Scriptures themselves, that was at fault. Příbram offered an explanation of the root of the error, namely, that although a number of biblical interpretations were possible, only some were valid. Příbram warned his audience especially against Jan Čapek, a Taborite priest, whose biblical interpretations were, he thought, erroneous.47 This is the same Jan Čapek, who composed vernacular songs that combined catechesis and polemic for the laity discussed in the previous chapter. Příbram insisted



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that Čapek “perverts falsely and erroneously many books of the Old Testament,” which he uses to “support” (dovodí) various kinds of “brutality” (ukrutenství). This was dangerous, because Čapek’s exegesis carried a measure of authority and “other priests make use of it as the [ideological] foundation for violence committed against others.”48 But the main reason why Příbram’s writings targeted Čapek so prominently was his popularity among the laity. Čapek was a tireless composer of propaganda songs and vernacular tractates describing Taborite views and thus a natural enemy of Příbram. Čapek authored a number of songs on the Hussite doctrine, such as the Taborite song on the Ten Commandments discussed above. He also wrote an instructional manual on the Eucharist, entitled “Knížky o večeři páně.”49 It is possible—​ ­though we may never know for certain—​­that Čapek had become, thanks to his compositions, popular and influential among the laity, which is why Příbram chose him as his special target. Ritual Minimalism

Like the author of “Václav, Havel, and Tábor,” who vilifies those who receive from the chalice, Příbram too argued that Tábor’s erroneous interpretation of the Scriptures corrupted the commune’s ritual and social life. But he went even further than the author of “Václav, Havel, and Tábor” and suggested that there was a link between drinking Christ’s blood and a propensity for violence. Příbram saw both ritual aberrations (such as receiving from the chalice) and violence as evidence of heresy, that is to say, he taught his readers and listeners to judge doctrine according to the kind of behavior that it engendered. This was an important shift in argumentation. Whereas the author of “Václav, Havel, and Tábor” criticized the chalice, first of all, because of the faulty theology behind it, and resorted to an invective only secondarily with his suggestion of a link between ritual transgression and violence, Příbram assumed a link between doctrine and behavior and judged the doctrine implicitly based on the fact that Tábor was also violent. This may have been an effective way to keep laity from supporting Tábor but as a theological education it falls rather short. By using examples of Taborite behavior, Příbram was able to avoid making many arguments about theology. Instead, he put forth a number of facts, both actual and exaggerated, about the Taborite commune, suggesting that its disputable lifestyle (rather than its doctrine) was a sign that something was seriously amiss there. Importantly, he listed the various ways in which Tábor defied the church’s ritual prescriptions. He was accurate about the extent of

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Tábor’s ritual minimalism, possibly because the news of it had been well known. (This, incidentally, also illustrates the interconnectedness of the different factions as discussed in Chapter 4.) He did not, however, attempt to explain why, which in itself amounted to a kind of implicit criticism. Příbram offered vivid descriptions of the Taborite ritual transgressions: they disgraced and despised the sacrament and the celebration of mass, celebrated a minimalist mass, only saying the paternoster and the words from the reading and considering that a mass. He accused them of rendering the celebration of the mass unrecognizable, of trampling on the Roman traditions and customs. In addition, Příbram accused the Taborites of disgracing all the prayers in the missal, as well as the order of the mass, despite the fact that it was Christ who established them. The missal, or mass book, represented the mass, which was central to the ritual life of Christendom, thus it served as an important marker of belonging or nonbelonging. The fact that the Taborite community celebrated a scaled-​­down version of the mass, without altars, even celebrating outside, that its clergy refused to wear ornate vestments or use special liturgical implements, set Tábor visibly apart from the contemporary church and made reconciliation difficult.50 Indeed, Příbram found nothing positive whatsoever about Tábor’s ritual life. He accused the Taborites of mocking God’s rituals and customs because they did not pray the daily office or celebrate feast days of saints, and because they urged their followers to destroy images of Christ and of the holy martyrs. In addition, he criticized them for not following the church’s prescriptions regarding baptism, confirmation, and confession, for not giving absolution, for blaspheming against holy oil, for disrespecting holy orders, for electing their own bishops and ordaining their own priests.51 Ritual deviation signaled separation. In effect, Příbram accused Taborites of separating themselves from the Roman church and all spiritual authorities. In his depiction, they stood alone against the rest of Christendom, and that was a sign enough that they were in the wrong. According to Příbram, Tábor’s ritual aberrations were not only a sign of the commune’s heresy but also responsible for the commune’s social perversions, for the lifestyle of violence and habitual cruelty of its members, whom they, according to Fudge’s reading, wished to incite to kill sinners.52 Příbram alleged that the Taborites married godfathers to godmothers, monks to nuns, and even disrespected marital consent, claiming that “when a maiden promised marriage without her mother’s or father’s knowledge, [the leaders] broke that marriage and married her to another.” However, the main symptom of



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Tábor’s heresy was, according to Příbram, the commune’s violence t­oward those who opposed it. He described numerous instances of it, drawing an explicit link between ritual error and perverse actions. Příbram described priests being killed while celebrating mass at the altar and monks being burned like heathens, arguing that on account of their heresy, they killed, burned, and extinguished many priests.53 This is an example of what Housley called the “apocalyptic and purgative violence” of the chiliasts.54 The important point here is that Taborite violence occurred against the general background of violence, destruction, and loss of life—​­essentially two military conflicts that flared up intermittently, wreaking much destruction. This was, first, the warfare waged between the Prague moderates and the Catholics, both Czech and German, described by contemporaries as the bellum cottidianum. This appeared ill-​­defined (especially in comparison with the well-​­defined episodes of crusades) and at times aimless. The second was the crusades themselves, which unified the reformers but wreaked stupendous destruction, economically and otherwise.55 What is worse, the clergy at Tábor encouraged violence among the laity: “Now is the time for vengeance, for the cutting of throats of all sinful ones and the time of God’s wrath and the time for retribution, in which all evil and sinful ones will perish by sudden death and only God’s elect will remain in the world.”56 In this way, the priests incited the laity to turn against their fellow men and women. Here, Příbram is referring to the chiliast doctrine proclaimed at Tábor, which called for the destruction of God’s enemies.57 But none of Tábor’s military actions were, in Příbram’s view, legitimate. The priests preached unjust war and sanctified unholy battles, justifying them with evil reasons, reasons that were cruel, merciless, and against all decrees mentioned above.58 The treatise gave clear examples of the observable actions that resulted from the heretical theology at Tábor. Příbram described them as symptoms of heresy that anyone could recognize without having to make a judgment about theological matters. It appears that Příbram had come to see the laity’s ignorance as equivalent to its gullibility. How else could the laity put their trust in the Taborite priests, Příbram wondered. How could they have allowed themselves to be lured into committing atrocities after the examples of the priests? Příbram asked himself. And yet this is what had happened at Tábor: the priests at Tábor not only committed atrocities, they incited laity to do the same, to murder all evil ones, to take their vengeance, to kill all sinners by whatever means.59 Meanwhile, the priests defended their actions (or, as Příbram saw them, their lapses of

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judgment) as rational, necessary, and even salubrious, and their followers did not challenge that assessment. Příbram worried about the gullibility of the laity, frightened by the ease with which they responded to the Taborite violent exhortations. When the priests demanded that “all lords, squires and knights are to have their throats cut and be plundered,” the people, according to Příbram, responded favorably and murdered many. The image is of clerics who are out of control and of laity who blindly follow them into the worst atrocities. “They are not priests, but tyrants, seducers, liars, arsonists, and killers.” And under their leadership these mobs were capable of fearsome and depraved acts.60 The laity’s ignorance is proving dangerous not only to the ignorant individuals but to the society as a whole. Příbram tries to address the lack of knowledge by discussing openly the errors of Taborite priests as he sees them, priests’ erroneous exegesis of the Scriptures, wrong beliefs about the sacrament and other key doctrines. But in the end, pointing to social and moral aberrations is easier than trying to explain complicated theology, and it becomes the focus of the treatise. Příbram wrote in the vernacular in order to equip the laity to resist the allure of Tábor. His simple and clear style, his avoidance of complicated formulations, and his ability to describe markers of heresy without needing to explain the theology behind them helped Příbram combat the influence of Tábor. However, Příbram’s plan for dispelling what he sees as common gullibility is not to offer more genuine learning. Instead, he too tries to manipulate the laity, this time away from supporting Tábor, with a mixture of doctrinal explanation, invective, and mockery. It may have helped him accomplish his goal, but it hardly contributed to genuine reconciliation.

Tábor’s Response: Too Little Too Late Tábor’s response to the barrage of negative propaganda can only be described as too little too late. And even though the commune’s leader Nicholas of Pelhřimov tried to defend the commune in his Confessio Taboritarum, this explanation was written in Latin and for a learned audience and could hardly have engaged the popular audiences of those vernacular treatises discussed above that effectively assassinated Tábor’s public image in the course of the 1420s.61 The Confessio Taboritarum, the only extant composition that laid out Tábor’s views, was a lengthy narrative of Tábor’s beliefs. And while it was certainly helpful in explaining the commune’s controversial practices, it was not



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aimed at the laity and did not help in dispelling the accusations and misinformation that circulated outside the commune. The Confessio’s purpose was entirely different. Written in 1431 by Nicholas of Pelhřimov,62 it served as preparatory notes for a synod held in Prague on April 30, 1431. From its inception, the document was aimed to support high-​ ­level talks between leaders of the Taborite and Prague factions, one of many held between 1420 and 1431, with each representing at attempt by Taborite and Prague clergy to arrive at an agreement regarding matters of doctrine and liturgical practice. The meeting of 1431, following on the heels of much destruction by the crusades, dispatched by the pope in 1420, 1422, 1423–24, 1426–27, and 1431, seemed to be of special importance as the parties hoped to devise a joint agenda for the upcoming council at Basel. Nicholas of Pelhřimov, the treatise’s author, was a veteran of such talks, and yet the meticulousness with which he prepared his remarks suggests that he still believed in them, that they could bring about a rapprochement if only Tábor set out its beliefs in a sufficiently clear and rational manner. Perhaps this was because Nicholas failed to appreciate that the opposition to the commune was (judging by Příbram’s treatise) animated by something deeper than disagreement about theology. Or perhaps this was because Nicholas maintained his faith in the moderate reformers, many of whom he knew from his studies at the University of Prague. (While there, he had also had close contacts with Jan Hus, graduating in 1409.) The April synod opened, as had so many before them, with a list of articles against Tábor, most of them dealing with Tábor’s ritual practice.63 Nicholas took them up one by one. He explained that Tábor was an attempt to build a new kind of community, one in which religion was completely divorced from economic relationships, or, as the contemporary writers would put it, a community rid of simony. (Incidentally, here Nicholas was a strict follower of ideals expressed by Hus after his exile from Prague, when he advised that any possible steps must be taken to rid religion of simony.) The new kind of community put the person of Jesus Christ and his law at the center of the communal life. All that a believer was to believe was encapsulated in the gospel of Jesus Christ, especially regarding the sacraments. The faithful were supposed to imitate the person of Christ in faith and morals, and his law (the Bible) could be looked to for rules of ritual and communal governance.64 To put it differently, a quest for evangelical simplicity, that is, the simplicity contained in the gospels, was at the heart of the commune’s social and religious life. Tábor’s leaders believed that the church had gone monstrously astray in

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its attempts to build a Christian community, and the commune was then an attempt at a fresh start, a religion and society unencumbered by the weight of social and economic bonds. However, the idealism of Tábor’s architects fell on deaf ears as most of its detractors focused on the commune’s social and ritual transgressions, never engaging with the underlying ideals as such. Perhaps this was also a failure of Tábor to explain itself sufficiently to the undecided audiences. Nicholas acknowledged that the commune’s ritual practice was a major point of contention. But he argued that Taborites were anything but lax in their ritual celebrations. In fact, they regulated and controlled them with the same fervor as their opponents. However, for the Taborites the litmus test for efficacy in religious rituals was not their number or their pomp, but their simplicity and biblicism. He argued that the main problem with the traditional church was the number and frequency of different services and the way in which they all seemed to be entangled in money. Speaking of anointing, for example, Nicholas explained that “cheaply they buy from simoniacs oil made by simoniacal means, blessed by the bishop in a simoniacal manner, and they distribute it . . . ​and collect more money from simply touching the oil with their finger than many laborers on many more vessels of olive oil. There is no benefit other than the futile and useless bribe.”65 Clerical greed had thus obscured the true shape of the sacramental life, embroiling the practice of religion with the monetary economy and creating a kind of “economy of devotion.” Tábor’s solution was to abandon it altogether. Nicholas’s Confessio describes a sacramental life that is completely disentangled from any kind of monetary exchange. He takes up each of the seven sacraments in turn. The longest and most involved discussion revolves around the celebration of the mass. The author insists that present-​­day celebration had little in common with that by the early church. What many called “mass,” Nicholas saw as an artificial creation of his own time, filled with many human inventions and accretions. It ought not be celebrated daily, because many false prophets lived from celebrating masses for profit. Besides, they contained intercessions of dubious value for the souls and memory of the departed and served as an opportunity for simony and greed.66 In fact, the Confessio conceded many of Příbram’s allegations: essentially that Tábor neglected to pray, fast, or give alms on behalf of the departed or to participate in any kind of rituals that presumed the existence of purgatory. But there was a reason behind the ritual minimalism. Nicholas explained that the existence of purgatory was uncertain, based as it was on a shaky founda-



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tion and not on the Scriptures. He also pointed out that endless prayers and rituals never seemed sufficient to assure one of salvation. Instead, the business of the afterlife only made escalating demands on those left behind, preying on their grief and insecurity: “because they so care for the departed and make it into an excellent living that they bind the living with false hope.”67 Because they had been tainted by the exchange of money, all such rituals were to be avoided. After an exhaustive explanation of Tábor’s ritual life, Nicholas left other complaints and concerns untouched. This omission was most likely due to the fact that the synod, for which he prepared his Confessio, debated only Tábor’s ritual life and Nicholas’s notes were sufficient for that forum. However, we have seen that vernacular authors had other concerns as well, especially regarding reports of violence perpetrated by the members of the commune. Příbram especially warned against deception of the laity, violence, malevolent and bloodthirsty clerics, while the author of “Václav, Havel, and Tábor” posited a link between ritual minimalism and social transgressions. And although both accounts were, possibly, exaggerated for effect (especially the stories of enforced marriages, for example), they made for a powerful narrative, the kind of horror story that people love to pass on, and leaving it unaddressed only hurt Tábor’s image. Given the successful way in which the commune used vernacular compositions to communicate with its own members, it is striking that similar efforts were not poured out to address the commune’s image among the laity. While the masters were engaged in numerous high-​­level talks, on the level of the street, Tábor lacked a convincing message, an appealing narrative of its origins and purpose. And while it is not clear that the existence of such a narrative would have been persuasive or averted the military defeat of Tábor, anything that would have diffused the persistently negative imagery surrounding Tábor might have eased the divisive factionalism and even helped smooth all those high-​­level talks at synods and disputations.

Conclusion Tábor represented a unique attempt to wrest religion from any entanglements with money, correcting the errors and accretions that had crept into the church’s ritual life. Given the extent to which religious practices had become commodities, spawning an entire devotional industry, the toppling of the religious industry would necessarily redefine contemporary society in a radical

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way. Jan Hus had advocated a radical solution too, calling for the church to be completely rid of simony, and the charter for the Bethlehem Chapel (discussed in Chapter 1) reflected his ideals. However, it is hard to know what he would have made of Tábor’s attempt to do so, whether he too would have thought that the Taborites went too far. Tábor’s founders saw it as a new kind of community, one that rejected many of the foundational assumptions of the traditional society. Tábor was supposed to be a community whose social organization was governed by the law of the gospels, as interpreted by their priests, and whose religious practice was defined by its rejection of simony. Joining Tábor thus necessarily meant opting out of the contemporary social and economic networks. One of the signs of this rejection was the refusal of seemingly harmless customs or conventions, such as ornate vestments, priestly tonsure, elaborate altars, costly liturgical vessels and implements. This radical rejection, although perhaps seemingly overly dogmatic, had its purpose: in the Taborite view, every such external expression inserted the commune back into the web of social and economic relationships, in this case, expressions of status or of dependence. The cost of this rigorous adherence to principle was high, however. It forever labeled Tábor as sectarian and uncompromising and defined it negatively in the public eye, a society based around rejection. This was, at base, why the Taborite experiment had so many critics and opponents and why many feared it so viscerally. In light of its social experimentation, and combined with the strength of Tábor’s armies and the growing number of towns and settlements under their military command, the commune posed a clear threat to traditionalists and moderate reformers alike. It was Tábor’s continuing military successes—​­seen by many laymen as signs of God’s favor—​­that most troubled the commune’s opponents. In order to stay the commune’s influence, Tábor’s opponents wrote vernacular compositions that combined religious polemic with theological education in an effort to persuade the laity not to lend any support to the new commune. The author of “Václav, Havel, and Tábor” is an example of a Catholic author willing to include the laity in a high-​­level theological discourse in order to dissuade them from supporting Tábor. He was especially interested in explaining the nature of God’s law and arguing against lay chalice. Although the author allowed both sides to bring out their best arguments, the debate exposed the absence of a universal arbiter that would resolve existing differences, based on different interpretations of the Bible. This profound crisis of authority is one of the most unsettling outcomes of these vernacular debates, especially



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because it was never resolved. The question of leadership loomed large as well, especially in John Příbram’s Lives of the Taborite Priests, where he criticized Tábor’s leaders for purveying faulty exegesis and behaving, in general, like a bunch of violent, deceitful thugs. The question of who could rightfully lead the laity and with what blueprint for reform was implicit in the entire discourse but proved impossible to answer conclusively. The authors of the compositions discussed in this chapter made a deliberate effort to bring learned arguments to the laity in the vernacular, but this came at a price. Theological education came to serve political and ideological agendas, and each side translated and disseminated only those arguments that helped them. The goal was to persuade, which meant that being coherent or well informed mattered less than being persuasive. Debates about fine points of theology transformed into debates about things that the laity could understand, such as emotional threats and rhetorical appeals. This polarized the discourse, combining education with polemic in a way that could hardly be disentangled. In this verbal fray, it proved quite damaging to Tábor that its leaders did not, to our knowledge, try to offer some counterarguments, in the vernacular, against the complaints addressed in those vernacular treatises. Tábor’s leaders seemed to have been busy elsewhere, debating the subject of the Eucharist in treatises written both in Latin and in the vernacular, while neglecting all the others. The debate about the Eucharist discussed in the following chapter is a specific example of how theological debates changed in order to reach wider audiences. Tábor’s arguments were eventually silenced not because they were disproved, but because the commune was militarily defeated. In effect, the sword replaced academic disputation as the most effective path to unity, and this inability to resolve theological differences persisted well into the sixteenth-​ ­century Reformation and beyond.

Chapter 6

The Dangers of Popularizing Wyclif The Eucharistic Debates That Fragmented Bohemia

Attempts to control the spread of Wycliffite heresy intensified in England in the early fifteenth century, with prominent Wycliffites fleeing the persecution. At the same time, the Hussite reform unfolded in Bohemia and with it a debate regarding the role of Wyclif ’s writings there.1 While Wyclif ’s writings were being weeded out of circulation in England, Wycliffite masters in Prague disseminated them to clerics and the laity across Bohemia. Bohemia in the early 1420s epitomized the dangers regarding Wyclif ’s Eucharistic teachings that anti-​­Wycliffite writers in England, such as Thomas Netter, had warned about decades earlier.2 The fierce debates about the nature of the Eucharist among pro-​­Hussite university masters and the vernacular campaign that followed showed that “sacramental disputes had ecclesiological ramifications and, in a polity where the church was so pervasive, political implications.”3 Bohemia was a case in point. Soon after the death of Jan Hus in 1415, the pro-​­reform university masters parted ways over the question of Wyclif ’s teaching, particularly his teaching about the Eucharist. This division coincided with other differences of opinion regarding what constituted acceptable reform, discussed in the previous chapter. Within a few years, former colleagues found themselves belonging to opposing reform factions, the largest being the Prague and the Taborite factions. But this was not the end to debating the issue of Wyclif, quite the opposite. The demands of war, which had by now engulfed most of Bohemia, meant a rapprochement between the reform parties was vital to the reform’s survival.4 The reform leaders in Prague had repeatedly tried to come to some theological agreement with the radical, separatist commune at



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Tábor but were unsuccessful.5 In light of the ongoing crusades, it was crucial that Prague and Tábor (including a small, breakaway group, called the Pikarts) cooperate, and a number of official theological synods and disputations were arranged in order to arrive at a doctrinally respectable solution.6 The leaders in Prague walked a political tightrope: while they wished to be seen as cooperating with Tábor because they needed its military help, they also wanted to limit its influence, in order to maintain control of the reform. Meanwhile, this doctrinal conflict did not remain confined to the learned circles but spilled from the university in Prague to the ordinary clergy and the laity across Bohemia. This was not an accident but a result of a number of deliberate efforts. First, Peter Payne, an English Wycliffite, simplified Wyclif, making his writings accessible in Latin to a less-​­learned clerical audience, in order to popularize the English master and increase his influence in Bohemia. Second, those clerics, having responded to Wyclif ’s teaching, circulated their own Eucharistic writings in the vernacular in an effort to gain lay followers for their own particular brand of reform. This gave rise to a large corpus of Eucharistic writings, many of which were considered heterodox, that ranged from learned translations of Eucharistic theology to simple propaganda.7 These vernacular Eucharistic writings circulated against the broader context of official synods and disputations that were supposed to help arrive at a compromise solution acceptable to the dissenting parties. However, the Prague faction, which wished to minimize Wyclif ’s influence in Bohemia, often bemoaned the existence of such vernacular tractates and tried to limit their dissemination. The efforts by the leaders in Prague to keep Wycliffite thought to learned audiences soon proved pointless, and so a new strategy was hatched: to answer the Taborite tractates with a popular campaign of their own, led by the pro-​­reform master John Příbram, who authored the Lives of the Taborite Priests discussed in the previous chapter.8 John Příbram (d. 1448), a prominent master, and his reluctant shift to writing theology in the vernacular make for a fascinating case study. Příbram favored reform but detested Wyclif ’s influence, fearing that adopting any of Wyclif ’s teachings would implicate Bohemian reform with a stigma of heresy that would doom its prospects on the diplomatic front. Příbram initially had a low opinion of the vernacular as a suitable vehicle for theological reflections. But when faced with the relentless dissemination of Wycliffite writings in the vernacular, he gradually and reluctantly changed his mind and wrote a series of vernacular treatises against Eucharistic heresy. It is seldom that we can watch a theologian and university master make such a dramatic transition. Příbram

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was not only a university master so afraid of Wyclif ’s rising popularity among the laity that he resorted to writing in their language, but also a deeply reflective theologian who adapted his vernacular discourse to the limitations of his lay audiences. In an effort to avoid complicated theological or philosophical arguments, Příbram employed other strategies of persuasion when writing in the vernacular, such as appeals to authorities and fearmongering. Incidentally, John Příbram’s works show that in Bohemia in the early fifteenth century (unlike in England, where the vernacular became suspect because of its potential, real or perceived, to transmit heresy),9 Wyclif ’s heresy and the attempts to combat it elevated the status of the vernacular language, making it an acceptable medium for theological discourse both to laity and to clerics and university masters. However, Příbram’s work also shows what adjustments were necessary before the vernacular could serve as the language of choice for theological debates: because one could not presume any kind of learning in one’s audience, different strategies of simplification were necessary. The clash between the Prague (anti-​­Wyclif ) and Taborite (pro-​­Wyclif ) tractates that were written in the vernacular and aimed at mixed, clerical and lay, audiences spurred lively theological debates both in Latin and in the vernacular on the subject of the Eucharist. Peaking in the 1420s, these debates, whose fundamental arguments went back to Wyclif ’s critique of transubstantiation, anticipated the famous debate between Luther and Zwingli in the 1520s and the Eucharistic debates of the sixteenth-​­century Reformation. The main debate revolved around the nature of Christ’s presence in the sacrament. Some reformers (most moderates and later Luther) explained it as real presence of a corporeal kind. Others (most Taborites and later Zwingli) talked about real presence of a spiritual kind. And others (Pikarts and later the Reformed tradition) saw the sacrament as a mere symbol. The majority of the reformers in Bohemia agreed that Christ was really present in the sacrament, but each defined real presence differently.10 Wyclif ’s critique of transubstantiation garnered an extraordinary response across the countryside in Bohemia, giving rise to a corpus of Eucharistic tractates written mostly in the vernacular, fragmenting the public opinion even further. These tractates were most likely all written by clerics (many of them without university training), but they responded to the laity’s questions and doubts about the nature of the sacrament. In other words, clerical leaders of different reform factions wrote Eucharistic tractates that addressed Wyclif ’s critique of transubstantiation (boiled down to the nature of Christ’s presence in the consecrated host) in different ways that lay adherents found plausible



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and intelligible. Some of the tractates especially seem to respond to a very basic set of questions about the Eucharist, revealing lay doubt about transubstantiation and desire for alternative definitions. Contrary to the scholarly conviction that has formed about the mass and its importance to late medieval religious culture,11 this set of tractates hints at a laity that was not in awe of the Eucharist and its magical powers. Rather, they sought to demystify it, willing to go as far as rejecting the entire edifice of transubstantiation, in an effort to define and understand the sacrament in their own terms.

Peter Payne: Wyclif ’s Defender and Popularizer in Bohemia Bohemia was abuzz with Eucharistic speculation in the 1420s, partly because the university masters in Prague never managed to reach a consensus about Wyclif back in the 1380s and 1390s. Brought back from England by Jerome of Prague, Wyclif ’s tractates, such as the Dialogus, Trialogus, and two other unspecified Eucharistic tractates, began to circulate around the university and launched a serious discussion of Wyclif ’s ideas.12 The role that Wyclif ’s teachings ought to play in the reform in Bohemia had been discussed numerous times: the university debated the question in various ways, but no agreement was ever reached.13 A sense of indebtedness to Wyclif among the Czech masters was partly to blame for the impasse. Since the 1390s, Wyclif ’s teachings, in particular his philosophy of extreme realism, found an eager and accepting audience among the Czech (but not German) masters at the university in Prague.14 His teachings not only gave a unifying program to the pro-​­reform masters, but they also became intertwined with the Czech-​­German antagonism at the university, giving a distinct voice to the Czech minority against the prevailing philosophy of nominalism among their German colleagues.15 But to paint this picture as a simple antipathy between Czech and German speakers would be overly simplistic. Even inside the Czech nation, and later inside the reform leadership, opinions about Wyclif were deeply divided. This did not stop certain masters from studying, translating, and disseminating Wyclif ’s works. Between 1415 and 1416, Jakoubek of Stříbro translated Wyclif ’s Dialogus. His translations of Trialogus and De dominio civili followed shortly after.16 The first two were especially important, as they contained the fundamentals of Wyclif ’s thought, both popular and academic.17 But it was Peter Payne, a Wycliffite master of arts from Oxford, who

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devoted much of his efforts to popularizing Wyclif in Bohemia. After arriving in Prague in late 1414, Payne (also called Peter English, Petrus Anglicus, and Petrus Clericus) quickly rose to the top leadership of the Prague faction, enjoying the friendship and trust of men like Jakoubek and Rokycana.18 As an outsider who never learned the vernacular, Payne was from the very start (and especially between 1420 and 1433) employed as a diplomat. He arranged negotiations on all levels: with theologians, with international crusade leaders, and with King Sigismund.19 Payne even acted as the faction’s official representative at the Council of Basel.20 He defended one of the four Prague articles, on secular property of clergy and—​­not surprisingly—​­quoted Wyclif in his defense.21 Payne’s allegiance to the Oxford reformer reopened the old battle about Wyclif within the reform leadership in Bohemia, but this time the disagreements would not remain confined to the learned circles. Not much is known about Payne’s early life. He was born sometime between 1380 and 1390 in Hough near Stamford in Lincolnshire, and came to the University of Oxford in 1398 or 1399. He left England just as heretical trials against Wycliffites intensified, and the university could no longer hold out against the interference from Archbishop Arundel. Arundel reserved special vengeance for Payne, who was suspected of having advised John Oldham, the leading Lollard layman, to lead an armed insurrection. The details of Payne’s departure from England are hazy, but it seems that he left just after the archbishop charged him with heresy and treason in September of 1413.22 His prominence among the Wycliffites at Oxford as well as his prior contacts with Czech pro-​­reform masters and students (Jerome of Prague, Mikuláš Faulfiš, Jiří of Kněhyně) gave him adequate credentials to start over in Bohemia.23 But it was not easy in light of the fact that in 1412 the university in Prague had condemned forty-​­five of Wyclif ’s articles. And although he was a master of arts as of 1406, Payne was unable to join the university until February 1417.24 Upon his arrival in Prague, Payne helped Jakoubek write a defense of the lay chalice in February 1415.25 The practice of the lay chalice was not related to Wyclif ’s critique of transubstantiation, but it had by now become the signature practice of the Czech reform movement. By the early fifteenth century, frequent communion was widespread across Bohemia.26 However, after his initial tractates in defense of the lay chalice, Payne wrote almost exclusively in defense of Wyclif. Payne defended Wyclif ’s teaching and, to his university colleagues’ great chagrin, worked ­toward popularizing Wyclif ’s teachings among nonacademics. He explained, glossed, and simplified Wyclif ’s teachings to an audience in



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Bohemia. To help him in this task, Payne wrote a number of registers, a kind of concordances with short entries, ordered alphabetically, followed by references taken from Wyclif ’s works.27 A manuscript held by the National Library in Prague (X.E.11) contains nineteen registers of Wyclif ’s treatises, all of them quite extensive.28 To compile a register was a serious undertaking. For example, the register of Wyclif ’s Decalogus (De mandatis divinis), which is also the longest in this manuscript (206r–230v), contains about 2,115 entries, each referring to specific chapter and subchapter in a collection of Wyclif ’s works.29 The scope and complexity of this undertaking suggest that Payne had brought the registers with him from England; one can hardly imagine that such a detailed, erudite, and painstaking work could have been undertaken after his arrival in Prague, as has been suggested.30 But the effort paid off. Payne became Wyclif ’s chief interpreter in Bohemia. John Příbram summed up Payne’s role in this way: “Wherever Wyclif was obscure or incomplete, Payne explained him.”31 In fact, Payne’s registers were so well accepted in Tábor that Wyclif ’s entire treatises were almost unknown there.32 Payne’s popularizing efforts started an avalanche of Eucharistic writings, as pro-​­reform writers crafted their own responses to Wyclif ’s critique of transubstantiation. Their writings, authored in Latin but concurrently translated into the vernacular, addressed the questions that had troubled Wyclif. Payne brought Wyclif ’s ideas to nonuniversity clerics, who then disseminated them to the laity. Because of Payne’s efforts, the disagreements that were previously confined to Latin (and to the university milieu) soon trickled into the vernacular.33 Within a few years, several separate pro-​­reform communities arose, each following a different blueprint for reform: the moderates in Prague and the commune at Tábor, with a small offshoot called the Pikarts. The Eucharist proved to be the most divisive issue in their theological deliberations. Some argued that Christ was really present (in a way that was further to be defined), while others concluded that the sacrament was a mere symbol and denied that Christ was present in it at all. These doctrinal divisions corresponded to some extent, though not entirely, to the formal divisions among the reformers in Bohemia. The moderate leaders in Prague favored the church’s understanding of the Eucharist (though insisted that the chalice also be served to the laity). Most leaders at the commune at Tábor (except Pikart sympathizers) openly professed and defended a Wycliffite understanding of the Eucharist.34

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Wyclif ’s Critique of Transubstantiation: A Few Simple but Explosive Questions The Eucharistic debates in Bohemia in the 1420s were a direct response to Wyclif ’s critique of transubstantiation that was popularized in Bohemia by Peter Payne. This point has so far been overlooked, but it was Wyclif—​ ­popularized by Payne—​­who had inspired the Eucharistic debates in Bohemia by identifying apparent philosophical weak points inherent in the doctrine of transubstantiation, thus clearing the way for new definitions of Christ’s presence in the sacrament. Ironically, Wyclif ’s critique also opened the door to the same kinds of speculation that transubstantiation was supposed to squash.35 The doctrine of transubstantiation was first formulated in order to counter questions such as those posed by Berengar of Tours in the eleventh century. He argued that if Christ had died and was seated at the right hand of the Father, then his body and blood could not be present at the altar.36 The doctrine was supposed to resolve Berengar’s dilemma about Christ’s location, and explained why Christ’s body still looked and tasted like the wheaten host consumed in the mass: the substance changes but Christ’s presence is real.37 But after Wyclif ’s critique undermined the doctrine of transubstantiation, the same questions emerged again in the early fifteenth century, with the priests at Tábor asking exactly the same questions that Berengar had posed three centuries earlier. Wyclif ’s critique proved enormously influential because it could be boiled down to a couple of questions. In what way is Christ present in the sacrament? Where is Christ located? Can he be found on the altar or in heaven, and, if both, how can he be in more than one place at once? Different answers to these questions gave rise to the spectrum of Eucharistic beliefs present in Bohemia in the 1420s. Discussing these answers sheds light on the passage of ideas from the university to ordinary clergy and uneducated laity. Vernacular treatises on the Eucharist suggest that sometimes laity embraced opinions considered heretical simply because it made better sense to them than official doctrine. The two questions that shaped the Eucharistic discourse in Bohemia grew out of the very particular way in which Wyclif challenged the teaching on transubstantiation.38 While affirming that Christ’s body was truly present in the sacrament, the disagreement turned on how that body is present: physically and corporeally (according to reformers in Prague) or spiritually and



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sacramentally (according to Taborites). According to the church’s official teaching, at the moment of consecration, the Eucharistic species of bread and wine turn into the body and blood of Christ.39 Their appearance, however, stays the same, because—​­as Aquinas explained using Aristotelian categories—​ ­the accidents of the bread remain, but “they cease to inhere in any substance, since they cannot continue to be related to the bread, which has substantially changed to become body.” 40 This explanation of how the substance of the bread changes into the substance of Christ’s body while retaining its original appearance proved insurmountable to Wyclif. For complicated reasons that have been adequately discussed elsewhere, Wyclif could not accept Aquinas’s teaching of what happens at consecration, especially the suggestion that one substance (Christ’s body) completely replaces another (bread).41 In his view, to teach that “the Eucharist consists of accidents without a subject, even if such thing is philosophically possible, is to debase and dishonor the body of Christ.” 42 He thought such a view was both unscriptural and metaphysically impossible. Instead, he argued that the material bread (and its substance) remained in the sacrament and was, in fact, simultaneously present with the body of Christ.43 The nature of this union was something that Wyclif tried hard to define, but his definition would be lost on many of his subsequent interpreters.44

The Battle over Eucharistic Theology: Public Disputations and Spread of Wycliffite Tractates Wyclif ’s ideas generated lots of impassioned discussions and disagreements, effectively giving rise to a social space for debating reform ideas, a larger and more diffuse version of what Bethlehem Chapel had once been. But more than that. Wyclif ’s ideas also transformed Bohemia’s countryside into a battleground about theology. They circulated in the context of public synods and disputations that aimed to bring the different factions together and encourage them to discuss Eucharistic theology. The negotiations were public, taking the form of synods and occasional public disputations. Two delegations of theologians would argue a set of prearranged points before a jury, often of ­university-​ ­educated clerics.45 The purpose was to debate various points of theology and, if possible, arrive at an agreement. These public meetings were held in Prague and at various locations around Bohemia. For example, a disputation in Konopiště in June 1423 and a synod in Klatovy in November 1424 both

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featured heated discussions about liturgical vestments (which Prague masters considered necessary and which Tábor rejected), as well as the usual debates about Eucharistic theology.46 The debates, conducted and recorded in Latin, were well documented, and reports of them circulated widely among the university masters and other clerics. But some of the masters leaked the disagreements about the Eucharist into the vernacular discourse, giving rise to written exchanges and oral persuasion in the vernacular. They did so in order to gain support for their stance in the debate. Judging from the extant treatises that deal with the mass and from the glimpses that we can extricate from descriptive sources, in Bohemia in the 1420s, the nature of the Eucharist became everyone’s business. The synods and disputations also served as distribution points for tractates and treatises written in the vernacular.47 Only a fraction of the written tractates survive, but we can get a qualitative, rather than quantitative, sense of their circulation from contemporaries. For example, John Příbram reported that after the synod in Klatovy in November of 1424, the Taborite clergy sent out “many tractates in Latin and in Czech across the whole land, especially about the nature of the sacrament [arguing] that the bread remains the same after consecration as before.” 48 Even if we allow for some exaggeration from Příbram, it is clear that tractates about the Eucharist did circulate among the laity. Most of these tractates, however, are no longer extant, having been destroyed by heresy hunters in the wake of Tábor’s military defeat in 1434.49 Unlike their rivals in Prague, the leaders of Tábor understood about the need to appeal to the laity, and they at times employed rather questionable tactics to do so. The aftermath of the synod at Konopiště in 1423 offers one such example. The synod was an attempt to negotiate an agreement about the Eucharist between the two remaining reform factions. At that meeting, the leaders of Prague and Taborite factions exchanged Eucharistic tractates for study and correction.50 But Příbram later complained that the Taborites disseminated their version of the tractate without making the corrections suggested by the moderate masters, lamenting that the “Taborite priest [Nicholas] sent out his tractate, uncorrected, without the changes and insertions recommended by the jury at the disputation [which Tábor had agreed to incorporate], to villages and towns and disseminated it practically across the whole land.” “These tractates,” Příbram added, “corrupted and fomented many a simple heart with error and heresy.”51 Perhaps the leaders of Tábor refused the corrections in order to retain the simplicity and coherence of their message, or perhaps they never intended to make them in the first place. And although we



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may sympathize with Příbram and his outrage at being tricked, Tábor’s commitment to effective proselytization to the laity stands out. The Taborites fostered a wide audience of sympathizers knowledgeable about and supportive of their views. They did so by persuading ordinary clergy and laity (especially nobility) that Tábor’s understanding of the Eucharist was correct. In his Lives of the Taborite Priests (discussed in Chapter 5), John Příbram alludes to the methods of the Taborite network while criticizing its influence. First, he complained that the Taborites “wrote in Latin and in Czech to the various people across the land, especially against the holy bread, [saying] that it is the same before and after consecration.”52 In the same treatise, Příbram describes an informal meeting between Taborite priests, local lords, and town councils. He says, “in Sušice [a town in southern Bohemia], they read [their tractates] before the lord Švamberk and many others, knights and burghers, and were telling us that we should all agree. They told us we should preach the following regarding the sacrament.”53 Tábor circulated treatises and organized meetings and gatherings in order to convince their audiences. The question of audience is difficult to determine, but from various complaints it appears that the tractates were widely disseminated. The vernacular translations suggest that ordinary clergy and laity were the target audience for these writings. The extent of vernacular literacy among the laity in late medieval Bohemia is, as elsewhere, difficult to determine. But the set of tractates under discussion here suggests that at least some portion of the laity was able to evaluate theological ideas. The concept of “intellectual literacy” is helpful here. It is defined as the “ability not merely to read but to bring to what one reads, or indeed hears read—​­for instance the textual products of various authoritative religious discourses—​­an attitude of intellectual questioning, of informed criticism.”54 Judging by the tractates that circulated among them, Bohemian laity were capable of expressing doubts, asking questions, and deciding for themselves what kind of theological explanations made sense to them. The extant tractates also show that the expressed preference for a different understanding of the Eucharist was not spontaneous or coincidental. It followed an extensive campaign to explain and popularize Wyclif.

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John Příbram’s First Foray into the Vernacular: Against Peter Payne John Příbram was one of the most vocal contributors to the Eucharistic debate, but his decision to write in the vernacular came slowly and after much deliberation. If Příbram’s reluctance to involve non-​­Latin speakers in Eucharistic deliberations was typical of a highly educated cleric, his eventual acceptance of the vernacular as suitable for theological reflections offers insight into the exigencies of theological debate. At first, even as the other masters were translating their Eucharistic treatises into Czech, Příbram only wrote in Latin. In his Latin treatise “Surge domine et dissipentur inimici tui,” written against Nicholas of Tábor, he warned that “no one should mention this in front of the people, because they could not understand it and could be led astray.”55 But Příbram later changed his mind about circulating theological writings in the vernacular and wrote three vernacular treatises in an effort to combat the spread of Wyclif ’s ideas in Bohemia.56 The thorough, methodical nature of his vernacular refutations, as well as his translations of the tractates that he considered heretical, suggests that he used the vernacular to help the laity recognize heresy. But such a targeted proselytizing changed the nature of the discourse itself. Since Příbram could not rely on theological nuance to persuade the laity, he employed other, distinctly nonacademic, strategies of persuasion. Příbram’s vernacular works, written in a quick succession between 1426 and 1430, grew out of his disagreement with Peter Payne about the role Wyclif ’s teachings ought to play in the reform agenda. This was not Příbram’s first attempt to marginalize Wyclif ’s influence in the Hussite reform movement. In 1426, Příbram led an effort to have Wyclif declared a heretic and his ideas eradicated from the Hussite movement.57 The animosity between the two men is palpable already in Příbram’s first foray into the vernacular.58 In this treatise, he tried to humiliate Payne and make his opinion seem at odds with just about everyone else the laity might respect, including Jan Hus. The document is a translation of a simple confession of faith, one that Payne refused to sign, a fact that Příbram makes much of. But it is important that Příbram’s translation stayed admirably close to the original document, and both were circulated together. In some manuscripts, the Latin alternated with the vernacular every paragraph, in others the entire treatise in Latin came first, followed by the translation.59 Although the confession of faith seems an innocuous sort of document to publicize in the vernac-



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ular, the treatise was, in fact, far from innocuous. Rather, it was a deeply polemical manifesto. In order to make Payne’s views seem less palatable, the document singles him out, depicting him as at odds with all of Christendom, the early church, and the holy doctors. Příbram begins the treatise by setting up the context, the reasons why a confession of faith was necessary in the first place. “This is the faith of all Christendom and of the early church and of all the great holy doctors and taken from their holy speeches and arguments and presented to master Peter English Clerk and given in writing, that he would confess it, thus cleansing himself from many articles that are heretical or erroneous or scandalous and evil before a large assembly convened for that purpose, which he wrote down with his own hand and proclaimed, offered and circulated a few years ago.” Příbram continued: “And here, at the town hall, he did not wish to profess the faith before the leading lords, councilmen, masters, and the clerical congregation, and he was told at least to confess before the [two] elected arbiters. And when he was asked for three years, to profess the faith of the holy universal church, he said publicly: ‘I do not wish to do so,’ knowing that this faith is contrary to the books of Wyclif.”60 Since Payne had proclaimed and circulated his treatises openly, Příbram uses this public opportunity to shame and vilify him, cementing the association between Payne and Wyclif in the minds of the laity. Příbram’s treatise brings the difficulty of context to the fore. The act of translation removed the text completely from its original situation and focused the attention on Payne, making his refusal a matter of public concern. Once in the vernacular, the document was no longer used to make a specific set of theological points in the context of an erudite disputation in front of a learned audience. It became a freestanding, tendentious document.61 But Příbram did not only wish to humiliate Payne; he also wanted to teach the laity something about the Roman Catholic doctrine of transubstantiation. His vernacular translation differs from the Latin original in two places, here italicized. The additions suggest that Příbram was aware that the highly technical formulation needed to be expanded if the laity were to understand it. He writes: “I confess that in the sacrament of the altar visible after consecration, the natural material bread of the sacrament no longer remains, but that the accident and manner of the bread stands here without the substance of the bread. And that the faithful believe this that the material bread does not remain there after consecration, but that the accidents of the bread such as its white color and round shape remain here without the actual bread.”62

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Příbram added additional words regarding the accidents of the bread, white color and round shape, stating that they stay the same even after consecration. This means that although the bread after consecration looks very much the same, the substance of bread is no longer present. The clerics, reading the Latin version, did not (or should not) need the additional explanation. It was intended for the laity, explaining the seemingly wondrous fact, which proved to be a stumbling block to many. Although the sacrament looked exactly the same after consecration, it had been profoundly altered to the extent that nothing of the natural bread remained on the altar. In effect, Příbram offered a radically different way of thinking about theology, denouncing any approach that assumes that sensory perceptions are reliable: such as saying that because something looks, smells, feels like bread, it must be bread.

Příbram’s Public Disputation Against Payne and Its Aftermath Příbram’s frustration with the ongoing dissemination of heresy boiled over after a disputation that took place in Prague in October 1429, when he took on Peter Payne. Ostensibly, the disputation addressed John Wyclif ’s theology of the Eucharist, but it was really Tábor’s understanding of the mass that was on trial.63 Peter Payne defended John Wyclif and his teachings, and admitted to compiling summaries of the most salient points of Wyclif ’s doctrine and distributing them for the purpose of instructing the priests and laity at Tábor.64 Příbram objected vigorously, arguing that the articles were heretical and lamenting their toxic influence. The jury, composed of eight university masters, heard the arguments. The jury called a truce between the parties until June of the following year and banned everyone from revealing details about the disputation until then.65 The ban on publishing details about the disputation was supposed to reassert the boundaries of theological discussions, which were to take place in Latin and within the university. In principle, Příbram agreed with confining the discussion to university circles. But in this case, the ban put him at a serious disadvantage, suppressing his own critique of Wyclif at a moment when Wyclif ’s own works and treatises inspired by him had already been circulating in both Latin and Czech. Already by the early 1420s, Payne had begun disseminating registers and summaries of Wyclif ’s works, which, according to Příbram, Taborite priests used to compose heretical tractates of their own in the vernacular.66 Příbram found such activities, undertaken against the earlier prohibitions of



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councilmen appointed by the city, intolerable. He complained that “heretics composed and disseminated many tractates in Czech and Latin out of a number of theological articles by Wyclif and Payne, which Payne wrote and circulated in this land a few years ago.”67 It is not surprising, therefore, that Příbram decided to break the ban on revealing the disputation’s details within weeks of the event.68 This means that instead of relying on the university to stop Payne from disseminating translations of Wyclif, Příbram would circumvent the official channels and turn to the laity directly and in their language. And he did. He explained the arguments held by both sides to help them recognize heretical teaching. He even collaborated with the laity in the struggle against heresy, begging them to help him “work against these errors,” to stop their dissemination.69 By turning to the vernacular, Příbram gave the laity an opportunity to choose whom to support, but, of course, he wished to nudge them in favor of what he thought to be orthodoxy. In a vernacular treatise entitled Confession of the Faithful Czechs (Vyznání věrných Čechů), he narrated what transpired at the disputation in 1429, paying particular attention to the arguments put forth by Payne and his own rebuttals. Příbram’s goal was to show that Payne’s articles on the mass were derived from Wyclif ’s and were, therefore, heretical.70 Wyclif ’s articles had by now been condemned by the university in Prague, and Wyclif himself was pronounced a heretic by the Council of Constance. This is why making the connection between Payne and Wyclif was so important. Payne passed his treatises on to the priests at Tábor, and so by proving Payne to be heretical, Příbram would make the point that Taborite understanding of the mass was also heretical.71 The translated articles of Payne and Příbram’s refutation of them brought the university-​­level discourse into the vernacular. Příbram listed the heretical articles of Wyclif, then compared them to what Payne had written. This was an impressive feat of translation: Příbram excerpted from a Latin treatise that Payne had originally put together for the arbiters of the disputation, entitled Posicio M. Petri Anglici contra Przibram.72 Příbram arranged Payne’s articles right after Wyclif ’s, highlighting the similarities between them, all of which had to do with the nature of the consecrated host. Příbram’s discussion is focused on two very specific questions in order to counter two errors resulting from Wyclif ’s understanding of the mass.73 The first question deals with the manner in which Christ was present in the consecrated elements and the related issue of the union that exists between the body of Christ and the bread. The second question had to do with the location of Christ; is he to be found

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on the altar or in heaven, and, if both, how can he be located in more than one place at once? However, Příbram’s Confession was not only a treatise on theology but also a primer on how to distinguish orthodox believers from heretics based on their conduct in church. Do they venerate God in the sacrament? Do they kneel before it? Do they bow down to it? Do they praise and implore it as the true God? If they do not, if they fail to acknowledge that God dwells in the sacrament more reliably than anywhere else in the world, they reveal themselves to hold heretical beliefs about the sacrament. In this way, one’s behavior in the presence of the sacrament served as a marker of one’s belief, whether one supported Tábor and its radical theology of the mass. Příbram’s questions helped the faithful determine by simple observation whether their parish had been contaminated by heresy or not. Příbram gave the laity access to theology in translation but did not count on them to be able to judge its logic. For this reason, more than two-​­thirds of the treatise is dedicated to nontheological arguments, which were supposed to endow his own reasoning with additional, extra-​­theological weight. In particular, Příbram drew on the authority of prominent church leaders. He ended his report on Wyclif by stating that “these three articles have been renounced not only by Hus, but also by masters at the university in Prague, Paris, England and by the Roman church.”74 He also drew attention to a meeting eleven years back, in 1408, when “Master Jan Hus and all other Czech masters and doctors present together at the Black Rose proclaimed: ‘Let all know that we ban, prohibit, persecute and reject [Wyclif ’s articles]—​­in Latin saying reprobamus, refutamus and prohibemus—​­and [order that] no masters, bachelors and students, of whom there are many here, should hold them or otherwise believe them publicly or secretly in their heretical or erroneous or scandalous interpretations. The penalty is being expelled from the corps of Czech masters.’ ”75 Příbram exploited especially the popularity and perceived saintliness of Jan Hus. By 1416, numerous masses celebrated Hus as a holy martyr and many others included him as a venerated patron of the Czech-​­speaking people. Many churches expressed their sympathies by displaying images of Hus and Jerome of Prague (also martyred at Constance) as saints, and by singing masses for them.76 In his treatise, Příbram brought up Hus’s name frequently, alluding to two Latin written documents that show “to anyone who can read Latin” that Hus never agreed with Wyclif ’s teaching on the mass. His offhand comment about the proof being readily available to those who can read Latin is masterly, giving himself the power to make it available and to explain (and



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interpret) it. He claimed that “Master Jan Hus wrote his own letter, in which he disputed article number one,” the belief that “God’s body is not bodily present in the sacrament.” In proving that Hus disputed Wyclif ’s second and third articles, Příbram promised that he had in his possession a certain letter as evidence. “When many witnesses testified against master Hus that he held or taught [the belief ] that material bread remained even after consecration, Master Hus wrote with his own hand and himself bequeathed to us, as the letter here shows, and said several times to each of the witnesses: ‘know that you are lying [if you say that] I believe that the material bread remains.’ ” In the disputation, Příbram produced Hus’s letter and showed it around, but in his report of the disputation, a mere description of the letter had to suffice.77

Answering Wyclif ’s Questions: The Laity and Their Eucharists Many contemporary authors tried to answer those questions that had so troubled Wyclif: In what way is Christ present in the sacrament? Where is Christ located? However, few of the writers could equal Wyclif ’s mastery of complex argumentation. Their level of learning varied, and some treatises seemed especially simplistic, perhaps intentionally so, in order to address the doubts and questions of the laity. The extant tractates show that it was a small, breakaway group of Taborites (who came to be called the Pikarts) who denied that Christ was present in the Eucharist at all. The group’s leaders, Martin Húska, called “Loquis” (or, in the vernacular, “Mluvka,” meaning “the Chatterer”) and Peter Kániš, capitalized on such fears among the laity and resolved them to their satisfaction, arguing that Christ’s body that existed on earth was not in any way present in the sacrament.78 The Pikart writers seemed to have little patience or talent for theological nuance, offering their followers simple and unequivocal answers to their questions: Where is Christ and his body? How can Christ be in the sacrament if he is in heaven? Is there enough of Christ’s body or will the faithful run out of it at some point? The questions already present a very simplified version of the questions that Wyclif posed in his philosophical analysis of transubstantiation. For example, a thinking layperson might have feared that Christ’s body existed only in a limited amount and that one day the supply would run out completely. It is not difficult to imagine how such fears would have proven a stumbling block to the official belief that Christ’s body was truly present in every Eucharistic wafer ever served.

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To counter the argument that Christ was in no way present in the sacrament, Wyclif posited that Christ had several modes of presence in the Eucharist. This allowed him to argue that Christ was really present in the sacrament, without insisting (as the supporters of transubstantiation did) that he was present with the exact same body that he had in heaven. It also meant that, according to Wyclif, Christ is not present in the host in the same way that he is present in heaven. In heaven he is said to be present substantially, corporeally, and dimensionally (substantialiter, corporaliter et dimensionaliter) whereas in the sacrament he is present spiritually and sacramentally (spiritualis et sacramentalis).79 However, this nuance was lost on some. Kániš and Loquis, for example, argued for a simple dichotomy: either Christ could be present in his Galilean body or not at all. Wyclif ’s argument required that one accepted different categories of presence, that Christ could be present in different places in different ways. Those who could not accept this must have found the simple dichotomy of real presence and symbol much more appealing. Although Wyclif himself never expressed doubt that Christ was present in the consecrated host, his insistence that the substance of the bread is also present in the consecrated host opened the door to all kinds of Eucharistic speculation. Admitting that what looked like bread was, indeed, bread seemed to validate—​­however indirectly—​­the input of the senses. Wyclif argued that the substance of the bread coexisted with Christ’s body, even after consecration. His very complex and nuanced philosophical argument rejected the proposition that a substance could be entirely annihilated, based on his ultrarealism and his understanding of time and matter.80 However, the laity knew nothing of the philosophical underpinnings of Wyclif ’s argument and, evidently, took it as an affirmation of common sense: what looks, feels, and smells like bread remains bread. It is not a surprise, therefore, that some would take that insight to its logical conclusion: the consecrated host looked like bread and, therefore, was bread and only bread. The Pikart view proved seductive in its seemingly plausible simplicity. The Pikart leaders Loquis and Kániš began preaching their own version of Eucharistic doctrine around 1420, arguing that the sacrament was a mere symbol, that Christ was not present in it in any way, neither physically and corporeally (as the moderates believed) nor spiritually and sacramentally (as many Taborites believed). The tractates by Loquis and Kániš appear much less erudite, much less philosophically nuanced than all the others, but perhaps that was what made them appealing. Their view gained them a small but determined following, and they soon formed a separate faction with their own



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celebration of the mass within the commune at Tábor.81 The Pikart faction demonstrates the havoc that Eucharistic disagreements could wreak on a community lacking any kind of central authority that would enforce theological conformity. The Pikarts quickly became a thorn in everyone’s side: both the moderates and Taborites attacked their ideas with a newfound vehemence. To deny Christ’s presence in the sacrament was much more threatening than qualifying its precise nature. However, the Pikarts remained steadfast, persisting in their belief even when leaders of Tábor began accusing them of heresy. By 1421, the Pikart presence became intolerable, and the Taborite leadership ordered that they be punished. About fifty men, women, and children were herded into a fire outside the walls of Tábor and burned to death, a strong signal to all potential future dissenters. This episode from the annals of Tábor illustrates the point made by Thomas Netter in England, a critic of Wyclif ’s Eucharistic thought, namely, that a community that disagreed about the nature of the Eucharist could not hold together as one.82 Pikart beliefs (namely, their denial of the real presence) proved harder to eradicate, however, and it is likely that all subsequent debates about Eucharistic theology were tinged with the threat of a similar fragmentation. But for a while, in Bohemia as in England, Wycliffite understanding of the Eucharist coexisted with figurative interpretations of the sacrament.83 But subsequent debates between the masters in Prague and at Tábor (and the tractates that those debates generated) make it clear that the error of regarding the Eucharist as merely a symbol outlived the physical existence of the commune. Jan Němec, a prominent Taborite writer, found it necessary in his 1421 tractate on the Eucharist to warn the laity against it. He did not dismiss their concerns, but conceded that their questions (where is Christ? how can Christ be in more places than one?) were valid ones. He agreed with the lay consensus that Christ cannot be in more than one place at once (as common sense dictates) but insisted that he is at least spiritually present.84 His writing also shows that Taborites did not hesitate to capitalize on the ongoing threat of fragmentation by presenting their belief as centrist—​­in between transubstantiation and the Eucharist as a symbol. Two errors must be avoided, Němec argued: stating that sacrament is no longer bread but becomes the actual body of Christ and stating that it is regular bread.85 His response suggests that some at Tábor still professed that Christ was not present in the Eucharist. He presented Tábor’s belief about the Eucharist as a kind of middle ground between extremes, one that avoided the folly of theological

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radicalism. This endowed the Wycliffite doctrine with a commonsense kind of appeal, which was important when trying to persuade the laity. The Taborite argumentation against the doctrine of transubstantiation relied on well-​­known moments from the New Testament. The combined authority of reason and the Scriptures would yield, according to Taborite leaders, the correct doctrine, in this case the understanding that Christ is spiritually present in the sacrament. Němec takes the example of Christ presiding over the Last Supper saying, “This is my body.” He explains that Jesus did not mean to suggest that the bread in his hand is identical with his body. Instead, Němec argues that Christ’s words need to be interpreted figuratively. In this view, bread remains bread according to its nature and is Christ’s body “secundum figuram et significationem.”86 Němec bolstered his argument with a lengthy discussion of figurative language in the Old and New Testaments and appropriate manner of its exegesis. In popularizing their own doctrine, Taborites redefined and democratized the practice of theology. The Taborites openly urged their followers to use their own—​­albeit untrained—​­reason “based on faith and reading of the Scriptures” in evaluating matters of theological doctrine. In his 1421 treatise against transubstantiation, Němec called on the faithful to use their own r­eason—​­based on faith and the Scriptures. The text of the tractate survives in Latin, but the way in which Němec periodically turns to his nonclerical audience suggests that it would have been preached or discussed in the vernacular. For example, Němec insisted that they must not be led astray by believing that transubstantiation “is what the church teaches and so it must be accepted and all other speculation must be abandoned.” Instead, he encouraged the faithful to ponder and reflect on their faith, saying that “the more one meditates on the faith, the more brilliantly it shines. That is why a Christian ought not believe anything about the Eucharist other than what the Scriptures or reason say.”87 The latter part of his statement is especially important: the faithful ought to be guided in their religious reflections by the Scriptures and their own (untrained) reason. This faith in untrained reason (or common sense) sharply distinguished the Taborites from the moderates in Prague, whose treatises were more likely to draw on external authorities, such as the church fathers, in order to make their points. The reformers in Prague mounted a vigorous counteroffensive against the Wycliffite (that is, Taborite and Pikart) understanding of the mass, but their efforts were hampered in two ways. First, they were unwilling to disseminate



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theological learning in the vernacular. Second, they were unable to defend transubstantiation in an intelligible way. Scholasticism simply did not fare well when exposed to the searching gaze of an eager but untrained layman. It could only be explained with great difficulty and with reference to authorities other than the Scripture and reason, which not all found acceptable or intelligible. In his 1423 tractate “Surge domine et dissipentur inimici tui,” for example, Příbram argued that Christ is really present in the sacrament because Christ and the holy fathers said so. This meant, according to Příbram, that bread and wine are on the altar transformed into the body and blood of Christ, because it is done by the word of God and all is possible to God. Příbram tackled the Taborite misconceptions head on, but for a long time refused to write in the vernacular. He claimed that it was possible for the body of Christ to be present simultaneously in several places, a topic that was much debated in the Taborite circles. Příbram offered seven different explanations to argue that Christ can be present in different places and in different wafers at once.88 However, he did not circulate his early treatises in the vernacular, and so their effect was limited to the small circle of Latin-​­educated clerics at Tábor. The real battle was persuading the laity, but Příbram did not see that at first. In fact, he even warned that no one should mention his arguments in front of the people in the vernacular, because they would not be able to understand it and could be led astray. His attitude changed only gradually, and after much hesitation he wrote his first vernacular treatise in 1426, with the longest, the Lives of the Taborite Priests, following in 1430. But there was another kind of unhelpful critique: saying that the nature of Christ’s presence in the sacrament was a mystery and that it was unnecessary to try to unravel it as Peter Chelčický, lay thinker and writer, did also in the 1420s. Chelčický lacked university training but learned about some aspects of Eucharistic theology from vernacular treatises.89 As far as we know, he rejected all the existing doctrinal definitions as wrong, but offered no real alternatives. A self-​­educated layman from southern Bohemia, he thought that no one was right and rejected everyone’s definition of the sacrament. In his view, all the parties either falsified Christ’s explanation or added extensive theoretical additions, thus denying its true meaning.90 Christians, he insisted, should simply accept Jesus’s words spoken at the Last Supper, believing that Christ’s presence in the sacrament was deliberately a mystery. Faith was all that was needed for a Christian to live a good life. However, his view did not prevent him from entering the fray, judging the validity of the theological arguments of others. This too might have been tolerable had Chelčický not

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gravely misunderstood them, creating rifts where none had existed before. Chelčický’s entire attitude, his rejection of theology as unnecessary, followed by uneducated, bad theologizing encapsulates the unanticipated consequences of appeals to the laity in complicated theological matters. Chelčický was critical of all Bohemia’s factions but reserved the worst criticism for Tábor, especially Nicholas’s treatise Ad sacramenti eucharisti in veritate magnificacionem,91 written prior to the Prague-​­Taborite disputation at Konopiště in June 1423. Nicholas presented an especially vague formulation for how the divine Christ was present in the sacrament, in an effort to come up with a wording that would unite the greatest number of people from different factions. Chelčický had no patience for what he saw as politicking and, what is perhaps worse, he grossly misunderstood Nicholas.92 In his answer, entitled “Reply to Nicholas,”93 written in 1424, Chelčický refused to admit that there was any distinction between Nicholas’s real presence of the spiritual kind and the Pikart view of the sacrament as a symbol. In Chelčický’s view, spiritual presence was not a “real” presence, which, incidentally, was in agreement with the Roman Catholic church and most moderate reformers. At the same time, he looked with suspicion upon the reform idea of Christ’s corporeal, substantial presence; in his view, it led to excessive veneration and idolatry. Chelčický’s confusion stemmed, in part, from misinterpreting Wyclif. He expressed great admiration for the Oxford don, arguing that “none of the other doctors, early or contemporary, spoke against the poison in the holy church.”94 Chelčický was especially taken with Wyclif ’s continual warnings against excessive veneration of the host, but he misunderstood Wyclif when he (Chelčický) thought that Wyclif affirmed Christ’s substantial, physical presence in the Eucharist and rejected spiritual and sacramental presence. In fact, Wyclif ’s language seems to have been closer to the Taborite priests, Jan Němec and Nicholas, than to Chelčický.95 It is possible that the exigencies of the Eucharistic debates, especially the fatal divisions caused by the Pikarts, colored Chelčický’s reading of Wyclif. He was convinced that the Oxford master was right about everything, and he could not accept that Wyclif had, in fact, held the Taborite view, which Chelčický despised because he had mistakenly assumed it to be identical with that of the hated Pikarts. Eventually, Chelčický went against his earlier advice that the sacrament ought to remain a mystery, that Christians should simply accept Jesus’s words spoken at the Last Supper, and he penned a short treatise on the subject entitled “O těle božím” (On the body of Christ).96 In it, he tried to strike a kind of middle way between the Eucharistic extremes as he understood them. He be-



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lieved that spiritual presence was the same as symbolic presence, in light of which he wished to find a way for Christ to be present in the sacrament that was less than completely real (or corporeal, which smelled of idolatry) and more than completely spiritual or symbolic (which he took to be two words for the same reality). He wrote: “And so out of two substances, from the divine and the earthly, he has prepared for us a sacrament. Therefore, the earthly substance is received in this sacrament, so that man is able to have the heavenly substance as a sacrament, for there is no earthly substance that alone is worthy as an offering before God without the divine substance, which is Christ Jesus.”97 Now, this statement could hardly be less theologically precise. In fact, it muddled the waters further and turned the Taborite leaders against Chelčický, since it gave them the impression that Peter was criticizing them. This misunderstanding further aggravated existing tensions and disagreements between the two parties. More visits between Chelčický and Nicholas followed, and the two exchanged a number of official missives. Their discussions escalated with Chelčický accusing the bishop of deception and ill will. Chelčický ended up denouncing Nicholas and the commune based on what Chelčický believed was a denial of Christ’s presence in the sacrament, which was not, however, really a denial of any such thing. He also claimed that Tábor’s view could in no way be traced back to Wyclif and concluded by saying that Tábor’s eucharistic views were unintelligible. Murray Wagner was right to comment that “impugning both the intelligence of women and the integrity of Taborites, Chelčický wrote, ‘we cannot find a single woman who understands you about anything.’ ”98 Chelčický’s decision to engage in theological wrangling even after he argued that it was unnecessary exposed the pitfalls of lay participation in these theological matters. Untrained in theological idiom and unaccustomed to precise wording and explanations, Chelčický (as well as many after him) was unable to grasp the concepts at hand, but did not know that he could not, with the result that he spoke with great force and conviction on matters that he was blatantly wrong about. But earnest conviction did not win theological arguments, and, in fact, Chelčický’s blundering helped alienate Tábor at a crucial time when bridges, not insults, were needed. Chelčický’s other treatises have been hailed as original and incisive, but his folksy moralizing and insistence that the scriptural formulation was all the information one needed proved counterproductive in the effort to arrive at a workable Eucharistic understanding. Chelčický did not belong to any of the official factions. The self-​­taught layman disputed with university masters in Prague and held meetings with

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both factions. His rebukes, both written and oral, were taken seriously, especially at Tábor. It is no accident that his writings would become foundational for a new religious sect called the Unity of Brethren (Unitas Fratrum).99 And while he has been lionized and praised by Czech scholars as a transformative figure for his writing in the vernacular, his approach—​­especially his conviction that the nature of Christ’s presence in the sacrament ought to remain a mystery—​­had serious limitations. Chelčický is an exemplar of what can happen when the laity engages in theological speculation and shows the unanticipated consequence of rhetorical appeals to the laity regarding complicated theological matters. Furthermore, his muddled moralizing proved harmful, fanning the flame of Eucharistic disputes rather than helping bring about unity. To the Unity of Brethren, founded in 1467, Chelčický bequeathed his high esteem for Wyclif as well as a suspicion of excessive theologizing. The Unity’s early leaders believed, like Chelčický, that the simple words of Scripture adequately expressed the mystery of the Eucharist, wanting to “leave up to God the question of whether the bread changed or remained bread.”100 The next generation of Unity’s theologians, under the leadership of Luke of Prague (d. 1528), returned to Wyclif ’s (and Tábor’s) understanding of the sacrament and affirmed that Christ was really present in it, in a spiritual and sacramental way rather than physically or corporeally. Moreover, like Wyclif and like the Taborites, members of the Unity also did not venerate the sacrament by bowing or kneeling before it.101 Wyclif ’s critique of the Eucharist, which identified what Wyclif saw as the weak points in the church’s doctrine of transubstantiation, sparked a wide array of different responses among reform-​­minded writers in Bohemia and continued to influence the theology of separatist religious groups well into the sixteenth century and beyond.

Conclusion The Eucharist proved to be one of the most divisive subjects in Hussite Bohemia in the 1420s and 1430s. The proliferation of vernacular Eucharistic tractates shows that Wyclif ’s critique could be answered in a number of different ways that included both real presence (however defined) and figurative theologies. This, incidentally, helps us understand the doctrinal diversity among the Lollards in England. The heated Eucharistic debate also anticipated the



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famous debate between Luther and Zwingli and the many Eucharistic debates of the sixteenth-​­century Reformation. John Wyclif ’s critique of the church’s doctrine of transubstantiation fueled the debates, having found an eager audience among clerics and laity in Bohemia. The corpus of Wyclif ’s writings reached them through Peter Payne, who arrived in Prague in late 1414 and proceeded to simplify and disseminate the works of the Oxford master. In the 1420s Bohemia, Wyclif ’s critique of transubstantiation was taken on by clerics belonging to the Taborite faction, sparking a nationwide debate about the nature of the Eucharist, generating numerous treatises, both in Latin and in the vernacular, on the nature of Christ’s presence in the sacrament of the mass. The moderate leaders who wished to minimize the influence of Wyclif ’s thought were naturally opposed to it spreading among the laity. But after it became clear that they could do nothing to limit the ideas’ dissemination, they embraced the same strategy as their Taborite opponents: popularization in the vernacular. The Prague master John Příbram is an exceptional example of a university master utilizing the laity’s native language. At first, John Příbram had a low opinion of the vernacular as a suitable vehicle for theological reflections, warning his fellow academics not to confuse laypeople by exposing them to his writings. But when faced with the growing influence of Wycliffite doctrine disseminated in the vernacular, he changed his mind and translated three of his treatises, two of which are discussed here. Among his extensive writings, three treatises are mere drops in the sea, which suggests that he thought the vernacular to be useful only in order to dissuade the laity from adopting Wyclif ’s ideas. To that end, he adopted a number of nonacademic strategies to teach the laity to recognize heresy, primarily pointing to the effects of heresy rather than getting embroiled in the fine points of theology. He also translated passages from tractates by heretics, elucidated Wyclif ’s doctrines and how they related to Tábor, and circulated explanations of orthodox doctrine highlighting extra-​­theological evidence, such as ritual and social corruption, to prove that Tábor’s beliefs were indeed heretical. Příbram’s vernacular treatises are a small but telling example of the ways in which the vernacular was being employed to combat heresy in Bohemia. The vernacular discourse augmented the Latin learned discourse, describing specific symptoms of heresy that the laity could easily identify. Unlike in England at this time, the vernacular language was not seen as suspect, but was viewed as a valid medium for combating heretical beliefs. However, this new use of the vernacular came at a price. Příbram thought it necessary to adapt his scholarly

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style to the limitations of his vernacular audience. While trying to avoid complex theological and philosophical concepts, Příbram relied upon appeals to celebrated authorities (such as Jan Hus) and vilification, strategies employed also by writers of shorter compositions discussed in Chapters 3 and 4. Wyclif ’s critique of transubstantiation and its popularization helped expose a chasm that existed between the way in which the uneducated population was supposed to believe and the way in which the educated elite believed. The faith of the uneducated had been dependent entirely on coercion: they were to believe what they were told with no room for discussion, no explanation, and insufficient vernacular terminology with which to explain. It is clear that by the 1420s, the laity were increasingly discontent with this role. The vernacular debates about the nature and status of Christianity’s central sacrament illustrate the laity’s desire to understand what they were doing in church and why. This demand for an intelligible explanation threatened what Mishtooni Bose described as “fragile intelligibility of scholastic discourse, which works well as a professional dialect among the initiated but crumbles when exposed to the harsh light of common understanding.”102 The outpouring of vernacular writing—​­and squabbling—​­about the Eucharist clearly reveals the authority vacuum that emerged as the edifice of scholasticism crumbled, while the popularity of the Pikarts shows that the simplest explanation was sometimes the most appealing. Chelčický’s example, on the other hand, shows that too much tolerance for ambiguity (that is, his view that all that was needed was the biblical formulation) was equally unhelpful. Vague theology proved no more unifying than mere folksy moralizing. Chelčický’s rejection of theology as unnecessary, followed by uneducated, bad theologizing, encapsulates the unanticipated consequences of appeals to the laity in complicated theological matters. Chelčický did not help bring about mutual understanding among the factions, but his vernacular writings did help fuel a popular campaign against the Roman Catholic doctrine of transubstantiation. In Bohemia, treatises inspired by Wyclif sought a more intelligible explanation of the nature and function of the Eucharist, but no single explanation managed to prevail. Discord, rancor and violence lingered in the wake of vernacular theologizing for decades after. One might expect the university masters to protect and defend the privilege of elite faith. But in Bohemia, some of the pro-​­reform masters disseminated Wyclif ’s critique of transubstantiation in order to garner support for their faction and its particular understanding of the sacrament. From the perspective of the Roman Catholic Church, those who subscribed to those beliefs



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were heretics. But many chose the Eucharistic doctrine that made most sense to them, while preserving the celebration of the Eucharist as the center of their ritual life. The momentum of increasing lay literacy, proliferating vernacular theology, and desire for participation chipped away at the separation between elite and lay faiths, fostering a distinctive mental attitude of theological inquiry and desire not only for participation but also for understanding.

Chapter 7

Writing History to Shape the Future Historia Hussitica by Lawrence of Březová and Historia Bohemica by Aeneas Silvius Piccolomini

Two histories of the turbulent Hussite period stand out for the sophistication of their accounts, mastery of the subject matter, and influence on future generations: the Historia Hussitica by Lawrence of Březová and Historia Bohemica by Aeneas Silvius Piccolomini, the future pope Pius II. The two chronicles lend themselves to a profitable comparison. Both composed in Latin by educated men with high literary ambitions, they describe many of the same events, starting with the life and death of Jan Hus and narrating the origin and development of the Hussite movement. But each author has a specific view of the events, seeing the Hussite movement either as a just war for the chalice (Lawrence) or as a seditious uprising against the Roman church (Piccolomini). Each imparted his own spin of the events in an effort not only to record past events but also to influence present and future ones. Both histories also incorporate many of the same themes and arguments expressed in the vernacular compositions discussed in previous chapters and both show a realm deeply divided, with laypeople actively participating, choosing sides, and influencing the outcome of events. Their contexts influenced their points of view. Lawrence was a pro-​­reform historian, writing at a time when the outcome of the reforming efforts was not at all clear; he wished to sway his readers in favor of the chalice and of the reform more generally. When he was writing in the late 1420s, few could foresee that a Hussite delegation would be admitted to the Council of Basel and allowed to defend the reform’s official program.1 Even fewer would have guessed that a decree tolerating the Utraquist practice, the so-​­called Compacts of



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Basel, would eventually be negotiated.2 Ratified in 1436 by the Council of Basel, the Compacts decreed a policy of toleration t­oward Hussite customs, most important, the practice of communion in both kinds (both bread and wine) for the laity, which allowed the reformers’ church (called Utraquist) to continue and expand.3 The council also agreed to cease describing Hussites as heretics, which, in turn, guaranteed that no future crusades would be launched against them.4 The Compacts were understood by many as foundational for the creation of the first national church largely independent of Rome.5 Piccolomini wrote with an agenda as well. Writing in 1450s, long after the Basel Compacts had been put into place, his objective was to have the toleration overturned and the Hussites forced to abandon their divergent ritual practices. His campaign proved successful: his chronicle became the cornerstone of papal policy when, as Pope Pius II, he declared the Compacts invalid in 1462. There are numerous parallels between the subject matters covered by the two histories. Both writers focus on the same handful of subjects, subjects that were also the focus of extant vernacular compositions discussed in the previous chapters. Indeed, only a few subjects, addressed in song as early as 1415, dominated the narratives: the meaning of Jan Hus’s legacy, the importance of the chalice, the threat of Tábor, the relationship between military victory and religious legitimacy. This suggests that the Hussite legacy continued to be debated well into the 1450s. It also suggests a close connection between the vernacular and Latin worlds in Bohemia in the early and mid-​­1400s. But in this case, the exchange does not go in the customary direction, from Latin into the vernacular. Rather than learned concerns being simplified and translated into the vernacular, the vernacular compositions, with their emotional appeals and propaganda, would be subsumed into Latin narratives of the Hussite movement.

The Noble Narrators and Their Histories Lawrence of Březová

Both Lawrence of Březová and Aeneas Piccolomini were ordained clerics and aspired to join the class of the learned literati. Lawrence decided at a young age to pursue a literary career and looked to the church for a profession that would support his work. Born around 1370 as a son of a minor nobleman, Lawrence received his ordination thanks to a dispensation from Pope Boniface IX in 1391, at an uncanonical age of twenty.6 The pope also awarded him

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a benefice in southern Bohemia, but Lawrence never resided there, choosing to be represented by a proxy priest, a fact which Protestant historians tend not to mention in their discussions of Lawrence’s career.7 Instead, he used the income to support what he saw as his true vocation: being a writer. Over time, he gained additional incomes, again without ever residing at those parishes, and devoted himself to writing and studying. Enrolled at the university for much of Jan Hus’s time there, Lawrence most certainly personally knew the Bethlehem preacher and his circle of colleagues, such as Jakoubek of Stříbro, Jan Želivský, and Nicholas of Pelhřimov.8 Around the time of Hus’s exile, in 1412, Lawrence accepted employment at the royal court in Prague and produced much of his written work during his tenure there. He sided with the cause of reform and wrote a number of compositions, both vernacular and Latin, to further it. He did not shy away from disseminating partisan works and employed satire in a number of them. Against the succession of King Sigismund, he wrote the Grievance of the Czech Crown Against the Hungarian King and the Council of Constance and The Czech Crown’s Rebuke of the Hungarian King, That He Accepted the Crown Improperly and That He Violently Oppresses the Czech Kingdom, discussed in Chapter 4.9 Lawrence’s Hussite chronicle remains his most famous work.10 However, he also worked as a translator and writer of nonhistorical works, styling himself a literary gentleman and intellectual, a kind of local Petrarch. Like Petrarch, he composed a commentary on the seven penitential psalms (imitating Petrarch’s work on the subject) and also a collection of canonical hours. In one of his first translation efforts, Lawrence translated Somniarium Slaidae, in turn a translation of an eighth-​­century Arabic treatise by Ahmed ben Sirin, a popular treatise across all of Europe. Lawrence prefaced the translation with his own introduction, in which, drawing on classical and patristic writers, he wrestled with the question of whether dreams ought to be considered a trustworthy source of information. Subsequently, he translated the Travels of Sir John Mandeville, a made-​­up travelogue about the lands and peoples of the East. As for his own original compositions, Lawrence started writing a vernacular chronicle of the world, at the request of John Eisenberg, the king’s chamberlain, but eventually abandoned it to concentrate on other works. In 1419, after the king’s death, Lawrence turned to topics of contemporary relevance. He composed his Historia Hussitica as well as Carmen insignis corone Bohemie, another Latin composition, a poem celebrating a Hussite victory against a vastly larger crusading army at the battle of Domažlice on August 14, 1431.11 It was through his writings on contemporaneous subjects that Lawrence came



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into his own as a literatus and historian. Both of his works offer a wealth of historical detail not found elsewhere and have, for that reason, served as the basis for all subsequent historians and narrators of the Hussite movement, including the other author considered in this chapter, Piccolomini. Aeneas Silvius Piccolomini

Also noble in origin, Aeneas Silvius Piccolomini likewise had literary aspirations, and his career in belles lettres won him much distinction at home and abroad. He composed treatises on many different political and religious subjects and, in his De studiis et litteris, spoke as an authority on the education of young nobles. His secular works circulated even more widely, for example, his Tale of the Two Lovers became an instant best seller. The Historia Bohemica found an equally eager audience. However, like Lawrence, he lacked independent means of support and needed a patron. For a good portion of his life, he floated between his native Italy and Germany, and between secular and ecclesiastical appointments.12 He worked as a secretary for Cardinal Domenica Capranica (1400–1458) and, in 1443, he joined the staff of King Frederick III. His task was to serve as an expert on church policy, and he accompanied the king on a number of official visits, including to Bohemia. In 1447, he went back to work for the church, as bishop of Siena, then later as a cardinal, and, in 1458, he became Pope Pius II: a lifetime spent connecting himself to the powerful and honing his diplomatic skills eventually did pay off. Piccolomini’s career unfolded in the shadow of the Hussite heresy. In 1423, when the Council of Siena banned the lay chalice (again) as well as all contact with the Hussite heretics, Piccolomini was an eighteen-​­year-​­old student at the university there.13 He first encountered Hussite heretics at the Council of Basel in 1432, and it may have been there that he first conceived of writing a history of the Hussite movement.14 He would later describe the arrival of the Hussite delegation in the streets of Basel that he witnessed, underscoring the imposing and foreign appearance of the Hussite emissaries. He subsequently gained firsthand experience of the Utraquist Church, when, in 1452, he was appointed ambassador for the kingdom of Bohemia. He soon decided that the toleration of Hussites and of their rites within the European church must come to an end in order to ensure unity, ritual and dogmatic, in face of Muslim attacks on eastern and central Europe.15 Only standing united, he believed, Christendom would be a able to withstand the ongoing encroachment of Islam.16 And he got his wish: an able and well-​­connected diplomat, Piccolomini was eventually

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able to orchestrate an end to the Basel Compacts, which ended the hard-​­won toleration of the Utraquist Church. Their Histories

The Historia Hussitica by Lawrence of Březová17 and Historia Bohemica by Aeneas Silvius Piccolomini18 stand out for their mastery of the narrative, handling of the sources, and eventual popularity. But their respective agendas could not be more different. While Lawrence wrote in support of the chalice, Piccolomini, a generation later, narrated the Hussite period as a regrettable backsliding among people once famous for their obedience and piety. Their intended audience differed as well. In the late 1420s, Lawrence wrote for his clerical colleagues, hoping to influence them in favor of the chalice during a time of conflict and division, before the two camps solidified and battle lines were drawn. The fact that he wrote before it was clear that Hussite practice would ever achieve Rome’s toleration, his narrative is suffused with a special kind of urgency. Writing a generation later, in 1458, with most of the battles already decided, Piccolomini’s intended audience was international, the whole of Europe, which he wished to influence in favor of revoking the decision to tolerate Hussite ritual.19 Composed sometime in the late 1420s, the Historia Hussitica took a decidedly pro-​­Hussite point of view, glorifying the chalice and those fighting for it.20 This chronicle is shorter than Piccolomini’s, covering only the period between 1414 and 1421. Lawrence began his narrative with the rise of the chalice and traced its successes and failures in the subsequent years. His history covered the entire period of the Hussite wars, and it is also where he centered his narrative, digressing only to chronicle the origins of Tábor. It is likely that he was an eyewitness to some of the events he described, which may be why his writing has, at times, a journalistic feel to it, as if Lawrence narrated events as they unfolded before his eyes. He also must have had access to the numerous documents produced by all sides in the conflict, especially texts of doctrinal articles and decisions, which he sometimes quotes verbatim. However, his narrative ends abruptly, in midsentence describing the events of December 1421. The reason for the sudden break remains a mystery; it is possible that a portion of Lawrence’s autograph got lost sometime early on. Writing a full thirty years after Lawrence, Piccolomini used Lawrence’s narrative as one of his sources, perhaps a sign of his esteem for Lawrence’s craft, as Czech historians have argued,21 or perhaps a nod to its popularity. But



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he also drew on his own experiences with the Hussite reformers. Piccolomini visited the city of Tábor in July of 1451, while traveling as a member of King Frederick III’s delegation to the Bohemian Diet, which had been convened to Prague but relocated to Benešov because of an outbreak of the plague in the capital.22 From that trip originated a letter to Cardinal Carvajal describing Piccolomini’s impressions of the commune.23 Piccolomini also had a number of knowledgeable contacts with whom he discussed the problem of Hussite heretics. The most important among his informers was probably the former Hussite master Jan Papoušek of Soběslav, who also handed over a cache of documents relating to the heresy.24 Thomas Fudge suggests that Piccolomini had formed his opinion of Hussites before he even visited Bohemia, and it seems likely that he had and that his visit there in 1451 only served to confirm his ideas.25 (A full report of the visit survives in one of Piccolimini’s letters to Cardinal Carvajal.)26 The tendentiousness of Piccolomini’s work supports this view, driven by conviction (that the Basel Compacts of 1436 be revoked) rather than thoughtful analysis based on fact. Piccolomini’s narrative is much longer than Lawrence’s. It was written during a stay in the famous spa at Viterbo in the summer of 1458 and has the unhurried feel of a leisured intellectual, wishing to give context to his overt moralizing.27 Piccolomini did not limit himself to the history of the Hussites but covered the entire scope of Bohemia’s history, starting with the mythical origins of the dynasty and ending with the so-​­called king of heretics, Jiří of Poděbrady. Against this background, Hussites were supposed to emerge as a mere episode in the long and honorable history of the kingdom, an aberration and a disease, but at the same time they are clearly the focus and the sole raison d’être of the work.28 (The Hussites are discussed in the foreword, with chapters 35–52 devoted to them.) Piccolomini’s narrative contrasts the glorious reign of Charles IV (1347–78) with the inglorious reign of his son Wenceslas IV and the rise of the Hussite heresy in Bohemia. As a result, Piccolomini’s account is so partisan that it is hardly an attempt to tell the facts about Bohemian history. As Thomas Fudge has observed, Piccolomini’s “refutation of the Hussites is so one-​­sided and limited in its literary version that it cannot be viewed other than failure.”29 Indeed, Piccolomini’s history had a purpose other than recording the facts; it was meant to invite and justify action against the heretics. But more than that, it was also a defense of the medieval social order, which some felt to be threatened by Muslim attacks and by the proliferation of heresies, according to which correct religion enforced correct social order and vice versa.30

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It is no wonder, therefore, that the chronicle was given differing reviews by scholars of Hussite history. Older accounts praised it simply for existing and for elevating Bohemia to a subject of international significance, while at the same time they struggled to make sense of Piccolomini’s rather free handling of the facts. Two main interpretative schools emerged over time: one that dismissed the chronicle outright as too tendentious to be of any value to Hussite historiography and another that agreed that the work was tendentious but looked for ways of redeeming it. An influential speaker for the latter school of thought, Josef Pekař, reveled in the significance that Piccolomini assigned to the realm, praising also the chronicle’s beautiful, elegant Latin style. He too struggled to account for the tendentiousness of the narrative and its glaring errors, suggesting that the mistakes were inadvertent. In this view, Piccolomini foregrounded a handful of reform leaders, conflated events and even people, because he wished to present his readers with a smooth, clear, and moving narrative rather than getting lost in the choppiness of the actual events.31 Others who thought similarly of the chronicle appreciated Piccolomini’s ability to build a suspenseful and influential narrative.32 Those belonging to the other school of thought, dismissed the chronicle as too tendentious and criticized it as unreliable. In their view, it was composed for purely propagandist reasons and had no redeeming qualities.33 Both histories became instantly popular and continued to exert influence well after the passing of their authors. Lawrence’s Historia Hussitica circulated widely, as evidenced by the number of manuscripts, including the oldest, from 1467 (now lost), and other extant ones from the late fifteenth, sixteenth, and seventeenth centuries. It went through numerous printings as well. By the end of the fifteenth century, the Historia Hussitica had been translated into the vernacular and served as a source for later annalists and historians abroad, such as Piccolomini, as well as those inside Bohemia, such as Václav Hájek, Prokop Lupáč, Daniel Adam, and others.34 Piccolomini’s history was responsible for bringing Hussite history to the attention of Europe.35 It proved to be popular and circulated widely in manuscript and in many printings. Four extant manuscripts date from 1458 (when the work was composed) and 1459. In addition, there are thirty other fi ­ fteenth-​ ­century manuscripts. The work was printed at least three times in the latter part of the fifteenth century, in Rome in 1475, in Basel in 1489, and in Strasbourg in 1490. Historia Bohemica remained popular in the subsequent centuries with frequent printings in the sixteenth century (twelve total, six of them in Basel) and in the seventeenth (five). But it circulated inside Bohemia and



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Moravia as well. Library catalogs show that the history was popular there as early as the latter part of the fifteenth century, and it continued to be read in subsequent centuries as well, fueling anti-​­Hussite attitudes there.36 The comparison of these two major narrative works puts the different motivations of their authors on display. Lawrence urged his readers to take up arms in defense of the chalice, arguing that any deviation from the Hussite belief, namely, the chalice, resulted in perversion and violence. In contrast, Piccolomini’s history called for the opposite course of action, arguing that obedience to the Roman church was the bedrock of civilized order. It was the defiance of this order that, in Piccolomini’s view, led to disorder and violence as evidenced by the Hussite crusades and intermittent civil war.37 Although the two historians disagreed on almost every ideological point, they used the same method of persuasion in their narration of events: showing that wrong ideology begets wrong actions, which in turn undermined societal order. In doing so, both incorporated the tropes and images that had become the staple of vernacular compositions. Moreover, both historians discussed instances of lay activism for or against religious reform, which reveals the extent to which the laity had come to “own” their respective churches and their rituals.

Jan Hus and His Legacy Interpreting Jan Hus, his death, and the meaning of his life was key to both historians’ understanding of events that unfolded after his death. Jan Hus was seen as absolutely crucial to the reform and revolution that unfolded after his death.38 This was nothing new. The competition to interpret the memory of Hus’s career began soon after his death in July 1415. The “urtext” in the creation of Hus as “an imitator of Christ and an heir to the apostolic martyrs” was the eyewitness account composed by Petr of Mladoňovice.39 His account would later be appropriated not only by reformers but also by Protestant martyrologists and historians.40 Numerous vernacular compositions, discussed in Chapters 3 and 4, sprang up, either celebrating him as a martyr and saint or condemning him as a rebel and heretic. This was not only an exercise in history making but also a way of commenting on contemporary events: either you supported Jan Hus and you supported the reform or you hated him and saw all reformers as dangerous rebels. It was an either-​­or kind of proposition; neutrality—​­according to these historians and other writers discussed in earlier

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chapters—​­was impossible. Hus’s status as a holy man did not heal but rather deepened the divide between the two camps. It also imbued it with eschatological overtones: one’s stance ­toward Hus determined one’s eternal fate.41 According to Lawrence, God sided with Jan Hus and disapproved of his persecutors. His account, written fewer than fifteen years after Hus’s death, is basically hagiographical, drawing as it does on the usual tropes in telling the life of a saint.42 He focused on Hus’s virtue, describing him as a man known for his pure life and his faithful preaching of Christ’s gospel. He also emphasized Hus’s innocence in the face of false accusations cast by his persecutors. In Lawrence’s view, pious life was followed by a pious death, as if Hus were another Christ. Moreover, Lawrence included details that strengthened the parallel between Hus and Christ. For example, he said that Hus’s persecutors escorted Hus out of the city and put him to death there (as they did Christ), and as they did so the sun became unnaturally dimmed, as it had been at the time of Christ’s crucifixion.43 This interpretative detail Lawrence likely took from Petr of Mladoňovice’s account of Hus’s death. Petr was the first to describe Hus’s last days and death in Constance and framed his narrative as that of a saint, someone who had been wrongly persecuted and unjustly put to death.44 But Lawrence added his own details to spruce up the story, for example, interpreting this sudden darkness (that accompanied Hus’s death) as a sign that Christ was dimmed in the hearts of those who had sent Hus to his death. Lawrence also maintained that Hus had divided the populace into two irreconcilable camps, those who agreed with him and those who did not. This, of course, was something that Hus himself talked about in his treatises written from exile, in the last three years of his life. For Hus, it was a rhetorical device, whereas Lawrence, writing in the late 1420s, was describing a rhetorical trope that had by then become a reality, in part, at least, thanks to authors of partisan compositions writing since Hus’s death. In this view, Jan Hus served as the litmus test of faithfulness: the wicked despised him, because he criticized them for their corrupt morals and laxity in virtue, whereas the faithful revered him as a martyr, celebrated masses in his memory, and received from the chalice.45 The wicked were characterized in terms of refusal and rejection; the faithful are those who believe a certain set of thing about Jan Hus and who live out that belief in their ritual participation, receiving from the chalice. The chalice had become so important to Hus’s reform successors that Lawrence depicted it as a part of Jan Hus’s legacy. He did so even though Hus was no vocal proponent of the chalice, remaining famously silent on the subject, both in his sermons and academic writings.46 When Jakoubek, who had



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replaced Hus at Bethlehem after his departure for Constance, began offering the chalice to the laity during mass in late October 1414, Hus originally advised caution.47 Only a few months later, in a letter written in June 1415 from his prison in Constance, two weeks before his death, did he urge his successor at the pulpit of Bethlehem Chapel not to oppose the sacrament of the cup.48 Even so, Lawrence exaggerated Hus’s support for the chalice in order to make it seem that it had always been central to the reform cause. This was because, by the time of Lawrence’s writing in the 1430s, the chalice had indeed become an important symbol of the reform as well as another kind of litmus test for determining who belonged to reform and who did not.49 Piccolomini did not try to refute the image of Hus’s sainthood and martyrdom. Instead he ignored it. He focused on Hus’s disobedience to authorities, casting him as a seditious rebel and of low birth. He conceded that Hus was known for his moral integrity, but insisted that it was actually a sham: Hus had pretended to live a pious life in order to gain public trust, so that he might spread the (Wycliffite) poison of heresy, which he had previously ingested.50 The Bethlehem Chapel, then, served as the distribution center of this poison and through it, Hus was able to reach large numbers given the fact that it was a large structure, capable of holding about one-​­fifth of the adult inhabitants of Prague.51 Hus remained popular even a generation after his death, and Piccolomini clearly struggled to account for that fact. He admitted that Hus was popular but insisted that it was because he told people exactly what they wanted to hear and by spreading slander about the Roman pope and about other clergy, cheap shots that would always win supporters.52 Hus’s affinity for Wyclif also irritated Piccolomini, and he made much of it in his chronicle, using it to tarnish Hus by his association with a convicted heretic.53 In Piccolomini’s telling, Hus was a master manipulator, who worked hard to make himself attractive to people.54 He was told to stop, but he did not, revealing himself to “be contumaciously committed to the ‘Wycliffite delusion.’ ”55 Piccolomini castigated Hus for his association with Wyclif, but avoided any hint of an actual explanation of which of Hus’s views were erroneous and why. His chronicle did not aim to explain, only to castigate and frighten. But Hus’s main appeal, Piccolomini insisted, was to the wallet. He wrote that Hus preached that estate owners could decide freely regarding the tithes and alms owed to the priests; they could give them, if they wished, but if they did not wish to offer them, they could not be forced.56 This was true. Hus did advise the laity not to remunerate clergy who were thought to be corrupt or

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immoral, but Piccolomini omitted the context. He must have chosen his example with care, wishing to incite in his clerical listeners a fear for their livelihood and use that to secure their support for his own agenda. Everyone comes out looking tarnished from Piccolomini’s narrative. Hus, for his stubbornness, his desire to teach but refusal to be corrected, and those who agreed with him. Piccolomini lumped all the reformers together under one label, ignoring the multiplicity of native reform and their diversity. Fudge makes this observation, reporting that Piccolomini trotted out various examples of pro-​­reform priests without differentiating among them in any way. Pekař notes this also, marveling that Piccolomini spent little time on religious differences, whereas he did not shy away from recounting political conflicts. As for why he did so, neither scholar is certain. Fudge suggests that Piccolomini’s reasons for this are “not altogether clear.” Pekař, as alluded to above, suggested that Piccolomini was too much of a slave to beautiful style, wishing to present an “impressive” work, which sometimes meant that he organized his narratives around strong characters and attributed developments to them so as to have them “carry” the history of the period.57 However, given his level of research prior to writing and his personal exposure to Hussites, it is unlikely that Piccolomini was unaware of the differences among reformers or that he was so beholden to the smoothness of his narrative that he ignored them. Fudge affirms the former point and notes that other writings by Piccolomini show his awareness of the differences among different heretical groups.58 But Piccolomini ignored them in the chronicle because it served his narrative purpose: to depict all Hussites, even moderate ones, as sick and deluded with the poison of heresy and in doing so warrant action against all of them. Similarly, the chronicle does not address the fact that the Hussites had been allowed to continue in their ritual practice by a conciliar fiat, possibly because any recognition that the church had at any point considered Hussite practice tolerable would have wreaked havoc with the ideological thrust of Piccolomini’s narrative. But it is clear that he was well aware of the problem. In the letter to Cardinal Carvajal, Piccolomini made it clear that he had thought about this. He wrote: “I believed these people were separated from us by rite of communion [under both kinds] only, but I have discovered them to be heretical, unfaithful, rebellious from God, and having no judgment or true religion.”59 In his final evaluation of the Hussites, Piccolomini described a kind of perfect storm, the confluence of a stubborn preacher, obsessed with popular-



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ity and willing to say anything to achieve it, and a stubborn audience delighting in listening to provocative speeches: “the stubborn Czechs insisted on their point of view and although they were defeated by arguments, did not wish to admit defeat and argued that the church either does not know God’s commandments or does not obey them.” Stubbornness was the leitmotif here. This was also the view of the Council of Constance, whose members censored Hus for alleged stubbornness and refusal to be corrected. In light of that, Piccolomini emphasized that the council’s decision to put Hus to death was necessary, a way of amputating the rotting limbs of the church before they could infect others.60 Piccolomini gave some thought to explaining who might have found Hus’s views appealing and why. His audience was mixed, both clerical and lay. They were stubborn laypeople, attracted to error, and troubled clergy, priests with debts and priests accused of crimes, those who hoped that Hus’s agenda would help them escape the punishment they deserved.61 In other words, they supported Hus not out of conviction but because it was financially or otherwise advantageous to them. Throughout his chronicle, Piccolomini refused to entertain the idea that Hus spoke to any legitimate needs in the church, effectively whitewashing the fact that many throughout Europe had clamored for reform in the church and that Councils of Constance and Basel were, in part, convened to make it happen. For both Lawrence and Piccolomini, interpreting Jan Hus was the cornerstone of their histories. The question of how to understand Hus and his legacy that first arose in the weeks following Hus’s death and that captivated numerous songwriters and authors of various compositions continued to be answered by the movement’s historians, even as late as a generation later. For them too, one’s attitude to Hus determined all hosts of other stances: where one stood religiously (vis-​­à-​­vis reform) and politically (vis-​­à-​­vis Sigismund).

The Chalice as the Source of Salvation or Evil The chalice, featured on banners and signs, sung about in song, written about in treatises and propaganda pieces, had become a symbol of the reform and a rhetorical shorthand for what was wrong with the church.62 As such, the chalice formed the centerpiece of Lawrence’s entire history and is key to its entire narrative structure. Lawrence retrojected its importance back into the origins of the movement. The main body of Lawrence’s history opens with an

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extensive discussion of communion under both kinds, its origins and developments. Lawrence writes: “In the year 1414, the most venerable and holy Eucharistic communion under both kinds of the bread and of the wine was to be served to all the faithful people by the revered and excellent man Master Jacobellus.”63 The grammatical structure of this initial pronouncement set the stage for the rest of Lawrence’s narrative: the subject of the sentence was not Master Jakoubek, the ardent proponent of communion under both kinds, but the chalice itself. By doing so, Lawrence foregrounded the chalice even at the expense of its human advocates and dispensers. Lawrence described communing from the chalice as “venerable and most holy” as well as “most sacred,” 64 and saw it as central to a well-​­ordered Christian society. It was the central ritual, potent with its layers of meaning, around which all else was to arrange itself in the same way that different parts of speech arrange themselves around the sentence’s grammatical subject. The chalice continued as the main protagonist of Lawrence’s subsequent narrative: it withstood persecution, caused military victories, collected adherents, and inspired them. The chalice framed the rest of the chronicled events; it is in relation to the chalice that Lawrence interpreted all of the events that he described. By making the chalice the protagonist of his history, Lawrence invited his readers to understand all war and political struggle in the 1420s in Bohemia in relation to the chalice. The chalice explained the violent upheavals and gave meaning to them. Here too we have fierce and irreconcilable divisions, either for or against the chalice. Lawrence depicted the chalice’s proponents as the forces of God, fulfilling God’s will, and its opponents as the forces of evil. Like Hus before him, Lawrence argued that to remain undecided in the struggle was impossible. The chalice divided the populace into two camps, adherents and opponents with no possibility of neutrality in the matter. The fact that the chalice thrived in spite of persecution, meaning that it was offered in growing numbers of churches in Prague and across Bohemia and gaining adherents in spite of opposition, was to Lawrence a sign that God blessed and prospered it. However, persecution remained an important theme. Like saints and martyrs, the chalice had many powerful opponents. It was described as being attacked, threatened, and jailed by the king and his officers. Conrad, the archbishop of Prague at the time, and other prelates, monks, and university masters and doctors, each tried in turn to suffocate it. Like Piccolomini in his discussion of Hus and his popularity, Lawrence did not address the theological reasons why a cleric might oppose the chalice or find it unnec-



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essary in ritual observance. All who oppose the chalice are simply seen as motivated by the forces of Satan, which is why they despised the chalice’s spiritual benefit.65 The chasm between the chalice’s opponents and proponents was unbridgeable. Lawrence compared the growth of the early church with the growth of the chalice, both having prospered in spite of persecution. This was his main strategy for establishing the legitimacy of the chalice and of the church it represented: if the early church suffered persecutions but managed to grow and prosper in spite of them, then persecutions could be understood as validation, as a sign of God’s approval. God clearly sided with the chalice. That explained why its influence spread and why the power of its supporters increased despite growing oppression from the authorities.66 Much like early martyr narratives, the suffering incurred in the process served as a witness to the faith, and many became converted because of it. However, in the early martyr narratives, people are converted to Christianity, whereas in Lawrence’s chronicle people are converted to receiving from the chalice.67 Piccolomini well understood the importance of the chalice to the Hussite movement and, accordingly, made it one of his main targets. He was present at the Council of Basel, where the Hussite demands had been negotiated, and knew full well that communion sub utraque specie was permitted to be offered in Bohemian churches thanks to the agreement reached by that council.68 But he makes no mention of it. Instead, he depicted the chalice as a serious and dangerous error and expended a lot of energy in trying to discredit it. His main strategy was to link the practice of the chalice with known heretics, to undermine it by invective. This, in turn, suggests that he knew that trying to discredit the practice of the chalice by argument would have been difficult as he would have had to argue, in effect, against the decisions made by his own church. And so instead of a theological polemic, Piccolomini reported that the chalice had been brought to Bohemia by a heretic, Peter of Dresden, who was, in Piccolomini’s view, “infected by the Waldensian plague.”69 He acknowledged Jakoubek’s role in the introduction of the chalice,70 but argued—​­as a way of explanation—​­that he had, in turn, been encouraged by the Waldensian heresy and that he had read old volumes of holy fathers, especially Dionysius and Cyprian, and found in them praise for receiving from the chalice. Clearly, Piccolomini had some knowledge of how the events had unfolded, but he too refused to engage with the theological justifications for the practice, nor did he acknowledge that the chalice had been offered to the laity in

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the early church and even until a few centuries previously. His view was simple. The chalice was a pretext for disobedience, a convenient cause for Jakoubek, who after getting fired from the chapel of the archangel Michael, began exhorting people publicly not to neglect the chalice and taught them that without it they could not be saved. And all the heretics agreed with him, Piccolomini continued, and were glad that they had found an article based on the gospel with which they could accuse Rome of ignorance or evil.71 At the heart of Piccolomini’s chronicle was not an attempt to understand or even to correct but to castigate. This attitude it shared with the vernacular compositions discussed in previous chapters. Like those authors, if Piccolomini had any empathy for those misguided laypeople, he did not show it. He saw the Czechs as the worst people ( pessimi homines), who refused to obey the Roman church, trampled upon the faith of their fathers, murdered Christ’s servants, destroyed the temples of the saints, and who lived without faith, without good morals, participated in robberies, adultery, and in all immoralities, and yet remained unconquered by the most powerful kings, countless formidable nations, and the most experienced military commanders.72 The fact that the Czechs remained unconquered (in spite of crusading expeditions in 1420, 1421, 1422, 1427, and 1431)73 clearly bothered him: “many of them live to this day in luxury and many did not die of a disease or by a sword but of old age,” he bristled, insisting that “their sins will be punished in hell.”74 Writing to an audience rattled by the Muslim military successes in the east, Piccolomini spoke to a world that saw itself in danger, that feared being encroached upon or defeated. In order to avert the danger of further Muslim victories, Piccolomini insisted, Christendom had to be strong and united, free from all heresy. But his plea for a strong and united Christendom was really a plea to take action against those stubborn heretics in Bohemia.

Lawrence and Piccolomini and Their Joint Hatred for Tábor Tábor was the one and only subject on which both historians agreed. Neither Lawrence nor Piccolomini held back his expression of disapproval, even hatred, for Tábor, though Pekař suggests that in spite of his dislike for Tábor, Lawrence tried to educate himself about the commune and tried to understand it.75 Piccolomini, not so much. Like the vernacular tractates discussed in Chapter 6, both historians equated the commune with the worst perversions



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of nature, reason, and social order, and depicted Taborites as mindlessly violent in their actions and implacably sectarian in their ideology. Tábor’s Founding

Both writers began their discussion of Tábor by discussing the commune’s founding. Lawrence conceded that the settlement had begun in an orthodox way: Tábor was founded by “priests of the gospel,” who were also followers of Jan Hus and proponents of the chalice. These priests gathered up the people from various regions of the kingdom, celebrated mass, and offered the sacrament sub utraque specie to the people. Tábor’s observance of the chalice made it difficult for Lawrence to despise the ideal, and he reports that there was nothing to be feared from them in the beginning. In fact, he thought that those pilgrims were known for true and authentic observance. At one time, about forty thousand people congregated at Tábor, Lawrence reported, and received the body and blood “with devotion” in the manner of worshippers at the time of the early church.76 Over time, however, Tábor’s adherents turned into a senseless, violent, merciless mob. The question of what went wrong at Tábor continued to weigh on Lawrence, who attempted to answer it in the course of the narrative. He described the founding of the actual physical settlement as fraught with violence, exemplified by the fact that the commune’s physical home was founded in an act of destruction: Taborites burned down the remains of an old castle on the site of which they chose for their home. This act of destruction was perhaps an omen of what was to follow. Lawrence saw destruction as Tábor’s main modus vivendi, describing the settlers as unwilling to compromise and as destructive of those who did not wish to cooperate with them.77 Writing at a time when Tábor’s unwillingness to compromise in ritual and theological matters was just becoming evident, Lawrence turned Tábor’s intransigence into the main moral of his narrative. It was the beginning of all evil that would emanate from Tábor, including violence, depravity, and destruction.78 For Lawrence, Tábor represented devotion to the chalice gone terribly wrong. By the time of Piccolomini’s writing, Tábor was no longer a threat, which explains why Piccolomini scarcely mentioned it. In Piccolomini’s view, the commune at Tábor was flawed from the very beginning. He reported, simply, that “Žižka built Tábor, his followers were called Taborites, as if along with the three apostles they had seen the transfiguration of Christ and from there

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gained their opinions, which they called truths of the faith.”79 Thus, in a few brief phrases, Piccolomini succeeded in undermining the story of Tábor’s founding: the founders behaved as though they had seen the transfiguration of Christ (which they had not), and they thought that their opinions were actual truths (which they were not). But the real focus lies elsewhere, in discrediting the Utraquists in Prague, who continued to pose a threat to united Christendom. This is also why Piccolomini did not distinguish among the different factions: lumping all of them together made the moderate reformers in Prague seem more radical than they actually were. Piccolomini did, however, address the question of why so many people fell under Tábor’s spell, offering a twofold explanation: they joined either because they were themselves perverted and therefore actually believed its doctrines or because they only pretended to believe them and joined Tábor because of ulterior motives, such as greed or lawlessness.80 Either way, Piccolomini saw no idealism or devotional zeal, only reasons to hate and despise. Tábor’s Violence

Lawrence devoted most of his narrative to reports of Taborite violence, making an explicit link between heresy and violence in the way that vernacular compositions discussed in previous chapters did.81 This allowed him to put some distance between the commune and the rest of the Hussite movement, which allowed him to remain staunchly pro-​­reform while condemning Tábor. What distinguished the commune was its propensity for seemingly meaningless violence. To illustrate, Lawrence described Tábor’s attack on an enemy castle at Sedlec. Tábor’s warriors captured the castle with relative ease, but what mattered to Lawrence was what happened after the attack was concluded. The Taborites behaved with unprecedented mercilessness, killing all of the defenders, including the castle’s lord Oldřich of Ústí and presenting the six remaining defenders with a terrifying choice: save your own life by volunteering to kill the remaining five of your colleagues. All but one declined, and, after slaughtering five of his own, in a perverted rite of passage, he won his life and joined the Taborites.82 This kind of initiation by violence revealed the barbaric nature of Tábor, with its hallmarks of cruelty, mercilessness, and transgression of fundamental human norms, all results of Taborite intransigence. Piccolomini connected violence with drinking from the chalice, in the same way that writers of vernacular tractates, such as Příbram, had done before him. He reported, for example, that after destroying many churches and



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monasteries, the Hussites (meaning Taborites) moved to the castle Bechyně, where they set up three hundred tables and there offered the sacrament of the chalice to the people. In his description of what was destroyed, Piccolomini noted especially the beautifully built and decorated monastery in Zbraslav, near Prague, which served as the royal burial ground. It too was demolished by the raging hoards of the Hussites.83 Piccolomini’s report of the violence at Zbraslav leads directly to the events at Tábor, where the multitudes moved after their attack. Although it would have been impossible for a group that large and that disorganized to make their way to Tábor in less than several days, in Piccolomini’s narrative the journey took place in an instant: destroying a monastery at one point, the crowds were receiving from the chalice at another. Piccolomini linked the wanton destruction of artworks and mindless raging of the crowds with Tábor’s ritual observance. Piccolomini shied away from any kind of theological arguments against receiving from the chalice and, instead, resorted to emotional appeals. He emphasized the disorderliness of the crowd and the unorthodox conditions of their mass celebration—​­outside, on tables around which the masses congregated, without canonical implements or garb. In a single episode, Piccolomini thus made explicit a theme implicit in his chronicle as a whole: the connection between violence, irrationality, chaos, disregard for beautiful property, on the one hand, and the chalice, on the other.

Lessons to the Reader Both historians narrate past events in a way that helps shape present-​­day behavior. Their depiction of violence is especially purposeful. Lawrence

Lawrence’s chronicle contains descriptions of numerous violent episodes, instilling fear of Tábor but also showing that the chalice (and the moderate version of reform in general) is worth fighting and even dying for. According to Lawrence, violence against opponents of the chalice was often necessary and always excusable. For example, Lawrence narrated an account of violence against church buildings, describing how the common folk came together and attacked churches and monasteries in Prague, breaking

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and destroying the furnishings in those churches, where the chalice had been banned. Lawrence made sure to emphasize that the violence was targeted against reform opposition, those who had found themselves to be on the wrong side of (Lawrence’s) history. In the evening of the same day, the crowds entered a Carthusian monastery and ransacked it. There, they became drunk, and capturing the monks, they dragged them to the town hall in the Old Town. They did so as a punishment for the monks’ opposition to Hus and because they despised the communion under both kinds. On the following day, Lawrence reported that the mob burned down the monastery of the Carthusians, so only its walls remained.84 Lawrence did not overtly approve of the violent outbursts but took care to underscore important mitigating circumstances: the fact that the monks had approved of killing Jan Hus and that they had opposed the chalice. By the same token, violence against proponents of the chalice was seen as martyrdom.85 Take, for instance, the case of the priest Vojtěch, who feared God and offered communion under both kinds to all. In his depiction of this priest, Lawrence joined virtue (fearing God) with the practice of the chalice, suggesting that true virtue was actually impossible without it. He depicted Vojtěch as a godly man, who was completely devoted to the chalice and whose devotion did not waver even in face of imprisonment and death. He proved this when he was captured by a band of Taborite laity and handed over to the city of Budějovice (notoriously opposed to the ritual of the chalice), where he was imprisoned and eventually burned to death.86 Or the example of another faithful priest, who brought the chalice to the faithful in the surrounding villages and who visited those devoted to the chalice and especially those who were sick. He was also captured, mocked, and tortured to death: his interrogators tied him to a tree with ropes, which they threaded through his hands after piercing them with their swords, and put wood and straw around him. He was given a chance to recant his adherence to the chalice but refused and died in the subsequent fire.87 In Lawrence’s telling, the stakes were high. It was a choice between eternal salvation and damnation. Death was better, even horrific death, even horrific death of children was better than eternal damnation. Lawrence reported an especially violent incident against supporters of the chalice, this time perpetrated by the official (Catholic) authorities. Lawrence reported that on Saturday after the feast of St. Procopius (July 6), Václav, the priest of a local parish, and his vicar were betrayed into capture and handed over to the Duke of Bystřice as obstinate heretics. They spent all night being dragged back and forth between the bishop and the duke in the same way



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(Lawrence interjects) that Jesus had been dragged between Caiaphas and Pilate. They were pressured and threatened with burning if they did not recant their faith in the chalice and do penance for their error. But the two remained steadfast. The priest Václav answered them humbly, saying: “It is in the gospel and in the practice of the early church and here it is written in your missal. Erase this writing or eat the missal!” Upon hearing this, one of the soldiers hit Václav, so that blood gushed from his nose. And after torturing him and his vicar, the interrogators fell asleep. In the morning of the following Sunday, Lawrence introduced seven more people into the narrative, reporting that the captors took Václav along with his vicar as well as three elderly farmers and four children aged seven, eight, ten, and eleven (all steadfast in the truth, Lawrence tells us), tied them up and sat them on top of a pile of wood. They were given the choice to recant the chalice or die. Václav responded: “Get away from us, you who give advice. We would rather undergo not one, but a hundred deaths, if that were possible, than deny the most noble truth of the gospels.” At that moment, his tormenters lit the wood beneath the prisoners; the children succumbed first, then the others, and Václav was last to hand his soul over to God, having attained, as many devoutly believe (Lawrence cues us) the martyr’s crown.88 The fact that Lawrence included instances of martyrdom such as this one suggests that some believers did recant the chalice when faced with death and needed to be taught to persevere.89 Much like ancient martyrdom narratives and like many of the vernacular compositions, this episode served an instructional purpose: one’s belief was to be defended unto death. However, whereas the early martyrs were holding onto their belief in Jesus, in Hussite Bohemia it was the chalice that was to be defended unto death. Making the teaching explicit, Lawrence turned to the spectators (and, implicitly, also to his readers as the composition “Václav, Havel, and Tábor” also did), interrogating them: “And what do we do, we pitiful ones? The unlearned, farmers and children, are rising up and attaining the martyr’s crown, while we live in luxury and so daily approach the fires of hell, from which may God, who lives and reigns forever, deliver us.”90 In addressing those left behind directly, Lawrence used the incident to dispense advice: If the ignorant peasants were capable of such bravery and steadfastness on account of the chalice, everyone else should be too, including you, the reader. The simple folk thus provide a lesson in godly behavior to the clerics as well as the (semi-​­)educated, wealthy readers of the chronicle, nudging them by their example into accepting the chalice wholeheartedly. By addressing his audience directly, Lawrence

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employed the same strategy as the authors of vernacular compositions: to describe a scenario in the past and call on his audience to take a stance in the present. These incidents of martyrdom taught two important lessons. In Lawrence’s view, neutrality regarding the chalice was not a viable option. The chalice was much more than a ritual act; it was an article of faith and sign of belonging to Christ. The burning of young children for their adherence to the chalice made the point memorably: commitment to the chalice is at the very heart of the Hussite identity in a way that the other three of the four articles were not. Moreover, Lawrence’s carefully crafted narrative identified the enemies of the chalice, crusaders of King Sigismund on the one hand and Taborites on the other. The narrative made it clear that joining either of them would count as a betrayal of the chalice. (Wavering and joining the Roman Catholic church or radicalizing and joining Tábor were not presented as honorable options or as options that led to salvation.) For those in need of a little bit of extra convincing, Lawrence emphasized the fact that God too was on the side of the chalice: he disapproved of violent attacks against the chalice and, in fact, worked to avenge them. God’s partiality showed in the episode of the 1,600 faithful in Kutná Hora who died a most brutal death rather than recant the chalice. They were slandered and tormented and eventually thrown into pits or mines and left to die. But, Lawrence hastened to point out, God avenged his faithful two years later when the city was burned down and its inhabitants put to death.91 Lawrence recorded many occasions of God’s vengeance, some involving the death of a single individual, others of groups or even entire villages, in order to show that God supported the chalice. Every recorded incident then became a window into God’s partiality to Bohemian reform. Piccolomini

However, Piccolomini approved of neither the chalice nor the violence perpetrated on its behalf. In fact, he made a point about the deleterious effects of all violence when he framed his account by describing the beauty and splendor of the churches in Bohemia. “I don’t think there has been in all of Europe a kingdom as rich in splendid, ornamented temples as the kingdom of Bohemia,”92 he gushed. After establishing the splendor of the ecclesiastical architecture in Bohemia, Piccolomini launched into his narrative of its destruction, blaming it entirely on the Hussite heresy.



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Piccolomini saw disorder and violence as a marker of heresy. Signs of them accompany most acts or decisions that Piccolomini considered heretical or plain wrong. For example, when Hus’s death as a martyr was announced in Prague, he reported that his followers decided to celebrate Hus’s memory annually and also demanded that the king would hand over several churches, so that they might preach and commune with “their people.” Here Piccolomini connected Jan Hus’s death with a demand for churches (where the chalice could be offered). Piccolomini connected them as if to show that, with heretics, one thing always leads to another, and it does not last long before it all ends in violence. Continuing the story, Piccolomini reported that the followers, their anger not having been assuaged, went on to destroy a famous Dominican monastery in Klatovy (in western Bohemia). Lamenting this outbreak, Piccolomini complained that “everywhere they attack churches and monasteries, temples consecrated to saints are being destroyed with fire and sword.”93 Piccolomini worried about the safety of the religious structures that filled Prague and dotted the Bohemian countryside and lamented every instance when their integrity was compromised through attack, looting, or fire. This concern with the physical sites of religious observance is coupled with almost complete silence on matters of belief and doctrine. His audience is invited to ponder the consequences of heresy, such as violence and destruction, but is never made privy to the actual heretical beliefs. The integrity of the churches, altars, and monasteries comes to represent—​­in Piccolomini’s narrative—​­the integrity of orthodoxy. Unlike Lawrence, whose narrative endowed violence with meaning, Piccolomini emphasized that the violence was meaningless, merely an expression of error and rebelliousness. Piccolomini argued that Hussites posed a direct threat to the religious buildings in Bohemia and, by a curious extension, to the orthodoxy of the religion practiced therein.

Conclusion Both histories proved influential in shaping the memory of the Hussite movement in their respective audiences. Writing for educated men, university masters, and clerics, Lawrence intended to shape the public memory of events as they unfolded and to show that receiving from the chalice (that is to say, joining the reform movement) was in accordance with living a life of Christian faithfulness. Quite simply, his goal was to win the undecided for the chalice. Writing a generation later, after the Utraquists had already won official

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toleration for their church, Piccolomini shaped his narrative in such a way as to show that any deviance from the mainstream observance begets trouble. He wished to persuade the outside world that the Utraquists were, in fact, dangerous and their observance intolerable. Both histories also entrenched the divisions surrounding reform in Bohemia. They show that the lay concerns—​­about Jan Hus and his legacy, the chalice, the legitimacy of Tábor, and the meaning of war and violence—​­that were addressed in numerous vernacular compositions so dominated the contemporary discourse that they found their way into Latin histories of the movement. Both historians reflected the vernacular discourses from the period and depicted the historical events of the Hussite movement in such a way as to teach their audiences about what was most necessary for peace and a well-​­ordered society, the chalice or obedience to Rome. Both historians resorted to fear as their chief mode of persuasion: neither of the chronicles contained any theological argumentation, but both used emotional appeals to achieve their didactic purposes. Both made explicit links between wrong ideology and wrong actions, suggesting that a well-​­ordered society can only be achieved after the proponents of the wrong ideology are vanquished. The two histories show two sides locked in ideological conflict, but the historians’ decisions not to address the theological underpinnings of their preferred orthodoxy did nothing to bridge the divisions. Rather, their reliance on polemics and emotion perpetuate the distance and animosity between them.

Conclusion

At the turn of the fifteenth century, Prague was the political and religious capital of the Holy Roman Empire. The decision of Emperor Charles IV (who died in 1378) to make Prague the capital thrust a previously provincial city into the spotlight of European affairs.1 Prague’s rise to prominence began with its elevation to metropolitan status in 1344, it advanced with Charles’s election as the king of the Romans in 1346, and it culminated with the foundation of a university, first in the empire, in 1348. As the seat of an archbishop, the city attracted talented and ambitious individuals wishing to make the church their career. Benefices large and small abounded, as did clerics looking to secure a small (or, if possible, large) income from the church’s vast holdings. New religious houses were being established, and old ones were injected with new money. The royal court brought prestige and religious gravitas, represented no less by the emperor’s awe-​­inspiring collection of relics, the largest in Europe.2 The emperor’s court also brought enormous wealth, which trickled down to local citizens via jobs and appointments at the court. New wealth enabled new religious foundations to be established by the laity: altars were being endowed, chantries set up, additional priests employed for recitation of masses, relics collected, images and statues displayed, indulgences purchased. At the end of the fourteenth century, Prague had twenty-​­eight religious houses, 130 chapels and churches, and numerous altars and statues.3 The city was relatively cosmopolitan; it was a home to a sizable Jewish population and to a vocal and very wealthy German minority. As the see of the archbishopric, the city attracted talented and ambitious individuals wishing to make the church their career. Jan Hus was one of these men. He had originally decided to become a priest because of the social status that it would bestow, but he eventually grew to regard his job as his vocation.

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A Clash of Narratives Readers of Czech historiography are presented with a seemingly definitive narrative. Jan Hus was a master at Prague University, who allowed himself to become excessively influenced by the teachings of the English master John Wyclif. After aggravating the authorities in Prague and in Rome, he was accused of heresy by the Council of Constance and burned at the stake in July of 1415. In this narrative, Hus’s vernacular works are dismissed as unoriginal and derivative, while Hus’s identity as a theologian and university-​­trained intellectual is elevated as the most important. But this is not the whole story of Jan Hus. Judging from his letters, he considered his work with the laity as the most important aspect of his vocation as a cleric. To him, it was more important than any of his university posts and it was one aspect of his work that was left to him even after his excommunication and exile in 1412. The story of Jan Hus at the Council of Constance is well known. In early 1414, after King Sigismund, the secular patron of the council, had assured him of safe-​­conduct, Hus set out to attend it. His travels were long and arduous, but he wrote to his supporters of the warm welcome that he had received in numerous German towns along the way and of invitations to debate matters of theology. Soon after his arrival in Constance, however, Hus was arrested and imprisoned, never regaining the opportunity to defend his writings freely. Writing from his prison cell, he spoke voluminously of the injustice that he was suffering at the hands of the council fathers, of his torments, and of his treacherous former friends Stanislav and Páleč. He also discussed his wishes regarding his possessions and urged caution with regard to the lay chalice, that is, offering wine—​­customarily reserved for the clergy—​­to the laity. What Hus wished for most fervently was a fair hearing, an unprejudiced discussion with the council fathers about his views. But slowly he came to the painful realization that the council did not wish to engage him; rather, they wished to make an example of him as a Wycliffite heretic. When given the option to recant his views and writings, Hus refused, on the basis that he had never taught the articles as they had been put before him. In the end Hus lost. The council decreed that the synod had judged him, “Jan Hus, as having seduced the Christian people, most of all in the kingdom of Bohemia, in his public preaching and writing compiled by him, and was not a true preacher of the gospel of Christ to that people in accordance with the expositions of the holy doctors, but was in truth their seducer.”4 Hus was



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burned, his body crushed to dust and thrown into the river, and his noble supporters were excommunicated as the crusading machine swung into motion. But in a very real way, it was the council, not Hus, who emerged the true loser in the conflict. Although they were able to silence Hus, they did not win the very important public relations battle that Hus’s trial had become. They succeeded in putting Hus to death, but they failed to persuade everyone that he had deserved it.5 The narrative of Jan Hus as a saint and martyr did not simply appear, as it is sometimes assumed. It was Hus’s own view of himself, which he disseminated through his vernacular letters and treatises even before he set out for Constance, that came to shape the public’s opinion of him for decades to come. Writing from his prison cell in Constance to his friends in Bohemia on June 27, 1415, some two weeks before his execution, Hus exhorted them in this way: Also that we may remember that we are not to pass from the feasts of this world to the feasts of the other world, that we may remember that the saints entered the heavenly kingdom through many sufferings; for some were cut up piece by piece, others impaled, others boiled, others roasted, others flayed alive, buried alive, stoned, crucified, crushed between millstones, dragged, drowned, burned, hanged, torn in pieces, having been first vilified, imprisoned, beaten and chained. Who can describe all the tortures by which the saints of the New and the Old Testaments suffered for God’s truth, particularly those who rebuked the priestly wickedness and preached against it! It would be a strange thing if now one would not suffer on account of a brave stand against wickedness, especially that of the priests, which does not allow itself to be touched!6 In this letter, as in many others, Hus styled himself as a martyr for God and a saint. The verbal echoes between the description of the suffering of saints and his own fate are unmistakable: Hus too, like the ancient martyrs, had been vilified by slanderous accusations in 1408 and 1409 before the archbishop of Prague, imprisoned shortly after his arrival at Constance, forsaken by his friends, beaten and chained by his jailers, and would soon be put to death there. His arrest, interrogation, torture, and upcoming death by burning all served as markers of his saintly status. This sentiment was repeated by Hus in

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many of his vernacular letters written to his friends in Bohemia. After his death, it was disseminated by his sympathizers in targeted campaigns that proved influential in molding the public’s view of Hus. Bohemia too was divided on the subject of Hus, but as the preceding chapters show, it was not for a lack of trying for a consensus. Some were persuaded by Hus’s own view of himself, which he disseminated through his vernacular letters and treatises, others agreed with the council’s starkly different opinion about him. Following Hus’s death, various leaders also entered into the fray, with compositions either venerating or lambasting the dead preacher. As we have seen, the dispute about the meaning of Hus’s life was never decisively settled. Competing arguments fueled the production of vernacular songs in the years immediately after Hus’s death, found expression in the longer compositions in the 1420s and 1430s, and needed to be addressed as late as the 1450s when Piccolomini (the future pope Pius II) was writing his Historia Bohemica in 1458. In fact, Hus continued to be a divisive figure well into the early modern period and beyond.7 But between 1415 and 1436, this was not only a conflict that played out publicly about who Hus had been and how he ought to be understood. This conflict about Hus’s legacy and its meaning quickly became a litmus test of what one thought of church reform in Bohemia. Supporters of Hus tended to be overwhelmingly also in favor of the lay chalice and other points of reform, whereas Hus’s detractors tended to take a firm stand against any changes to the ecclesiastical status quo. The narratives that each faction put forth in the form of vernacular compositions, which they deliberately crafted in order to garner lay support, are the subject of this book. And although there is more talk in these pages about words than about warfare, this conflict—​­or rather clash—​­of narratives was not only about words and opinions but also about action and about power. And whereas the council seemed the more powerful, holding the power to excommunicate, kill, or authorize crusades, Hus’s simple vernacular narrative, widely disseminated and exploited in different ways, proved more powerful still, powerful enough to marshal thousands of laymen into a battle against the council’s crusading machine. Between 1420 and 1432, the reformers in Bohemia and their sympathizers managed to fight off five successive armies of crusaders, winning victories so decisive and so humiliating to their opponents that the church agreed to negotiate with them, however grudgingly. A Hussite delegation was admitted to the Council of Basel and allowed to hold disputations about four points of their reform program. In 1436, the council granted



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them permission to continue their own particular religious practices within Bohemia.8 The permission granted to the Utraquist Church to function alongside the existing Catholic ecclesiastical infrastructure was as surprising as it was unprecedented. The success of the Hussite delegation in negotiating a truce and a toleration is usually attributed to the Hussite military superiority, their ability to repel five crusading armies launched against Bohemia in 1420, 1421, 1422, 1427, and 1431.9 The discussion of the Hussite success thus often becomes a discussion of their new military tactics and materiel. And while those were important, to be sure, it is also true that all weapons rely on the willingness of human agents to wield them in battle. This book alleges that Hussite victories began with words that succeeded in rousing the laity in support of the reform agenda, with narratives deliberately constructed and disseminated to the laity in order to persuade them to pick up weapons and risk their lives in defense of something they came to believe to be worth fighting and dying for. This is a new way of telling the story of the rise of Jan Hus to prominence and of the success of the Hussite movement in fifteenth-​­century Bohemia. It focuses on the role that vernacular works played in the formation of discrete religious factions between 1412 (when Jan Hus began radicalizing his followers) and 1436 (when the Council of Basel gave official sanction to the Utraquist practice). This was a time when the reform movement’s leaders most needed to garner the laity’s support and employed the vernacular for that purpose. Vernacular production was at its most prolific and most creative, translating and simplifying basic theological arguments (about the Bible, about the church’s ritual practice, about authority in the church) and presenting them to the people in a variety of formats. The book’s implicit argument is that the vernacular production was at its most prolific during this time because of the general uncertainty, both political and religious, replete with institutional disruptions. Most notably, perhaps, Bohemia was without a king for the entirety of this period, since, following the death of Wenceslas in August of 1419, the nobles of the realm refused to elect Wenceslas’s younger brother Sigismund to accede to the throne. The diet, a gathering of the realm’s nobles, which had effectively administered the kingdom, met only sporadically, and its judicial functions were suspended.10 The university had likewise suspended its operations shortly after the king’s death (in 1422), graduating very few new bachelors or masters and losing its role as arbiter of correct doctrine.11 In this climate of uncertainty, wild hopes, and fears, political and religious leaders increasingly turned to the laity in order to gain their support and loyalty. The vernacular was used to

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convey basic theological arguments to interpret the meaning of current events and to generate enmity or affection for various prominent public figures. The demands placed on the vernacular during this period were such that all vernacular literature came to serve political and ideological purposes in narratives of the kind analyzed in this book; other genres simply disappeared from circulation.

The Price of Theology in the Vernacular Contemporary scholarship sees vernacular writings through the prism of Latin works, either as defensive or overly assertive but always in relation to Latin writings. This understanding harks back to the old dual model of medieval religion, based upon a contrast between vernacular “popular religion” and the Latin-​­only, text-​­centered religion of the elites. However, the case of early fifteenth-​­century Prague does not support it. The dynamic that emerges is much more complex: it is a world in which a university man reaches out to the people as a performer while also remaining a Latinate university man and cleric; a world in which scriptural commentaries and university disputations are turned into vernacular verse, while the same university men continue their work in Latin; and a world in which university masters form alliances with laity and together with them push for what they consider the correct form of religious observance. The decision to bring theological argumentation to the people was revolutionary. The Hussites and their opponents used a variety of genres, including songs, poems, tractates, letters, manifestos, and sermons to speak to their audience and to give them the tools to discuss contentious issues among themselves and arrive at their own conclusions. In order to captivate their vernacular audiences and persuade them, leaders of the different factions chose to explicate what they stood for, translating and simplifying basic theological arguments and presenting them to the people in a variety of formats. The first six chapters of this book explore different subsets of vernacular compositions written and disseminated during this turbulent period while the seventh and final chapter explores historical writing about the Hussite reform on the example of two Latin chronicles written somewhat later, showing that the same persuasion strategies developed for vernacular discourse found their way into Latin, official accounts of the Hussite reform outliving the formative decades of the movement discussed here and continuing to divide Europe long afterward. However, this rejection of Latin as the language in which theological



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debates were conducted brought about a number of unintended consequences. Lay access to theology came at a price. While the process of translation and simplification made basic theological arguments intelligible to the laity, this was not education for education’s sake: its purpose was to persuade. This is why theological arguments were often augmented by appeals to emotion, deemed appealing in a way that complex theology could not be. This is why the anonymous Catholic author of “Václav, Havel, and Tábor” (discussed in Chapter 5) set his learned disputation in a burned-​­out church and made Tabor such an irrational, irascible, and altogether unpleasant person, while Václav (the representative of the Catholic position) comes across as polite, reasonable, and God-​­loving. And it is also why John Příbram in his Lives of the Taborite Priests (discussed in Chapter 5) exaggerates the violent and scandalous aspects of the Taborite commune while withholding information about the commune’s theological underpinnings. Education is offered but with a purpose, only when it serves the ideological interests of the author. But there was a difference in attitude that can be generalized based on the compositions discussed in this volume. Whereas many of the pro-​­Hussite compositions imparted new theological information, quoting scriptural passages, paraphrasing church fathers, explaining relevant points of doctrine, the opponents of reform relied primarily on satirizing their opponents, only rarely resorting to explanations. For example, while many of the pro-​­reform compositions contain long paraphrases of the Bible, the reform opponents were more likely to ridicule anyone who read the Bible than actually explain what it says on any given subject. This is not to say, of course, that the pro-​­reform compositions are only educational. Many of them are deeply polemical, deeply argumentative, presenting only those theological arguments that favored their cause, but they are much more likely to offer a theological explanation or cite a relevant biblical passage. And there was an additional cost of theology in the vernacular: the vernacular made it harder to arrive at a doctrinal consensus, as there was no central, universally respected arbiter of correct doctrine. Instead, each faction interpreted the Bible to its advantage and taught its followers that it was in possession of the true faith. Divorced from the traditions and conventions of the university, there was no agreed-​­upon arbiter of disputes, and the Bible, which many touted as the New Law, proved simply too malleable in the hands of competing interpreters. Rather than greater understanding, it fostered greater divisions. In this way, vernacular learning actually deepened the ideological divisions that had engulfed Bohemia rather than assuaging them.

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It is customary to regard theological writings in the vernacular as inherently good, a positive development in laity’s religious self-​­determination and a sign of increased democratization in an increasingly ossified, late medieval church. The opponents of theology in the vernacular or those who lament its dangerousness, such as Bishop Arundel in England, are cast as villains in the vernacular’s inexorable march and dismissed as cranks, albeit powerful cranks.12 The capacity of the vernacular is seldom questioned, its limitations seldom invoked. This book aims to complicate this optimism by showing that vernacularization of theology increased—​­ rather than decreased—​­ religious factionalism and radicalism, as the laity came to adhere to their chosen factions and became just informed enough to act on their religious preference. This mobilization of the laity also made agreement on doctrinal and other issues less likely, because faction leaders now had large semiliterate lay constituencies to placate. Even within the ranks of reformers, negotiating an agreement proved elusive. For example, the Prague moderates never came to an agreement with Taborites, the Taborites never reconciled with their more radical subset, the Pikarts. In both cases, the doctrinal disagreements were resolved by the use of force, in the battle of Lipany in 1434, which saw the defeat of Taborite armies by an alliance of Catholics and moderates, and—​­on a smaller scale—​­in the forcible gathering and eventual burning of members of the Pikart minority outside of Tabor’s walls.

Theology for the People The new uses of the vernacular is what is truly revolutionary about the movement: in early fifteenth-​­century Prague, disagreements about religion were shouted in the streets and taught to the laity in the vernacular, giving rise to a whole new kind of public engagement that would persist into the early modern era. The Hussites brought theological learning to the people, not mere catechesis or moral education, and they employed a variety of genres, including songs, poems, tractates, letters, manifestos, and sermons. The leaders, many of whom were also university masters, provided the laity with the tools to discuss contentious issues and arrive at their own conclusions, empowering the semi-​­learned and unlearned to make up their own minds about important theological issues of the day. What we see is a marketplace of competing religious ideas in the vernacular that emerged in Bohemia in the first half of the fifteenth century.



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However, and this is a crucial point, even in this situation of wide proliferation of vernacular compositions, this vernacular production is not somehow free from Latinate oversight; someone literate still decides what is being circulated and read. Learned people, in this case university masters and clerical faction leaders, remain in control of what it being said to whom and for what purpose. To be sure, in a popular campaign these leaders choose subjects that would resonate with unlearned and semi-​­learned laity, subjects that anyone could easily form an opinion about: Jan Hus and his legacy, the chalice, clerical greed, Tabor’s violence. Therein lies the genius of the pro-​­Hussite campaign: they gave the people what they wanted, but wrapped their educational message in a coating of antagonism against the established church and its directives. Importantly, the subjects of the vernacular compositions do not fully match the reform’s official program as proclaimed and discussed on the university level, the so-​­called Four Articles. The articles, representing the program for all Hussite parties, were communion under both kinds, free preaching of the word of God, secular dominion over church property, and the extirpation of public sins.13 Agreed upon in the fall of 1419, the Four Articles remained stable during the tumultuous 1420s and 1430s and were again presented as the official statement of Hussite doctrine at the Council of Basel and debated there. However, the chalice (that is to say, communion sub utraque specie) was the only article of the four representing the fundamentals of the reform program that was featured in the vernacular compositions. In fact, the chalice soon became a symbol for reform, and not only among the laity. The leaders, both pro-​­ and anti-​­reform, too came to see the chalice “as the symbol of the whole movement, the object of most anti-​­Hussite polemical literature, and the critical point distinguishing all Hussites, quasi-​­Catholics as well as violent sectarians, from the orthodox communion of the rest of Europe.”14 In other words, what featured as the most important in the vernacular compositions eventually became the most important subject also among the learned leaders. The fact that the reform leaders themselves came to elevate the chalice at the expense of the other three articles clearly emerged from the negotiations at the Council of Basel. There, the other three articles (free preaching of the word of God, secular dominion over church property, the extirpation of public sins) proved negotiable and even dispensable, while the issue of the chalice alone remained intractable. Howard Kaminsky, the eminent historian of the Hussite movement, was puzzled by the reformers’ willingness to give up on three out of four articles in their original program in spite of their greater theological importance.15 But in

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light of the chalice’s prominence in the vernacular compositions of all genres across this period, the reformers’ decision makes sense as strategic focusing on that which the laity had been taught to be most important: As soon as the council allowed the chalice to be practiced in churches across Bohemia, the reformers could claim a victory. The evidence of the two Latin chronicles discussed in Chapter 7 corroborates this point: the subjects covered in the vernacular compositions disseminated around this time influenced the Latin, erudite discourse about the reform. This is why the two Latin chronicles, Historia Hussitica and Historia Bohemica, both written by university-​­educated, clerical observers, address not the official program of the Hussite movement but rather the issues and ideas that had circulated in the vernacular.

The Secret of Hussite Success While I have focused on the Hussite movement, this book has by implication touched on larger interpretive issues with respect to the nature of medieval religion as a whole. It combines the insights of the older dual model of medieval religion, based upon a contrast between vernacular “popular religion” and the Latin, text-​­centered religion of the elites, and newer theoretical approaches that have emphasized diversity and multiplicity. My study illumines the dynamic exchange between the masters and the laity and explores the extent of their interaction. Bethlehem Chapel was one such point of intersection between the university and the laity, but many others were created through sermons, open letters, and vernacular compositions and persisted in numerous contexts in this tumultuous period. After all, the masters rubbed shoulders with their fellow inhabitants and engaged in business and social networks outside of the university. The laity, on the other hand, sought out theological education and formed their own opinions on a variety of religious matters. Yet neither of the prevalent models of medieval religion fully accounts for the interconnectedness of the two cultures. The dual model depicts the two spheres as too distant from each other, while the more recent models tend to replace clerical leadership with lay initiative and interest. And although the laity’s hunger for theological education proved an important factor in the dissemination and popularity of the Hussite message, the clerical leadership remained at all times firmly at the helm of the movement and of the vernacular compositions.



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Outside of Czech historiography, the Hussite movement has been studied in relation to the Lollards, another popular movement deemed heretical and with its origins in a university setting. However, I have deliberately avoided such comparisons and have endeavored instead to place the Hussite movement in its broader medieval and European setting. The advantages of such an approach are several. By considering the Hussites on their own terms rather than as a part of a larger trajectory, as successors to the Lollards, or the beginning of Czech nationalism, or the “first Reformation,” or proto-​­Protestantism, I have avoided the categories that inevitably come with such narratives.16 The internal dynamic of the Hussite movement, the efforts of its proponents to see it succeed and the attempts of its opponents to undermine it, cannot be properly understood or appreciated so long as we remain in the grip of historical hindsight. Once we set aside the assumption that Hussites were bound to succeed, the meaning of the story changes dramatically. Only then does Hus’s ability to speak persuasively to thousands, his power to transform his listeners into a band of supporters, and his successors’ skill in exploiting Hus’s legacy emerge as remarkable and unpredictable achievements, worthy of scholarly exploration.17 The Hussite movement has been described as a reform, revolution, or heresy depending on the particular predilection of the authors studying it.18 This book cuts across these approaches, utilizing their various insights without being bound by their limitations. As a result, the narrative here offers an original reinterpretation of Jan Hus, a significant heretical figure, which adds to our understanding of medieval religious and political dissent. Hus did not start out as a heretic, but his frequent run-​­ins with the archbishop and the curia pushed him into opposition. The narrative of unjust persecution, martyrdom, and irreconcilability with the church is essentially a view that Hus promulgated of himself, one that has too often been uncritically accepted by modern (especially Protestant) scholarship.19 The origins of the Hussite movement, in turn, illustrate how religious communities were created and maintained and demonstrate the role of vernacular texts in that process. Religious factions did not simply spring into being on their own, but required a great deal of public recruitment and persuasion on the part of their leaders. The struggle inherent in the Hussites’ attempts to win over the laity to their agenda shows fifteenth-​­century Bohemia as a place crowded with religious venues and possibilities. The most successful ones, like the Hussite movement, therefore allow us a window into the preferences and opinions of the laity, which otherwise leave little trace in the written record. Although we

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lack the testimony of individual lay Hussite sympathizers, their collective support testifies to what they liked and valued. The Hussites were successful because their message responded to and incorporated the most profound of the laity’s desires: their hunger for theological instruction, their desire for a new way of encountering the divine in the sacrament, disgust with simony and clerical abuses, concern for legitimacy in preaching, a rejection of scandalous immorality, and a near obsession with defining the Eucharist. These values anchor the Hussite movement firmly in its late medieval context and put us in touch with the spiritual yearnings of the fifteenth-​­century laity in the midst of the competing interests of Bohemia’s religious culture. The compositions discussed in this book underscore the diversity—​­rather than simple duality between lay and clerical—​­contained in the late medieval urban landscape and the multiplicity of lay and clerical discourses present within it. And yet, this entire discourse in the vernacular has been ignored and its importance downplayed, in part because of Bohemia’s status as a pariah of English-​­speaking historiography. Scholarship has ignored not just a song here or a tractate there but an entire discourse in the vernacular, actually a variety of different discourses, so important to their contemporaries that they antagonized councils, frightened popes, and intimidated kings a full hundred years before the start of the Reformation.

Notes

Abbreviations BRRP Bohemian Reformation and Religious Practice. Documenta  František Palacký, ed. Documenta Mag. Joannis Hus vitam, doctrinam, causam in Constantiensi Concilio actam et controversias de religione in Bohemia annis 1403–1418 motas illustrantia. Prague: Tempsky, 1869. FRB Fontes rerum Bohemicarum. Hus Sermones Václav Flajšhans, ed. Mag. Io. Hus Sermones in Bethlehem, 1410–1411. 5 vols. Prague: Nákladem Královské české společnosti nauk, 1938–45. Korespondence  Václav Novotný, ed. M. Jana Husi Korespondence a Dokumenty. Prague: Nákladem komise pro vydávání pramenů náboženského hnutí českého, 1920. MIHO Magistri Iohannis Hus Opera Omnia.

Introduction 1. Lawrence of Březová, Historia Hussitica, ed. Goll, in FRB, 5:327–541, 497. All translations are mine unless otherwise specified. František Šmahel makes the only reference to the incident that I have been able to find, stating that the councilmen were overcome more by the women’s screaming than by the written protest that they had provided, in Šmahel, “Psané a mluvené slovo ve službách rané české reformace,” 221. 2. The Four Articles, which summed up the Hussite reform program, included the chalice being offered to the laity but were silent on other aspects of the Eucharistic meal. On the Four Articles of Prague, see Kaminsky, History of the Hussite Revolution, 369–75; Šmahel, Die hussitische Revolution, 1:479–652; Bartoš, “Do čtyř pražských artikulů.” On the Eucharist in Bohemia, see Cook, “Eucharist in Hussite Theology”; Holeton, “The Bohemian Eucharistic Movement.” On Wyclif ’s influence in Bohemia, see Šmahel, “Wyclif ’s Fortunes.” 3. For the concept of “extraclerical” clergy, see Somerset, Clerical Discourse and Lay Audience, 12–13. 4. The practice of writing a new kind of vernacular texts relevant to particular religious controversies began with the so-​­called Schism literature; see Swanson, Universities, Academics, and the Great Schism. 5. Fudge, “Václav the Anonymous and Jan Příbram.” 6. See Ghosh, “Bishop Reginald Pecock and the Idea of Lollardy,” 251–65; Ghosh argues that, in England, a significant body of laypeople was able to engage in debates about theological ideas and doctrines.

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7. Kolář, “K transformaci,” 142. 8. Kolář, “K transformaci,” 137. 9. Hrabák, “Veršované ‘disputy’ ”; Hrabák, “Poznámky o zanikání a vznikání žánrů.” 10. Hrabák, Dějiny české literatury, 253. 11. Hrabák, Dějiny české literatury, 188. 12. Among the most pertinent works in Thomas Fudge’s long bibliography are The Magnificent Ride; “The ‘Crown’ and the ‘Red Gown’ ”; “Art and Propaganda in Hussite Bohemia”; and “Visual Heresy and the Communication of Ideas in the Hussite Reformation.” 13. On the new functions of vernacular literature in the late medieval period, see Van Dussen and Soukup, Religious Controversy in Europe, especially the introduction by the editors, pp. 1–15. For a thoughtful study of propaganda and the ways it shapes public opinion, see O’Shaughnessy, Politics and Propaganda. 14. Edwards, Printing, Propaganda, and Martin Luther; Eisenstein, The Printing Press as an Agent of Change, especially 303–452. 15. Zilynská, “From Learned Disputation to the Happening.” 16. Rychterová: “Die Verbrennung von Johannes Hus als europäisches Ereignis.” 17. Habermas, The Structural Transformation of the Public Sphere. 18. Scholars of the sixteenth-​­century Reformation sometimes speak of the difference between implicit and explicit faith. 19. McGinn, Meister Eckhart and the Beguine Mystics, 6. 20. Williams-​­Krapp, “The Erosion of a Monopoly,” 243–49. 21. For example, Rychterová, Die Offenbarungen der heiligen Birgitta von Schweden. 22. On the changing role of theologian, see Hobbins, Authorship and Publicity Before Print. 23. Hamm, The Reformation of Faith, 19. 24. Watson, “Censorship and Cultural Change in Late-​­Medieval England.” 25. On the link between heresy and the vernacular in England, see Hudson, “Lollardy, the English Heresy?”; Aston, Faith and Fire. 26. McGinn, Meister Eckhart and the Beguine Mystics, 1–16. 27. Van Engen, “Multiple Options;” idem, “The Church in the Fifteenth Century.” 28. Hledíková, “Projevy religiozity v době předhusitské.” 29. Logan, A History of the Church in the Middle Ages, 317. 30. Van Engen, “Multiple Options,” 14. 31. Van Engen, Sisters and Brothers of the Common Life. 32. Kock, Die Buchkultur der Devotio moderna; Staubach, “Pragmatische Schriftlichkeit im Bereich der Devotio moderna”; Van Engen, Sisters and Brothers of the Common Life. 33. Thomas à Kempis, The Imitation of Christ, book 1, chap. 3 (“How Truth Is to Be Learnt”), 8. 34. Williams-​­Krapp, “The Erosion of a Monopoly,” 249. 35. For example, Aston, “Wyclif and the Vernacular,” 284. 36. Perett, “A Neglected Eucharistic Controversy.” 37. On the Lollard Eucharist, see Hornbeck, What Is a Lollard?, especially 69–103. See also Hudson, “Mouse in the Pyx”; Rubin, “Popular Attitudes to the Eucharist,” with a useful bibliography. 38. Oberman, “The Long Fifteenth Century”; Van Engen, “Multiple Options.” 39. Oberman, “The Long Fifteenth Century,” 4. 40. Šmahel, La révolution hussite. 41. Höfler, ed., “Geschichtschreiber der hussitischen Bewegung in Böhmen,” in Fontes



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rerum austriacarum (New York: Johnson Reprint Co., 1969), 6:240–43, translated by Fudge, The Crusade Against Heretics in Bohemia, 17–20, 20. 42. Kaminsky, “The Problematics of ‘Heresy’ and the ‘Reformation’ ”; see also Kaminsky, “The Problematics of Later-​­Medieval ‘Heresy.’ ” For a critical response to Kaminsky, see Fudge, “Defending ‘Heresy.’ ” For an introduction to the historiography of heresy, see Russell, “Interpretations of the Origins of Medieval Heresy.” 43. Forrest, “Lollardy and Late Medieval History,” 125. See also Lutton, “Lollardy, Orthodoxy, and Cognitive Psychology”; and Somerset, “Afterword.” 44. For an overview of the different schools of thought and suggestions for how to move forward, see Haberkern, “What’s in a Name.” 45. Fudge, Jan Hus: Religious Reform and Social Revolution, 147–48; cited in Haberkern, “What’s in a Name,” 797. 46. See Haberkern, “What’s in a Name,” 797: Zdeněk David has argued that we ought to replace the adjective “Hussite” with “Utraquist,” which, in his view, perfectly describes religious reform in Bohemia. This is a compelling view, but this language makes it difficult to distinguish among the different reform factions, all of which practiced lay communion in both kinds and were, therefore, “Utraquist.” 47. This goes against the assumption of Reformation scholars, who see the laity’s thirst for theological learning as immediately predating the sixteenth-​­century Reformation. See, for example, Oberman, “Die Gelehrten die Verkehrten,” 62. 48. This argument goes further than scholars of the Reformation, even those who emphasize the continuities between the late medieval and Reformation periods. See, for example, Hamm, “Abschied vom Epochendenken in der Reformationsforschung,” 392–93; MacCulloch, Reformation, 123–32. For a helpful survey of theoretical approaches to the sixteenth-​­century Reformation, see Mörke, Die Reformation. 49. Williams-​­Krapp, “The Erosion of a Monopoly,” 262 n. 36. 50. For biblical hermeneutic as a source of controversy in England, see Ghosh, The Wycliffite Heresy. 51. This was a vernacular answer to the difficulties observed also in the learned, Latin discourse; see Levy, Holy Scripture and the Quest for Authority, 150–88.

Chapter 1 1. The bibliography for Jan Hus is vast. In English, Šmahel and Pavlíček, A Companion to Jan Hus; Fudge, Jan Hus Between Time and Eternity; Fudge, The Memory and Motivation of Jan Hus; and Fudge, Jan Hus: Religious Reform and Social Revolution, with an overview of historiography (209–25) and a useful bibliography (365–74); also Spinka, John Hus: A Biography. For a useful historiographical overview, see Fudge, “Jan Hus in English Language Historiography.” In German, Soukup, Jan Hus: Prediger–Reformator–Märtyrer; Hilsch, Johannes Hus; Werner, Jan Hus. In French, Marin, L’archevêque, le maître et le dévot; de Vooght, L’hérésie de Jean Huss. In Italian, Molnár, Jan Hus. In Czech, Šmahel, Jan Hus; Kejř, Hus známý i neznámý. A helpful though somewhat dated bibliography on Hus and Hussites may be found in Zeman, The Hussite Movement. Kaňák, “Důležitější biografická a bibliografická data o mistru Janu Husovi,” summarizes Czech (134–35) as well as foreign literature (135–37) on Hus. For an older classic, see Novotný, M. Jan Hus, with subsequent discoveries summarized in Bartoš, Co víme o Husovi nového.

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2. Korespondence, no. 35, pp. 104–8. Text references to numbered letters are to this edition unless otherwise specified. 3. Soukup, Jan Hus: Prediger–Reformator–Märtyrer, 62–80. 4. On Bohemian tradition of reform, see Soukup, Jan Hus: Prediger–Reformator–Märtyrer, 43–61; Novotný, Náboženské hnutí české. 5. Kejř, Hus známý i neznámý, 62. 6. Text in Korespondence, no. 44, pp. 125–28; and Documenta, 461–64. Discussed in Fudge, Jan Hus: Religious Reform and Social Revolution, 119. 7. See the helpful summary in Soukup, Jan Hus: Prediger–Reformator–Märtyrer, 159–64. See also Leff, “Wyclif and Hus”; Betts, “English and Czech Influences on the Hussite Movement”; Odložilík, “Wycliffe’s Influence upon Central and Eastern Europe”; Odložilík, Wyclif and Bohemia; Loserth, Wyclif and Hus; Peschke, “Die Bedeutung Wiklefs für die Theologie der Böhmen.” 8. Soukup, Jan Hus: Prediger–Reformator–Märtyrer, 141. 9. All biblical quotations are taken from the Douay-​­Rheims Bible. 10. Soukup, Jan Hus: Prediger–Reformator–Märtyrer, 140. Soukup found the earliest public mentions of Hus’s Wycliffite ecclesiology as early as his first synodal sermon. 11. Vidmanová, “Hus als Prediger.” 12. Soukup, “Jan Hus as a Preacher”; Marin, L’archevêque, le maître et le dévot, 231–324. 13. Kaminsky, History of the Hussite Revolution, 5–55; Šmahel, Die hussitische Revolution, 2:717–1005; see also Soukup, Reformní kazatelství a Jakoubek ze Stříbra, 68–92, with an English summary at 421–24. 14. This has been framed as a debate about Wyclif and the nature of his influence. Either Hus is seen as derivative of Wyclif or the Hussite reform is argued to be wholly independent of Wyclif. Examples of the former view include Loserth, Wyclif and Hus; discussed in Betts, “English and Czech Influences on the Hussite Movement.” For an example of the latter, see Thomson, “Pre-​­Hussite Heresy in Bohemia.” Other, more balanced, assessments combine aspects of both views; see, for example, Kaminsky, History of the Hussite Revolution, 35–55, especially 36 n. 109; Macek, Die Hussitenbewegung in Böhmen; Seibt, “Bohemica”; Wilks, “Reformatio Regni”; Leff, “Wyclif and Hus.” 15. For more information about Conrad Waldhauser, Jan Milíč of Kroměříž, and Matthew of Janov, see Leff, Heresy in the Later Middle Ages, 2:606–25; Novotný, Náboženské hnutí české. 16. Soukup, Reformní kazatelství, 114. Literature on medieval preaching is extensive. See, for example, Amos et al., De ore Domini; Taylor, Soldiers of Christ; Schiewer and Mertens, Die Deutsche Predigt im Mittelalter; Spencer, English Preaching in the Late Middle Ages; Hamesse et al., Medieval Sermons and Society; Zerfass, Der Streit um die Laienpredigt; Murphy, Medieval Rhetoric. 17. Odložilík, “The Chapel of Bethlehem in Prague”; Fudge, ‘“Ansellus dei’ and the Bethlehem Chapel in Prague.” 18. In the seventeenth century, the original structure was razed to the ground in order to make way for a Jesuit building. Because of its status as an important Czech national landmark, the chapel has since been rebuilt in strict accordance with fifteenth-​­century descriptions and later printed depictions. The fact that the original fourteenth-​­century structure used pillars and portions of walls belonging to surrounding buildings made the reconstruction possible: three of the original walls were salvaged for the purposes of the reconstruction, including some of the original wall decorations. 19. Kubíček, Betlémská kaple, 22.



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20. Václav Novotný discovered a fragment of the legal proceedings entered into by the parish of St. Philip and St. Jacob in the Prague archives and published it, with a brief introduction, in Novotný, “Zlomek akt o sporu kaple Betlémské s farou sv. Filipa a Jakuba,” 116–18. 21. Soukup, Jan Hus: Prediger–Reformator–Märtyrer, 28. 22. Bethlehem’s foundation charter was dated to May 24, 1391, and appears in Dittrich, Monumenta historica universitatis Carolo-​­Ferdinandeae Pragensis, 2:300–308, at 300–301; henceforth cited as “Bethlehem’s Foundation Charter.” 23. Odložilík, “The Chapel of Bethlehem,” 125. 24. “Bethlehem’s Foundation Charter,” 304. 25. The chapel’s charter attempted to counter a contemporary trend of hoarding benefices by punishing errant priests. For more about the trend, see Helmholz, “Discipline of the Clergy.” 26. “Bethlehem’s Foundation Charter,” 305–6. 27. “Bethlehem’s Foundation Charter,” 304. 28. “Bethlehem’s Foundation Charter,” 306. 29. “Bethlehem’s Foundation Charter,” 306. 30. “Bethlehem’s Foundation Charter,” 307–8. 31. The first preacher was Jan Štěkna (d. 1407), a university master, who eventually left Prague for Krakow, where he became one of the first professors of theology and spoke up vigorously in opposition to the Hussite movement. He worked at Bethlehem between 1393 and 1397. 32. Bartoš, “O rok narození Husova.” The precise date of Hus’s birth has long been disputed, as documented by the author’s summary of the various positions taken by scholars over the years. All, however, put Hus’s birth sometime between 1369 and 1373. As Hus’s birthdate is not attested by him anywhere in his own writings, Bartoš relies on external evidence and extrapolates from his presumed age at ordination, at which point Hus would have consulted with his (still living) parents. He based his argument on a comment made by Hus’s opponent, who complained that some young preachers dared to preach even before they had reached the canonical age of thirty. 33. Bartoš, “Co víme o Husovi nového,” 128. The article summarized new works on Hus as well as sketching out his life at the university, first as a famula to Master Křišťan, which fully immersed him into university life while giving him a secure living until 1396, when he became a master at the philosophical faculty. Six years later, he took up a post at the Bethlehem Chapel. 34. Relatively little work has been done on Hus as a preacher. See Vidmanová, “Hus als Prediger”; Fudge, Jan Hus: Religious Reform and Social Revolution, 57–73; Soukup, “Jan Hus as a Preacher.” 35. Šmahel, “Literacy and Heresy,” 243. Novotný estimated the number as much higher, around 10,000, in his M. Jan Hus, 1:396. 36. On the survival and likely composition of Hus’s sermons, see Soukup, Jan Hus: ­Prediger–Reformator–Märtyrer, 33–41. Hus’s oldest Czech sermons were published in Daňhelka, Hus, Česká sváteční kázání [Sermones de sanctis bohemici]. This volume includes sermons preached between 1401 and 1403. The second collection of Hus’s sermons was published in Schmidtová, Hus, Sermones de tempore qui Collecta dicuntur. This collection covers the years 1404–5. The latest sermons were collected in Hus Sermones. 37. On the reception of Hus’s sermons, see Šmahel, “Reformatio und Receptio.” On Hus’s charisma, see Rychterová, “Jan Hus.” 38. On the trial and condemnation of Hus, see the comprehensive treatment by Fudge, The Trial of Jan Hus. 39. “Accusationes M. Hus,” in Documenta, 154.

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40. “Accusationes M. Hus,” 154. 41. “Accusationes M. Hus,” 154–55. 42. “Accusationes M. Hus,” 155. 43. “Accusationes M. Hus,” 153. 44. For a detailed, chronological account of Wyclif ’s reception at Prague University, see Šmahel, Die hussitische Revolution, 2:788–831; and Šmahel, “Husitská univerzita.” See also Herold, Pražská Univerzita a Wyclif, 267; Herold, “Zum Prager Philosophischen Wyclifismus”; Kaminsky, History of the Hussite Revolution, 23–35; and Walsh, “Vom Wegestreit zur Häresie.” For a list of manuscripts of Wyclif ’s philosophical works that are of Czech provenance, see Šmahel, “Verzeichnis der Quellen zum Prager Universalienstreit 1348–1500,” 10–17; and Thomson, The Latin Writings of John Wyclyf. 45. Francis Oakley, The Western Church in the Later Middle Ages, 195. 46. Hudson thinks that Jerome brought with him De Eucharistia and De Apostasia or two shorter tractates; see Hudson, “From Oxford to Prague,” 646. See also Van Dussen, From England to Bohemia, 69–70; Šmahel, “Wyclif ’s Fortunes,” 472. Elsewhere, Šmahel speculates that Jerome made another trip to England; see Šmahel, “Leben und Werk des Magisters Hieronymus,” 89. 47. Herold, Pražská Univerzita a Wyclif, 267. Herold found that at Prague University, the masters all studied and wrote about Wyclif ’s De Ideis. See also Herold, “Zum Prager Philosophischen Wyclifismus,” 133–46. 48. Šmahel, “Wyclif ’s Fortunes,” 472 and 482; Lambert, Medieval Heresy, 318. 49. In addition to preaching at synods and other ecclesiastical functions, Hus preached at the university: he had an obligation to deliver inaugural lectures (inceptiones) and preached on other occasions as well. Spatz, “Imagery in University Inception Sermons.” 50. For an analysis of Hus’s two synodal sermons, see Soukup, Jan Hus: Prediger–­Reformator–​ Märtyrer, 62–70. 51. Hus, “Abiciamus opera tenebrarum,” in Schmidtová, Iohannes Hus Magister Universitatis Carolinae, Positiones, Recommendationes, Sermones, 99–113. 52. Hus, “Abiciamus opera tenebrarum,” 114. 53. “Articuli anno 1409 eidem archiepiscopo propositi,” in Documenta, 164–69. 54. Hus Sermones. 55. Somerset, Clerical Discourse and Lay Audience, 14–15. 56. Polc and Hledíková, Pražské synody a koncily, 284–85; Soukup, Jan Hus: Prediger–​ Reformator–Märt Sermon on yrer, 104–7. 57. Jan Hus, sermon, December 20, 1410, in Hus Sermones, 2:101–4, at 102. 58. Jan Hus, sermon, March 18, 1411, in Hus Sermones, 3:117–19, at 118. 59. Jan Hus, sermon, May 3, 1411, in Hus Sermones, 4:104–8, at 107. 60. Jan Hus, sermon, December 27, 1410, in Hus Sermones, 2:154–62, at 157. 61. Jan Hus, sermon, January 4, 1411, in Hus Sermones, 2:186–92, at 192. 62. Jan Hus, sermon April 23, 1411, in Hus Sermones, 4:67–71, at 70–71. 63. Jan Hus, sermon, September 28, 1411, in Hus Sermones, 5:88–94, at 91. 64. Some of the ideas in this section were first delivered as a conference paper, Perett, “The Bethlehem Chapel and the Rhetoric of Reform.” 65. Šmahel, “Literacy and Heresy.” 66. See Kubíček, Betlémská kaple; see also Ryba, “Nápisné nálezy v kapli Betlemské.” All three texts now appear on the walls of the reconstructed chapel, although they were not inscribed at the same time. Two more texts would be added after Hus’s death, one in 1417 and



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another in 1419 after Jakoubek of Stříbro had replaced Hus as the chapel’s preacher and as the leader of the Prague faction of the reform movement. 67. Soukup pieces together evidence from Hus’s letter, in which he described a dream he had had, with other mentions. His findings are suggestive but not conclusive. See Soukup, Jan Hus: Prediger–Reformator–Märtyrer, 110–13. 68. Edited in Ryba, Betlémské texty. Ryba mentions that the texts were displayed at different times, but does not consider the significance of the fact. 69. Latin text in Ryba, Betlémské texty, 41–63; the six errors, by chapter headings, concerned creare (41), credere (41–42), remittere (42–44), obediencia (45–47), excomunicatio (48–52), symonia (52–63). 70. “Credere aliquid,” “credere aliqui,” and “credere in aliquem.” Augustine’s distinctions and Hus’s interpretation of Augustine’s distinctions will be discussed in greater detail below. 71. Soukup, Jan Hus: Prediger–Reformator–Märtyrer, 109; Šmahel, “Audiovizuální media husitské agitace.” 72. Šmahel, “Literacy and Heresy,” speculates about the way in which Hus might have used the walls as a kind of a blackboard on which to point things out. 73. Published in Ryba, Betlémské texty, 65–104. 74. Ryba, Betlémské texty, 15. 75. Documenta, 401–8. 76. Soukup, Jan Hus: Prediger–Reformator–Märtyrer, 105–6. 77. Ryba, Betlémské texty, 67–69. 78. Ryba, Betlémské texty, 70. 79. For a full account of those legal difficulties, see Fudge, The Trial of Jan Hus, 116–87. 80. Ryba, Betlémské texty, 78. 81. Ryba, Betlémské texty, 79. 82. Ryba, Betlémské texty, 82. 83. Ryba, Betlémské texty, 79. 84. Kejř, Hus známý i neznámý, 59–66. 85. Ryba, Betlémské texty, 85–86. 86. Ryba, Betlémské texty, 85. 87. See, for example, Fudge, The Trial of Jan Hus, 31–73. 88. Ryba, Betlémské texty, 85. 89. Comprehensive studies of medieval simony are few and far between. Ryder, Simony, studies the subject from the point of view of canon law. For a more recent study of Wyclif and simony, see de Boor, Wyclifs Simonie Begriff. 90. Published as “Knížky o svatokupectví” in MIHO, vol. 4: Daňhelka, Mistr Jan Hus, Drobné spisy české, 187–270. For an abridged English translation, see Spinka, Advocates of Reform, 196–278; see also discussions in Fudge, Jan Hus: Religious Reform and Social Revolution, 111–12; de Vooght, L’hérésie de Jean Huss, 236; and de Vooght, “La ‘Simoniaca haeresis’ de St. Thomas d’Aquin à Jean Huss.” 91. Ryba, Betlémské texty, 92. 92. Ryba, Betlémské texty, 102. 93. Ryba, Betlémské texty, 103. 94. Text of Jan Hus, “Odvolání ke Kristu,” in Documenta, 464–66; and Korespondence, no. 46, pp. 129–33 (Latin) and no. 46*, pp. 134–36 (Czech); document is translated in Spinka, John Hus at the Council, 237–40. On Christ’s appeal and its legal implications, see Fudge, The Trial of Jan Hus, 188–214; Kejř, Hus známý i neznámý, 67–73. See also Flajšhans, “Husovo odvolání”;

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Molnár, “Hus et son appel”; Kejř, Husovo odvolání. More generally, on the subject of Jan Hus and law, see Kejř, “M. Jan Hus o právnictví”; Kejř, “Právo a právní prameny v Husově díle,” 87. 95. See Kejř, Husovo odvolání, 51. The circumstances of the appeal are described in Šmahel, Die hussitische Revolution, 2:878–917, especially 878–80; also in Fudge, The Trial of Jan Hus, 188–214. See also Flajšhans, “Husovo odvolání,” 241. 96. John of Jesenice, a brilliant lawyer and one of Hus’s closest associates, defended Hus against the papal curia. For more on John of Jesenice, see Kaminsky, History of the Hussite Revolution, 57–75; Kejř, Husitský právník, 66. 97. In fact, Hus had not exhausted all the avenues for legitimate action. For example, he could have appealed the pope’s decision to the Council of Constance, once convened, but he chose not to. Kejř, Husovo odvolání, 8. 98. Fudge, The Trial of Jan Hus, 191. 99. Soukup, Jan Hus: Prediger–Reformator–Märtyrer, 150. 100. Fudge, The Trial of Jan Hus, 192. 101. They are recounted in full in Fudge, The Trial of Jan Hus, 193–94. 102. Kejř, Husovo odvolání, 22; Korespondence, no. 46, pp. 129–33, at 131–32, henceforth Hus, “Odvolání ke Kristu.” 103. Hus, “Odvolání ke Kristu,” 131–32. See also Kaminsky, History of the Hussite Revolution, 58. 104. Hus, “Odvolání ke Kristu,” 132–33. 105. Hus, “Odvolání ke Kristu,” 131. 106. For example, Flajšhans, “Husovo odvolání,” 248; Fudge, The Trial of Jan Hus, 213; Soukup, Jan Hus: Prediger–Reformator–Märtyrer, 148. 107. Flajšhans, “Husovo odvolání,” 237–58. 108. For a more detailed summary, see Kaminsky, History of the Hussite Revolution, 90–96. 109. Novotný, M. Jan Hus, 2:229; text in Documenta, 472; discussion in Kaminsky, History of the Hussite Revolution, 92–93.

Chapter 2 1. Rychterová, “Theology Goes to the Vernaculars”; Rychterová, “Gens, nacio, communitas,” 83; see also Rychterová, “Die Verbrennung von Johannes Hus als europäisches Ereignis.” 2. Rychterová, “Theology Goes to the Vernaculars,” 231; also, almost identically, Rychterová, “Gens, nacio, communitas,” 83. On the question of late medieval public, see Kintzinger and Schneidmüller, “Politische Öffentlichkeit im Spätmittelalter—​­eine Einführung.” 3. Rychterová, “Theology Goes to the Vernaculars,” 232. See also Rychterová, “Vernacular Theology.” 4. Rychterová, “Vernacular Theology,” 170, argues that it was the “new brand of communication between professionals and laity” that allowed the Hussite reformist thought to turn into a revolution. In my view, what is new is not the media—​­after all, vernacular preaching and tractates are hardly new in this period—​­but the content that they are now used to transmit, namely, disagreements about religious matters. For a detailed account of pre-​­Hus vernacular production, see Rychterová, Die Offenbarungen der heiligen Birgitta von Schweden. 5. Doležalová et al., “The Reception and Criticism of Indulgences.” 6. Soukup, Jan Hus: Prediger–Reformator–Märtyrer, 131–47. 7. Hus chose to leave Prague rather than asking the faithful to bear the brunt of an



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interdict. Jeschke, Jan Hus, Postilla, 195–96; see also Spinka, John Hus: A Biography, 165–66. Text in Korespondence, no. 47, pp. 137–39. 8. Kejř, Hus známý i neznámý, 71. 9. In spite of the ban, Hus continued to preach informally even while residing in exile. Contemporary sources depict him as preaching in country lanes, fields, or wherever enough people would congregate. As far as we know no written record of these impromptu sermons has survived. Novotný, M. Jan Hus, 2:295. 10. See McGinn, Antichrist; Chytil, Antikrist; Emmerson, Antichrist in the Middle Ages. 11. Instead, for example, Hus wrote this to the inhabitants of a Bohemian town Louny sometime in 1410: “Hanc viam maxime Antichristus preparat, et pulcre sternit, presertim nobis sacerdotibus, qui nolumus, ut hominum statuta exaccius quam verbum dei serventur” (Korespondence, no. 16, pp. 54–56, at 55). 12. After Pope Gregory XI opposed some of Wyclif ’s views in 1377, Wyclif likened the papal office to the forces of the Antichrist and repeatedly used this Antichrist rhetoric in his writings against the papacy. McGinn, Antichrist, 181; for Wyclif on the Antichrist, see Leff, Heresy in the Later Middle Ages, 2:516–46; and Szittya, The Antifraternal Tradition, 152–82. 13. In Hus’s corpus of letters (in Korespondence), the following mention the Antichrist: in the vernacular, to Prague University masters (no. 48, pp. 139–41), to inhabitants of Prague (nos. 49 and 100, pp. 142–46 and 223–25), to faithful Czechs (no. 87, pp. 206–9); in Latin, to Master Christian of Prachatice (nos. 58 and 60, pp. 162–64 and 164–68), to Hus’s former student Petr of Mladoňovice (no. 110, pp. 244–45), to Hus’s friend and colleague John of Chlum (no. 145, pp. 299–302). 14. Written from exile to inhabitants of Prague, in November 1412. Korespondence, no. 49*, pp. 146–51, at 147. 15. Written to Master Christian in spring 1413, containing Hus’s refusal to accept the theological faculty’s definition of the church. Korespondence, no. 60, pp. 164–65. 16. Korespondence, no. 60, pp. 164–65. 17. Korespondence, no. 52, p. 154. Also cited in Spinka, John Hus: A Biography, 166. 18. Patschovsky, “Ekklesiologie bei Johannes Hus.” 19. Korespondence, no. 70, pp. 180–82. 20. Korespondence, no. 63, pp. 169–71, at 170. 21. Korespondence, no. 70, 180–82. 22. Written to John of Chlum in June 1415; Korespondence, no. 145, pp. 299–302, at 301–2. John of Chlum was described as the king’s counselor; see Spinka, John Hus at the Council, 89. 23. Cited above, Korespondence, no. 145, p. 301. 24. Korespondence, no. 147, pp. 303–10, at 304. 25. Unlike the other letters, this one was composed in the vernacular and translated into Latin soon after its original composition. Korespondence, no. 49, pp. 146–47; Latin text, no. 49*, pp. 146–51. 26. Korespondence, no. 49*, pp. 147–48. 27. Korespondence, no. 55, p. 159. 28. Documenta, 475–80; also in Spinka, John Hus: A Biography, 168. 29. Korespondence, no. 63, pp. 169–71. 30. Korespondence, no. 70, p. 181. 31. Korespondence, no. 70, pp. 180–81. 32. Several parts of this section appeared in Perett, “Jan Hus and Faction Formation.” See Spinka, John Hus: A Biography, 194–218, for a systematic overview of Hus’s vernacular writing.

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33. Fudge, Jan Hus: Religious Reform and Social Revolution, chap. 5. 34. Váhala, “Jan Hus in Exile,” 87. 35. Spinka, John Hus: A Biography, 193, comments on the lack of scholarly interest but devotes a full chapter to Hus’s “principal Czech writings.” More recently, there has been a resurgence of interest in the vernacular dimension of the reform; see works by Thomas Fudge and Pavlína Rychterová discussed in this and previous chapters and listed in the bibliography. 36. Edited in Daňhelka, Mistr Jan Hus, Výklady, in MIHO, vol. 1. The volume contains Hus’s “Výklad na vieru” [Exposition of the Faith], 63–113; “Výklad na desatero přikázanie” [Exposition of the Decalogue], 113–327; and “Výklad na páteř” [Exposition of the Lord’s Prayer], 330–91. See also Spinka, John Hus: A Biography, 194–218. 37. Edited in Daňhelka, “Hus, Česká nedělní postila.” For background information, see Rychterová, “Vernacular Theology,” 205–13; and Vidmanová, “Kdy, kde a jak psal Hus.” 38. The fifth principal work, not considered here, is Hus’s vernacular treatise on simony. It contains translated passages from Wyclif ’s work of the same name, sections of his tractate De sex erroribus, discussed above, and additional material from other treatises on simony. Edited in Daňhelka, “Hus, Knížky o svatokupectví;” for English translation, see Spinka, Advocates of Reform, 196–278. 39. Hus, “Výklad na vieru,” 63. 40. Soukup, Jan Hus: Prediger–Reformator–Märtyrer, 40. 41. Hus, “Česká nedělní postila,” 14. 42. Hus, “Česká nedělní postila,” 60. 43. Hus, “Česká nedělní postila,” 112. 44. Hus, “Knížky o svatokupectví,” 192. 45. Hus, “Knížky o svatokupectví,” 196. 46. Hus, “Knížky o svatokupectví,” 231. 47. Hus, “Knížky o svatokupectví,” 207, 209. 48. Hus, “Výklad na vieru,” 63. 49. Rychterová, “Vernacular Theology,” 202. 50. For a discussion of Hus’s reworking of Wyclif, see Rychterová, “Gens, nacio, communitas,” 86–107. 51. Hus Sermones; Soukup, “Jan Hus as a Preacher,” 114; Vidmanová, “Hus als Prediger.” 52. Rychterová, “Gens, nacio, communitas,” 88–89; and Rychterová, “Theology Goes to the Vernaculars,” 245. 53. Fudge, Jan Hus: Religious Reform and Social Revolution, chap. 5; see also Spinka, John Hus: A Biography, chap. 7. 54. Fudge, Jan Hus: Religious Reform and Social Revolution, 75–77. 55. Spinka, John Hus: A Biography, 217. 56. Fudge, Jan Hus: Religious Reform and Social Revolution, 79. 57. Fudge, Jan Hus: Religious Reform and Social Revolution, 80; Šmahel, Jan Hus, 192. 58. Fudge traces Hus’s principle back to spiritual writers such as Bernard of Clairvaux and Thomas à Kempis; see Fudge, Jan Hus: Religious Reform and Social Revolution, 77–80. 59. Fudge, Jan Hus: Religious Reform and Social Revolution, 82. 60. Hus, “Česká nedělní postila,” 69. 61. Hus, “Česká nedělní postila,” 78. 62. Hus, “Výklad na desatero přikázanie,” 142. 63. Hus, “Výklad na páteř,” 330. 64. Hus, “Výklad na vieru,” 71, 68.



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65. Hus, “Česká nedělní postila,” 112. 66. Hus, “Česká nedělní postila,” 275–76. 67. Hus, “Česká nedělní postila,” 240, 373–74, 357, 304–5. 68. Hus, “Česká nedělní postila,” 240; see also Hus, “Výklad na páteř,” 333. 69. Hus, “Česká nedělní postila,” 373–74. 70. Hus, “Česká nedělní postila,” 357. 71. Hus, “Česká nedělní postila,” 304–5. 72. Hus, “Česká nedělní postila,” 360–61. 73. Hus, “Česká nedělní postila,” 356. 74. Hus, “Česká nedělní postila,” 346. 75. Hus, “Česká nedělní postila,” 225. 76. Spinka noticed that Hus lashes out against persecution, commands to stand against Christ’s enemies, denounces “irreverent or actually offensive priestly behavior” (John Hus: A Biography, 199, 211, 213) but does not interpret these outbursts. The Czech editor of the Postil, Jiří Daňhelka, acknowledges in his introduction to the volume that Hus responded to contemporary events but emphasized that the struggles in which Hus participated transcended his own misfortunes. Hus, “Česká nedělní postila,” 7. See also Daňhelka, “Dobová aktuálnost a lidovost.” 77. The subject of Hus’s legal troubles is too extensive to abbreviate here. For an in-​­depth treatment, see Fudge, The Trial. 78. Hus, “Knížky o svatokupectví,” 3. 79. Hus, “Knížky o svatokupectví,” 210. 80. Hus, “Česká nedělní postila,” 249. 81. Hus, “Česká nedělní postila,” 252. 82. Šmahel, Jan Hus, 94. 83. Hus, “Výklad na páteř,” 384, 386. 84. Hus, “Výklad na desatero přikázanie,” 199. 85. Hus, “Česká nedělní postila,” 114. 86. Hus, “Česká nedělní postila,” 316. 87. Hus, “Výklad na vieru,” 70. 88. Hus, “Česká nedělní postila,” 105; Hus, “Výklad na desatero přikázanie,” 140–41. 89. Hus, “Výklad na desatero přikázanie,” 141. 90. Hus, “Výklad na páteř,” 376. 91. Hus, “Česká nedělní postila,” 203–4. 92. Soukup, Reformní kazatelství, 68–92. 93. Hus, “Česká nedělní postila,” 222–23. 94. Hus, “Česká nedělní postila,” 172. 95. Fudge, Jan Hus: Religious Reform and Social Revolution, 85. 96. For a helpful though succinct overview of Wycliffite spirituality, see Hornbeck, Lahey, and Somerset, Wycliffite Spirituality, 20–22. 97. Hus, “Knížky o svatokupectví,” 266. 98. Hus, “Knížky o svatokupectví,” 236. 99. Hus, “Knížky o svatokupectví,” 210–11. 100. Hus, “Výklad na desatero přikázanie,” 186. 101. Hus, “Česká nedělní postila,” 303. 102. Hus, “Knížky o svatokupectví,” 231. 103. Šmahel, Jan Hus, 91. According to this view, Hus wrote for simple laity too, but only shorter works, such as prayers, songs, and short texts; see Rychterová, “Vernacular Theology,”

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183. On Šmahel’s theory about what Hus intended to accomplish during his exile, see Šmahel, Jan Hus, 149. 104. Šmahel, Jan Hus, 143–44. 105. Hus, “Výklad na vieru,” 63; see Šmahel, Jan Hus, 144. 106. Hus, “Výklad na vieru,” 69. 107. Hus, “Výklad na desatero přikázanie,” 183. 108. Hus, “Výklad na páteř,” 333: “Protož, milý brachu!” 109. Hus, “Výklad na vieru,” 94: “Milý bratře neb milá sestro!” 110. Rychterová, “Theology Goes to the Vernaculars,” 235. 111. Introduction to Daňhelka’s edition of Hus, “Česká nedělní postila,” 7, speaks of the Postil’s “popular appeal”; see also Daňhelka, “Dobová aktuálnost a lidovost”; and Spinka, John Hus: A Biography, 193. 112. Hus’s On Simony was written specifically for a mixed audience of clerics and laity; see Rychterová, “Theology Goes to the Vernaculars,” 235. 113. Rychterová, “Vernacular Theology,” 184–85. 114. Rychterová disagrees with Šmahel’s assertion that Hus’s exile treatises were intended primarily for his fellow clerics in Rychterová, “Vernacular Theology,” 183. 115. Hus, “Česká nedělní postila,” 179. 116. Hus, “Česká nedělní postila,” 267–73. 117. Rychterová, “Gens, nacio, communitas,” 104. 118. Rychterová, “Vernacular Theology,” 183 n. 49. 119. Hobbins, “The Schoolman as Public Intellectual”; and Hobbins, Authorship and Publicity Before Print. 120. Kaminsky, History of the Hussite Revolution, 97–140. 121. Šmahel, Die hussitische Revolution 2:788–831. 122. Šmahel, Jan Hus, 131–96. Šmahel’s narrative skips from Hus’s exile to the Council of Constance. 123. Fudge, The Magnificent Ride; Soukup, Jan Hus: Prediger–Reformator–Märtyrer. 124. Korespondence, no. 55, pp. 158–60. 125. Korespondence, no. 69, pp. 177–79, at 178. 126. Korespondence, no. 72, pp. 184–85, at 184. 127. Korespondence, no. 87, pp. 206–9, at 207. For the context in which this vernacular letter was written, see Spinka, John Hus: A Biography, 224–25. 128. Korespondence, no. 100, pp. 223–25, at 223. 129. Korespondence, no. 58, pp. 162–63. 130. Kaminsky, History of the Hussite Revolution, 99, with a discussion of Utraquism at 98–108. See also Krmíčková, “Utraquism in 1414.” 131. Kaminsky summarizes the debate with his characteristic thoroughness in History of the Hussite Revolution, 108–21. 132. Kaminsky, History of the Hussite Revolution, 121. 133. Edited in Ryba, Betlémské texty, 105–39. 134. Edited in Ryba, Betlémské texty, 142–63. 135. For an overview of Jakoubek’s writings, see Bartoš, Literární činnost M. Jakoubka. On Jakoubek’s preaching in Bethlehem, see Bartoš, “Betlémská kázání Jakoubka.” 136. Rychterová argues that the transformation of laity into an “ecclesiastical and politically active public” occurred much earlier, in 1402, when Jan Hus began his preaching at Bethlehem Chapel. See Rychterová, “Vernacular Theology,” 174.



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Chapter 3 Parts of this chapter appeared in Perett, “Vernacular Songs as ‘Oral Pamphlets.’ ” 1. The intervening years are a time of confusion and prove difficult to narrate. Even the leading Czech authority on the Hussites, Šmahel, in his narrative history entitled Husitské Čechy, struktury a ideje, skips the period between 1415 and 1420, between the death of Jan Hus and the first crusade against Bohemia. 2. Kaminsky, History of the Hussite Revolution, 121–22. 3. For a discussion of various communication genres and strategies in Bohemia, see Bartlová and Šroněk, Public Communication in European Reformation; see Fudge, The Magnificent Ride, which contains a helpful overview of different genres used by the reformers, especially chap. 4, pp. 178–274. 4. Fudge, The Magnificent Ride, 226–51; Fudge also discusses these compositions in The Memory and Motivation, chap. 6. The main interpretative disagreement concerns the question of authorship and purpose of these songs, with Fudge arguing that the songs were written by laypeople and should be seen as a sign of how well they internalized the Hussite message. On the disagreement, see Haberkern, Patron Saint and Prophet, 55 n. 121. 5. Fudge, “The ‘Crown’ and the ‘Red Gown,’ ” 50–57. See also Fudge’s “Visual Heresy and the Communication of Ideas”; and his “Art and Propaganda in Hussite Bohemia.” 6. Pettegree estimates that by 1530 “there were some six million Flugschriften in circulation in German: that is, twenty for each literate member of the population.” Pettegree, “Books, Pamphlets and Polemic,” 111. 7. Cole, “The Reformation in Print,” 97–98; Cole shows that “overall, the years 1521–1525 rank highest in pamphlet production for the whole of the sixteenth century, with a sharp drop after 1525 and then a significant increase beginning in the 1530s, peaking in 1546 and remaining high until 1555.” 8. See Fudge, The Magnificent Ride, 252–58 (on “protests, processions, and public demonstrations”) and 258–66 (“manifestos”). For a very brief overview of different media used in spreading reformist views among a wide circle of the faithful during the “long” fifteenth century, see Zilynská, “From Learned Disputation to the Happening.” 9. The Tabule were originally accompanied by a treatise Incipit conversacio Cristi opposita conversacioni Anticristi, published by Kaminsky, in “Master Nicholas of Dresden,” 34–64. For a discussion of those images, see Šmahel, “Audiovizuální media husitské agitace.” For an updated list of extant manuscripts, see Mutlová, “Communicating Texts Through Images.” For a broader consideration of Hussite visual propaganda, see Fudge, “Visual Heresy and the Communication of Ideas.” 10. Hus, “Česká nedělní postila,” 178. 11. The debate about the original is summarized and evaluated in Šmahel, “Literacy and Heresy”; reprinted in Czech (without acknowledgment of previous publication), Šmahel, “Psané a mluvené slovo ve službách české reformace.” For an alternative view, see Mutlová, “Communicating Texts Through Images.” 12. Dobrowolski, “ ‘Fides ex auditu,’ ” with a useful bibliography. 13. Šmahel, “Literacy and Heresy,” 243. 14. Kyas, “Die alttschechische Bibelübersetzung”; and Kyas, Česká bible. 15. Matějček, “Bible Filipa z Padařova”; about the same Bible, Stejskal and Voit, Iluminované rukopisy, 55–56.

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16. Šmahel, “Husitští ‘doktoři,’ ” 248; Šmahel et al., Dějiny Tábora, 1:598–605. 17. Šmahel, “Literacy and Heresy,” 252. 18. On the relationship between Czech and Latin in the Hussite period, see Svejkovský, “The Conception of the ‘Vernacular.’ ” 19. Šmahel, Die hussitische Revolution, 2:930. 20. Tomek, Dějepis města Prahy, 3:593. 21. Šůla, Kronika velmi pěkná, 28–29; translated in Fudge, “The ‘Crown’ and the ‘Red Gown,’ ” 38. 22. Text in Documenta, 580–84. 23. Kaminsky, History of the Hussite Revolution, 148. 24. Sigismund’s reply to conciliar legates (Documenta, 652–54), written either in late 1416 or early 1417, reveals that the council was playing the two brothers off of each other: “Et in casu quo fratrem nostrum ut praefertur bonam voluntatem circa exstirpationem illorum errorum habere invenerimus, sed ob multitudinem illorum, qui hanc sectam fovent, non habere sufficientem potestatem exterminandi, promittimus vobis, sibi cum tota nostra potentia succurrere et assistere usque ad finalem exstirpationem omnium errorum et haeresum praefatorum, et procurabimus restitutionem cleri spoliati” (653). 25. Bartoš, “Do čtyř pražských artikulů.” 26. The relevant document is from August 31, 1415, in Documenta, 574–77. 27. Kaminsky, History of the Hussite Revolution, 143; text in Documenta, 574–77. 28. von der Hardt, Rerum concilii oecumenici Constantiensis, 4:1517, art. 17. This is a later source, written ca. 1470. 29. Sermon on May 28, 1419, in Molnár, Jan Želivský, Dochovaná kázání z roku 1419, 140. For more information about Želivský and his preaching, see Kaminsky, History of the Hussite Revolution, 272–78; Molnár, “Želivský, prédicateur de la révolution”; Kopičková, Jan Želivský; and Nejedlý, Dějiny husitského zpěvu, 5:25–57. 30. “Staří letopisové čeští od roku 1378 do 1527,” in Palacký, Scriptores rerum Bohemicarum, 3:13. 31. “Chronicon Procopi notarii Pragensis,” in Höfler, Geschichtsschreiber der Husitischen Bewegung in Böhmen, 1:71. 32. “Chronicon Procopi notarii Pragensis,” in Scriptores Rerum Hussiticarum, ed. Konstantin von Höfler in FRA 1:270; and “Chronicon universitatis pragensis,” ed. Josef Emler, in FRB, 5:580; both cited and discussed in Kaminsky, History of the Hussite Revolution, 276. 33. Vernacular compositions are published in two major editions: Havránek, Výbor, 2 vols; and Svejkovský, Veršované skladby. 34. This fight continued among Hus’s biographers. For a good summary of the different ways in which Hus has been understood, see Soukup, Jan Hus: Prediger–Reformator–Märtyrer, 15–23. 35. For a compelling analysis of how the figure of Jan Hus “loomed large over the development of the Bohemian reformation,” see Haberkern, Patron Saint and Prophet, 104–48. For surveys of the development of Hus’s cult in the fifteenth century, see Holeton and Vlhová-​­Wörner, “Second Life of Jan Hus.” In visual arts, see Štěch, “Jan Hus ve výtvarném umění”; in homiletics, Halama, “Biblical Pericopes for the Feast of Jan Hus”; in iconography, Royt, “Ikonografie Mistra Jana Husa”; in music, Fojtíková, “Hudební doklady Husova kultu.” 36. The capitula in Oloumouc complained about this practice as early as 1416 (Documenta, 649). 37. Jowett and O’Donnell, Propaganda and Persuasion, 16. This book provides a summary



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of recent approaches and methods in the study of propaganda as well as a useful bibliography. For an excellent summary of different definitions and a review of literature, see O’Shaughnessy, Politics and Propaganda, 13–36. 38. The song’s popularity continued well into the seventeenth century. Havránek, Výbor, 1:298. Partial translation in Fudge, The Magnificent Ride, 198. 39. “V náději boží mistr Jan Hus,” in Havránek, Výbor, 1:299, lines 21–30. 40. Fudge, The Magnificent Ride, 198. On the development of new liturgical songs for the feast of Jan Hus, see Holeton, “The Office of Jan Hus”; and Holeton, “O Felix Bohemia.” 41. “V náději boží mistr Jan Hus,” in Havránek, Výbor, 1:300, lines 31–40. 42. “V náději boží mistr Jan Hus,” in Havránek, Výbor, 1:299, lines 3–6. 43. “V náději boží mistr Jan Hus,” in Havránek, Výbor, 1:299, lines 11–20. 44. “Slyšte všickni, staří i vy děti,” in Svejkovský, Veršované skladby, 102–115. Also in Nebeský, “Verše na Husity.” 45. “Slyšte všickni, staří i vy děti,” in Svejkovský, Veršované skladby, 102 and 104, lines 8, 89–90. 46. “Slyšte všickni, staří i vy děti,” in Svejkovský, Veršované skladby, 112–13, lines 385–89. 47. “Slyšte všickni, staří i vy děti,” in Svejkovský, Veršované skladby, 113, lines 398–403. 48. “Všichni poslúchajte,” in Havránek, Výbor, 1:286, lines 76–80. 49. Partial translation in Fudge, The Magnificent Ride, 209. Fudge titles the song “Rejoice now, holy church.” 50. “Již se raduj, cierkev svatá,” in Havránek, Výbor, 1:290, lines 6–15. 51. Fudge, The Magnificent Ride, 209. 52. “Již se raduj, cierkev svatá,” in Havránek, Výbor, 1:290, lines 23–25. 53. Fudge, The Magnificent Ride, 191. 54. Partial translation in Fudge, The Magnificent Ride, 191, “Concerning the Council of Constance.” 55. “Ó svolánie konstanské,” in Havránek, Výbor, 1:273, lines 1–15. 56. “Ó svolánie konstanské,” in Havránek, Výbor, 1:274, lines 56–60. 57. Cited in Nejedlý, Dějiny husitského zpěvu, 3:379–80. 58. It was written possibly before 1416 and definitely before 1418. For a discussion of the composition’s dating, see Nejedlý, Dějiny husitského zpěvu, 3:355–56. 59. Nejedlý, Dějiny husitského zpěvu, 3:352. 60. Nejedlý, Dějiny husitského zpěvu, 3:334. 61. For information about the iconography of the chalice and its development, see Milena Bartlová’s “Původ husitského kalicha,” “The Utraquist Church and the Visual Arts,” and “Iconography of Jan Hus.” 62. Krmíčková, “The Fifteenth Century Origins of Lay Communion,” 58–59; Bartoš, “Počátky kalicha,” 59–112; and Patapios, “Sub Utraque Specie.” 63. Two of them in Prague’s Old Town (St. Michael and St. Martin-​­in-​­the-​­Wall) and one in the New Town (St. Adalbert). For more detail, see Čechura, České země, 72. 64. One of the four demands of the so-​­called Four Articles of Prague. See Kaminsky, History of the Hussite Revolution, 369–75; Šmahel, Die hussitische Revolution, 1:479–652; Bartoš, “Do čtyř pražských artikulů,” 481–591. 65. Kaminsky was of the opinion that the masters “shrank from the radical position that utraquist communion was necessary to salvation” (History of the Hussite Revolution, 239). For a recent systematic reevaluation of chalice-​­related debates in Bohemia, see Coufal, Polemika, 57–59.

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66. Kejř, “Deklarace pražské university,” 147; Kaminsky, History of the Hussite Revolution, 239; text in von der Hardt, Rerum concilii oecumenici Constantiensis, vol. 3, cols. 761–66. 67. Kaminsky, History of the Hussite Revolution, 161; and Krmíčková, “The Fifteenth Century Origins of Lay Communion,” 58–59. 68. For example, Bartoš, “Do čtyř pražských artikulů,” 481. 69. On Hus’s view of the lay chalice, see Hilsch, Johannes Hus, 254; and Werner, Jan Hus, 99–104; Kolář, “Husovo učení o přijímání eucharistie”; and Kolesnyk, “Husovo pojetí eucharistie.” 70. Korespondence, no. 143, pp. 296–99. Translated in Spinka, John Hus at the Council, no. 22, p. 277. 71. Fudge, The Magnificent Ride, 190. 72. “Slýchal-​­li kto od počátka,” in Havránek, Výbor, 1:305, lines 67–69. Partial translation in Fudge, The Magnificent Ride, 190, entitled “If anyone has heard from the first.” Fudge calls it a chiliast hymn. 73. “Tvorče milý, zžel se tobě,” in Havránek, Výbor, 1:276, lines 35–38. 74. “Tvorče milý, zžel se tobě,” in Havránek, Výbor, 1:276–77, lines 49–64. The author paraphrases the text of New Testament’s John 6 and the 1 Corinthians 11:23. 75. Fudge, The Magnificent Ride, 191. 76. “Tvorče milý, zžel se tobě,” in Havránek, Výbor, 1:275, lines 5–8. 77. Partial translation in Fudge, The Magnificent Ride, 199, entitled “Nowadays the question runs like this.” In his discussion of it, Fudge focuses on a different aspect of this song, the need of Hussite warriors to have pure faith and receive from the chalice. 78. One of the four manuscripts lists Jan Čapek as the author of the song, with an inscription at the top of the page: “Here begins the treatise about receiving God’s body under both species”; in Czech, “Počíná se řeč o přijímání těla božieho pod obým zpuosobem Čapkova.” Pražák, “O datování,” 298. 79. Jakoubek ze Stříbra, “Salvator noster” and “De communione parvulum,” in Ryba, Betlémské texty, 106–38 and 142–63. See also Coufal, Polemika, 25–37 with an extensive bibliography. On Hussite infant communion, see also Fudge, “Hussite Infant Communion.” 80. “Kristovoť jest ustavenie,” in Havránek, Výbor, 1:314, lines 49–52. 81. “Kristovoť jest ustavenie,” in Havránek, Výbor, 1:314, lines 39–42. 82. “Rozmlouvání člověka se smrtí,” in Svejkovský, Veršované skladby, 49–89. Kolář, “K dataci,” argues that the composition was written at the end of the fifteenth century rather than before 1424, as had been thought. Jacobsen offers counterarguments in his “Úvahy o básnictví,” 13–15. 83. “Rozmlouvání člověka se smrtí,” in Svejkovský, Veršované skladby, p. 61, lines 423–24 and 427–32. 84. “Rozmlouvání člověka se smrtí,” in Svejkovský, Veršované skladby, p. 78, lines 1036–39. 85. “Rozmlouvání člověka se smrtí,” in Svejkovský, Veršované skladby, p. 79, lines 1066–69. 86. “Rozmlouvání člověka se smrtí,” in Svejkovský, Veršované skladby, p. 81, lines 1142–45, and p. 79, lines 1070–71. 87. “Ten řád máme znamenati,” in Havránek, Výbor, 1:267, lines 85, 89–92. 88. Not unlike the first printing of the New Testament at the time of the Reformation. See Edwards, Printing, 109–30. 89. Fudge, The Magnificent Ride, 208. 90. “Němci sú zúfalí,” in Havránek, Výbor, 1:272, lines 11–15. Partially translated in Fudge, The Magnificent Ride, 208, but the fourth line there is unfinished, which changes the meaning of



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the stanza: “as Master Jan of Husinec preached it” versus “as Master Jan of Husinec ordered to have it written there.” 91. “Němci sú zúfalí,” in Havránek, Výbor, 1:272, lines 6, 9–10. 92. “Všichni poslúchajte,” in Havránek, Výbor, 1:287, lines 131–35. 93. “Slyšte všichni, staří, i vy děti,” in Svejkovský, Veršované skladby, pp. 113–14, lines 421– 22, 444. 94. “Všichni poslúchajte,” in Havránek, Výbor, 1:284, lines 36–40. Partial translation in Fudge, The Magnificent Ride, 204. 95. Fudge, The Magnificent Ride, 204. 96. “Všichni poslúchajte,” in Havránek, Výbor, 1:284, lines 11–15. 97. Rychterová, “Vernacular Theology,” 172. 98. After this the Hussites did not appeal to saints in their compositions, and they did not use them in their sermons; they conceded their authority to their opponents. See Uhlíř, Literární prameny. 99. “Bekyně,” in Havránek, Výbor, 1:280, lines 13–16. 100. “Bekyně,” in Havránek, Výbor, 1:280, lines 31–32. 101. “Bekyně,” in Havránek, Výbor, 1:280, lines 21–24. 102. Translated in full in Fudge, The Magnificent Ride, 195–97; also in French, Anthology of Czech Poetry, 75–79. Fudge sets this satire in the context of anticlerical satire, which frequently used images of lewdness and depravity to impugn its subjects. 103. Nejedlý, Dějiny husitského zpěvu, 2:334–35, notes a possible parody of “artificial music.” See also Fudge, The Magnificent Ride, 195. 104. Thomas, “The Wycliffite Woman,” 279. 105. “Viklefice,” in Havránek, Výbor, 1:282, lines 36–40. 106. “Viklefice,” in Havránek, Výbor, 1:283, lines 71–74. The whole song is translated in French, Anthology of Czech Poetry, 75–79. I supply my own, more literal, translation here. 107. Fudge, The Magnificent Ride, 195. 108. Nejedlý, Dějiny husitského zpěvu, 2:359–60. 109. “Bydžovští ševci,” in Havránek, Výbor, 1:293, lines 7–10. 110. “Bydžovští ševci,” in Havránek, Výbor, 1:293, lines 21–25. 111. “Bydžovští ševci,” in Havránek, Výbor, 1:294, lines 66–70. 112. “Bydžovští ševci,” in Havránek, Výbor, 1:295, lines 81–85. 113. Bartoš, “Do čtyř pražských artikulů,” 504. 114. Kaminsky, “The University of Prague in the Hussite Revolution,” 82. 115. Bartoš, “Do čtyř pražských artikulů,” 496. 116. Partially translated in Fudge, The Magnificent Ride, 190–91. 117. “Slýchal-​­li kto od počátka,” in Havránek, Výbor, 1:303, lines 22–27. 118. “Slýchal-​­li kto od počátka,” in Havránek, Výbor, 1:304, lines 40–45. 119. “Slýchal-​­li kto od počátka,” in Havránek, Výbor, 1:304, lines 49–54. 120. “Slýchal-​­li kto od počátka,” in Havránek, Výbor, 1:305, lines 66–69. 121. “Slýchal-​­li kto od počátka,” in Havránek, Výbor, 1:306, lines 88–90. 122. “O kněžích svatokupcích,” in Havránek, Výbor, 1:259–64. 123. “O kněžích svatokupcích,” in Havránek, Výbor, 1:261, lines 73–75. 124. “O kněžích svatokupcích,” in Havránek, Výbor, 1:261, lines 79–81. 125. “O kněžích svatokupcích,” in Havránek, Výbor, 1:263, lines 142–44. 126. “Ten řád máme znamenati,” in Havránek, Výbor, 1:265, lines 21–24. 127. Fudge, The Magnificent Ride, 190–91.

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128. “Slýchal-​­li kto od počátka,” in Havránek, Výbor, 1:303, lines 28–29. 129. “Slýchal-​­li kto od počátka,” in Havránek, Výbor, 1:306, lines 88–90. 130. “Hádání Prahy s Kutnou Horou,” in Havránek, Výbor, 1:364, lines 67–68. 131. “Hádání Prahy s Kutnou Horou,” in Havránek, Výbor, 1:366, lines 179–88. 132. “Slýchal-​­li kto od počátka,” in Havránek, Výbor, 1:304, lines 40–42. 133. For discussion of popular dissatisfaction with the orders, see Szittya, The Antifraternal Tradition. 134. “Hádání Prahy s Kutnou Horou,” in Havránek, Výbor, 1:365, lines 125–26. 135. “Hádání Prahy s Kutnou Horou,” in Havránek, Výbor, 1:366, lines 156–89. 136. “Slýchal-​­li kto od počátka,” in Havránek, Výbor, 1:306, lines 103–8. 137. Svejkovský, introduction to Veršované skladby, 30. 138. Svejkovský, introduction to Veršované skladby, 29. 139. “Slyšte všickni, staří i vy děti,” in Svejkovský, Veršované skladby, p. 102, lines 1–4. 140. “Slyšte všickni, staří i vy děti,” in Svejkovský, Veršované skladby, p. 108, lines 240–42. 141. “Slyšte všickni, staří i vy děti,” in Svejkovský, Veršované skladby, p. 109, lines 246–48. 142. “Všichni poslúchajte,” in Havránek, Výbor, 1:285, line 45. 143. “Všichni poslúchajte,” in Havránek, Výbor, 1:285, lines 46–50. 144. “Slyšte všickni, staří i vy děti,” in Svejkovský, Veršované skladby, p. 112, lines 370–71. 145. “Všichni poslúchajte,” in Havránek, Výbor, 1:285, lines 56–60. 146. “Všichni poslúchajte,” in Havránek, Výbor, 1:286, lines 86–90. 147. “Všichni poslúchajte,” in Havránek, Výbor, 1:286, lines 101–5. 148. “Všichni poslúchajte,” in Havránek, Výbor, 1:286, lines 91–95. 149. “Slyšte všickni, staří i vy děti,” in Svejkovský, Veršované skladby, 112, lines 370–78. 150. “Slyšte všickni, staří i vy děti,” in Svejkovský, Veršované skladby, 112, lines 379–86. 151. Slyšte všickni, staří i vy děti,” in Svejkovský, Veršované skladby, 104, lines 85–89. 152. Všichni poslúchajte,” in Havránek, Výbor, 1:288, lines 146–50. 153. “The four songs were ‘Hospodine, pomyluj ny’ [Lord, have mercy upon us], ‘Bóh všemohúcí’ [God almighty], ‘Jesu Kriste, ščedrý kněže’ [Jesus Christ, bountiful priest], and ‘Svatý Václave’ [St.Wenceslas]” (Fudge, The Magnificent Ride, 213 n. 123). For text of the statute, see Kadlec, “Synods of Prague,” 269. 154. Kadlec, “Synods of Prague,” 275. 155. Cited in Novotný, M. Jan Hus, 2:105–7. 156. Article 17, session 44, 1418, directed against the Bohemian reform movement. Mansi, Sacrorum conciliorum nova, vol. 27, col. 1197; translated in Fudge, The Crusade Against Heretics, 19. 157. Fudge, The Magnificent Ride, 125. 158. Summed up by the prosecution at Constance: von der Hardt, Rerum concilii oecumenici Constantiensis, 4:669. 159. Šmahel, “Reformatio und Receptio.” 160. Kolář, “K transformaci,” 142. 161. Kolář, “K transformaci,” 137. 162. Hrabák, “Veršované ‘disputy’ ” and “Poznámky.” 163. For example, Fudge, “The ‘Crown’ and the ‘Red Gown,’ ” 43.



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Chapter 4 1. See, for example, Kaminsky, History of the Hussite Revolution, 369–75. See also the classic treatment by Bartoš, Do čtyř pražských artikulů; and Lancinger, “Čtyři artikuly pražské.” 2. Kaminsky, History of the Hussite Revolution, 264. 3. Kaminsky, History of the Hussite Revolution, chap. 6 (Kaminsky calls this chapter, quite aptly, “1419: From Reformation to Revolution”), pp. 265–309. For a narrative history focused on events outside of Prague since the death of Wenceslas, see Šmahel, Die hussitische Revolution, 2:1007–1366. 4. Cermanová, Čechy na konci věků; also Cermanová, “Husitský radikalismus.” 5. Soukup, “The Masters and the End of the World,” 94. 6. Grant, For the Common Good. 7. On April 22, 1418, Pope Martin V instructed Sigismund to take action against the Hussites in Bohemia, but Sigismund waited until December 4, 1418. Šmahel et al., Dějiny Tábora, 1:227. 8. Kaminsky, History of the Hussite Revolution, 267, 272–73. 9. Lawrence of Březová, Historia Hussitica, 400: “Factum est itaque ano domini MCCCCXIX, quod presbiteri cum eorum vicariis prope castrum Bechinam durius sic communicantibus insultabant eosdem armata manu de ecclesiis eorum expellendo, tamquam erroneous et hereticos.” Discussed in Šmahel, Die hussitische Revolution, 2:964–1006. 10. Soukup, “The Masters and the End of the World,” 91. 11. Writing in the 1950s, Josef Macek emerged as the leading purveyor of this view. See Macek, Tábor v husitském revolučním hnutí, 2 vols. For an overview of Marxist historiography on the subject, see Werner, Die Hussitische Revolution. For a more general historiographical overview, see Fudge, “The State of Hussite Historiography”; more recently and in greater detail, Cermanová, “V zajetí pojmu.” 12. Macek, Husitské revoluční hnutí, 91; criticized in Werner, Circumcellionen und Adamiten, 86; and in Seibt, “Die Hussitenzeit als Kulturepoche.” For other Marxist views, see Kalivoda, Husitská ideologie. See also Cermanová, “V zajetí pojmu,” 146–51. 13. See the following works by Seibt: “Die hussitische Revolution als europäisches Modell”; “Tabor und die europäischen Revolutionen”; Utopica; and Hussitica. 14. Cermanová, “V zajetí pojmu,” 140–41. 15. Kaminsky, History of the Hussite Revolution; Fudge, The Magnificent Ride; Bylina, Revolucja husycka; and Bylina, Na skraju lewicy husyckiej. 16. Kaminsky, History of the Hussite Revolution, 281, describes priest Vancek and Hromádka as being among the first “inventors and organizers of the mountain meetings.” 17. Lawrence of Březová, Historia Hussitica, in FRB, 5:402: “Sed huiusmodi mandatum rustici cum suis uxoribus modicum aut nichil advertentes pocius dimissis omnibus, que possiderant, ad Thabor montem in certis festivitatibus venire nullatenus negligebant allecti et attracti, prout ferrum attrahit magnes.” 18. Kaminsky, “Hussite Radicalism,” 109. 19. Kaminsky, History of the Hussite Revolution, 284–85. 20. See Kaminsky, History of the Hussite Revolution, 284 n. 69; Kaminsky quotes Thomas Aquinas’s Summa Theologica on the reasons why only “legitimate powers might wage war.” Šmahel et al., Dějiny Tábora, 1:229, follows Kaminsky’s account.

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21. Šmahel, Die hussitische Revolution, 2:995–1006. For an analysis of Želivský’s thought, see Holeton, “Revelation and Revolution.” 22. Mauer, “Od hory Tábor ke Svatoludmilskému srazu”; Molnár, “Eschatologická naděje české reformace.” Molnár saw the pilgrimages to the mountains in terms of their eschatological symbolism. 23. Kaminsky, “The Prague Insurrection.” 24. Kaminsky, History of the Hussite Revolution, 168. See also Lambert, Medieval Heresy, 329. 25. On Tábor’s early pacifism, see Kaminsky, History of the Hussite Revolution, 286. 26. “Provolání Poutníků z Bzí Hory,” in Molnár, Husitské manifesty, 61–62. For a discussion of the early manifestos, see Hrůza, “Schrift und Rebellion.” 27. “Provolání Poutníků z Bzí Hory,” in Molnár, Husitské manifesty, 62; see also Rychterová and Soukup, “The Reception of the Books of the Maccabees.” 28. “Provolání Poutníků z Bzí Hory,” in Molnár, Husitské manifesty, 63. 29. Grant, For the Common Good, 89–107. 30. On Tábor’s extant writings, see Molnár, “Taboristische Schriftum.” 31. Macek, “Táborské chiliastické články,” translated in Soukup, “The Masters and the End of the World,” 94. 32. Seibt, “Die Zeit der Luxemburger und der hussitischen Revolution,” 518–27; Kaminsky, History of the Hussite Revolution, 311; Šmahel, Die hussitische Revolution, 2:1048. 33. Lawrence of Březová, Historia Hussitica, in FRB, 5:356. 34. Pekař, Žižka a jeho doba, 37–62; Sedlák, “Spis Stanislava ze Znojma.” See also Cermanová, “V zajetí pojmu,” 143. 35. See the discussion of Josef Macek and his works earlier in this chapter. For another example of Marxist reading of Tábor, see Nejedlý, Dějiny husitského zpěvu, 3:367. 36. Cited in Housley, Religious Warfare in Europe, 36. See also Heymann, John Žižka and the Hussite Revolution, 80. 37. See, for example, Fudge, “The Night of Antichrist”; Molnár, “Non-​­violence et théologie de la révolution”; and Machilek, “Heilserwartung und Revolution der Täboriten”; see also Housley, Religious Warfare in Europe, 33 38. “Radujme se dočekavše” and “Hlásný, vuolaj bez přestání” are printed in Havránek, Výbor, 1:307–9 and 309–11. 39. “Radujme se dočekavše,” lines 28–36. 40. “Hlásný, vuolaj bez přestání,” lines 23–26. 41. “Hlásný, vuolaj bez přestání,” lines 27–29. 42. “Radujme se dočekavše,” lines 37–39. 43. “Radujme se dočekavše,” lines 52–54. 44. “Radujme se dočekavše,” lines 49–50. 45. “Radujme se dočekavše,” lines 41–44. 46. “Radujme se dočekavše,” lines 22–27. 47. “Hlásný, vuolaj bez přestání,” lines 27–29 and 55–63. 48. The nature of this difference has been disputed. Kaminsky was of the opinion that chiliasm rested on a different interpretation of the saeculum (History of the Hussite Revolution, 345; also in Krofta, “O některých spisech”). More recently, Soukup argued that it was not so much a difference in exegetical method but rather the fact that Taborite priests rejected the restrictions of traditional readings of a number of key scriptural passages (“The Masters and the End of the World,” 108). On the effort to discredit the propensity for literal interpretation



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among the Taborite priests, see Šmahel, Die hussitische Revolution, 2:1049; Čornej, Velké dějiny, 5:224; Molnár, “K otázce reformační iniciativy lidu,” 21; Kalivoda, Husitské myšlení, 185. 49. On Taborite chiliasm, see also Kaminsky, History of the Hussite Revolution, 336–60; Kaminsky, “Chiliasm and the Hussite Revolution”; Soukup, “The Masters and the End of the World”; Šmahel, Die hussitische Revolution, 685–716, 1032–70, 1131–58; Čornej, Velké dějiny, 5:192–239, 289–96; Leff, Heresy in the Later Middle Ages, 2:606–714; Patschovsky, “Der taboritische Chiliasmus”; and Šmahel and Patschovsky, Eschatologie und Hussitismus. 50. Soukup, “The Masters and the End of the World,” 108. See also Kejř, Mistři pražské univerzity a kněží táborští, 71–73. On Jakoubek’s polemic with Tábor, see de Vooght, Jacobellus de Stříbro, 225–94. 51. On chiliasm, see Šmahel, Die hussitische Revolution, 2:1032–70, 1131–58. 52. On the Hussite crusades, see Klassen, “Hus, the Hussites and Bohemia”; Seibt, “Revolution und Hussitenkriege, 1419–1436”; Šmahel, La révolution hussite. 53. For a summary of reasons why Sigismund was unpopular in Bohemia, see Fudge, “ ‘An Ass with a Crown.’ ” Fudge also discusses the nascent sense of nationalism implicit in Bohemia’s rejection of Sigismund, with a useful bibliography. For a classic treatment of nationalism in Hussite Bohemia, see Šmahel, “The Idea of the ‘Nation.’ ” 54. Edited in Molnár, Husitské manifesty. On the subject of Prague manifestos, see Bartoš, “Manifesty města Prahy.” 55. Grant, For the Common Good, 93; Grant, “Rejecting an Emperor,” 467; Haberkern, Patron Saint and Prophet, 76–77. This manifesto was edited in Molnár, Husitské manifesty, 67– 70; with an alternate English translation in Fudge, The Crusade Against Heretics, 59–60. See Hrůza, “Die hussitischen Manifeste,” for an analysis of all four versions of the manifesto. 56. Translated in Fudge, The Crusade Against Heretics, 49–52. 57. For brief summaries of the Grievance and the Rebuke, see Grant, For the Common Good, 97–100, and 101–4. For an analysis of these texts, see Klassen, “Images of Anti-​­Majesty”; Seibt, “Slyšte nebesa”; Hrůza, “ ‘Audite Celi!’ ”; and Urbánek, “Vavřinec z Březové a jeho satirické skladby.” 58. The first Latin version is lost, but the extant Latin version contains more moderate statements in comparison with the incendiary Czech version. 59. Edited (both Latin and Czech) by Daňhelka, Husitské skladby Budyšínského rukopisu, 23–40. The first is entitled Žaloba koruny České k bohu na krále Uherského a sbor Kostnický (henceforth Grievance), and in Latin, Satira Regni Boemie in Regem Hungarie Sigismundum, and is printed in Czech (pp. 23–31) and Latin (167–73). The second is entitled Prorok České koruny králi Uherskému že neřádně korunu přijal sě násilím tiskne (henceforth Rebuke), and in Latin, Corona Regni Boemie Satira in Regem Hungarie Sigismundum), and is printed in Czech (pp. 33– 40) and Latin (173–78). 60. Bartoš, “Z politické literatury doby husitské,” 51. For a different opinion, see Urbánek, “Satirická skládání budyšínského rukopisu,” 27; Pekař, Žižka a jeho doba, 41. 61. The difference was first pointed out by Seibt, “Slyšte nebesa,” 19–23. 62. Klassen, “Images of Anti-​­Majesty,” 269. 63. Klassen, “Images of Anti-​­Majesty,” 269. 64. Grant’s For the Common Good explains the legal mechanism of the nobles’ rejection of Sigismund and illumines this fateful choice. She poses the question of how the Hussite Bohemian nobles justified their rejection of the hereditary heir to the Bohemian throne and argues that, in doing so, the nobles did not step outside of the roles granted to them by their contemporary legal and political framework.

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65. Rebuke, 33. 66. Rebuke, 33. 67. Rebuke, 39. 68. Klassen, “Images of Anti-​­Majesty,” 267. 69. Or because they were supposed to pressure the nobles into rejecting Sigismund through legal and political means. 70. Klassen, “Images of Anti-​­Majesty,” 270–72. 71. Klassen, “Images of Anti-​­Majesty,” 275. 72. Klassen, “Images of Anti-​­Majesty,” 275–76. 73. Klassen, “Images of Anti-​­Majesty,” 277. 74. Klassen, “Images of Anti-​­Majesty,” 272–73. 75. Rebuke, 37. 76. Grievance, 27. 77. Grievance, 28–29. 78. Grievance, 29. 79. Grievance, 28. 80. Kaminsky, History of the Hussite Revolution, 387. 81. Kaminsky, “The Religion of Hussite Tabor”; Šmahel et al., Dějiny Tábora. 82. Heymann, John Žižka and the Hussite Revolution. 83. Printed in Havránek, Výbor, 1:324–25, general introduction on p. 320. Translated into English as “You Who Are the Lord’s Combatants” in French, Anthology of Czech Poetry, 71–73. For analysis, see Heymann, John Žižka and the Hussite Revolution, 497–98. On the influence of the Maccabees, see Holeček, “Makkabäische Inspiration des husitischen Chorals.” 84. “Ktož jsú boží bojovníci,” in Havránek, Výbor, 1:324, line 24. 85. “Ktož jsú boží bojovníci,” in Havránek, Výbor, 1:325, lines 34–35. 86. “Ktož jsú boží bojovníci,” in Havránek, Výbor, 1:325, line 36. 87. “Ktož jsú boží bojovníci,” in Havránek, Výbor, 1:325, line 37. 88. “Ktož jsú boží bojovníci,” in Havránek, Výbor, 1:325, line 38. 89. “Ktož jsú boží bojovníci,” in Havránek, Výbor, 1:325, line 33. 90. “Ktož jsú boží bojovníci,” in Havránek, Výbor, 1:325, lines 31–32. 91. “Ktož jsú boží bojovníci,” in Havránek, Výbor, 1:324, lines 6–10. 92. “Ktož jsú boží bojovníci,” in Havránek, Výbor, 1:324, lines 20–24. 93. Housley, Religious Warfare in Europe, 33–61. 94. Šmahel et al., Dějiny Tábora, 1:261 n. 37. 95. Šmahel et al., Dějiny Tábora, 1:261–63. 96. Kaminsky, History of the Hussite Revolution, 385–91. 97. “Radujme se dočekavše,” in Havránek, Výbor, 1:308, lines 25–27. 98. See, for example, Fudge, The Magnificent Ride, 274–84. 99. Rychterová, Die Offenbarungen der heiligen Birgitta von Schweden. 100. “Nuž křesťané viery pravé,” in Havránek, Výbor, 1:300–302. 101. Bartoš, “Z počátků Husitského Básníka J. Čapka.” 102. Nejedlý, Dějiny husitského zpěvu, vol. 4. 103. “Nuž křesťané viery pravé,” in Havránek, Výbor, 1:300, lines 1–5. 104. “Nuž křesťané viery pravé,” in Havránek, Výbor, 1:301, line 16. 105. “Nuž křesťané viery pravé,” in Havránek, Výbor, 1:301, lines 26–30. 106. “Nuž křesťané viery pravé,” in Havránek, Výbor, 1:301, lines 41–45. 107. “Nuž křesťané viery pravé,” in Havránek, Výbor, 1:301, lines 13–15.



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108. “Nuž křesťané viery pravé,” in Havránek, Výbor, 1:302, lines 61–65. 109. “Nuž vy ševci viery nové” in Havránek, Výbor, 1:295–97. 110. “Nuž křesťané viery pravé,” in Havránek, Výbor, 1:296, 301, lines 8–9, 26–29. 111. Molnár and Cegna, Nicholas of Pelhřimov, Confessio Taboritarum, 183–221. See also Diles, “The Confessio Taboritarum of Nicholas Biskupec of Pelhřimov.” 112. “Nuž vy ševci viery nové” in Havránek, Výbor, 1:296, lines 11–15. 113. “Nuž vy ševci viery nové” in Havránek, Výbor, 1:296, lines 21–25. 114. “Nuž vy ševci viery nové” in Havránek, Výbor, 1:297, lines 52–55. 115. “Nuž vy ševci viery nové” in Havránek, Výbor, 1:296, lines 36–40.

Chapter 5 1. Klassen, “The Disadvantaged and the Hussite Revolution”; Fudge, “ ‘Neither Mine nor Thine.’ ” 2. Seibt, Hussitica, 16–57. 3. On chiliasm as an ideology of new spiritual elites, see Bylina, “Dwa nurty proroctw chiliastycznych,” 69–70. The question of power redistribution had long interested historiographers of Tabor, starting with the classic account by Palacký, Dějiny národu českého, 3:23. For Palacký, the reformers both in Prague and in Tabor assumed authority (over against appointed institutions) thanks to their erudition and moral standing. For a modern reading of Palacký and an explanation of how his interpretation relates to larger questions of Czech historiography, see Cermanová, “V zajetí pojmu,” 140. 4. For a succinct overview of the crusades, see Housley, Religious Warfare in Europe, 34–35. For more detail about the crusades, between 1420 and 1431, see Heymann, “The Crusades Against the Hussites.” For a handy collection of translated contemporary documents, see Fudge, The Crusade Against Heretics in Bohemia. 5. Housley, Religious Warfare in Europe, 33–61. 6. Havránek, Výbor, 2:199. 7. For a succinct summary of events, see Housley, Religious Warfare in Europe, 33–61. Many subsequent commentators, such as František Palacký and Josef Macek, would come to see the defeat at Lipany as a significant moment in the history of Bohemia’s national self-​­determination. For overviews of such scholarship and its role in the historiography, see Werner, Die Hussitische Revolution. 8. Published in Svejkovský, Veršované skladby, 116–50. The poem is discussed in Pekař, Žižka a jeho doba, 84–95; and, more recently, in Fudge, “Václav the Anonymous and Jan Příbram.” 9. Brušák, “Reflections of Heresy,” 255. See also Havránek, Výbor, 2:209–10. 10. The poem was written probably in the first half of 1424 by an unknown author. See Svejkovský, Veršované skladby, 31. Some speculation exists regarding this author’s identity, and scholars have put forth several competing theories. See Urbánek, “Mařík Rvačka jako protihusitský satirik”; Bartoš, “Z politické literatury doby husitské.” For a discussion of the composition, see Kolář, “K tradici českých dialogických skladeb”; Fudge, “Václav the Anonymous and Jan Příbram”; Brušák, “Reflections of Heresy.” The date (1424) has been accepted by most scholars, with the exception of Emil Pražák, who dated it to 1467–68. See Pražák, “Hádání Prahy s Horou a rozmlouvání o Čechách.” For counterarguments, see Bartoš, “O básníku husitských skladeb sborníku Budyšínského”; Hájek, “Příspěvek k bádání o skladbě Václav, Havel, Tabor”; and Čornej, “Příspěvek ke sporu o Skladbu Václav, Havel a Tábor.”

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11. Brušák, “Reflections of Heresy,” 255. 12. Brušák, “Reflections of Heresy,” 255, translated “Vrtoch” as “Waverer” to emphasize the changeableness of Havel’s mind, which Fudge followed in his “Václav the Anonymous and Jan Příbram.” According to the Electronic Dictionary of Old Czech, http://vokabular.ujc.cas.cz/, ­vrtoch could be translated as “whim,” “caprice,” or “(passing) fancy.” 13. “Václav, Havel a Tábor,” in Svejkovský, Veršované skladby, p. 117, lines 51–56. 14. “Václav, Havel a Tábor,” in Svejkovský, Veršované skladby, p. 138, lines 755–57. 15. “Václav, Havel a Tábor,” in Svejkovský, Veršované skladby, p. 138, lines 171–74. 16. For example, “Václav, Havel a Tábor,” in Svejkovský, Veršované skladby, p. 119, lines 97–102. 17. The composition was included in a manuscript along with a number of other polemical, pro-​­Catholic works of Hilarius Litoměřický, an ardent opponent of the chalice. Kadlec, “Hilarius Litoměřický v čele duchovenstva podjednou,” 187. 18. Fudge, “Václav the Anonymous and Jan Příbram,” 121, describes the poem as a “textual lament on the fate of religion in Bohemia.” 19. For an attempt to systematize the Hussite understanding of the law of God, see Fudge, “The ‘Law of God.’ ” 20. “Václav, Havel a Tábor,” in Svejkovský, Veršované skladby, p. 120, lines 137–40. 21. “Václav, Havel a Tábor,” in Svejkovský, Veršované skladby, pp. 120–21, lines 141–42, 149– 50, 158–59, 173–74. 22. On April 22, 1418, Martin gave Sigismund full authorization to take action against Hussite heretics. For the translated text of the anti-​­Hussite bull “Inter cunctus” by Pope Martin V, see John Foxe, Acts and Monuments, 3:557–67. 23. “Václav, Havel a Tábor,” in Svejkovský, Veršované skladby, p. 136, lines 711–14. Fudge calls this Tabor’s prima facie argument (“Václav the Anonymous and Jan Příbram,” 122 n. 24). 24. “Václav, Havel a Tábor,” in Svejkovský, Veršované skladby, pp. 136–37, lines 715–16, 742. 25. “Václav, Havel a Tábor,” in Svejkovský, Veršované skladby, p. 122, lines 207–12. 26. “Václav, Havel a Tábor,” in Svejkovský, Veršované skladby, p. 124, lines 280–81. 27. For an insightful study of the prevalence of literal exegesis and of its import among the Lollards, see Copeland, Pedagogy, Intellectuals, and Dissent in the Later Middle Ages. 28. “Václav, Havel a Tábor,” in Svejkovský, Veršované skladby, pp. 124–25, lines 286–310. 29. Svejkovský, Veršované skladby, 197. Many of the arguments for lay chalice were summarized in Jan Rokycana’s treatise on receiving the blood, in Šimek, Traktát Jana Rokycany O přijímání krve, which circulated both in Latin and in the vernacular. 30. “Václav, Havel a Tábor,” in Svejkovský, Veršované skladby, p. 126, line 364. 31. “Václav, Havel a Tábor,” in Svejkovský, Veršované skladby, p. 127, line 382. This is a reference to the practice of Christ’s apostles described in Acts 2:42, 46, and elsewhere. 32. “Václav, Havel a Tábor,” in Svejkovský, Veršované skladby, p. 128, lines 412–19. 33. “Václav, Havel a Tábor,” in Svejkovský, Veršované skladby, p. 136, lines 690–93. 34. “Václav, Havel a Tábor,” in Svejkovský, Veršované skladby, p. 143, lines 943–47. Instances of violence and vandalism by members of the Taborite commune are mentioned in a number of other contemporary sources, such as the chronicle of Lawrence, and discussed in Housley, Religious Warfare in Europe, 33–61. 35. “Václav, Havel a Tábor,” in Svejkovský, Veršované skladby, p. 123, lines 243–44 and 251–56. 36. “Václav, Havel a Tábor,” in Svejkovský, Veršované skladby, p. 150, lines 1185–88. 37. These have been called “magnificent rides” and are discussed in Fudge, The Magnificent Ride, 275–84.



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38. Pekař, Žižka a jeho doba, 139; Fudge, “Václav the Anonymous and Jan Příbram”; Kaminsky, History of the Hussite Revolution, 339–42. Kaminsky uses Příbram’s account to disentangle the mystery of Tabor’s origins, paying no attention to the treatise’s rhetorical force. See also a brief mention in Fudge, The Magnificent Ride, 237. 39. See, for example, Kaminsky, History of the Hussite Revolution, 350; Fudge, The Magnificent Ride, 156. 40. Boubín, Jan z Příbramě, Život kněží táborských, 39. Subsequent references to Příbram’s Život kněží táborských are to this edition. 41. See Pekař, Žižka a jeho doba, 145–48. 42. Pekař tried to reconcile the apparent contradiction by suggesting that perhaps Tábor disbanded all Latin schools and then instituted education in Czech; Pekař, Žižka a jeho doba, 148 n. 2. See also Nejedlý, Dějiny husitského zpěvu, 4:328; Toman, Husitské válečnictví, 44. 43. See Pekař, Žižka a jeho doba, 148. 44. Boubín, Jan z Příbramě, Život kněží táborských, 66. 45. Cermanová, “V zajetí pojmu,” 159. Cermanová discusses Příbram’s view of Taborite chiliasm. 46. Boubín, Jan z Příbramě, Život kněží táborských, 39–41. 47. See also Bartoš, “Kněz Jan Čapek”; Nejedlý, Dějiny husitského zpěvu, 4:168–86. On Tábor and its negative view of university education, Kejř, Mistři pražské univerzity a kněží táborští, 25–33. 48. Boubín, Jan z Příbramě, Život kněží táborských, 44. 49. There was some debate whether this treatise ought to be attributed to Jakoubek, but this was settled when it was noticed that Příbram said that the work was written by Čapek; see Bartoš, “Z politické literatury.” This vernacular tractate opens, “This book is written for the information and encouragement of the people in the year 1417, when communion of God’s body and blood in both kinds has been flourishing in Bohemia among the laity—​­among virgins, widows, and pious wives, [and among the laity] of both sexes.” Cited in Kaminsky, History of the Hussite Revolution, 257–58 n. 119. 50. Boubín, Jan z Příbramě, Život kněží táborských, 64. 51. Boubín, Jan z Příbramě, Život kněží táborských, 54–59. 52. Fudge, The Magnificent Ride, 154. 53. Boubín, Jan z Příbramě, Život kněží táborských, 58–60. 54. Housley, Religious Warfare in Europe, 34. Housley identifies four types of religious war in Hussite Bohemia: “the war in defence of a purified set of religious beliefs associated with Prague; the more urgent and uncompromising form of combat waged by the Taborite and Orebite brotherhoods; the apocalyptic and purgative violence used by the chiliasts; and the crusading warfare . . . ​expeditions.” 55. On the crusades’ destruction of the local economy, see Hoffmann, “Warfare, Weather, and a Rural Economy”; Fudge, The Magnificent Ride, 280–81. 56. Boubín, Jan z Příbramě, Život kněží táborských, 42. 57. On Taborite chiliasm, see Kaminsky, History of the Hussite Revolution; Kaminsky, “Chiliasm and the Hussite Revolution”; Leff, Heresy in the Later Middle Ages, 2:685–708; Šmahel, Die hussitische Revolution, 685–716, 1032–70, and 1131–58; Patschovsky, “Der taboritische Chiliasmus,” 169–95; Šmahel and Patschovsky, ed., Eschatologie und Hussitismus. On the historiography of Taborite chiliasm, see Cermanová, “V zajetí pojmu.” 58. Boubín, Jan z Příbramě, Život kněží táborských, 43. 59. Boubín, Jan z Příbramě, Život kněží táborských, 42–43.

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60. Boubín, Jan z Příbramě, Život kněží táborských, 47–49. 61. Pekař, Žižka a jeho doba, 125–38. See also Fudge, “Crime, Punishment and Pacifism in the Thought of Mikuláš of Pelhřimov.” 62. Molnár and Cegna, Nicholas of Pelhřimov, Confessio Taboritarum; subsequent references to Nicholas’s Confessio are to this edition. 63. Zilynská, Husitské Synody, 27–28; and Zilynská, “Synoden im utraquistischen Böhmen 1418–1531.” 64. Nicholas of Pelhřimov, Confessio, 68–70. 65. Nicholas of Pelhřimov, Confessio, 177–78. 66. Nicholas of Pelhřimov, Confessio, 90, 94–95. 67. Nicholas of Pelhřimov, Confessio, 183, 220–21.

Chapter 6 Parts of this chapter appeared in Perett, “A Neglected Eucharistic Controversy.” 1. See, for example, Šmahel, “Wyclif ’s Fortunes”; Herold, “Zum Prager Philosophischen Wyclifismus”; Šmahel, Die hussitische Revolution, 2:788–832. On the Lollard-​­Hussite exchange more generally, see Van Dussen, From England to Bohemia, especially chap. 3. On Wycliffism, see Hudson, The Premature Reformation; Hudson, Lollards and Their Books; Aston, Lollards and Reformers. See also the bibliography for Lollard studies compiled by Derrick G. Pitard, “Selected Bibliography”; also maintained online at http://lollardsociety.org. 2. Aers, Sanctifying Signs, 2–3. For more information about Netter, see Bergstrom-​­Alenn and Copsey, ed. Thomas Netter of Walden. 3. Aers, Sanctifying Signs, 4. 4. The leadership in Prague wished to unite the reformers with their (relatively moderate) program of reform, which consisted in the Four Articles: Utraquism (communion in both kinds), free preaching, punishment of public sins, and clerical poverty. Text in Kaminsky, History of the Hussite Revolution, 369. See also Uhlirz, “Die Genesis der Vier Prager Artikel”; Bartoš, “Do Čtyř Pražských Artikulů.” 5. The disputations and the eventual slide into hostility and noncommunication are well documented in Kaminsky, History of the Hussite Revolution, 460–94; Šmahel, Die hussitische Revolution, 2:1368–408, which includes a brief discussion of nationalism implicit in Příbram’s attacks on Peter Payne. See also Bartoš, The Hussite Revolution. 6. For political and military events, see Heymann, John Žižka and the Hussite Revolution; and Bartoš, The Hussite Revolution. 7. Ghosh, “Wyclif, Arundel, and the Long Fifteenth Century.” 8. On Příbram and the contentious dynamic among the reformers, see Fudge, “Václav the Anonymous and Jan Příbram,” 117–19; Pekař, Žižka a jeho doba, 139–48. 9. On the links between the English vernacular and heresy, see Aston, Faith and Fire; and Hudson, “Lollardy, the English Heresy?” On the concept of vernacular theology, see Watson, “Censorship and Cultural Change in Late-​­Medieval England,” especially 823 n. 4. Response in Kerby-​­Fulton, Books Under Suspicion, appendix A, 397–401. Watson’s article gave rise to a massive amount of scholarship, augmenting, reasserting, critiquing, or nuancing his thesis. See, for example, Blumenfeld-​­Kosinski, Robertson, and Warren, The Vernacular Spirit; Gillespie and Ghosh, After Arundel. For a useful bibliography, see Somerset and Watson, The Vulgar Tongue, 257.



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10. Wandel, The Eucharist in the Reformation, 82. 11. On medieval mass, see the following seminal works: Bossy, “The Mass as a Social Institution”; de Lubac, Corpus mysticum; Macy, “The ‘Dogma of Transubstantiation’ in the Middle Ages”; McCue, “The Doctrine of Transubstantiation from Berengar Through Trent”; Rubin, Corpus Christi. 12. Van Dussen, From England to Bohemia, 69–70; Šmahel, “Wyclif ’s Fortunes,” 472. Hudson thinks that Jerome brought with him De Eucharistia and De Apostasia or two shorter tractates; see Hudson, “From Oxford to Prague,” 646. Elsewhere, Šmahel speculates that Jerome made another trip to England; see Šmahel, “Leben und Werk des Magisters Hieronymus von Prag,” 89; Poole, “On the Intercourse Between English and Bohemian Wycliffites.” 13. Kaminsky, “The University of Prague in the Hussite Revolution,” 82; Kaminsky, History of the Hussite Revolution, 239. 14. Herold tries to put the entire discourse about Wyclif into context at Prague University, looking at debates and tractates written about Wyclif ’s De Ideis by Czech masters. He finds that they all wrote about De Ideis, and their tractates show that the influence of Wyclif was not unique. Herold, “Pražská univerzita a Wyclif,” 267; and more recently Herold, “Zur Rolle der Ideenlehre Platons.” 15. Šmahel, “Wyclif ’s Fortunes,” 472 and 482; Lambert, Medieval Heresy, 318. 16. Šmahel, “Wyclif ’s Fortunes,” 478–81. 17. Hudson, “From Oxford to Prague,” 646. See also Hudson, “The Survival of Wyclif ’s Works,” 7. 18. Van Dussen, From England to Bohemia, 70–75; Cook, “Peter Payne”; Lahey, “Peter Payne Explains Everything”; Bartoš, M. Petr Payne; Bartoš, Literární činnost M. Jana Rokycana, M. Jana Příbrama, M. Petra Payne. See also Betts, “Peter Payne in England,” 238; Emden, An Oxford Hall in Medieval Times, 134–61; and Thomson, “A Note on Peter Payne and Wyclyf.” 19. Bartoš, M. Petr Payne, 22. 20. Fudge, “Hussites and the Council,” 258. 21. Bartoš, M. Petr Payne, 31. See also Bartoš, Petri Payne Anglici positio, 1–40. 22. Betts, “Peter Payne,” 242–43. 23. Based on Emden, An Oxford Hall. 24. Bartoš, M. Petr Payne, 19. 25. Bartoš, M. Petr Payne, 17–18. 26. Wainwright and Tucker, The Oxford history of Christian Worship, 313–25; de Vooght, Jacobellus de Stříbro; David, Finding the Middle Way; Holeton, “The Bohemian Eucharistic Movement”; Krmíčková, “The Fifteenth Century Origins of Lay Communion.” 27. Šmahel is of the opinion that Payne did not start working on the registers until sometime in 1426 (“Wyclif ’s Fortunes,” 486–89), a view that strikes me as untenable. Taborite leaders must have used the registers in composing their own treatises much earlier. In contrast, Cook argues that Payne was involved in the development of Taborite theology from the early 1420s (“John Wyclif and Hussite Theology,” 338), which also supports my earlier dating of the registers. On indexes of Wyclif ’s works in general, see Hudson, “Contributions to a History of Wycliffite Writings.” Indexes, covering all the major theological writings of Wyclif and two philosophical tracts survive in Bohemian manuscripts, with some of them attributed to Peter Payne. 28. The attribution to Payne occurs in MS Prague University Library X.E.11, which consists entirely of Wyclif ’s indexes, attributed to Payne by name. Other manuscripts containing registers of Wyclif ’s work include, for example: Prague Cathedral Library C. 118; Vienna National Library MSS 3933 and 4514; Vienna National Library MSS 4536.

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29. This register is printed in Loserth and Matthews, Johannis Wyclif: Tractatus de mandatis divinis, 537–67. 30. Cook, “John Wyclif and Hussite Theology,” 340; and, by implication, Šmahel, “Wyclif ’s Fortunes,” 486–89. Also mentioned by Thomson, “A Note on Peter Payne,” 61, who wonders why no trace of those manuscripts have been found in Prague. 31. Cook, “John Wyclif and Hussite Theology,” 340 n. 33. 32. Sedlák, “O Táborských traktátech eucharistických.” 33. For a complete list of Payne’s works, see Bartoš, Literární činnost M. Jana Rokycana, M. Jana Příbrama, M. Petra Payne. 34. For information on the commune at Tabor, see Kaminsky, “The Religion of Hussite Tabor”; Kaminsky, “Hussite Radicalism”; Šmahel, Die hussitische Revolution, 2:1007–366; Šmahel et al, Dějiny Tábora, 2 vols. 35. On the debates that preceded Lateran IV, see Pelikan, A History of the Development of Doctrine, 3:184–204. 36. Macy, “The Theological Fate of Berengar’s Oath of 1059.” 37. Wandel, The Eucharist, 22. 38. For more detail, see Lahey, John Wyclif , chap. 3 (“Denying Transubstantiation”), 102– 33; Hornbeck, What Is a Lollard?, 70–101, where he summarizes Wyclif ’s Confessio. For an English summary of Wyclif ’s De Eucharistia, see Aers, Sanctifying Signs, chap. 3, pp. 53–65. For a Latin edition, see Loserth, Iohannis Wyclif: De Eucharistia. 39. Explaining the way in which it happens had occupied the best minds of the high and late medieval period. For a detailed discussion, see Macy, “Theology of the Eucharist in the High Middle Ages.” For a discussion of Wyclif ’s view of the Eucharist, see Penn, “Wyclif and the Sacraments,” especially 249–72; Levy analyzes the history of the medieval debate about the Eucharist in his John Wyclif: Scriptural Logic, 123–215. 40. Lahey, John Wyclif, 107. 41. For a discussion of the history of Eucharistic teaching in late Middle Ages, see Buescher, The Eucharistic Teaching of William Ockham; Burr, “Scottus and Transubstantiation”; Adams, “Aristotle and the Sacrament of the Altar.” 42. Hornbeck, What Is a Lollard?, 76. 43. Lahey, John Wyclif, 123. 44. In Wyclif ’s view, “the union between the bread and body finds its most appropriate parallel in the doctrine of the incarnation; just as two natures are there joined in a single person, so also through the words of institution are the substances of Christ’s body and bread present in the consecrated host.” Hornbeck, What Is a Lollard?, 75. 45. For example, the disputation at Konopiště was presided over by lay arbiters. Kaminsky, History of the Hussite Revolution, 467; Zilynská, Husitské Synody, 48–49. 46. For a complete list of Hussite synods and disputations with primary and secondary sources, see Zilynská, Husitské Synody, 15–30. See also Kaminsky, History of the Hussite Revolution, 500–516. On university disputations, see Svatoš, “Kališnická Univerzita,” 207. 47. Little of Tábor’s vernacular writing remains extant as much of that literature disappeared with the demise of Tábor. See Molnár, “O Táborském Písemnictví.” What remains are Peter Payne’s summaries of Wyclif ’s tractates, which, according to Cook, must have circulated widely (“John Wyclif and Hussite Theology,” 340). 48. Boubín, Jan z Příbramě, Život kněží táborských, 82. Also see Bartoš, “Klatovská Synoda Táborských Kněží,” which includes the text of the Latin and Czech reports that had circulated across the realm.



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49. Several of the extant Eucharistic tractates are edited in Sedlák, Táborské Traktáty Eucharistické. 50. Příbram (for the Hussite faction in Prague) and Nicholas of Pelhřimov (for Tábor); see Zilynská, Husitské Synody, 50–51. 51. Boubín, Jan z Příbramě, Život, 79. 52. Boubín, Jan z Příbramě, Život, 82. 53. Boubín, Jan z Příbramě, Život, 83. 54. Ghosh, “Bishop Reginald Pecock and the Idea of Lollardy,” 264. 55. Sedlák, Táborské Traktáty Eucharistické, 39. 56. Bartoš, Literární činnost M. Jana Rokycana, M. Jana Příbrama, M. Petra Payne. 57. Cook, “John Wyclif and Hussite Theology,” 340. 58. In his introduction to Táborské Traktáty Eucharistické, p. 39, Sedlák laments the fact that Příbram did not write in the vernacular much earlier. 59. Příbram’s “Vyznání o Večeři Páně” (Confiteor) was edited in Zachová and Boubín, “Drobné spisky Jana Příbrama,” 523–29. All subsequent citations are to this edition. 60. Příbram, “Vyznání o Večeři Páně,” 528–29. 61. The editors do not speculate about the text’s circulation, which is always difficult with texts from this period, but do describe the two extant manuscripts, one in Austria, in the National Library in Vienna and the other in the Czech Republic, in the Library of the Metropolitan Chapter in Prague. Zachová and Boubín, “Drobné spisky Jana Příbrama,” 522. 62. Příbram, “Vyznání o Večeři Páně,” 526. 63. For Taborite understanding of the mass, see Molnár and Cegna, Nicholas of Pelhřimov, Confessio Taboritarum. Taborite Eucharistic tractates are edited in Sedlák, Táborské Traktáty Eucharistické. 64. Bartoš, Literární činnost M. Jana Rokycana, M. Jana Příbrama, M. Petra Payne; Peter Payne’s treatises and polemics from this time period at pp. 101–3, nos. 9–11, Příbram’s at pp. 73– 74, nos. 12–14. For analysis of the disputation, see Zilynská, Husitské Synody, 63–68. 65. Edited in Boubín and Míšková, “Spis M. Jana Příbrama ‘Vyznání Věrných Čechů,’ ” 247; Zilynská, Husitské Synody, 67. 66. Boubín and Míšková, “Spis M. Jana Příbrama ‘Vyznání Věrných Čechů,’ ” 271; Cook, “John Wyclif and Hussite Theology,” 339–40. 67. Boubín and Míšková, “Spis M. Jana Příbrama ‘Vyznání Věrných Čechů,’ ” 273. 68. The vernacular portion is edited in Boubín and Míšková, “Spis M. Jana Příbrama ‘Vyznání Věrných Čechů,’ ” 262–83. The Latin treatise, printed in Johannis Cochlaeus, Historiae Hussitarum Libri Duodecim, 503–47, is more extensive. 69. Boubín and Míšková, “Spis M. Jana Příbrama ‘Vyznání Věrných Čechů,’ ” 273. 70. This stance fits well with Příbram’s overall crusade against Wyclif and his influence in Bohemia, evident from the long history of their interactions. Cook, “John Wyclif and Hussite Theology,” 336–44; also in Boubín and Míšková, “Spis M. Jana Příbrama ‘Vyznání Věrných Čechů,’ ” 246, which follows Cook’s interpretation. 71. Boubín and Míšková, “Spis M. Jana Příbrama ‘Vyznání Věrných Čechů,’ ” 269, 271; the transmission of Wyclif by Payne discussed in Cook, “John Wyclif and Hussite Theology,” 338–40. 72. Cook, “John Wyclif and Hussite Theology,” 343. 73. Literature on Wyclif includes Lahey, John Wyclif; Levy, A Companion to John Wyclif, with a useful bibliography; Hudson, “The Survival of Wyclif ’s Works.” See also Cook, “John Wyclif and Hussite Theology.”

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74. Boubín and Míšková, “Spis M. Jana Příbrama Vyznání Věrných Čechů,’ ” 264. 75. Boubín and Míšková, “Spis M. Jana Příbrama Vyznání Věrných Čechů,’ ” 263. For details about the 1408 condemnation of Wyclif, see Šmahel, Die hussitische Revolution, 2:814–16. 76. Palacký, Documenta, 649. 77. Boubín and Míšková, “Spis M. Jana Příbrama Vyznání Věrných Čechů,’ ” 263–65. After addressing the mass, Příbram continues to describe other articles of belief, such as secular property of priests, tithing, indulgences, war. 78. Frinta, “Kněze Petra Kányše Vyznání Víry.” For a discussion, see Peschke, Die Theologie der Böhmischen Brüder, 1–2. 79. Hornbeck, What Is a Lollard?, 74. 80. Walsh, “Wyclif ’s Legacy in Central Europe,” 403. 81. The followers were, in Latin, called Picardi (Pikarts), but their origin remains unclear. Holinka, “Počátky Táborského Pikartství”; Bartoš, “Konec Táborských Pikartů”; Kaminsky, History of the Hussite Revolution, 353–60; Fudge, “Heresy and the Question of Hussites in the Southern Netherlands.” 82. Aers, Sanctifying Signs, 2–3. 83. Hornbeck, What Is a Lollard?; Hornbeck argues that in the case of Lollardy, both Wyclif ’s theology of remanence and the figurative interpretation of the sacrament had roots “in the tangled web of Wyclif ’s ideas” (70). 84. Johannis de Zacz [Jan Němec], “Tractatulus [De Eucharistia],” in Sedlák, Táborské Traktáty Eucharistické, 1–20. All subsequent citations are to this edition. 85. Němec, “Tractatulus,” 19. 86. Němec, “Tractatulus,” 5. 87. Němec, “Tractatulus,” 2–3. 88. Příbram, “Tractatus de venerabili eukaristia contra Nicolaum falsum episcopum Taboritatum,” in Sedlák, Táborské Traktáty Eucharistické, 56–106; the seven theses are enumerated at pp. 84–87. 89. Kolář, “Petr Chelčický’s Defense of Sacramental Communion,” 133. 90. Boubín, Petr Chelčický, 86. See also Boubín, “Petr Chelčický und seine Ausführungen zur Gesellschaft.” 91. Wagner, Petr Chelčický, 103–4; the tractate does not survive in its original text. The Czech translation has been published in Sokol, “Traktát o zvelebení v pravdě svátosti těla a krve Pána našeho Jezukrista.” 92. Kolář, “Petr Chelčický’s Defense of Sacramental Communion.” Kolář analyzes this document and argues that Chelčický tried to defend real presence in the sacrament in an effort to defend the importance of sacramental communion. 93. Edited in Straka, Petra Chelčického replika proti Mikuláši Biskupci Táborskému. 94. Boubín, Petr Chelčický, 22. 95. Wagner, Petr Chelčický, 110. 96. There is no critical edition, but a German translation exists in Peschke, Die Theologie der Böhmischen Brüder. The principal manuscript is Metropolitan Chapter Library, Prague, D 82, fols. 287a–298b. See also Wagner, Petr Chelčický, 108 and n. 34. 97. Peschke, Die Theologie der Böhmischen Brüder, 1:142. Translated in Wagner, Petr Chelčický, 108. 98. Wagner, Petr Chelčický, 109–10 and n. 48. 99. On the Unity of Brethren and its relationship to Chelčický, see Spinka, “Peter Chelčický”; Odložilík, “A Church in a Hostile State”; Holeton, “Church or Sect?”; Atwood, The



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Theology of the Czech Brethren, 156–88; and Peschke, Kirche und Welt in der Theologie der Böhmischen Brüder. 100. Müller, Geschichte der Böhmischen Brüder, 1:209, 211. 101. Atwood, The Theology of the Czech Brethren, 180, 230. 102. Bose, “The Opponents of John Wyclif,” 436.

Chapter 7 1. On the Council of Basel and the centrality of the Hussite problem in its deliberations, see Christianson, “Church, Bible and Reform”; Krämer, Konsenz und Rezeption; and Stieber, Pope Eugenius IV, the Council of Basel and the Secular and Ecclesiastical Authorities in the Empire, 10–57. See also Fudge, “Hussites and the Council”; Jacob, “The Bohemians at the Council of Basel.” 2. For a detailed analysis of the Bohemian debates at the Council of Basel, including editions of the most important documents and a bibliography, see Šmahel, Basilejská kompaktáta. See also Cook, “Negotiations Between the Hussites, the Holy Roman Emperor, and the Roman Church”; and Eberhard, “Der Weg zur Koexistenz.” 3. On the development of the Utraquist Church, see Hlaváček, “Confessional Identity of the Bohemian Utraquist Church”; on the character of the church, see David, “Utraquism’s Liberal Ecclesiology.” 4. Edited in Palacký, Archiv český, 3:398–444. Translated text in Fudge, The Crusade Against Heretics in Bohemia, 368–72. 5. Not surprisingly, historians differ in their estimation as to which side had won a greater victory in the negotiations. For a discussion of the debates about what had happened at Basel and of the real gains and long-​­term impact of the Compacts, see Haberkern, Patron Saint and Prophet, 101–2. See also Eberhard, “Der Weg zur Koexistenz”; Šmahel, “Pax externa et interna.” 6. I follow the account in Bláhová, “M. Vavřinec z Březové a jeho dílo”; see also Kaminsky, “Pius Aeneas Among the Taborites”; and Pekař, Žižka a jeho doba, 37–62. 7. Such as Pekař, Žižka a jeho doba, 37–62; Kutnar, Přehledné dějiny českého a slovenského dějepisectví, 44–47. 8. Bláhová, “M. Vavřinec z Březové a jeho dílo,” 306. 9. Edited (both Latin and Czech) by Daňhelka, Husitské skladby Budyšínského rukopisu; the first is entitled Žaloba koruny České k bohu na krále Uherského a sbor Kostnický (in Latin, Satira Regni Boemie in Regem Hungarie Sigismundum) and is printed in Czech (23–31) and Latin (167– 73). The second is entitled Prorok České koruny králi Uherskému že neřádně korunu přijal sě násilím tiskne (in Latin, Corona Regni Boemie Satira in Regem Hungarie Sigismundum) and is printed in Czech (33–40) and Latin (173–78). 10. Discussed in Pekař, Žižka a jeho doba, 37–62, especially 55–58. 11. Edited in Goll, “Carmen insignis corone Bohemie,” FRB, 5:545–63. 12. Šmahel, “Enea Silvio Piccolomini,” liii–xcvii. For more detail about his life, see Pekař, Žižka a jeho doba, 160–68; and Christianson, “Aeneas Sylvius Piccolomini and the Historiography of the Council of Basel.” For a survey of (mostly English) writings about Piccolomini and by him, see Feinberg, “Aeneas Silvius Piccolomini.” 13. Brandmüller, Das Konzil von Pavia-​­Siena, vol. 1. 14. Jacob, “The Bohemians at the Council of Basel.” 15. For a discussion of this effort, see Kaminsky, “Pius Aeneas Among the Taborites”; and Rothe, “Enea Silvio de’Piccolomini über Böhmen.”

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16. Šmahel, “Enea Silvio Piccolomini,” lxxx–lxxxii. More generally about encroaching Islam, Moudarres, “Crusade and Conversion”; Meserve, Empires of Islam in Renaissance Historical Thought, 65–116. 17. References here are to Goll’s edition of Lawrence of Březová, Historia Hussitica. 18. All references here are to Martínková, Hadravová, and Matel’s edition of Piccolomini, Historia Bohemica, which presents the Latin text with a facing Czech translation. For another edition, see Hejnic and Rothe, Aeneas Silvius Piccolomini, Historia Bohemica. 19. Heymann, George of Bohemia. 20. I follow the well-​­researched account of Lawrence’s life given in Bláhová, “M. Vavřinec z Březové a jeho dílo,” 305–16. 21. Šmahel, “Enea Silvio Piccolomini,” liii–xcvii. 22. Fudge, “Seduced by the Theologians,” 90. 23. Piccolomini’s letter to Cardinal Carvajal from August 21, 1451, edited in Wolkan, Der Briefwechsel des Eneas Silvius Piccolomini, no. 12, pp. 22–57; hereafter “Letter to Cardinal Carvajal.” 24. Fudge, “Seduced by the Theologians,” 92. See also Šmahel, “Enea Silvio Piccolomini,” lxx–lxxvi. On the documents that Papoušek handed over, see Pekař, Žižka a jeho doba, 161. See also Rothe, “Enea Silvio de Piccolomini über Böhmen.” 25. Fudge, “Seduced by the Theologians,” 92. 26. “Letter to Cardinal Carvajal,” 23–37. See also Kaminsky, “Pius Aeneas Among the Taborites,” 287–95; Fudge, “Seduced by the Theologians,” 90–92. 27. The most helpful English introduction to Piccolomini’s Historia Bohemica remains Šmahel, “Enea Silvio Piccolomini.” 28. Fudge, “Seduced by the Theologians,” 90; Fudge offers a brief overview of the chronicle’s subject matter at pp. 91 and 94–96. 29. Fudge, “Seduced by the Theologians,” 92. 30. Kaminsky, “Pius Aeneas Among the Taborites,” 288–89. 31. Pekař, Žižka a jeho doba, 162. 32. Heymann, John Žižka and the Hussite Revolution; Šmahel, “Enea Silvio Piccolomini,” xcvii. 33. Bartoš, “Žižka v dějepisectví”; and Bartoš, Eneás Sylvius. 34. Šmahel, “Enea Silvio Piccolomini,” lxxxv–xcvi. 35. Fudge, “Seduced by the Theologians,” 98. 36. Šmahel, “Enea Silvio Piccolomini,” xcv–xcvi. 37. Housley identified four types of religious war: “the war in defence of a purified set of religious beliefs associated with Prague; the more urgent and uncompromising form of combat waged by the Taborite and Orebite brotherhoods; the apocalyptic and purgative violence used by the chiliasts; and the crusading . . . ​expeditions” (Religious Warfare in Europe, 34). See also Bisaha, “Pope Pius II and the Crusades.” 38. Jan Hus (along with communion in both kinds and the promotion of the “law of God”) was seen as crucial to the Hussite ideology and to the creation of the so-​­called Hussite myth. For more, see Fudge, The Magnificent Ride, 125. Also, Fudge, “The “Crown’ and ‘Red Gown,’ ” 38–57. For a compelling analysis of how the figure of Jan Hus loomed large over the development of the Bohemian reformation, see Haberkern, Patron Saint and Prophet, 104–48. 39. Haberkern, Patron Saint and Prophet, 26. For the standard critical edition, see Petr of Mladoňovice, “Relatio de magistro Johanne Hus,” in FRB 8 (1932): 25–120. Translated in Spinka, John Hus at the Council of Constance, 79–226.



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40. Cameron, “Medieval Heretics as Protestant Martyrs.” 41. For surveys of the development of Hus’s cult in the fifteenth century, see Holeton and Vlhová-​­Wörner, “Second Life of Jan Hus.” In visual arts, see Štěch, “Jan Hus ve výtvarném umění”; in homiletics, Halama, “Biblical Pericopes for the Feast of Jan Hus”; in iconography, Royt, “Ikonografie Mistra Jana Husa”; in music, Fojtíková, “Hudební doklady Husova kultu.” 42. On martyrs as dispensers of sanctity and on their political usefulness, see Gregory, Salvation at Stake, 126–38; Shepardson, Burning Zeal, 17–26; Covington, The Trial of Martyrdom; and Boyarin, Dying for God. 43. Lawrence of Březová, Historia Hussitica, 338. 44. On Petr’s life and career, see Bartoš, “Osud Husova evangelisty Petra Mladoňovice.” 45. Piccolomini, Historia Bohemica, 30. 46. On Hus’s view of the lay chalice, see Hilsch, Johannes Hus, 254; and Werner, Jan Hus, 99–104. 47. Krmíčková, “The Fifteenth Century Origins of Lay Communion,” 58–59; Bartoš, “Počátky kalicha.” 48. Korespondence, no. 143, pp. 296–99. Translated in Spinka, John Hus at the Council of Constance, no. 22, p. 277. 49. Šmahel, “The Divided Nation,” 85. “To deny adherence to the Chalice and sometimes even to the mother ‘tongue,’ which in public opinion abroad was still tainted with heresy, was not infrequently the only way of reaching one’s aim or getting out of a dangerous situation.” 50. Piccolomini, Historia Bohemica, 91. See also Fudge, “Seduced by the Theologians,” 93. Fudge begins his discussion of the chronicle by stressing the English origin of the heresy. 51. Fiala, Předhusitské Čechy, 347. 52. Piccolomini, Historia Bohemica, 95. 53. Wyclif ’s books came to Prague at the end of fourteenth century, probably brought by Jerome of Prague (who had studied at Oxford). Jan Hus and many other Czech masters at the university, themselves Augustinians, embraced Wyclif ’s ultrarealism. In 1403, the archbishop Zbyněk of Prague became involved, having been presented with a list of erroneous and heretical articles of Wyclif. Fiala, Předhusitské Čechy, 345–46. The literature on Hus and Wyclif is vast: Loserth, Wyclif and Hus; Leff, “Wyclif and Hus”; Kaňák, “Hus a Viklef ”; Kalivoda, “Hus a Viklef.” 54. Piccolomini, Historia Bohemica, 93. 55. Fudge, “Seduced by the Theologians,” 93. Pekař, Žižka a jeho doba, 164. 56. Piccolomini, Historia Bohemica, 95. 57. Fudge, “Seduced by the Theologians,” 93 and 99; Pekař, Žižka a jeho doba, 162. 58. Fudge, “Seduced by the Theologians,” 94. 59. “Letter to Cardinal Carvajal,” 27. 60. Piccolomini, Historia Bohemica, 101. Also see Fudge, “Seduced by the Theologians,” 93. 61. Piccolomini, Historia Bohemica, 93. 62. The chalice became the central symbol of the Czech reform movement from the very beginning, through images of a “goose” as an allusion to Hus (husa, meaning “goose”). Šmahel, “Válka symbolů.” 63. Lawrence of Březová, Historia Hussitica, 338. 64. Lawrence of Březová, Historia Hussitica, 329. 65. Lawrence of Březová, Historia Hussitica, 330, 333. 66. Lawrence of Březová, Historia Hussitica, 329–30. 67. For analysis of Christian martyrdom in the Reformation era among Protestants,

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Anabaptists, and Roman Catholics, see Gregory, Salvation at Stake; Gregory discusses Jan Hus as a proto-​­Reformation martyr (68–69). 68. For information about Bohemia and the council, see Fudge, “Hussites and the Council”; Jacob, “The Bohemians at the Council of Basel.” 69. Piccolomini, Historia Bohemica, 236. The connection between Waldensianism and Utraquism has been much debated by modern scholars, but the link appears to be tenuous. See Holinka, Sektářství v Čechách; Kaminsky, History of the Hussite Revolution, 171–80. For a dissenting opinion, see Cohn, The Pursuit of the Millennium. The so-​­called Waldensian hypothesis has also been discussed by Czech scholars; for an analysis, see Kaminsky, History of the Hussite Revolution, 172–73. On Waldensianism, see Audisio, The Waldensian Dissent. 70. On the introduction of the chalice, see Kaminsky, History of the Hussite Revolution, 98–126; Seibt, “Die Revelatio des Jacobellus”; on Jacobellus generally, see de Vooght, Jacobellus de Stribro; on the Utraquist victory, Kaminsky, History of the Hussite Revolution, 126–36. 71. Piccolomini, Historia Bohemica, 236–40. 72. Piccolomini, Historia Bohemica, 6–8. 73. Historians usually talk about five distinct crusades between 1420 and 1431, but the numbering is not universally accepted. For example, the contemporary Catholic writer Andrew of Regensburg, merged the second and third crusades into a single event. See Housley, “Explaining Defeat,” 89. For a succinct overview of the crusades, see Housley, Religious Warfare in Europe, 34–35. 74. Piccolomini, Historia Bohemica, 8, 10. 75. Josef Pekař, Žižka a jeho doba, 61. He also argues that there is no evidence that Lawrence exaggerated for effect, in order to depict the Taborites in a worse light. 76. Lawrence of Březová, Historia Hussitica, 344–45. 77. Lawrence of Březová, Historia Hussitica, 357–58. 78. Lawrence of Březová, Historia Hussitica, 364. See also Housley, Religious Warfare in Europe, 34. 79. Lawrence of Březová, Historia Hussitica, 286. 80. Lawrence of Březová, Historia Hussitica, 390. 81. On Chelčický’s critique of violence, see Wagner, Petr Chelčický, 86–90; Soukup, “Metaphors of the Spiritual Struggle”; Boubín, “Petr Chelčický und seine Ausführungen”; and Boubín, Petr Chelčický, 73–79. 82. Lawrence of Březová, Historia Hussitica, 362–63. 83. Piccolomini, Historia Bohemica, 256. 84. Lawrence of Březová, Historia Hussitica, 347. 85. Gregory’s Salvation at Stake does not account for this in his discussion of late medieval martyrdom. 86. Lawrence of Březová, Historia Hussitica, 386. 87. Lawrence of Březová, Historia Hussitica, 352. 88. Lawrence of Březová, Historia Hussitica, 386. 89. Gregory, Salvation at Stake, 62–73. 90. Lawrence of Březová, Historia Hussitica, 386. 91. Lawrence of Březová, Historia Hussitica, 351–52. 92. Piccolomini, Historia Bohemica, 102. 93. Piccolomini, Historia Bohemica, 102.



No t e s t o Pa ge s 2 1 5– 22 5

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Conclusion 1. Between 1319 and 1400, Prague served as the capital of the Holy Roman Empire. The city’s walled area was about 15 kilometers, or about 9.3 miles, and it enclosed about 1,400 hectares. The population in 1378 was estimated at 95,000. Chandler, Four Thousand Years of Urban Growth, 210. More recent estimates put Prague’s population at around 40,000 inhabitants, even after the plague. See Nicholas, The Later Medieval City, 39, 418; Nicholas describes Prague as “the best example of the growth of a national capital in the late Middle Ages.” Also see Zycha, Prag; Tomlinson, Medieval Architecture and Sculpture. 2. Mengel, “Bones, Stones, and Brothels”; Fiala, Předhusitské Čechy. 3. Poche, Praha středověká, index. 4. Translated in Spinka, John Hus at the Council of Constance, 296. 5. The full range of tractates written by Catholic authors against the Hussites is only now beginning to be understood and is not discussed here. Pavel Soukup is presently in the process of assembling and analyzing the known sources. The results of his research are available through the Repertorum operum antihussiticorum (www.antihus.eu). For some examples, see Soukup, “ ‘Pars Machometica’ in Early Hussite Polemics.” For an overview of this literature, see Haberkern, Patron Saint and Prophet, 87–92. 6. Translated in Spinka, John Hus at the Council of Constance, 288–89. Czech text in Korespondence, no. 156, pp. 324–26. 7. David, “The Interpretation of Jan Hus.” 8. Kaminsky, History of the Hussite Revolution, 98, 131. For a detailed analysis, see Šmahel, Basilejská kompaktáta. 9. For a basic overview and contextualization, see Riley-​­Smith, The Crusades, 274–75; and Housley, Religious Warfare in Europe, especially 33–61. See also Turnbull, Hussite Wars. For translations of important documents, see Fudge, Crusade Against Heretics in Bohemia. 10. Grant, For the Common Good. 11. Svatoš, “Kališnická Univerzita,” 207. 12. For example, Watson, “Censorship and Cultural Change in Late-​­Medieval England.” 13. Kaminsky, History of the Hussite Revolution, 98. 14. Kaminsky, History of the Hussite Revolution, 98. 15. Kaminsky, History of the Hussite Revolution, 98. 16. For a brief overview, see, for example, Šmahel, “Zur Einführung”; Haberkern, “What’s in a Name”; and Cameron, The European Reformation, 73–75. 17. The work was begun by Rychterová, “Die Verbrennung von Johannes Hus als europäisches Ereignis”; and Soukup, “ ‘Ne verbum Dei in nobis suffocetur.’ ” Soukup characterizes the Czech religious movement as a “preaching movement,” primarily disseminated by clerical preaching. My emphasis here is on other means of dissemination and participation. 18. Kaminsky, “The Problematics of ‘Heresy’ ”; and Kaminsky, “The Problematics of Later-​ ­Medieval ‘Heresy.’  ” 19. This picture has recently begun to be problematized by the corpus of recent works on Hus by Thomas Fudge, such as The Trial of Jan Hus; The Memory and Motivation of Jan Hus, Medieval Priest and Martyr; and Jan Hus: Religious Reform and Social Revolution in Bohemia.

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Index

adventism, 123, 124, 127 Aeneas Sylvius Piccolomini, 192–93, 195–96; at Basel, 205; and Historia Bohemica (see Historia Bohemica); and his visit to Tábor, 197. See also Pius II, Pope Alexander V, Pope, 22, 34, 66 annals and chronicles, 3, 81–82, 83, 193, 198. See also Historia Bohemica and Historia Hussitica Anne of Bohemia, 30 Antichrist, 62, 80; eschatological dimensions of, 119; in writings of Hus, 52, 54–56, 69, 73, 76, 78 anticlericalism, 13, 115, 124–28, 159 apocalypticism, 117, 128, 159 Aquinas, Thomas, 173 Aristotle, 173 Arundel, Archbishop, 170, 222 Augustine, Saint, 42 authority in the church, 15–16, 136, 143, 145–46, 148; debates about, 2; disobedience of, 6; laity decides about, 23, 66, 72–73, 77–78, 146; loss of, 12 Basel, Council of, 4, 6, 192, 195, 218, 223; establishment of Utraquist church, 14–15, 193, 205, 219 Bechyně Castle, 119, 209 Bequines, 100, 103 Benešov, town, 197 Bethlehem Chapel, 84, 98–99; audience, 72; foundation of, 21–22, 25–26; foundation charter, 25–28; as reform center, 26–28, 40–41; sermons in, 17; texts on walls, 17, 37–41, 79, 95; and Utraquism, 76, 91, 92. See also Hus, Jan Bible, 7, 12, 16, 36, 40, 63–64, 81, 98, 109–10, 119, 125–26, 142, 145–46, 156, 185; dangerous to laity, 99–101; debate about

interpretation, 150–51; interpretation of, 58, 98, 136, 148; literal exegesis, 151, 156; multiplicity of interpretations, 65, 152, 164; in propaganda, 98–103; as rule of faith, 76, 95, 163; at Tábor, 133, 135, 143, 155–57, 163, 184 biblical figures: Maccabees, 122, 149; models for Hus, 52, 56–59, 77, 84, 86; models for Tábor, 150 Black Rose, public house, 180 book burning. See Wyclif, John Březová, Lawrence of, 192–93, 193–95; works against Sigismund (see Budyšínský (Bautzen) manuscript). See also Historia Hussitica Brod, Andrew of, 151 Budyšínský (Bautzen) manuscript, 129, 130–32 Bylina, Stanisław, 120 Čapek, Jan, 137, 156–57 Capranica, Cardinal, 195 Carvajal, Cardinal, 197, 202 chalice (blood of Christ), 9, 76; Hussite symbol, 92, 201, 203; linked with violence, 153, 157. See also Utraquism; violence Charles IV, King, 197, 215 Charles University. See Prague University catechesis, 4–5, 7–11, 41–47, 142, 144–45, 164– 65, 177–78, 221–22; demand for, 8, 145 Chelčický, Peter, 185–88, 190; On the Body of Christ, 186; Reply to Nicholas, 186 chiliasm, 119–20, 128, 129, 159 chivalric poetry. See romances church: antagonism against, 7; apostolic/ primitive model, 106–8, 205; as community of predestined, 23, 50, 61; parallel church, 24, 77, 79, 103–4, 118; true vs. false, 7. See also names of individual churches

284 In d e x churches: Our Lady of the Snows, 119; St. Adalbert, 76; St. Ambrose, 119; St. ­Martin-​­in-​­the-​­Wall, 76; St. Michael, 76 Compactata (Compacts) of Basel (1436), 192–93; revocation of (1462), 193, 196, 197 compositions, Latin, 5, 144, 146, 153, 154, 160–63, 171, 174–75, 189 compositions, vernacular, 5, 8, 12, 171, 174–78, 214, 223; authorship, 5, 8; diversity of, 19; more than catechesis, 7, 12; against Tábor (see Tábor); use of, 5, 114–15, 118, 174–75. See also catechesis; literature, vernacular; songs, vernacular concomitance. See eucharist Confessio Taboritarum, 144, 160–63 Constance, Council of, 6, 31, 39, 83, 118, 129, 179; bans vernacular songs, 83, 91, 92, 113; condemns alliances, 13–14; condemns Utraquism, 92; criticized in songs, 85, 87, 90, 91; and Hus, 54, 56–57, 63, 76, 81–82, 203, 216. See also songs, vernacular corruption, ecclesiastical, 70, 103–13 crusades, 14, 17, 149, 161, 206, 219 Daňhelka, Jiří, 129 Daniel Adam, 198 de Causis, Michael, 49 defenestration, 121 Devotio moderna, 11, 12–13 diet, Bohemian, 197, 219 disputations, 173, 178, 179, 186, 218 Domažlice, battle of, 194 Dresden, Nicholas of, 151 Dresden, Peter of, 205 Eastern Orthodox Church, 95 education. See catechesis England, 13, 30, 166, 168, 170, 183, 188, 189, 222 eucharist: disagreement about, 1–2, 13, 168, 171, 172–75, 179–80, 181–88, 188–91; remanence, 31; songs about, 111; sub utraque specie, 6, 76; at Tábor, 127, 133, 158–60, 165, 178, 183–85, 189; transubstantiation, 172–73, 182; Wycliffite understanding of, 2, 166–68, 170–71, 176, 178–88. See also Utraquism excommunication, 82, 83. See also Hus, Jan factions: formation, 9, 91, 113, 122; and Jan Hus, 17, 51, 59, 74–78; religious, 7, 13, 79, 91; struggle, 8, 84, 142, 163, 222

Fathers of the Church, 7, 36, 40, 57, 61–62, 95, 151–52, 205 five cities of refuge, 123, 156 Flajšhans, Václav, 49 n.106 Four Articles of Prague, 117, 121, 170, 223; defended at Basel, 218 Franciscans, 12 Frederick III, King, 195, 197 Frömmigkeitstheologie. See Hamm, Bernard Fudge, Thomas, 4 n.12, 49 n.106, 59 n.33, 62 n.53, 69 n. 95, 75, 79–80, 86 n.40, 120, 158, 197, 202 Geiler, Johann, 12 Germans, 38, 98, 215; at Prague University, 31, 169 Germany, 5 Gerson, Jean, 8 n.22 Great Schism, 30 Habermas, Jurgen, 7 n.16 Hamm, Bernard, 8 n.23 Havlík, priest in Bethlehem Chapel, 75, 92 heresy, 7, 13; label of, 14; markers of, 154, 160, 179, 180, 189; rise of, 197; Wycliffite, 166. See also Pikarts, Lollards heretics, 10 Hermann, Bishop, 104 Historia Bohemica, 18, 192, 196–99, 218, 224; on chalice, 205–6; circulation, 198; on Jan Hus, 201–3, 213; on perniciousness of Hussite heresy, 212–13; on Tábor, 206, 207– 9; on Taborite mass, 209; on violence, 213 Historia Hussitica, 1, 18, 119, 120, 123, 192, 196–99, 224; on chalice, 200–201, 203–5, 207, 212; circulation, 198; on Jan Hus, 200, 203; martyrdom for the chalice, 210–12; on Tábor, 206, 207–9; on violence, 209–10 historiography, 5, 7, 119, 123, 198, 216, 225; Marxist, 4, 114, 119, 123 Housley, Norman, 159 n.54 Hradiště, fortress of, 128 Hus, Jan, 16, 194, 216; accused of heresy, 12, 14; appeal to Christ, 47–50, 63, 77; attacks clerical immorality, 12, 29–30, 125; on authority in the church, 23, 35–36, 39–41, 41–47; at Bethlehem Chapel, 12, 17, 28–30, 37–41; on chalice, 92; conflict with official church, 17, 29–30, 33–34, 52–53; contemptus mundi rethought, 63, 73; critique of fellow clerics, 29–30, 34–36,



In d e x

285

39–47, 62, 69, 73, 77; death of, 6, 78, 79, 81, 84, 90, 91, 132; early life and education, 21; excommunication, 22, 45, 47, 53–54, 55, 66–67, 77; exile, 17, 41, 53, 55, 57–58, 59, 66, 76, 77; legal trouble, 48–50, 66; martyr and saint, 14, 82, 84, 85, 87–88, 180, 199, 217; as model for others, 86, 88– 89, 161; and moral victory, 51, 54; national hero, 7; opposes indulgences, 68–69; as pastor, 52, 59–60, 64–65, 97; preaching, 21–23, 29–36; radicalization, 34–36, 37–41, 54–56; reformer, 36; royal support for, 53; safe conduct, 216; songs about (see songs, vernacular); synodal preacher, 24, 32; us vs. them, 35–36, 52–53, 70, 73, 74, 77–78; view of spirituality, 59–61, 62–74; and Wyclif, 22, 31, 45, 69–70. See also Hus’s writings Hussite League, 104 Hussites: critique of the church, 7; and lay empowerment, 2, 5, 64; leadership, 92, 104, 112, 170 (see also Prague University); as movement, 6, 8, 10, 14–15; national heroes, 7; support of laity, 7, 79. See also moderate/ Prague faction Hus’s writings: De ecclesia, 54, 55; De Sex Erroribus (On the Six Errors), 37–41, 41–47, 77, 105; Exposition of the Faith, 52, 60, 62, 64, 65, 68, 71–73; Exposition of the Lord’s Prayer, 52, 60, 62, 64, 65, 71–73; Exposition of the Ten Commandments, 52, 60, 62, 64, 65, 71–73; Letters, 53–59, 75–77, 81; On Simony, 52, 61–62, 66, 70–71, 77; Postil (Czech), 52, 60–61, 62, 64–66, 68, 71–72, 73, 77; Postil (Latin), 62; vernacular, 136

John XXIII, Pope, 22, 39, 68 just/unjust war, 143, 159

Imitation of Christ. See Kempis, Thomas à indulgences, 39, 113 infant communion, 119, 148. See also utraquism inquisitor, 33 interdict, 22, 54, 56, 83 invective, 152, 154, 155, 205 Islam, 195, 197, 206

manifestos, 3, 129 Martin Hůska (Loquis or Mluvka), 181–82 martyrs and martyrdom, 122, 204–5, 211–12 mass. See eucharist McGinn, Bernard, 9 Mikuláš Faulfiš, 170 Milheim, John of, 25 Milíč, Jan of Kromeříž, 24–25 Mladoňovice, Petr of, 199, 200 moderate/Prague faction, 118–19, 141, 143–44, 170, 184, 208 monasticism, monks and nuns, 8, 11, 13, 108, 159; Carthusian monastery, 210 Moravia, 83, 85

Jan Jičín, 123 Janov, Matthew of, 25 Jan Protiva. See inquisitor Jesenice, Jan of, 47 Jews, 147, 150, 215

Kaminsky, Howard, 3, 74 n.120, 76, 117, 120–21, 223 Kejř, Jiří, 130 Kempis, Thomas à, 11 Klassen, John M., 130–31 Kněhyně, Jiří of, 170 Kozí Hrádek, Castle, 54, 75 Kutná Hora, town of, 212 Ladislaus, King of Naples, 68 laity, 8, 81; access to theological debates, 9, 145–46, 153, 164–65, 171, 184, 188, 190–91, 219, 222; as arbiters of clerical morality, 24, 36; as targets of deliberate messaging, 51, 160, 175, 179, 211–12, 221–22 land, ecclesiastical control of, 83 law of God, 46–47, 97, 136, 145, 148–49; as source of authority, 15 Lipany, battle of, 17, 145, 222 literacy, lay, 8, 81, 175, 191 literature, entertainment, 4, 114. See also romances literature, vernacular, 16, 114–15; idealization of, 9; proliferation of, 4, 7, 13, 80, 118, 188– 89, 191, 219, 223; written to exclude, 38. See also compositions, vernacular Lives of the Taborite Priests (Život kněží táborských), 153–60, 165, 167, 175, 185, 221 Lollards, 6, 10, 13, 101, 103, 151, 170, 188, 225. See also Wycliffites Luther, Martin, 15, 64, 168, 189 Lužnice River, 128

286 In d e x Muslims. See Islam mysticism, 8 nationalism, 225 Němec, Jan, 183, 184, 186 Netter, Thomas, 166, 183 Nyssa, Gregory of, 2 nobility, Czech, 118, 160, 219; protest over Hus’s death, 82 nominalism, 169 Oldham, John, 170 Oxford, University of, 30–31, 169, 170 pagans, 147, 150 Páleč, Stephen of, 49, 216 papacy, 7; authority undermined, 13; and Hus, 43–44, 54–56 parishes, ownership of, 103 parody. See satire Payne, Peter, 167, 169–71, 172–75, 176–81, 189 Pekař, Josef, 123, 155 nn.41–42, 198, 202, 206 Pelhřimov, Nicholas of (Biskupec), 160–61, 186–87, 194 Peter Kániš, 181–82 Pikarts, 167, 168, 171, 181–83, 184, 186, 190 Pilgrims/pilgrimage. See processions Pius II, Pope, 193. See also Aeneas Sylvius Piccolomini, Historia Bohemica Poděbrady, George of, King, 145, 197 Poland, 5 Prachatice, Christian of, 55 Prague, 11, 215; archbishopric of, 215; seat of the empire, 3, 5–6, 215 Prague, Jerome of, 31, 95, 114, 132, 169, 170; heretic, 14; regarded as saint and martyr, 85, 180; songs about, 83, 90 Prague University, 6, 194, 219; on the chalice, 91 (see also Utraquism); Czech “nation,” 169; debates Wyclif, 166, 169; masters, 12, 19, 117, 128, 163, 167, 174, 178–79, 197, 223; ruling of, 55, 56, 58 preaching: adventist, 127; banned, 34, 38–39, 44, 50, 58, 66; by Hus, 29–30 (see also Bethlehem Chapel); and reform, 24–25, 80; against Roman Catholic church, 29–30; vernacular, 25–28 Příbram, Jan of, 154, 165, 167–69, 171, 174–75, 185, 189, 208; Confession of the Faithful Czechs, 179–81; opinion of vernacular, 154, 167, 176–81, 185; against Peter Payne, 176–81

printing press, 6–7 processions, 84, 119–20 Prokop Lupáč, 198 propaganda, 85, 114–15, 144 Protestant Reformation, 3, 6, 7, 12, 15, 80, 81, 165, 168, 189, 225–26 public intellectual, 8–9, 73 public sphere, 7, 53, 71, 78 Reformation. See Protestant Reformation reform in the church, 7, 8, 12, 13, 22, 36, 118, 218 Regulae veteris et novi testamenti. See Janov, Matthew of Rejnštejn, Cardinal John of, 58 Richard II, 30 Rokycana, Jan, 170 romances, 3 Rome, 49 salvation, 58, 72, 91; debates about, 2 Satan, 82, 153, 205 satire, 100–103, 109–11, 129, 138–41, 142 scholasticism, 185, 190 Second Coming of Christ, 123, 128, 156 secularization of church property, 108–9. See also Wyclif, dominion doctrine Sedlák, Jan, 123 Sedlec, Castle, 208 Seibt, Ferdinand, 130 sermons, 3, 8. See also preaching Sigismund, 83, 118, 121–23, 129, 216, 219; at Basel, 170; coronation in Prague, 130; opposition to and demonization of, 129, 130–32, 141, 219 simony, 29–30, 105–7, 120, 161, 164 Sisters and Brothers of the Common Life. See Devotio moderna Šmahel, František, 3, 71 n.103, 74–75 Soběslav, Jan Papoušek of, 197 songs, vernacular, 3, 17, 83; authorship, 4, 85, 113–15, 223; battle songs, 133–34; about the Bible, 84, 98–103, 115; about chalice, 84, 115, 145, 150–53; about Jan Hus, 83, 84–91, 115, 136; about money/simony, 84, 103–13, 115, 136; about Tábor, 124–28, 136–41. See also compositions, vernacular Soukup, Pavel, 49 n.106, 75 Štítný, Thomas of, 8, 136 Stříbro, Jakoubek of, 79, 129, 170, 194; De communione parvolum, 76; and infant



In d e x

communion, 76, 95; Salvator noster, 76; and Utraquism, 76, 91, 96, 151, 204, 206 Sušice, 175 Švamberk, lord, 175 synods: Prague, 22, 30–31, 47, 55, 113; between reform factions, 161, 173–74 Tábor, 133, 135–36, 145; anti-​­Taborite writings, 18, 143, 154–60 (see also Lives of the Taborite Priests); leaders, 143, 144; opposition to, 129, 144; origins, 119–22, 128, 196; pro-​ ­Taborite writings, 17, 144, 160–63. See also songs, vernacular; violence Taborites, 129; religion of, 139, 144, 157–60, 161–63 Tabule veteris et novi coloris, 80 theology in the vernacular, 7, 16, 191, 220–22 “theology of piety.” See Hamm, Bernard Tismenice Stream, 128 Tours, Berengar of, 172 transubstantiation, 9, 18, 172–73, 184, 185

287

vernacular theology, 9–10. See also theology in the vernacular vestments, ecclesiastical, 133, 174 violence, 6, 121, 140, 144, 150, 153, 157, 159, 163, 208–9, 222; as doing God’s work, 134; as sign of God’s favor, 164. See also crusades Vítkov Hill, 130 Všerub, Peter, 30

Unitas Fratrum (Unity of Brethren), 188 Ústí, Jan of, 54 Ústí, Oldřich of, 208 Utraquism: condemned, 92, 93, 157–60; education about, 76, 93–94, 96, 148, 150–51, 196; necessary for salvation, 91, 93, 96; practice of, 91, 118; social implications of, 76, 92; theological justifications for, 170; toleration, 4, 14–15, 92, 195, 205. See also chalice Utraquist Church, 195, 208. See also Basel, Council of

Wagner, Murray L., 187 Waldensians, 205 Waldhauser, Conrad, 24–25 Watson, Nicholas, 9 n.26, 10 Wenceslas (Václav) IV, King, 25, 50, 83, 115, 117–19; death of, 121–22, 219; and Hus, 45–46, 53; and indulgences, 39; ineptitude of rule, 197 Wenceslas, Saint, 100, 148 women, 10, 100–101, 103 Wyclif, John: and Bohemia, 24–25, 30, 89, 166, 168–69, 170–71, 175, 176; burning of his books, 22, 45, 57, 68; critique of transubstantiation, 18, 170–71, 172–73, 189–90; De apostasia, 31; De dominio civili, 169; Decalogus, 62, 171; De eucharistia, 31; Dialogus, 31, 169; dominion doctrine, 103, 109; ecclesiology, 34, 50 (see also church, as community of predestined); eucharistic writings, 167; forty-​­five articles, 170; as heretic, 179; and his registers, 171, 178; reputation, 31; Trialogus, 31, 169; writings of, 166 Wycliffites, 100–101, 115, 169, 170. See also Lollards

Václav, Havel and Tábor, 145–53, 154, 157, 163, 164, 211, 221 Václav Hájek, 198 Václav Koranda, 123 Váhala, Antonín, 59 n.34 Valdes, Peter, 44 Vartenberk, Čeněk of, 104 vernacular Bible, 155

Zbraslav, monastery, 209 Zbyněk, Zajíc of Hazmburk, Archbishop of Prague, 22, 32, 51 Železný, Jan, 83 Želivský, Jan, 83, 120–21, 194 Žižka, Jan, 133, 135, 207 Znojmo, Stanislav of, 49, 216 Zwingli, Ulrich, 168, 189

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Acknowledgments

A book grows in a mysterious way. Because no single day’s work makes a noticeable dent in the amount of effort the project requires, a book takes shape slowly, imperceptibly. This book was a part of my life for many years and came to reflect much that happened during those years: books read, conferences attended, criticisms received, even chance conversations have all found their way into the text. These acknowledgments seem like a fitting opportunity to remember them and express my gratitude. I would begin by thanking the University of Pennsylvania Press, and particularly Jerry Singerman for shepherding this book to completion. He has been patient but demanding, and I appreciate his focused attention and support for this project. I am grateful as well to Ruth Mazo Karras and Phil Haberkern, who gave generously of their time and expert attention, offering thoughtful comments and suggestions. Their willingness to take the time to sit with the manuscript struck me as a profound act of service. Scholarship does not flourish in all communities, but I have been fortunate in colleagues in the Department of History, Philosophy, and Religious Studies at North Dakota State University. It is a place that abounds with gracious and thinking people who embody the best that academia has to offer and who have offered inspiration at moments when it was most needed. This book could hardly have been completed without the generous institutional support that I have received over the last decade, travel grants and research fellowships. I am grateful to the University of Notre Dame for awarding me the Nanovic Institute’s Travel Grant and the Zahm Research Travel Grant, to Notre Dame’s Institute for Scholarship in the Liberal Arts for awarding me its Research Grant, and to Notre Dame’s Office of Research for its Edward Sorin Teaching and Research Fellowship. People have been no less important in the writing of this book, most notably the scholars at Notre Dame’s Medieval Institute, and especially Thomas F.  X. Noble, Sabine MacCormack, Brad Gregory, and Remie Constable.

290 Ac k n ow le d gm e n t s

Special thanks go to John Van Engen, who has offered unstinting encouragement and proved a tough but gracious interlocutor throughout the years, exacting but generous with his time and expertise. His erudite empathy for the people perceived as being on the margins of medieval society not only inspired me to be compassionate ­toward the people that I study but has also taught me to be a better historian. I also owe a debt to the institutions that welcomed me during extensive research stays in the Czech Republic: the Hussite Museum in Tábor, whose Zdeněk Vybíral took interest in my research and provided helpful guidance, and the Center for Medieval Studies in Prague, which graciously included me in its monthly colloquia. The sources gathered during these stays proved invaluable and form the heart of this book. In addition, I benefited from conversations with many Czech scholars, especially Jan Hrdina, who recommended many an important book. In retrospect, I wish that I could have been a more regular participant in the Czech academic community, both in Prague and in Vienna. No doubt the book would have been stronger for it. Finally, I would like to thank my family. My son, John Amaury, may have actually sped up the completion of this book by forcing me to develop time-​ ­management skills. But, more important, his joy and wonder at the world have made me a happier person and, I daresay, a more empathetic historian. Last but not the least is my husband, Benoît, whose unwavering support and a willing embrace of all manner of adventure, like moving to North Dakota and becoming a stay-​­at-​­home dad, have made this book possible. It has been said that all happy families are alike. It may be so, but there is nothing ordinary about this happiness. In gratitude for our loving home and the growth that it engenders, it is to Benoît and John Amaury that I dedicate this book.