The Art and Culture of Scandinavian Central Europe, 1550–1720 9780271085234

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The Art and Culture of Scandinavian Central Europe, 1550–1720

The Art and Culture of Scandinavian Central Europe, 1550–1720 Kristoffer Neville

The Pennsylvania State University Press University Park, Pennsylvania

Frontispiece: Nicodemus Tessin the Younger, Drottningholm Palace gardens. From Dahlbergh, Suecia Antiqua. Photo: The Royal Library, Stockholm. This publication is made possible in part from the Barr Ferree Foundation Fund for Publications, Department of Art and Archaeology, Princeton University and by the Berit Wallenberg Foundation.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: Neville, Kristoffer, author. Title: The art and culture of Scandinavian Central Europe, 1550–1720 / Kristoffer Neville. Description: University Park, Pennsylvania : The Pennsylvania State University Press, [2019] | Includes bibliographical references and index. Summary: “Explores early modern Scandinavia as an integral and essential part of Central Europe. Examines the visual arts in all media from the Reformation to the fall of Sweden as a great power in the earlier eighteenth century”—Provided by publisher. Identifiers: LCCN 2018054415 | ISBN 9780271082257 (cloth : alk. paper) Subjects: LCSH : Arts, Scandinavian—16th century. | Arts, Scandinavian—17th century. | Arts, Scandinavian—18th century. | Scandinavia—Civilization—16th century. | Scandinavia—Civilization— 17th century. | Scandinavia—Civilization—18th century. | Scandinavia—Relations—Europe, Central. | Europe, Central—Relations—Scandinavia. Classification: LCC NX 557.N 48 2019 | DDC 700.948/0903—dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2018054415

Copyright © 2019 Kristoffer Neville All rights reserved Printed in China Book design & typesetting by Garet Markvoort, zijn digital Published by The Pennsylvania State University Press, University Park, PA 16802–1003 The Pennsylvania State University Press is a member of the Association of University Presses. It is the policy of The Pennsylvania State University Press to use acid-free paper. Publications on uncoated stock satisfy the minimum requirements of American National Standard for Information Sciences—Permanence of Paper for Printed Library Material, ansi z 39.48–1992.

F or my fa mily

Contents

List of Illustrations ix

4 Christian IV 67

Preface and Acknowledgments xiii

5 Minerva’s World 95

Introduction 1

1 Gothicism in Germania 13

2 Reform and Reformation 29 3 Frederik II and the Arts in Denmark in the Later Sixteenth Century 49

6 Two Queens 113 7 Absolutism 135 Epilogue: The Romantic North 163 Notes 177 Bibliography 187 Index 207

Illustrations

Color Plates (following page 112) 1. Dominicus ver Wilt, Erik XIV of Sweden, 1561 2. After Hans Knieper, Frederik II and Prince Christian (IV), tapestry, after 1581 3. Pieter Isaacsz, Christian IV of Denmark, ca. 1614 4. Pieter Isaacsz, Prince-Elect Christian, ca. 1618 5. Karel van Mander III, Christian IV on Horseback, ca. 1642 6. Sébastien Bourdon, Queen Christina of Sweden, 1653 7. Jürgen Ovens, Hedwig Eleonora of Schleswig-Holstein-Gottorf Crowned by Minerva, 1654 8. David Klöcker Ehrenstrahl, Allegory of the Regency of Carl XI / Hedwig Eleonora as Protector of the Arts, 1697

9. David Klöcker Ehrenstrahl, Sculpture, Poetry, and Painting Gathered Around Christina-Minerva, 1691 10. David Klöcker Ehrenstrahl, Self-Portrait with Allegories of Pictura and Inventio, 1691 11. Georges Desmarées, Nicodemus Tessin the Younger, 1723 12. Allart van Everdingen, Nordic Landscape with Waterfall, 1640s 13. David Klöcker Ehrenstrahl, Black Grouses Courting, 1675 14. Caspar David Friedrich, A Walk at Dusk, ca. 1830–35 15. Johan Thomas Lundbye, Dolmen at Raklev, Denmark, 1839

Figures 1. Emperor Maximilian I as Hercules Germanicus, ca. 1495–1500 | 14 2. Carl XI of Sweden as King of the Goths, in Roman Costume | 23 3. Views of Ållonö Estate | 24 4. Nickel Gromann, chapel of Hartenfels Castle, Torgau, Saxony, 1543–44  |  32 5. Chapel of Frederiksborg Palace, Hillerød, Denmark, 1606–16 | 35 6. Oratory in chapel of Frederiksborg Palace, Hillerød, Denmark, as rebuilt 1864–79 | 36 7. Altarpiece of Frederiksborg Palace chapel, Hillerød, Denmark, completed 1606  |  37 8. Jacob Binck, Christian III of Denmark, 1535 | 39 9. Cornelis Floris, tomb of Frederik I of Denmark, Schleswig cathedral, 1551–53 | 40 10. Cornelis Floris, tomb of Birgitte Gøye and Herluf Trolle, Næstved, Denmark, 1566–68 | 41 11. Cornelis Floris, tomb of Christian III, Roskilde, Denmark, 1569–75  |  42 12. Francesco Primaticcio and Germain Pilon, tomb of Henri II of France and Catherine de’ Medici, St. Denis, near Paris, 1561–73  |  43

Illustrations

13. Gabriele and Benedetto Thola, Antonius van Zerroen, and others, tomb of Elector Moritz of Saxony, Freiberg, Saxony, 1559–63 | 45

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14. Choir of Freiberg cathedral with Wettin funerary monuments, Freiberg, Saxony, from 1585 | 46

15. Willem van den Blocke, tomb of Johan III of Sweden, Uppsala, Sweden, begun 1593 | 47 16. Kronborg Castle, Elsinore, Denmark, expanded from 1574, rebuilt after 1629  |  50 17. Georg Labenwolf, Neptune fountain, formerly in Kronborg Castle, Elsinore, Denmark, 1576–83 | 54 18. Georg Wurzelbauer, Fountain of the Virtues, Nuremberg, 1583–89 | 56 19. Uraniborg, observatory of Tycho Brahe, Hven, Denmark, begun 1576  |  58 20. Johan Gregor van der Schardt, Frederik II of Denmark, 1577–79 | 60 21. Johan Gregor van der Schardt, Mercury, ca. 1577?  |  62 22. Melchior Lorck or Hans Knieper? Frederik II of Denmark, ca. 1581  |  65 23. Adriaen de Vries, Neptune fountain, Frederiksborg Palace, Hillerød, Denmark, 1615–19 (destroyed 1659, reconstructed 1888) | 68 24. François Dieussart, Christian IV of Denmark, 1643 (cast 1650)  |  71 25. Giambologna, Grand Duke Cosimo I of Tuscany, Florence, 1587–93  |  72 26. Detail of gallery, Frederiksborg Palace chapel, Hillerød, Denmark | 76 27. Pieter Isaacsz, Saturn and the Scholar, ca. 1618–22 | 79 28. Gerrit van Honthorst, King Jarmeric Torturing the Wends, ca. 1638  |  81 29. Rosenborg Palace, Copenhagen, begun 1606 | 84

30. Winter Room, Rosenborg Palace, Copenhagen | 85 31. Frederiksborg Palace, Hillerød, begun 1603 | 86 32. Escorial, near Madrid, 1563–81. Engraving by Pedro Perret, 1583–89  |  91 33. City residence, Landshut, Bavaria, 1536–43 | 93 34. Hendrick Hondius after Jacob Hoefnagel, Queen Maria Eleonora of Sweden, 1629 | 97 35. Georg Petel, Gustaf II Adolf of Sweden, model produced in Augsburg, 1632  |  98 36. David Beck, Axel Oxenstierna, chancellor of Sweden, ca. 1647–51  |  101 37. Georg Ridinger, Johannisburg Palace, Aschaffenburg, near Frankfurt, 1605–14 | 104 38. Caspar Vogel, Nicodemus Tessin the Elder, and others, Skokloster, near Stockholm, begun 1653 | 104 39. Nicodemus Tessin the Elder and others, Wrangel Palace, Stockholm, begun earlier 1650s  |  105 40. Joachim von Sandrart, Carl Gustaf of Pfalz-Zweibrücken (later Carl X Gustaf of Sweden), 1650 | 107 41. Georg Schweigger, Carl Gustaf of Pfalz-Zweibrücken (later Carl X Gustaf of Sweden), 1649 | 108 42. Georg Schweigger, Holy Roman Emperor Ferdinand III, 1655 | 109

44. Jeremias Falck after Erasmus Quellinus, Christina-Minerva, 1649 | 117

46. Nicodemus Tessin the Younger, Drottningholm Palace gardens  |  125 47. Nicodemus Tessin the Elder, staircase of Drottningholm Palace, with sculpture by Nicolaes Millich  |  126 48. Nicolaes Millich, Gothic king, Drottningholm Palace | 128 49. Nicolaes Millich, Carl XI of Sweden, Drottningholm Palace, 1670  |  128 50. Johan Sylvius and David Klöcker Ehrenstrahl, ceiling of stairwell, Drottningholm Palace, begun 1686 | 129 51. Nicodemus Tessin the Younger, royal palace, Stockholm, from 1697  |  138 52. Nicodemus Tessin the Younger, Gallery of Carl XI, royal palace, Stockholm, begun 1697 | 140 53. Jacques Foucquet, equestrian monument of Carl XI of Sweden, 1699  |  141 54. Nicodemus Tessin the Younger, plan for the reconstruction of Stockholm, ca. 1712 | 143 55. Nicodemus Tessin the Younger, project for a Caroline dynastic church for Stockholm, 1708 | 144 56. Nicodemus Tessin the Younger, project for Amalienborg Palace, Copenhagen, 1694 | 148 57. Abraham-César Lamoureux, equestrian monument of Christian V of Denmark, 1682–88 | 149 Illustrations

43. Antoine Coyet after David Beck, Self-Portrait with a Portrait of Christina | 115

45. Nicodemus Tessin the Elder, Drottningholm Palace, near Stockholm, begun 1662 | 123

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58. Andreas Schlüter and Johann Friedrich Eosander von Göthe, royal palace, Berlin, rebuilt from ca. 1698, destroyed 1950 | 152 59. Matthäus Daniel Pöppelmann, unbuilt project for a royal palace for Dresden, ca. 1710  |  155 60. Johann Friedrich Eosander von Göthe, royal loggia, chapel, Charlottenburg Palace, Berlin, begun 1704 | 156 61. Nicodemus Tessin the Younger, royal pews, St. Nicholas’s, Stockholm, 1684  |  156

Illustrations

62. Johann Bernhard Fischer von Erlach, Schönbrunn Palace, near Vienna, begun 1696 | 159

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63. Johann Bernhard Fischer von Erlach, Karlskirche, Vienna, begun 1715  |  160 64. Jakob Philipp Hackert, View of Svenarum, Sweden, ca. 1764  |  168 65. Caspar David Friedrich, Study of Two Pine Trees and a Rock, 1812  169

Maps 1. Denmark and the duchies, ca. 1600 | 7 2. Sweden and its dominions, after 1660 | 8

Preface and Acknowledgments

This book has taken longer to write than I anticipated. The delay is due in part to the usual obstacles familiar to all who have taken on the service positions and committee assignments that are a part of academic life. More than that, however, it proved to be a challenging story to present to audiences for whom this is new material. This includes nearly everyone who does not live in relatively close proximity to the Baltic Sea, and many of those who do. The basic thesis—that the Danish and Swedish kingdoms were fully integrated, constituent parts of Central Europe and among the most vibrant in the period from the Reformation to the beginning of the eighteenth century—is straightforward enough. However, early modern Central Europe is itself too little known to the Anglophone world. To what extent would I need to include a cultural history of this larger region, and would this marginalize my focus in the Far North? Ultimately, this seemed impractical, particularly as there are in English several excellent surveys of Central European art and culture.1 Although these provide a very strong grounding in the larger region, none includes substantial discussion of the Scandinavian kingdoms. To some degree, this book can be understood as a complement to those studies. The revision presented here also necessarily raises questions about definitions. If Central Europe is expanded, what does it now include? In this context, it includes the lands traditionally included in the region—modern Germany, Austria, Poland, and the Czech Republic east to Hungary and western Russia (notably St. Petersburg and the surrounding region)—with the addition of the Scandinavian kingdoms. The territories controlled by Sweden and Denmark shifted over time, but from the mid-sixteenth century to the earlier eighteenth century, they included (roughly) modern Denmark, Norway, Sweden, Finland,

Preface and Acknowledgments

Estonia, Latvia, and some other lands around the Baltic. Denmark also controlled Iceland until the twentieth century and is only now loosening its historical control of Greenland. Although Iceland cultivated an important literary tradition that was (and remains) of great interest, it plays a marginal role here. Although I have used “Scandinavia” to designate this region, it is to a large degree a convenience. The term was rather uncommon before the later eighteenth century, when, reflecting historical shifts, the region was increasingly understood as an essentially distinct part of Europe—a deep-rooted revisionist attitude that necessitates the revisions proposed here. This reconception took a long time to reach its current state, however, and the region was still understood as an essential part of Germanic culture through the nineteenth century. Only in the twentieth century did two world wars make this breach seem irreparable.2 If “Central Europe” has a rather precise, if unconventional, definition in this book, “northern Europe” is used more casually to describe all of these lands and also the Low Countries, England, and other places north of the Alps. The names of historical figures are often given in an antiquated form that may strike some readers as odd. With some exceptions, I have used the spelling that they themselves used. This may be an idiosyncratic choice, but in a region in which mobility was common and borders were in flux, it has the advantage of obviating the choice of, for instance, a German, Danish, or Swedish variant of a name, which could appear to “claim” for one or the other of the regions a figure who perhaps straddled all three. One goal of this book is to introduce new material to a broad readership. This has involved digesting literature in a variety of languages, which is sometimes quoted directly. Unless otherwise noted, all translations are my own.

xiv

As always, there are many debts to be repaid. This book covers a large span of time and geography and often takes up unfamiliar questions that can only be addressed with the help of sources that are rather out of the mainstream of early modern historical literature. A remarkable number of these works are available in the libraries of Princeton University, the University of California, and the Getty Research Institute, where much of this work was undertaken. The outstanding collections of the Staatsbibliothek and the Kunstbibliothek in Berlin covered many of the remaining gaps, and the Royal Libraries in Copenhagen and Stockholm filled the rest. My thanks to all of these institutions for their ongoing collecting efforts and helpful staffs, without which this would have been impossible to write. The opportunities to work in these places were provided by funding from the Samuel H. Kress Foundation, the Deutscher Akademischer Austauschdienst (DAAD ), the American-Scandinavian Foundation, and, most recently and therefore most specifically, the University of California, Riverside, and the Alexander von Humboldt Foundation. The Barr Ferree Fund of the Department of Art and Archaeology at Princeton and the Berit Wallenberg Foundation supported

Preface and Acknowledgments

publication costs. My thanks go to all of these outstanding organizations for the trust they have placed in me. Libraries provided the reading materials, but discussions with friends and colleagues helped me to sort out my ideas and recognize what I was looking for in the first place. Better still, they often helped me to find answers! All of those listed here deserve far more than a brief thanks in the preface; they are to some degree coconspirators in this project. All were essential in one way or another, and I have neither the ability nor the desire to rank their contributions. Moving more or less geographically, special thanks go to Mikael Ahlund, Jan von Bonsdorff, Allan Ellenius (†), Linda Hin­ners, Janis Kreslins, Merit Laine, Lars Ljungström, Anna Nilsén, Jonas Nor­ din, and Martin Olin in Uppsala and Stockholm. In Copenhagen, Hugo Johann­ sen (†), Birgitte Bøggild Johannsen, Jørgen Hein, and Poul Grinder-Hansen were especially helpful. In Germany, I have benefited in various ways from conversations with Lars Olof Larsson, Uwe Albrecht, and Kilian Heck in Kiel and in Greifswald, two traditional centers of Scandinavian studies. Michael North (Greifswald) has been particularly supportive in many ways and has been part of this project from the very beginning. In Berlin, Adrian von Buttlar, Bénédicte Savoy, and Aleksandra Lipińska were exceptional hosts during an enormously productive year at the Technische Universität. Hans-Ulrich Kessler allowed me access to the Bode Museum’s files, saving me many headaches in sorting out Johan Gregor van der Schardt’s work in the empire and in Denmark. Bernd Roling and Bernhard Schirg showed me the possibilities for thinking about Olaus Rudbeck and Gothicism as an enduring phenomenon that lasted well beyond its traditionally accepted expiration in the early eighteenth century. Guido Hinterkeuser has long been a resource on architecture built around 1700, and Friedrich Polleroß (Vienna) has likewise been an enormous resource for all things Habsburg. In the Low Countries, Krista De Jonge and Konrad Ottenheym have been constant companions in the reinterpretation of northern European architecture within historically viable categories, often fundamentally rethinking things in the process. Both will recognize much of the material presented here. Frits Scholten and Juliette Roding have likewise offered helpful insight into a number of topics discussed in this book. Sara Smart has helped me to see the rise of royal Berlin in terms extending beyond the visual arts. Lisa Skogh, with whom I have shared a long investment in Queen Hedwig Eleonora, has left a strong imprint on chapter 6. This material may be less familiar in the United States than in Europe, but I have nonetheless found a strong group of conversation partners on this side of the Atlantic. Nicholas Adams, Christy Anderson, Ethan Matt Kavaler, Larry Silver, Jeffrey Chipps Smith, Mara Wade, Kjell Wangensteen, and Michael Yonan have all offered their expertise and have often helped me to rethink questions in more profitable ways. Thomas DaCosta Kaufmann and John Pinto deserve, once more,

xv

my deepest thanks and recognition for encouraging me to believe that this material needed to be presented to—and even pressed upon—audiences who might otherwise never encounter it. They were right. I have routinely found far more interest in the Far North than I ever believed I would. Without their support, I might be turning out essays on an obscure corner of fifteenth-century Roman architecture (my initial field of study), wondering somewhat wistfully what might have been if I had taken a chance on making sense of a group of unfamiliar works farther north, many of them in need of reliable basic research. The thrill of discovery alone has been worth the journey. My colleagues at the University of California, Riverside, have been everything that I could hope for. At various times, all have listened patiently as I rambled on about one or another point that can only have seemed hopelessly obscure. In particular, Malcolm Baker, Tom Cogswell, Françoise Forster-Hahn, Randy Head, Jeanette Kohl, Conrad Rudolph, and Sonja Sekely-Rowland have gone above and beyond, offering advice, answering arcane questions, and reading sections of the text. My thanks go to all of them. My deepest thanks go to my family. The Engers—especially Per and AnneMarie Enger, Susanne Karlsson-Enger, and Nils Karlsson—have helped far more than they know. Without them it would have been a different (and much weaker) book. Finally, Pam Bromley has shown endless patience with this project and all that it has involved. She has put up with a great deal as it has gone from concept to completion, and owns the results as much as I do.

Preface and Acknowledgments

Riverside, California January 2018

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Introduction

In Central Europe, the patterns of cultural history often appear different from those seen elsewhere. In France, Paris was a fairly consistent center of high-level artistic production from the moment King Henri IV entered the city in the 1590s until World War II. Even earlier, the French court had sponsored major projects, although often in the Loire valley, far from the city. Rome, too, hosted the arts and attracted outstanding talents from the fifteenth century through the eighteenth. With good reason, Italy acquired a reputation as a home for the arts from antiquity into modernity. There was no Paris and no Rome in Central Europe, however. No court or city could provide a comprehensive artistic or cultural milieu for a sustained period. Nuremberg and Augsburg are familiar as major centers for scholarship and the arts in the decades around 1500, when they hosted many outstanding publishers, painters, sculptors, and printmakers, including Albrecht Dürer and Hans Holbein the Elder. Later in the century, and also in the next, both cities produced quality work, which has been largely overlooked, but to some extent both fell victim to a more general shift toward court patronage of the arts, as the Bavarian dukes dominated culture in the region in the later sixteenth century. Farther north, the Saxon court sponsored major projects and artists cyclically. Lucas Cranach and others worked for the court in the first half of the sixteenth century. Dresden, the main Saxon residence after 1550, was particularly vibrant after 1700 and again in the nineteenth century, when Caspar David Friedrich and others worked there. Vienna blossomed when the threat of Ottoman rule subsided after 1683. Düsseldorf suddenly appeared as a major center for the arts in the nineteenth century. Each of these moments yielded works of very high quality, but in

The Art and Culture of Scandinavian Central Europe, 1550–1720

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a somewhat scattered fashion. None of these places had an extended and unbroken tradition of excellence. Moreover, many of these places specialized in one or another of the arts, further fragmenting cultural production. For instance, Hamburg was a major center for music and fine metalwork but was hardly known for architecture or the figural arts. The music of Johann Sebastian Bach has sometimes been compared to the architecture of Balthasar Neumann, his nearly precise contemporary in the first half of the eighteenth century.1 Both were outstanding artists, equal to the very best anywhere on the continent. Bach, however, spent most of his career in Leipzig, which had no distinguished tradition in architecture or painting. Neumann was based in Würzburg, which had no outstanding musical heritage. This staccato is not as unusual as it seems, for Rome is also exceptional in the course of Italian cultural history. Other Italian courts and cities had shorter or longer moments of (recognized) significance, but none had a truly continuous tradition of distinction in the arts. Florence is studied primarily from the thirteenth to the sixteenth century, although its craftsmen produced outstanding work after this period as well. Venice is studied primarily from the late Middle Ages to the end of the sixteenth century, and again in the eighteenth. In other cases, substantial cultural activity has appeared fleeting. Renaissance Milan was the seat of a wealthy and ambitious duchy. Although the Milanese dukes fostered a rich court culture, it is the last two decades of the fifteenth century, when Leonardo da Vinci and the architect Donato Bramante worked there before moving elsewhere, that are most recognized. Just as Leonardo and Bramante moved about in search of patronage, artists working in the Central European courts were often willing to move when better opportunities presented themselves elsewhere. From another point of view, many of these courts were eager to attract talent from other centers. The effect of these competing courts and free cities—trade towns, often very wealthy, that governed themselves independently of a regional prince—was a nearly constant flow of talent from one place to another. Thus, when Holy Roman Emperor Rudolf II assembled an extraordinary group of artists at his court in Prague after 1576, nearly all came from elsewhere and arrived as mature practitioners. Some had worked for his father, Emperor Maximilian II, who had resided primarily in Vienna. Others came from Munich, where Duke Wilhelm V bankrupted the Bavarian treasury, leading his artists to seek opportunities elsewhere. Still others were called on an individual basis. With few deep roots in the region, most went elsewhere after the emperor’s death, in 1612, and many left even before this date.2 Much the same could be said about Berlin a century later. It was a relatively minor cultural center until the end of the seventeenth century, when Elector Friedrich III, scheming for a royal title, determined to make it a royal capital. He brought in outstanding talents from many other places, most of whom were dismissed or left when his parsimonious son took the throne in 1713.3 Beginning in the later sixteenth century, most of the leading artists in Central Europe had some background in Italy, France, or both. This shared experience

Introduction

is often used to explain similarities between these courts. To a degree, an awareness of the points of reference for the monuments presented here is useful; for instance, Central European princes cultivated a fascination with equestrian portraits that cannot be explained without reference to examples elsewhere, particularly in Rome, Florence, and Paris. However, source hunting alone is insufficient to make sense of these works. The princes throughout this region kept a close and very competitive eye on one another, for they were primarily concerned with establishing a level of representation recognized within their circle of peers, rather than with an abstract conception of innovation. Indeed, to a substantial degree, repeated conventions were essential, for they helped to make the works comprehensible to their audiences, including ambassadors, aristocratic travelers, and princely guests, as well as local subjects. The courts were frequently bound by dynastic ties, and these networks provided channels for the circulation of artworks and artists, who frequently sent works elsewhere, moved from one place to another, or, more occasionally, were lent by one prince to another. The broadly accepted conventions governing cultural production in the courts were reinforced by the movement of artists. Moreover, these conventions also facilitated their circulation from court to court, for relatively little was locally specific, and a talented painter, sculptor, or architect generally arrived with a fairly complete knowledge of the representational formulas needed to succeed in a new place. This effect was doubly important in the numerous cases in which the courts placed orders abroad, generally asking a painter or agent to handle the commission. In some instances, the prince might not even know who was to produce the work, and the maker’s knowledge of the commissioning court was likewise severely limited. Nonetheless, these outsourced projects were often well received and understood to be successful, and could lead to further commissions from associated courts. All of these considerations ensured broad similarities across the vast network of Central European courts that cannot be explained only through conventions learned in Italy and France. Although there were of course many points of differentiation, there was what amounted to an internal dialogue on the arts between the various courts and free cities. The grander cities may have offered much to admire, but the rich, continuous artistic and cultural tradition of Central Europe is the cumulative achievement of all of them, given shape and coherence through this ongoing dialogue. Even with full recognition of the interplay of all these centers, the Central European cultural tradition has never quite seemed complete. The generation of Dürer and his contemporaries in the earlier sixteenth century, and that of Bach, Neumann, and many others active after 1700, have long been acknowledged as important. More recently, the quality and importance of the courts in Munich and Prague around 1600 have been recognized and studied. To judge from the academic literature, however, the seventeenth century was a lost period. This has been explained primarily through the Reformation and the ensuing Thirty Years’ War (1618–48).4 The poets Martin Opitz and Georg Greflinger wrote bitterly of the effects of the war, and Johann Jakob Christoffel von

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Grimmelshausen’s popular Simplicissimus describes the pillaging and deprivation in horrific detail. These contemporary literary accounts were complemented by the grim images of Jacques Callot. More directly related to the arts is a passage in Joachim von Sandrart’s Teutsche Academie, a long and complex work intended to provide the basis for academic training in the arts in the German lands. Sandrart (1606–1688) wrote that

The Art and Culture of Scandinavian Central Europe, 1550–1720

Queen Germania saw her palaces and churches, decorated with magnificent pictures, go up in flames time and again; whilst her eyes were so blinded by smoke and tears that she no longer had the power or will to attend to Art, from which it appeared to us that she wanted to take refuge in one long, eternal night’s sleep. So Art was forgotten, and its practitioners were overcome by poverty and contempt, to such an extent . . . that they were forced to take up arms or the beggar’s staff instead of the brush, whilst the gently born could not bring themselves to apprentice their children to such despicable people.5

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These seventeenth-century descriptions became unquestioned knowledge. In the middle of the twentieth century, Sir Kenneth Clark’s popular Civilisation, which helped shape a generation’s understanding of cultural history, echoed Sandrart in dismissing the seventeenth century in this region altogether: “By the year 1700 the German-speaking countries have once more become articulate. For over a century the disorderly aftermath of the Reformation, followed by the dreary, interminable horrors of the Thirty Years’ War, had kept them from playing a part in the history of civilisation.”6 This explanation has never been entirely satisfactory, however. Sandrart himself enjoyed a thriving career throughout the period, and the war is hardly mentioned in his lives of contemporary artists. Many of these biographies describe very successful careers during the period that he presents as bleak and hopeless in the passage quoted above. The more optimistic tone of the biographies was justified, as many significant projects were undertaken throughout the region in the seventeenth century.7 More fundamentally, the thesis of decline is flawed because it overlooks two important constituent courts, in Denmark and Sweden, that were especially vibrant throughout this seemingly vacant century. Indeed, Sandrart produced major works for Swedish patrons and considered the region part of the Germanic world that he described. One example (among many presented in this book) illustrates the mobility of artists in this region and also shows the fundamental role of the Scandinavian courts in Central European culture. Among the outstanding figures working in Dresden around 1700 were the sculptor Balthasar Permoser, from Bavaria, and the architect Matthäus Daniel Pöppelmann, from Westphalia. Both studied in Italy and were familiar with contemporary projects in Vienna and elsewhere in the Holy Roman Empire. Both made fundamental contributions to the effort to remake Dresden as a royal city after the Saxon elector Augustus the Strong became king of Poland in 1697.

Introduction

Permoser traveled more broadly than has been recognized. In 1692–93 he was in Stockholm, where he is documented producing ephemeral decorations for the funeral of Queen Ulrica Eleonora under the direction of the court architect Nicodemus Tessin the Younger.8 His stay in the city seems not to have overlapped with that of Raimund Faltz, but their careers would later become intertwined. Born in Stockholm to a goldsmith from Augsburg, Faltz worked primarily in Berlin from 1690 as a court goldsmith, medal maker, and sculptor. There he encountered Permoser, who was on a second short sojourn from Dresden. They collaborated on a refined ivory statue of Hercules. Permoser later carved an elaborate tomb for Faltz, suggesting that the two men forged a deep personal connection.9 Although undocumented, it is possible that Permoser also met Johann Fried­ rich Eosander (later ennobled with the name Göthe) in the Stockholm region, where Eosander worked in the mid-1690s. A decade later, as court architect in Berlin, Eosander was responsible for the funeral decorations for Queen Sophie Charlotte and produced something very much like those made in Stockholm by Tessin with the help of Permoser and others.10 He later worked in Dresden as a colleague of Pöppelmann and Permoser, although now concerned primarily with fortifications. These sorts of interrelationships were common among the courts of the Holy Roman Empire. Stockholm is an integral part of the network briefly outlined above, for the career paths of several of these men passed through the city. In this they were not exceptional. Yet although the documents for Permoser’s work in Stockholm were published a century ago, this episode in his life has never been accounted for, and the early 1690s have remained a shadowy part of his career.11 Permoser’s overlooked sojourn in Stockholm is representative of the presentation of the Danish and Swedish courts in the cultural history of Central Europe more broadly. The literature on the arts and culture of this region has disregarded the northern kingdoms, despite their fundamental contribution to this world. Never integrated into Central European cultural history, Denmark and Sweden have instead been presented as part of a coherent culture around the Baltic Sea, from Copenhagen and Stockholm to Riga, Königsberg, Danzig, Stralsund, and Lübeck. The initial formulation of this important presentation anticipated Fernand Braudel’s similar treatment of the Mediterranean by more than two decades and has since been refined and elaborated.12 Most of the studies advancing this thesis have focused on the later Middle Ages, however, rather than early modernity. More troublingly, the identification of a Baltic region has not led to a broader awareness of the remarkable things produced there or to a more prominent place for it within a European history of art and culture. Although the Baltic region encompasses large parts of northern Germany and Poland, it too has remained marginal in the study of Central European culture. This dislocation has come at a cost both to the Scandinavian courts and to the rest of Central Europe. It has left the Northern courts adrift, unmoored from

5

the larger Central European region in which they played integral roles. This omission has likewise made the rest of this larger region seem weak in the years in which the Danish and Swedish courts were most ambitious. Disconnected from the rest of Central Europe, Denmark and Sweden have come to be seen as cultural client states of other places. Because of the large number of artists with Netherlandish roots active in Denmark in the decades around 1600, the cultural production of the kingdom has often been understood as an outpost of Netherlandish art—a “transplanted crop,” as Johan Huizinga put it.13 Others, looking variously at the interest of the Swedish court, and particularly that of its powerful architect Nicodemus Tessin the Younger, in Rome and in Paris/Versailles around 1700, have tended to see reflections of those cities.14 In these formulations, the Scandinavian courts would always be marginal in a broader history of art, for they would always be satellites rather than equal partners in a larger dialogue. Yet the success of these courts in bringing outstanding figures from elsewhere and sending local talents abroad for extended study periods, which has made them seem like cultural dependents, is also in part what made them important in the eyes of their immediate peers. This, then, is the argument presented here: the Danish and Swedish courts were fully integrated in Central European culture and played leading roles in the larger region from the sixteenth to the eighteenth century. The historiographical dislocation of the northern kingdoms from this larger region, reflecting a larger conceptual dislocation, has damaged our historical view of both Scandinavia and Central Europe, leaving both parts of the whole fragmented and easier to disregard. The goal of this book is to situate these two important kingdoms within a larger culture to which they made fundamental contributions.

The Art and Culture of Scandinavian Central Europe, 1550–1720

Scandinavia and the Baltic: Land and Sea

6

This book frequently discusses lands—the German lands, for instance, or the Baltic lands—but these were defined largely by the seas around them. The Scandinavian peninsula is surrounded almost entirely by the Baltic Sea to the east and south, the North Sea to the west, and the Arctic Ocean to the north. It is connected to the larger Eurasian landmass only in the Far North, deep into the Sami lands, where it joins Russia. Denmark is connected to the continental landmass by the Jutland peninsula, but the kingdom as a whole is composed mostly of a constellation of islands. In the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, its reach stretched from Sealand, where Copenhagen was found, to Iceland and Greenland in the North Atlantic. Norway, a Danish possession until 1814, makes up much of the western part of the Scandinavian peninsula. (It would be transferred to Sweden in the course of the Napoleonic settlements and became an independent state in 1905.) Early modern Sweden was more compact but nonetheless stretched to the eastern Baltic through the integral duchy of Finland (lost to Russia in 1809) and a growing group of territories around the Baltic.

map 1 | Denmark and the duchies, ca. 1600. From Lockhart, Denmark, 1513–1600. By permission of Oxford University Press.

Introduction

This part of Europe was very lightly populated, with relatively few people scattered across an enormous region. Parts of Denmark stand as something of an exception to this rule, with trade and episcopal towns clustered relatively closer to one another than elsewhere in the region. This was particularly consequential in the introduction of Reformation ideas, which appealed more to urban traders than to farmers and others on the land. Nonetheless, Denmark, with its flat landscape and rich soil, was primarily agricultural. The Jutland peninsula was anchored to the German lands by the duchies of Schleswig and Holstein; the both were ruled by the Danish Crown and the latter was a constituent part of the Holy Roman Empire. Princely residences at Kolding and Haderslev and the episcopal town of Aarhus were found farther north, but Jutland was otherwise primarily forest and farmland. Many of the court’s activities were clustered on Sealand, with a major residence in Copenhagen, and others were soon built in Elsinore and Hillerød.

7

8

map 2 | Sweden and its dominions, after 1660

Introduction

In the later sixteenth century, the cathedral at Roskilde became a royal crypt. Noble estates dotted the landscape in between. This relative concentration of royal and noble residences continued to the eastern side of the sound, in what is now southern Sweden. Nonetheless, even this part of the kingdom was sparsely inhabited by the standards of the Low Countries and parts of northern Germany. Farther north, Norway was primarily mountainous, with a vast coastline defining the eastern boundary of the North Sea. Sweden, as long as Norway but facing east, toward the Baltic Sea, was much more fertile. In the southern part of the kingdom, gently rolling hills and fields were covered by forests and farms. Farther north and west, the Norwegian mountains spread into Sweden. These yielded rich mines of copper and iron, which supplied much of the European market. The topography of the region remained fixed, but the political allegiances and structures changed constantly. From 1397 the Scandinavian kingdoms were unified under the Danish Crown. The Kalmar Union, as this was called, after an important town in southeastern Sweden, was strained already by the middle of the fifteenth century. Sweden revolted in the earlier sixteenth century and was recognized as an independent state in 1523. However, much of what is now southern Sweden remained part of Denmark; the modern borders of the region were established only through a seemingly endless series of subsequent wars. Some, such as that fought between Denmark and Sweden in 1563–70, were financially draining without yielding any substantial gains for either kingdom. Nevertheless, these wars, more than any event other than the Reformation, shaped the historical trajectory of these kingdoms. They also had enormous consequences for the cultural development of the region. Episodic warfare between Denmark and Sweden was a constant, but over time the balance of power shifted. Throughout the sixteenth and earlier seventeenth centuries, Denmark remained the Baltic hegemon. Although the war of the 1560s was inconclusive, the Kalmar War, fought between the two kingdoms in 1611–13, resulted in a substantially weakened Sweden and a Danish Crown strengthened by victory and the financial satisfactions extracted from the loser. Victory presented cause for celebration of a strengthened state and monarchy, and the economic windfall provided the means to pay for it, in the form of grand commissions in the arts. In the course of the seventeenth century it was Sweden that became the victor and regional hegemon. Above all, this was achieved through the Thirty Years’ War. This conflict is often seen as a turning point, as the beginning of modern warfare. It began as a confessional conflict but ended with Catholic France and Lutheran Sweden allied in victory over states allied with the Catholic Holy Roman Emperor—including, briefly, Lutheran Denmark, which had earlier been a leader of the Protestant side—as national interests trumped religious concerns. Denmark ultimately paid a heavy price for its involvement. From the 1630s Sweden was, with the Dutch Republic, the rising power in Europe. The Peace of Westphalia, in 1648, made this standing official, as the kingdom was the guarantor

9

of the peace and thus the effective leader of the Protestant states. The peace also gave Sweden control of much of western Pomerania, as well as Bremen, Verden, and Wismar, all in northern Germany. These joined territories in the eastern Baltic that had been under Swedish control since the second half of the sixteenth century. Further wars in Poland and Denmark in the 1650s solidified Sweden’s position, largely at the expense of its neighbors. Territory at the southern tip of the Scandinavian peninsula taken from Denmark in 1658–59 robbed the Danish kings of control of the sound connecting the Baltic Sea to the North Sea, and of the tolls charged to passing ships, which had long provided discretionary income for the kings. Along with war satisfactions, this revenue had paid for many royal commissions in the arts. Sweden’s rise came almost entirely through military success and bred enormous resentment among its rivals. In 1700 it was attacked by an alliance of Denmark—which hoped to recover formerly Danish territory in Sweden—unified Saxony-Poland, and Russia, under Tsar Peter I, who was determined to take the lands on the eastern shores of the Baltic as part of his push for westernization. He was ultimately successful in this, and St. Petersburg was established in formerly Swedish territory on the Neva river in 1703. This was perhaps premature, since the war dragged on until 1721 and only turned decisively against the Swedes with the Battle of Poltava, in 1709. Nonetheless, the new city became the Russian capital and an unmistakable sign of Sweden’s fall from great-power status.

The Art and Culture of Scandinavian Central Europe, 1550–1720

Cultural Continuity and Cultural Exchange

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Much of the political history of this time and place emphasizes war over trade and other peaceful pursuits. There was certainly trade as well—for instance, in Swedish iron and copper—but war was itself remarkably effective as a means of contact and integration with the rest of the continent. Indeed, in certain cases war could even foster cultural development. Moreover, the tensions that led to war often came of long-standing entanglements that in themselves indicate common histories and cultures. Dynastic bonds could bring both war and peace, as unions gave way to disputed inheritances. In the 1590s Sigismund Vasa was king simultaneously of Catholic Poland and of Lutheran Sweden. This untenable situation was resolved by his removal from the Swedish throne and replacement by his uncle, Carl IX. However, the Polish Vasas continued to regard Sweden as their rightful inheritance, leading to disastrous wars with Sweden in the 1620s and 1650s. These dynastic links were rarely so fraught, however, because they were more often formed among a more unified group of families. Although there were important ties elsewhere—a Polish princess as queen of Sweden in the later sixteenth century, Anne of Denmark as queen of Scotland and England in the earlier seventeenth century—blood relationships were closest with the Protestant, German-speaking courts.

Introduction

Likewise, the Scandinavian kingdoms were politically and culturally aligned most closely with this part of Central Europe. The king of Denmark was a prince of the Holy Roman Empire in his capacity as Duke of Holstein. Following the Peace of Westphalia, the Swedish monarch was simultaneously the Duke of Pomerania (among other titles) and thus also a prince of the empire. These titles were not mere technicalities; the kings were among the most powerful princes in the empire and were acknowledged as such by their peers, who looked to them for leadership. The courts were about the same size and often shared legal and social structures with the larger German courts.15 German was used more or less interchangeably with Danish and Swedish and was the first language of many of the political, economic, and cultural elites at these courts. Perhaps more telling, the figures that appear in this study seem to have thought of themselves and their work largely within this frame of reference. In 1587 King Johan III of Sweden wrote of his hope that one day Stockholm would be comparable to the most famous German and Baltic towns. His wish seems to have been answered in a 1663 report to the Crown stating that the city now had so many beautiful stone houses and straight avenues that one could not hope to find such regularity in many German cities, particularly around the Baltic.16 One important consequence of this interpretation is that this book is not about cultural exchange, at least in the form that it has become a popular subject of inquiry, although a great deal of movement of people and objects occurred, sometimes across great distances. In order to be meaningful, cultural exchange implies an interaction of two substantially distinct cultures, and this is to some degree an arbitrary demarcation. Any two cities or regions will have defining characteristics, but these may exist within a largely coherent culture. Late medieval Florence and Siena had recognizably different painting traditions—one has only to go into a museum and look at paintings described as “Florentine” or “Sienese”—and also an intense rivalry that led to close mutual awareness. But while it is important to recognize the resulting cross-pollination, this took place within a substantially shared culture. Tellingly, Giorgio Vasari, writing in the middle of the sixteenth century and famously chauvinistic about the arts of Florence, located a crucial starting point of the city’s painting tradition in the Rucellai Madonna, produced around 1285 by the Sienese painter Duccio di Buoninsegna.17 (Vasari believed it was by the Florentine painter Cimabue.) To push this logic further, could we describe a kind of cultural exchange between recognizably different approaches located in the same city? Does Carlo Fontana’s move across Rome in the 1650s, from the workshop of Pietro da Cortona to that of Gianlorenzo Bernini, constitute an instance of artistic transfer or cultural exchange? Where is the demarcation between substantive cultural exchange and the sorts of movements and negotiations that were routine within any society? A spectrum of differentiation separates an exchange between truly distinct cultures—for instance, Netherlandish traders in Southeast Asia, or Asian artifacts used in early modern Central and South America—from the rivalry between

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The Art and Culture of Scandinavian Central Europe, 1550–1720

Siena and Florence. Across much of this spectrum, one has the option of emphasizing either the similarities or the differences. But even in the course of exploring contacts leading to continuities in unexpected places, the nature of the discourse also implies acceptance of some of the old conceptual boundaries, many of them embraced or even generated by the pioneering historians of the nineteenth and earlier twentieth centuries.18 This can make it difficult to recognize cultural continuities that were there all along, legitimizing the idea that the subjects in question are essentially distinct. Although there are many examples of seemingly disjunctive cultural accommodation in the northern European material presented here, most of these do not seem to have appeared that way to the participants.19 Those objects and traditions that were consciously regarded as foreign were usually fashionable importations from further afield, often from France or Italy, rather than from Central Europe, and many comparable cases can be found throughout the empire. If the works produced in Copenhagen and Stockholm seem different from those produced in the lands now encompassed by modern Germany, these differences may be no more significant than those between Berlin, Dresden, and Munich, to choose three courts from the empire that watched one another closely but were quite independent of one another until the formation of the modern German state in 1871. Ultimately, this is not a cross-cultural study because the regions under discussion were all part of a larger, substantially coherent culture.

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chap ter o n e

Gothicism in Germania

For early moderns, history was the basis for understanding the present. Prestige was based as much on ancient achievements as modern ones, and historians were expected to link ancient grandeur to modern reality in order to construct glorious narratives for their community or their employers. For northern Europeans, the fundamental sources were ancient texts by Tacitus, Pliny, and others who described the lands north of the Alps. These include fantastical elements dismissed by modern historians. However, early writers often found these passages essential. Thus, Tacitus’s comment that Hercules visited Germania, the Roman designation for the lands now partially constituting Central Europe, was not rejected as a charming but unlikely anecdote. Rather, Holy Roman Emperor Maximilian I (r. 1493–1519) claimed him as an ancestor of the Habsburgs and presented himself in print as “Hercules Germanicus” (fig. 1).1 Maximilian’s relatives at the Spanish and Burgundian courts were no slower in adopting the demigod.2 In the sixteenth century Lucian’s story of Hercules appearing in Marseilles was revived and developed into the tradition of “Hercules Gallicus,” and he was adopted as an ancestor of the French kings.3 His attributes of great strength and wisdom made him an appealing symbol for rulers everywhere, and he thus took on a universal quality even as the individual circumstances varied. The tradition of linking gods and demigods to various regions and ruling dynasties intertwined with efforts to trace modern European societies to ancient peoples mentioned by Greek and Roman writers.4 Thus, Hercules Gallicus referred simultaneously to Hercules and to the tradition in which the French were descendant from the inhabitants of ancient Gaul.5 Likewise, Poles and Hungarians associated themselves with the Sarmatians mentioned in numerous classical texts.6 The Dutch found their origins in the fiercely independent Batavian people

The Art and Culture of Scandinavian Central Europe, 1550–1720

Figure 1 | Emperor Maximilian I as Hercules Germanicus, ca. 1495–1500. Photo: Albertina, Vienna.

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once living between the Rhine and Maas rivers, who served as heroic models in the ongoing struggle for independence from Spain.7 These arguments were deeply important and often extremely contentious, for rank and prestige were fundamentally bound up with antiquity: the more ancient a family or ruling dynasty, the more legitimate it appeared in the eyes of its peers. Dynasties rarely lasted more than a few hundred years, however. Demonstrating a continuous link between a state, a region, or a ruling family and one of these ancient tribes (or gods) inflated standing exponentially, and princes accordingly

Gothicism in Germania

set their historians to work tracing their ancestry to the beginning of recorded history. One of the most contentious of these debates centered on Gothicism.8 Elites in Spain, the German lands, and Scandinavia claimed descent from the ancient Gothic peoples. Reviled by early modern Italian historians for the sack of Rome in the fifth century, the Goths were admired by their partisans for this very feat. Moreover, as many histories traced their origins to the sons of Noah, a point beyond which it was impossible to go within a Christian worldview, the tribe offered great antiquity. Writers across a very broad region soon developed arguments to show that their prince or local society was not only descendant from the Goths but also the most directly descendant and thus the most senior branch of their heirs. Linguistic, textual, geographical, archaeological, and antiquarian methods intersected freely in these efforts, yielding shifting and overlapping versions of the Gothic narrative that sometimes traced the linguistic legacy of the tribe, sometimes the ethnic legacy, sometimes the architectural legacy, and occasionally bound them together. However, all of these narratives were basically concerned with the antiquity of the Goths and their legacy in early modern Europe. The implications of this were different for various regions and rulers, but most claimed for themselves the strength, prestige, and antiquity of the tribe that toppled the Roman Empire. Yet as scholars from across a wide area produced mountains of evidence pointing to the Gothic origins of their own regions, it became possible to think of Gothicism not only in terms of difference—which kingdom, dynasty, or geographic region could claim the greatest antiquity and eminence—but also in terms of shared history and common identity. In general, the polemic was restricted to the origins of the Goths. Many writers accepted that the Gothic lands cumulatively formed a historical unity that was lost through later political divisions but that could still be traced through other means. Particularly in the Holy Roman Empire—a largely political boundary encompassing many smaller states ruled by fractious princes of different confessions and languages—the acceptance of Gothic origins opened the way for a different alignment of identity both within and without the boundaries of the empire, and especially with Scandinavia, which contributed rich and creative arguments to the debate. These early modern views of the Goths were complicated by several other considerations. The Goths were widely associated with other tribes—often the Vandals—and these were frequently treated as closely related groups. Particularly in the Danish literature, they coexisted with the Cimbrians, who had long been associated with the Jutland peninsula and constituted another ancestral tribe. More problematic still, the ancient sources underlying these legends provided confusing and conflicting information. The Goths were described most fully in Jordanes’s Getica, a sixth-century text based on a more expansive lost work by the Roman consul Cassiodorus. This text is very different from Tacitus’s Germania, which was the most broadly recognized source for ancient northern Europe. Where Tacitus gives the Goths a single passing mention, Jordanes describes

15

them at length, recounting their entry into Europe “like a swarm of bees” from the island of Scandza, roughly where Tacitus places the Suiones and Aestii.9 Observing this contradiction and others, the sixteenth-century cosmographer Sebastian Münster complained that “many, under both the heathens and the Christians, have undertaken to describe Germany. But no one, so far as I know, has reported the cities or lands or the people of the German nation correctly. . . . The ancients and foreigners have described it almost by hearsay, but have not come.”10

The Art and Culture of Scandinavian Central Europe, 1550–1720

The Gothic Tradition

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Out of a fairly diffuse medieval tradition, the first defining moment of the Gothic tradition came at the Council of Basel in 1434. The Castilian and English delegates disagreed on seating priority, which reflected standing and prestige. The Castilian representatives claimed precedence because of the antiquity of their Gothic heritage. Nicolaus Ragvaldi, a Swedish bishop and representative of the king of then-united Denmark, Norway, and Sweden, stepped in, citing a tradition placing the homeland of the Goths in Sweden. He thus turned the dispute into one between Castile and the united Nordic kingdoms. In a contest pitting two comparable arguments against each other, however, the greater prestige of the Castilian monarchy prevailed. Ragvaldi sought a voice that would lend authority to the representatives of his small northern kingdom. Although his claim was disregarded, his idea and method formed the starting point for a centuries-long claim to a Gothic heritage by the Swedish and Danish courts. It was developed in the later fifteenth century by Ericus Olai and in the following century by the brothers Olaus and Johannes Magnus, the last two Catholic archbishops of Uppsala, who went into exile in Italy with the introduction of Lutheranism to Sweden. The Magnus brothers hoped to generate a Counter-Reformation effort in Scandinavia but, like Ragvaldi, they needed a platform that would allow them to be heard and respected by the Roman church and others who could support their cause. Olaus Magnus wrote a history of the northern European peoples, but it was Johannes Magnus’s lineage of Gothic kings that was more significant for the rise of Gothicism. In a series of biographies, it lays out a line of Gothic rulers beginning with Magog, the grandson of Noah, and culminating with the contemporary Swedish king Gustaf Vasa (r. 1523–60).11 For the Gothic tradition to bring any legitimacy, it was essential to change the widely held image of the Goths as wild barbarians who spread violence and chaos wherever they went. Thus, Johannes Magnus describes the Gothic migrations as divinely ordained movements undertaken with temperance and humility. Imperial belligerence forced conflicts with Rome; it was this—not Gothic aggression—that brought about the empire’s fall. In his hands, the Goths became moral exempla to be studied and imitated, rather than the violent scourge of classical antiquity.12

Gothicism in Germania

If Johannes Magnus’s work addressed negative perceptions among Italian scholars, it was also informed by the long-standing tensions between Denmark and Sweden, which culminated in the successful Swedish rebellion against Danish rule in 1520–23. The 1514 publication of the history of Denmark by Saxo Grammaticus, written around 1200, was also formative.13 Although employing a common formula, Saxo’s geographical introduction followed by a series of royal biographies provided a template for Magnus. Saxo takes up the Goths only obliquely, but the first published edition of his work emphasizes the claims of the Danish king and archbishop to rule Sweden, inflaming historical tensions within the context of genealogical history writing. Magnus denied Denmark the Gothic ancestry that he claimed for Sweden, while simultaneously slandering the kingdom in ways large and small. This approach naturally prompted a response. The Refutation of the Calumnies of Johannes Magnus by the Danish court historian Johannes Svaning does not dispute the significance of the Goths but criticizes Magnus for appropriating them for his own ends while disregarding sources that would have given a more balanced picture.14 He identifies Scandza as Gotland, an island in the middle of the Baltic Sea. Gotland was ruled by Denmark until 1645, when it was ceded to Sweden, but Svaning seems to consider it a relatively neutral site, part of a shared history. His unfinished history of Denmark, perhaps intended as a full-length response to Magnus, describes the “migration of the Goths from Denmark and Sweden into Hungary, Thrace, and Italy.”15 A century later the discourse was largely unchanged. In 1650 Johannes Svaning the Younger produced a genealogy tracing the Danish kings to the sons of Noah. The beguiling biographies are lacking, but Magnus’s genealogical structure is employed along with a linguistic or etymological method, which Svaning the Younger turns against the Swedish arguments. Dania, or Denmark, he explains, is the third of three successive names for the region. First it was called Cimbria, then Guthia, or Gothia. The crucial basis for his argument lies in the etymology of Jutland, the Danish peninsula. Jutland, or Jutia, is presented as a permutation of Guthia, and the justification for his statement that “Goths are Danes, and Danes Goths.”16 As before, Swedish historians took a more extreme point of view, represented most vividly by Olaus Rudbeck’s Atlantica, published in stages between 1679 and 1702. The author claimed that Sweden was the homeland not only of the Gothic people but of Western culture generally.17 The basis for this was his identification of the Scandinavian half-island with the land of the Hyperboreans and the lost island of Atlantis described by Plato in Timaeus. These and other lands mentioned by ancient writers thus became intertwined with the Gothic legend. This fundamental identification opened a path for a hugely inventive revisionist history based largely on philological arguments that shifted the focus of classical antiquity and the sources of Western culture north to Sweden. Thus, for instance, Rudbeck states that the Egyptian and Greco-Roman gods derived from

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earlier ones in his homeland.18 He closes the second volume with a passage encapsulating his worldview: “all philosophy or worldly wisdom that has been written by and found with the Egyptians, Asians, and Europeans comes wholly from our Hyperborean Northerners . . . moreover, the names of all gods and goddesses have come from our Northern fathers, first to the Greeks and then from them to the Romans.”19 As Ragvaldi and Magnus had tried to give Sweden pedigree and respectability through the Gothic legend, Rudbeck sought to make all of Western culture derive from his homeland, which would thus be the most ancient and venerable kingdom in Europe. With the exception of the exiled Magnus brothers, all of these historians were in some way associated with the Danish and Swedish courts, which recognized the political potential of this discourse very quickly. Thus, Gustaf Vasa, the Swedish king who expelled the Magnus brothers, profited most from their publications. Beginning around 1540, well before their books appeared, he took the title “King of the Goths and Vandals” and exploited its political potential in numerous ways. He added the title to coins and official images and requested copies of portraits of Theodoric, Totila, and other Gothic “ancestors” from the collection of the Duke of Modena. These efforts were vastly enhanced by Johannes Magnus’s Gothic history, which became a stand-in for a history of the royal house. When his son Erik succeeded him, in 1560, he became Erik XIV (r. 1560–68), counting thirteen previous kings with that name listed by Magnus. The Danish kings were wary of Magnus’s writings, but they were no slower in incorporating the Goths and Vandals into their titles.

The Art and Culture of Scandinavian Central Europe, 1550–1720

Gothicism in the Holy Roman Empire

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Many outside the circle of Scandinavian historians and antiquarians also displayed great interest in and self-identification with the Goths. Privileging Tacitus and Pliny over Jordanes, Johannes Micraelius placed the tribe’s origins in Pomerania, where he worked.20 Philipp Clüver, a founding figure of historical geography, wove a much more elaborate philological web as he argued that the homeland of the Goths was to be found in the eastern Baltic near Danzig. The Teutoni, he claims, were called variously the Dani, Codani, and Godani, from which Pomponius Mela and Pliny derived the name Sinus Codanus—the Baltic Sea. Godanos, or Godan, was then contracted as Gdanos, which Clüver associated causally with Gdansk, or Gdansko, the common name for Danzig (now Gdańsk in Poland). He reconciled his view with Jordanes’s text by equating “Gothiscanzia” (Scandza) with Godanske (Danzig), rather than Scania on the Scandinavian peninsula or Gotland in the Baltic Sea.21 These works were not simply belligerent replies to the claims of the Northern courts. Rather, they were rooted in a broader Gothic tradition that, until the publication of Johannes Magnus’s work, had not been articulated in such a polemical way. Interest in a Gothic tradition in the Holy Roman Empire was substantial even before the Magnus brothers. Among the essential publications on Northern

Gothicism in Germania

antiquity in the early sixteenth century was Franciscus Irenicus’s Germaniae Exegeseos.22 At the suggestion of the Nuremberg humanist Willibald Pirckheimer, Irenicus included the Goths among other Germanic tribes. He relied heavily on Jordanes’s text, which was first published three years earlier, in 1515, and the Goths accordingly play a leading role in his explication of German history. He accepted Scandza as the Gothic homeland and identified it as Gotland, but insisted that it was an integral part of the German lands. “The Goths came from the German island Scandza. The island, which is called Gotlandia by others, is under the Danish king and is Germanic.” A linguistic argument underlies his essential point: “We see in Jordanes that many German words were then used by the Goths, and . . . their own names reveal that Goths were Germans. Their kings were always called Berich, Filmer, Valamir [etc.]. Those names are German. They are therefore German.”23 The Goths became part of Irenicus’s conception of German heritage, but with the Magnus brothers and Svaning still decades away, his presentation was relatively untroubled by political issues of who could derive the most glory from them. Rather, one senses that he was excited by Jordanes’s recently published text and wanted to incorporate it into the new literature seeking to recover Germanic antiquity in a positive light through the classical sources. He had no substantial stake in the placement of the Gothic homeland, and specifying a region for it was not his primary goal. Instead, he integrated the Goths into a general discussion of ancient Germania, presenting them in a very flattering way through tales of their exploits against the Romans. Irenicus’s introduction of the Goths into German history writing made it possible to associate the tribe with the Holy Roman Empire of the German Nation (the formal name of the empire), which the Habsburgs ruled with varying degrees of authority from the fifteenth century. Habsburg history writers were quick to recognize the opportunity. In the mid-sixteenth century Wolfgang Lazius, the Viennese geographer, historian, and keeper of the imperial collections under Emperor Ferdinand I, developed Irenicus’s approach. He accepted Jordanes’s description of Scandza as the birthplace of the Goths, and, like Irenicus, he considered it part of the German world, based both on ancient geographical descriptions and on a philological argument that the German and Scandinavian dialects are so closely related that a meaningful distinction between them cannot be made.24 His De Gentium Aliquot Migrationibus is largely about migrations, tracing the Goths’ movement through a number of “seats” stretching through a broad swath of Central Europe. In Silesia, the town of Gotha indicated a Gothic origin, as did Guttenberg and Gutensteyn in Bohemia, and places farther afield in Dacia, Hungary, and elsewhere.25 These fell largely around the southeastern part of Holy Roman Empire, and it seems that Lazius’s interest in the Goths was primarily to describe a much broader Gothic region that roughly coincided with the Habsburg hereditary lands, although it extended elsewhere as well. The importance of the Habsburg-Gothic linkage is most pointed in his genealogies of the Gothic rulers. Nowhere does he mention the Swedish or Danish rulers.

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Rather, the lineage of the Gothic kings extends to Emperor Charles V (r. 1519–56), and, by extension, to Ferdinand.26 The Habsburgs saw no contradiction in claiming both a Gothic and a Roman heritage. Bringing the notion of translatio imperii and the Germanic Gothic tradition into alignment, they presented themselves as the natural heirs of both the Roman emperors and the Gothic kings who had defeated them. One was a political identity, and the other a cultural or ethnic one, and whether the distinction was recognized or not, both were among the most powerful lineages imaginable. Thus, a separate group of genealogies traces the imperial line from Julius Caesar to Charles V, overtly stressing the continuity between the two.27 Lazius’s description of the Goths as Germans survived in Habsburg history writing and was taken up at the end of the seventeenth century by Hans Jakob Wagner von Wagenfels. Wagner employed it in a polemical comparison of French and Germanic history. This pitted two fundamentally divergent concepts of state against one another, as Wagner invited comparison of the fragmented Germanic world with the more centralized French state. A broad equation of Germans and Goths was essential in formulating a more coherent and grand historical narrative. Once again, a linguistic argument brought the disparate political states in and around the Holy Roman Empire into a more or less coherent unity. Simultaneously, he turned a shared linguistic heritage into an argument for Gothic ethnic unity: “‘Goths’ is thus a good German word, and essentially means good or pious. At that time there were many German dialects, for which we now use a u for that which was pronounced with an o. [This is] precisely as today in the northern lands, from which the old Goths came (as one says); one does not say Altenburg, Kreyspurg, [or] Dinckburg, but Altenborg, Kreysporg, Dinckborg, and so on. . . . From this it follows that the little words ‘Goth’ and ‘good’ [gut] have only one meaning, and the Goths and the Germans [Teutschen] . . . are held as a single people.”28 This argument for Gothic unity introduced another set of issues for Wagner, for one legacy of the Thirty Years’ War was a deep antipathy between the Scandinavian and imperial courts. Nonetheless, he seems to have accepted the inclusion of the Scandinavian peninsula in his equation of Goths and Germans. Certainly the linguistic mutations he describes are precisely those distinguishing Scandinavian place names from German ones. (For example, one thinks of Göteborg in Sweden, Skanderborg in Denmark, and Hamburg in northern Germany.) Indeed, this aspect of his argument is nearly identical to that of the Swedish philologist Samuel Columbus, who wrote in the 1670s that a single language was spoken in Switzerland, Germany, the Netherlands, Denmark, and Sweden, with minor regional variations.29 These men had different goals for their linguistic arguments, but Wagner used them to bind the Germans of the empire, the Scandinavians, and the Goths into one ethnic group—“a single people”—that could be contrasted to the other major populations of Europe. All of these texts are essential to the Gothic discourse. They demonstrate the broader international importance of these arguments and of identification with

these ancient peoples shrouded in legend. Beyond the claims of the Swedish and Danish historians lies a much larger phenomenon with many local facets. None of these partisan writers claimed exclusive rights to a Gothic heritage. Rather, they argued primarily over the point of origin and therefore over which region could claim the honor of greatest antiquity, making it the progenitor of the others. For most of these writers, the essential point of Gothicism was much the same at the beginning of the eighteenth century as it had been in the fifteenth: legitimacy through antiquity and a share in the magnificent Gothic legacy.

The Representation of Gothicism

Gothicism in Germania

The arguments for a Gothic identity presented here have all been essentially literary. They were predicated on philological and geographical arguments excavated from ancient texts. Early modern representation was based on visual as well as historical arguments, however. Visiting ambassadors would of course recognize a king’s titles and ancestry, but these were vastly overshadowed by the experiential power of the royal palace and its representative spaces, state ceremony and celebrations, official costume, and such, all of which were intended to give form to the more abstract concept of status. How, then, were these claims manifested visually? A stylistic association was available from the middle of the sixteenth century, the years in which Gothicism took root. The late medieval architecture characterized by pointed arches, large tracery windows, and flying buttresses was called Gothic and explicitly associated with the Gothic peoples by the Italian painter and writer Giorgio Vasari in 1550. Other writers soon adopted the association. Among them was the publisher Matthäus Merian the Elder, whose son worked for high-ranking officials at the Swedish court and whose press took on a substantial publishing project for the Crown.30 Yet from the sixteenth to the eighteenth century, the artistic production of the courts in Denmark and Sweden shows hardly a trace of self-conscious interest in archaic forms. Although “baroque Gothic” churches were built in Bohemia in the eighteenth century and may acknowledge the great medieval tradition in the region, nothing similar appeared in Scandinavia.31 Rather, in the 1650s the Swedish Crown initiated a project to rebuild in a modern form the medieval Riddarholm church in Stockholm, which served as the royal pantheon.32 At the same time, it commissioned a series of new churches and palaces in Stockholm and elsewhere. These structures take a variety of forms, but none can be considered self-consciously archaic. Likewise, the architect Nicodemus Tessin the Younger, who took on major commissions for both the Danish and Swedish courts around 1700, had only disparaging things to say about Gothic architecture and made plans to rebuild or renovate important medieval churches in a modern, baroque style. Portraiture seems another particularly promising place to seek a formal representation of Gothicism. Portraits had long been a vehicle to demonstrate lineage

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and were already associated with Gothicism when Gustaf Vasa sought images of Theodoric and other early Gothic kings. Likewise, Johannes Magnus’s lineage of Gothic kings comprised a series of literary portraits, along with a group of printed likenesses. More generally, Renaissance portraits frequently included imagery that endowed the basic likeness of each figure with qualities associated with the sitter. Court portraits of sixteenth- and seventeenth-century Scandinavian rulers generally followed broadly recognized formats, however. A 1561 portrait of Erik XIV of Sweden, long attributed to the Antwerp painter Dominicus ver Wilt (active 1544–66), shows the king in rich dress armor against a neutral background (color plate 1). He bears the basic elements of rulership: sword, ruler’s baton, and a medallion hanging around his neck. A crown is missing, but his rank is stated clearly in the inscription, “svedorvm , gotthorvm , vandalorvmq . rex ” (King of the Swedes, Goths, and Vandals). Aside from this inscription, no pictorial element supports the claims of Gothic lineage. Rather, the painting is comparable to the work of Anthonis Mor, Ver Wilt’s colleague in the Antwerp guild of St. Luke in the 1540s, who produced similar portraits in the Low Countries, Italy, Spain, Portugal, and England. In content and presentation, it is very close to Mor’s portrait of Fernando Álvarez de Toledo y Pimentel, the Duke of Alba. Ver Wilt’s work in Scandinavia was representative, for until the later seventeenth century most royal portraits in Denmark and Sweden were produced by Netherlandish and German painters. Aside from inscriptions, none introduced recognizable elements that might link the sitters to the Gothic tradition they stressed.33 The representational formulas used in these sixteenth- and seventeenthcentury portraits reflected the costume and presentation of the king in life, at least as it was staged in court ceremonial. Here Gothicist arguments took physical form, as did the apparent contradictions inherent in the court’s approach. The accession ceremonies of Carl XI of Sweden in 1672 are particularly well known because they were recorded by the court painter David Klöcker Ehrenstrahl, who published his drawings with a written description.34 The participants in the elaborate procession were divided into four groups identified with different peoples: Goths, led by the young king; Turks; Poles; and “other nations and powers in Christendom.” Carl and his retinue appeared in Roman costume, however (fig. 2). Ehrenstrahl’s caption acknowledges the conflation depicted in the image, presenting Carl as the leader of the “first host of Romans, or Goths.” The accompanying text goes further, describing the king representing “in Roman costume the virility and gentility of the ancient Goths; and inasmuch as it is said of this race, immortal in memory, in hard stone and steel no less than in feeble paper, that they possessed virtue and fortune, in alliance and union, to assist and aid themselves, and then always to enrobe virtue with honor and glory.”35 The Roman visual content of the imagery is striking, given the degree to which Gothic mythology was built around opposition to Rome. Not only does the king’s retinue wear Roman costume, the printed image itself reflects the tradition

of equestrian monuments derived from the ancient statue of Marcus Aurelius. Except for the commander’s baton, all essential details ultimately derive from the Roman statue on the Capitoline Hill. This tradition would soon be reprised in projects for equestrian monuments in Copenhagen and Stockholm.

Gothic Classicism

Gothicism in Germania

Did the Northern courts thus never resolve the seemingly intractable contradictions between Gothic identity and modern courtly representation? Did Gothicism remain an essentially literary phenomenon that was only awkwardly translated into visual form? There were various ways to introduce visual content supporting the Gothic narrative even while emphasizing the cultural modernity of the court.36 In Suecia Antiqua et Hodierna, a topographical survey of Sweden produced between 1661 and 1715 that emphasizes architecture, the modern, classicizing buildings and carefully ordered gardens are routinely contrasted with the rugged forest landscape surrounding them.37 The country house at Ållonö, south of Stockholm, is presented twice, in contrasting ways (fig. 3). In the upper image the structure is viewed frontally. Boats glide by in a gentle breeze, and a group of trees stands

Figure 2 | Carl XI of Sweden as King of the Goths, in Roman Costume. From Ehrenstrahl, Certamen Equestre. The Getty Research Institute, Los Angeles (88-B 7784). Photo: Image Archive / Getty Research Institute.

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Figure 3 | Views of Ållonö Estate. From Dahlbergh, Suecia Antiqua. Photo: private collection.

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unobtrusively on the left. In the lower image, the boats thrash in heavy wind and choppy water, one in danger of foundering on the rocky shore. The viewpoint is turned so that we see the building at a sharply receding angle, bringing the trees into the immediate foreground and blocking part of the architectural complex. The trees are windblown and ragged, interspersed with jagged stumps and boulders, all highlighted against the white wall of the house behind. The strength of the natural forces at play can hardly be mistaken, for a man leans over against the wind, his coat blown over his head and his hat flying away. In these prints, the profile views approximate the architectural convention of the elevation, representing the façades with maximum clarity. Here and in other views in Suecia Antiqua, the oblique presentation adds drama to the scene but also privileges the environment surrounding the building.

Gothicism in Germania

This emphasis on a stark and unforgiving land parallels that in the essential Gothic literature. Johannes Magnus frequently frames human characteristics within the context of the land that produced them, writing for instance that “the land of the Svears and Goths contains men born more for the use of arms than soft eloquence.”38 Olaus Rudbeck relies still more heavily on the natural environment to support the thesis that Sweden was the birthplace of Western civilization. The prevalence of hardy fir, evergreen, birch, and oak trees in Scandinavia and elsewhere becomes evidence that this region was the first to be populated by Noah’s descendants after the flood, while vines and other plants found elsewhere came later. In this way, the flora bear witness to the greatest antiquity of the Gothic kingdom established by Noah’s grandson Magog. Rudbeck links this natural bounty to the hardiness of the people living in the North, explaining in this way their exploits elsewhere, and specifically in Italy: “[Here] they eat two and three times as much as those in the southern lands, and heartier food. There they eat all sorts of fruit, such as chestnuts, apples, walnuts, carrots, all sorts of lettuce, and rarely meat and fish. Here one eats all manner of game, beef, mutton, pork, and countless fish. Indeed, if all Swedes should go one day to Italy, their food would be but a breakfast for them.”39 Nonetheless, even in this harsh northern setting, architecture, like the other arts at court, was classicizing and largely consistent with tastes elsewhere. This was not considered a contradiction, for although the Goths were attractive in large part because they defeated the Romans, they were also recognized as a constituent part of the classical world. This was particularly evident with the establishment of a Gothic kingdom in Italy in the fifth century a .d . Rudbeck’s argument that Swedish-Gothic culture was the basis for classical antiquity is no less contentious in this context, but it is nonetheless an important statement that Northern and Southern antiquity were fundamentally intertwined, if not aspects of the same phenomenon. Rudbeck included a substantial architectural component in Atlantica. A number of woodcuts of his own design show university buildings, which invariably observe the conventions of classicizing architecture. His discussion of the church at Old Uppsala—an ancient site near the modern city—provides insight into the arts in the context of Gothicist polemics.40 This small country church was built in the twelfth century on an ancient ritual site. It stands near a group of early burial mounds, and excavations in the area had long yielded early artifacts. These were generally identified as remains of the ancient Gothic people, and the church was likewise often seen as the much-altered remains of an ancient Gothic temple. Rudbeck accepted this basic history, but on the basis of the far-reaching arguments presented in Atlantica, he identified the structure more precisely as the Temple of Poseidon on Atlantis, described by Plato very briefly in the Timaeus and at greater length in the fragmentary Critias. This identification serves as the basis for a broader argument that the structure was a starting point for the development of classical architecture.

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Rudbeck’s argument relies in part on fairly straightforward textual comparisons. Thus, the Critias dialogue describes the exterior of the Temple of Poseidon as covered in silver, with pediments of gold. Inside, the roof was of ivory, wrought with gold and silver. The eleventh-century chronicle of Adam of Bremen describes the church in Old Uppsala as “entirely decked out in gold,” which served as a basis for identifying it as the temple on Atlantis.41 Rudbeck also presents more elaborate antiquarian and philological arguments. According to his rather free reading of the Roman architect and theorist Vitruvius, a temple may be partially enclosed or an open hall.42 In the manner of Giovan Pietro Bellori and other contemporary antiquarian scholars, he provides Roman examples, reproducing ancient coins with images of architecture as material evidence and as points of comparison for his reconstruction of the church. The Swedish for “open hall” is öppen sal, a near homophone of “Uppsala,” and Rudbeck links the two. This forms the basis for an argument that the ancient temple in Old Uppsala was originally open, and was walled up in later changes. He then reconstructs the original building and presents similar Roman types. He accounts for the dimensions given by Plato, introduces various sources to show that the materials and decorative richness matched, and so on. Rudbeck cites a clutch of texts, from the Edda (a medieval Icelandic saga) to the works of Adam of Bremen and Johannes Magnus, but Plato and Vitruvius form the basis of his account. Although Rudbeck’s findings were widely dismissed, his methods were not unusual. His conflation of various traditions and peoples was common, although he was perhaps unique in the extent to which he did so. His philological approach, exploring the relations and mutations of place-names and relating passages from ancient authors to locally observable topography, was employed by virtually every other writer on the topic. Likewise, his reliance on ancient texts, the traditional purview of academic historians, in conjunction with antiquarian materials, was comparable to historical methodology employed elsewhere.43 It is thus appropriate that Rudbeck makes no argument that the form of the church in Old Uppsala represents an alternative ancient way of building, as might have other art historians from Vasari to the present. He offers no suggestion that what we recognize as an essentially Romanesque style constituted a distinct tradition, antique or other. In conclusions with broad consequences for the interpretation of medieval and early modern architecture in northern Europe, his analysis of the church largely through Greek and Roman texts and Roman visual sources confirms that he considered it part of a single, coherent ancient tradition.44 Thus, the Gothic arguments and the Greco-Roman architecture were never perceived to be in conflict and were presented as conceptually consistent. Although the Gothic defeat of the Romans was the basis for the power of the ideology, the intermingling and even conflation of Gothic and Roman culture made it possible to argue that the Goths were part of classical culture and even made substantial contributions to it.

Gothicism in Germania

Ancient literature not only supported this idea but related it directly to the arts. Cassiodorus, the secretary to Theodoric and author of a lost history of the Goths later summarized by Jordanes, set down guidelines for the maintenance of the Greco-Roman tradition through the appointment of a palace architect: “Take then for this indication the care of our palace, thus receiving the power of transmitting your fame to a remote posterity which shall admire your workmanship. See that your new work harmonizes well with the old [i.e., imperial Roman architecture]. Study Euclid—get his diagrams well into your mind; study Archimedes and Metrobius.”45 Cassiodorus evidently saw himself as an heir to an increasingly distant classical tradition, as well as a steward of its survival. This reflected a broader concern at the late antique Gothic court, for Theodoric himself went to great trouble and expense to repair and preserve Roman imperial buildings such as the Colosseum.46 Cassiodorus’s Variae epistolae and Chronicon emphasize the continuity of Roman and Gothic antiquity. He provides genealogies showing the continuity from biblical history to his (sixth-century) present. Although the emphasis is on the continuity of Roman and Gothic Italy, these texts were well known and closely studied in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. In 1699 the Chronicon was issued in a Swedish edition that presents Theodoric as “King of the Goths and of Italy” and links him explicitly to the contemporary Gothic discourse.47 Perhaps most significantly, a rich manuscript of the Gospels in the Gothic language, produced in or around Ravenna in the early sixth century, perhaps for Theodoric himself, is ornamented with a Corinthian arcade at the bottom of each leaf. This crucial document, in Swedish collections from the middle of the seventeenth century and published in two editions by 1671, intertwines the Goths, Christian faith, and classical architecture.48 As with much of this deeply polemical history, Theodoric’s dual status as a Gothic king and heir to the Roman Empire resonated not only with the Northern courts but also with Habsburg ideology. Like Hercules, he was incorporated into a quite different set of contemporary historical narratives by the imperial court. However, in keeping with the more comprehensive imperial claims promoted by the Habsburgs, he was more often presented as part of a group of ancestors or historical models. Thus, in Innsbruck, the tomb of Maximilian I is attended by two rows of earlier rulers and family members cast in bronze. Theodoric, perhaps made after drawings by Albrecht Dürer, stands among more-recent Habsburgs, as well as Clovis, a sixth-century king who united the Frankish tribes and converted to Christianity, and King Arthur. The more limited claims of the Swedish court gave relatively more emphasis, and thus importance, to Theodoric and his Latin taste and education. By the middle of the seventeenth century, patrons, architects, and scholars in Scandinavia, as elsewhere, seem to have agreed that what we would consider a classicizing or Italianate style was appropriate in virtually all circumstances. Although there was greater stylistic variety in earlier decades, it still conformed very much to broad international trends. To some degree this may have reflected

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a convergence of interests. Nicodemus Tessin the Younger and the court image makers presented an architecture derived from the Greco-Roman tradition as a broadly accepted international court style, while Rudbeck and others presented the same architecture as part of an ancient tradition in which the Goths played an important, even decisive, role. Tessin, who did far more than Rudbeck to give Sweden a representative architectural form (and who was also employed by the Danish Crown), showed no perceptible interest in Gothic ideology, while Rudbeck was only minimally concerned with settings for state ceremonial and diplomacy. The historical vision of the Goths was likewise split. Their power as a military force, so resonant for a rising militaristic state, was dependent on their conquest of Rome. Yet they were simultaneously held up as cultural ancestors and models in the form of Christianized, Latinized people. In this context, the interventions of the Goths in antiquity seemed to make Roman arts and culture partly a Gothic legacy and therefore a legitimate part of the heritage of their descendants as well. Just as the ancient Goths were integrated into antiquity in this discourse, so too were the modern northern kingdoms understood to be full contributors to the development of the arts and culture of their time.

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chap ter tw o

Reform and Reformation

The Reformation came early to Scandinavia. In both Denmark (with dependent Norway) and Sweden (with dependent Finland) it played a central role in the formation of the modern states themselves. At the beginning of the sixteenth century, these two kingdoms were united under the Danish Crown in the Kalmar Union, forged in 1397. This union frayed, and then, following the 1520 massacre in Stockholm of eighty Swedish noblemen who had been promised safe travel, it broke. In 1523, after an extended rebellion, Sweden was recognized as an independent state under King Gustaf I, or Gustaf Vasa, as he is commonly known. In that year the Danish king, Christian II (r. 1513–23), was deposed and sent into exile. His uncle, the Duke of Holstein, became King Frederik I (r. 1523–33). In the same year, then, one state was created, and the other, with a new king, made an absolute break with the past. Within a decade both of these political markers would be compounded in a more profound way by the acceptance of the Lutheran Reform. In both places, students or colleagues of Martin Luther in Wittenberg were involved in the reforms at the highest level, bringing a theological legitimacy to the changes. Yet the nature the Reformation in each kingdom was fundamentally different. The Reformation in Sweden was largely motivated by secular concerns.1 It is true that mercenaries hired to fight Denmark circulated Lutheran pamphlets in the first years of the 1520s, and traders promoted his ideas in merchant cities. In 1524 Lutherans in Stockholm recruited an evangelical minister, Nikolaus Stecker, with roots in Eisleben and Wittenberg. Students traditionally studied in Rostock, Greifswald, and Leipzig, and more recently at the new university in Wittenberg in Saxony, where Luther and his disciples trained future Protestant theologians. These connections cannot account for the Reformation in Sweden, however. The kingdom was home to very few university-educated evangelicals,

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and most of its population was agrarian and distributed across a vast landmass. Likewise, most of the merchant towns were small; only Stockholm engaged an evangelical pastor. The 1527 parliament at Västerås resolved that “the word of God should be purely preached all over the kingdom.” This was an unambiguous adoption of evangelical rhetoric, but for some time religious life hardly changed within the kingdom. No bishops were removed from office or forced to accept radically different theology and liturgy, although some went into exile because of allegiance to the Danish king. Nor were there substantial changes in the service: the adoration of saints continued, as did the use of incense and holy water, the celebration of feast days, and requiem masses. In religious terms, the 1527 decree was little more than an empty proclamation. It was not until 1544, when the parliament resolved to promote a more comprehensive reform, that these practices were debated seriously and many were abolished. The state theology nonetheless remained ambiguous until the institution of strict Lutheranism at the end of the sixteenth century. The 1527 proclamation, seemingly without any drive toward substantive theological reform, had other grounds. The reform movement was promoted by a small group of evangelicals with court ties. Olaus Petri (1493–1552) studied in Uppsala, Leipzig, and, in 1516–18, under Luther and Philipp Melanchthon in Wittenberg. He then became a charismatic preacher at St. Nicholas’s, the main church in Stockholm, and, in 1531, the king’s chancellor. Stecker, too, became a secretary to the king. There is little evidence that Gustaf Vasa was particularly moved by the theology of these men, but they provided an opportunity to solve other problems. The rebellion against Denmark had been funded largely by Lübeck, a wealthy merchant town, and the young Swedish kingdom was deeply in debt. Church wealth, seized by the state, solved a financial crisis, even as the new king, from a relatively minor family, declined to alienate his subjects by enacting radical changes in the religious life of the populace. Likewise, although the structure of the church initially remained unchanged, reform placed the king at its head. In 1531 Gustaf appointed Olaus Petri’s brother, Laurentius, archbishop, pointedly rejecting papal prerogative and emphasizing royal control of the church. The reformers encouraged the rejection of Roman authority, but they did not easily accept the king’s autocratic approach to the church, and conflicts soon arose. In 1539–40 Gustaf sentenced Olaus Petri to death. The reasons for this are unclear, but it was certainly in part to establish royal supremacy over the church. The sentence was eventually commuted to a heavy fine, but Petri kept a low profile for the rest of his life. A decade later, Henry VIII of England would take a similar approach to reformation and the consolidation of power. If the Reformation in Sweden was rather shallow and largely served the needs of a state-building monarch, that in Denmark was more comprehensive and developed with the earnest support of the king and the merchant class.2 In part to break the power of the high aristocracy and the church, Christian II

pursued economic reforms favoring the urban merchant class, which proved to be a breeding ground for evangelical ideas in Denmark and across Europe. His successor, Frederik I, took no clear confessional position, waiting in vain for a church council to resolve the disputes. His personal views are still debated, but he did little to slow the growth of Lutheranism. By the end of his reign there were effectively two competing churches in the kingdom. It was Christian III (r. 1534–59) who remade Denmark in Lutheran terms. In 1521, as a young prince touring the Holy Roman Empire, Christian saw Luther defend his writings at the Diet of Worms. Whether this experience or another sparked his deep and lifelong Lutheranism is difficult to say, but by the mid1520s he had converted the lands he controlled as the Duke of Holstein. Initially, he replaced parts of the traditional liturgy with specifically Lutheran ones. In 1526–27 he expelled the Dominicans, and early in 1528 he forced all priests in his lands to swear a Lutheran oath of office or face dismissal. The Roman Mass was abolished, church treasuries disappeared, and peasants stopped paying the episcopal tithe. Its geographical reach was limited to his duchy, but within about three years Christian established the first princely Protestant church. After the death of Frederik I, in 1533, the conservative Council of State ruled the kingdom directly, with disastrous results. Duke Christian was offered the Crown in the following year and, as Christian III, implemented still more fundamental reforms throughout the land. Failing to bring Luther himself, he brought Johannes Bugenhagen (1485–1558), a professor at Wittenberg and close associate of Luther, to Denmark in 1537–39 to oversee the restructuring of state institutions. He ordained seven new superintendents, or Lutheran bishops, who, along with the king, would lead the church. They would be guided by a new church ordinance prepared by Bugenhagen. New clergy would be trained at the University of Copenhagen, which now reopened with a Lutheran curriculum modeled on that at Wittenberg. Finally, and more symbolically, Bugenhagen led the coronation ceremony of the new king, which retained many of the older royal-sacral elements. All of this was achieved in August and September 1537. The close relationship between Christian and Bugenhagen endured, however, and they maintained a rich and personal correspondence, with the theologian often offering practical suggestions for appointees to important positions and so on.3

Lutheran Chapels for Lutheran Princes: Torgau and Its Legacy Reform and Reformation

Christian III was far more pious than Gustaf Vasa, and the differences in their attitudes toward church building are remarkable. The Swedish king, who threatened to execute one of the theologians primarily responsible for the introduction of Lutheran ideas into the kingdom, oversaw a net reduction in churches in his lands. A number of monastic structures were destroyed more or less immediately after secularization, and their materials used in other projects. Indeed, Gustaf wanted to pull down St. Nicholas’s, the main church in Stockholm, on the

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Figure 4 | Nickel Gromann,

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chapel of Hartenfels Castle, Torgau, Saxony, 1543–44. Photo: author.

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grounds that it stood in the line of cannon fire from the adjacent castle. It is true that he employed a small group of Netherlandish and German painters, sculptors, and tapestry makers and occasionally commissioned projects abroad, but most of these were secular projects. Moreover, most of these craftsmen arrived in his last years, and the greatest part of their work in the kingdom came after his death. His primary legacy in the arts is a group of castles scattered around the kingdom. In Denmark, chapels took on a particular significance that paralleled the close theological ties to Saxony. In 1544 Martin Luther delivered the dedicatory sermon in the palace chapel at Torgau (fig. 4). Two levels of galleries encircle the room, approximating an arcaded courtyard covered by a vaulted ceiling. These accom-

Reform and Reformation

modated a congregation strictly stratified by station. In the first gallery, at the level of the pulpit, sat Elector Johann Friedrich and his retinue. Above him sat the princes, and below stood other members of the court.4 Initially, there was a small table altar, but this was replaced in 1545 by a large altarpiece from the workshop of Lucas Cranach, which was accompanied by a group of pictures placed elsewhere in the chapel.5 The chapel at Torgau is usually recognized as the first religious space conceived specifically for Protestant use, and the direct tie to Luther gave it particular validity. Variants were soon built at Lutheran courts around Germany. A similar chapel was built in the Dresden palace around midcentury, another in Schwerin in the 1560s, and yet another in Schmalkalden in the 1580s. Other princes employed the form as well, always for court use. The Danish court encountered the Torgau chapel in 1548, four years after Luther’s inaugural sermon, when it gathered there for the marriage of Christian’s daughter Anna of Denmark to August of Saxony, who became elector in 1553, upon the death of his brother, Moritz. This was an early step in the creation of a network of Lutheran princes bound both by confession and by blood. The king did not attend the wedding, but Queen Dorothea and other high-ranking members of the court were present.6 Christian was certainly well informed about the chapel, for he soon built a very similar one in Koldinghus Castle, in southern Denmark, where the betrothal of Anna and August had taken place. Other variants were built in the Copenhagen castle and in Haderslevhus, the residence of the king’s brother Hans, who attended the Torgau wedding. A simplified version was built in Sønderborg Castle. Haderslevhus and Koldinghus were destroyed long ago, making it impossible to compare their chapels closely with Torgau or to evaluate their content.7 Nonetheless, it is clear that all of these chapels in northern Germany and Denmark took an almost totemic value from their model. Torgau was soon associated with the origins of Protestantism and with Luther himself. The reformer approved of the way the chapel facilitated a clear differentiation of worshippers by rank, which he believed reflected God’s ordering of humanity.8 However, it is important to recognize that Luther disapproved of other aspects of the chapel. The reformers gave few defining guidelines for Protestant architecture, but one basic tenet held that the church structure is not a sacred space. It houses the community of worshippers but does not itself carry spiritual value. There is thus no need for rich architecture or decoration. Although the chapel at Torgau may seem spare—particularly in the absence of the altarpiece and other paintings, which were later removed—Luther did not see it this way. To him, this represented princely architecture. He said that “Solomon would never have built such a beautiful temple as that at Torgau,” and that “this house [the Torgau chapel] . . . was built and ordered for those in the palace and court.” There was no need for an elaborate chapel, he argued, since one could just as well preach outside by a fountain.9 Luther thus associated the Torgau chapel with courtly splendor. This relation between form and richness was recognized more positively by other Lutheran

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princes in the sixteenth century. In 1549 work began on a renovation of the older chapel in the Dresden residence, making it a variant of the Torgau form.10 The destruction of the chapel in 1757 makes it difficult to evaluate. It is known primarily through a 1629 description by Philipp Hainhofer, an Augsburg patrician and agent in the arts, and two seventeenth-century prints. It must have been quite rich, however, for Hainhofer speaks repeatedly of silver and other precious materials. The elector’s oratory was decorated with a series of paintings—one, we are told, by Albrecht Dürer, and others by Lucas Cranach.11 Although he wrote later, Hainhofer’s attention to authorship rather than content speaks to a princely collector’s mind-set that perhaps reflects the original intent. He speaks of famous painters in a rich setting but says nothing of an appropriate devotional theme. Cranach had supplied a major altarpiece for Torgau, but for Dresden August ordered an alabaster relief from an unidentified workshop in Antwerp or Mechelen, which was then placed within a much larger stone framework.12 Finally, in 1568–72 August built another version of the form in Augustusburg, his hunting lodge. Here Vitruvian column orders were used more rigorously than in the Dresden chapel (which, to judge from the prints, had piers on the lower level and a confusing simultaneous use of Tuscan and Corinthian columns on the upper level), a more regular decorative vaulting scheme, and, once again, an altarpiece from the Cranach family. The Torgau form was likewise enriched in Denmark in the next generations. Frederik II (r. 1559–88) built a variant in Kronborg palace, with eight stout Doric columns supporting both the gallery and the vaulting. When his son Christian IV (personal rule 1596–1648) rebuilt Koldinghus in the first years of his reign, after a fire, he worked within what had quickly become both a recognizable tradition and one with a clear trajectory toward magnificence. Christian visited a series of German Protestant courts in 1595, and he may have visited Dresden briefly in 1597.13 If he was in Dresden, he may have seen the palace chapel, but he very likely encountered several iterations of the Torgau-chapel form in northern Germany. In rebuilding Koldinghus, Christian seems to have found his grandfather’s chapel rather plain, or perhaps simply outdated by more-recent rehearsals of the form that he encountered in Germany. He was determined to retain the nowtraditional form of a Lutheran palace chapel, but with a local point of reference: it was to repeat the double arcade in the same proportions found at Haderslevhus, finished in 1566. This must have been a shorthand way of explaining his wishes in familiar terms to the building master, Hercules van Oberberg, who had long overseen works there.14 If these directions extended to ornament, we can, with some reservation, infer that Duke Hans had also revised and amplified the Torgau model substantially for Haderslevhus. The unarticulated arches and other simpler forms from Torgau were enriched or elaborated, and documents indicate that the walls, columns, and ceiling were to be covered in marble and gold and that the wooden furnishings were highly worked and quite colorful.15 It is possible that the renovation of the Dresden chapel was decisive for Denmark, for all of the Danish variants have two stories, as at Dresden, rather than the three found

Figure 5 | Chapel of Frederiksborg Palace, Hillerød, Denmark, 1606–16. Photo: author.

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in Torgau. It is also possible that the chapels from the later sixteenth century in Saxony and in Denmark represent independent elaborations of the form within the conventions of a court setting. Christian IV’s goals are still more clear in the chapel at Frederiksborg, built between 1606 and 1616 (fig. 5).16 Here, a two-story arcade again encircles an open space, but on a much larger scale than at Torgau or Augustusburg. Likewise, the richness of the ornament far surpasses any Protestant precedent in Germany, with the possible exception of the lost Dresden chapel. The piers are articulated by alternating single and double columns. The double columns frame statues, and relief figures and patterned gilding prevail throughout. On the lower

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Figure 6 | Oratory in chapel of Frederiksborg Palace, Hillerød, Denmark, as rebuilt 1864–79. Photo: The Museum of National History, Frederiksborg Castle.

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floor, the arcade frames wooden pews with elaborate intarsia inlay. And at the southeast end stands an extraordinary silver and ebony altar with reliefs and freestanding figures. As with the rest of the palace, the rich decor was emphasized in a descriptive guide for visitors published by the palace’s keeper in 1646.17 In Torgau the elector was distinguished by his seat in the first gallery. At Frederiksborg, Christian had a rich private oratory (fig. 6).18 Here, a second, smaller silver and ebony altar and a gilded communion set served the king’s more private devotional needs. Twenty-three paintings by the court painter Pieter Isaacsz as well as by Pieter Lastman and other Amsterdam painters provided a sequence of biblical representations from the Annunciation to the Last Judgment, introducing a narrative aspect largely absent in the larger chapel, where a series of text plaques are to be found instead. These paintings were set into walls of ebony and nutmeg wood with elaborate intarsia patterns. The paneled ceiling had silver inlay and suspended clusters of fruit and foliage in ivory. A

Figure 7 | Altarpiece of Frederiksborg Palace chapel, Hillerød, Denmark, completed 1606. Photo: The Museum of National History, Frederiksborg Castle.

Reform and Reformation

marble table with inlaid-stone decoration completed the furnishings. The king alone held the key to the oratory, and the intensely private nature of the devotional space and the outstanding craftsmanship approximated those of other contemporary princely devotional spaces, such as the gemlike Reiche Kapelle (Rich Chapel or Oratory) of the Catholic duke Maximilian I of Bavaria or the oratory in the Dresden chapel described by Hainhofer. The Reiche Kapelle, consecrated in 1607, featured a series of scenes from the life of Mary derived from prints by Albrecht Dürer. These were made of inlaid marble and were thus materially different from the artwork in the Frederiksborg oratory. Moreover, it housed the duke’s relics and thus supported a theological function inappropriate for Lutheran use.19 However, both were unmistakably princely spaces and shared substantial elements beyond their richness. Each man prayed before an elaborate altar of ebony and silver largely comparable to the other. The Frederiksborg chapel altar has been described as a kind of Kunstkammerstück, or collector’s piece (fig. 7).20 Indeed, its basic elements are not unlike those of the elaborate cabinets produced in the earlier seventeenth century for princes and wealthy collectors. The reliefs are likewise derived from the prints that collectors around 1600 coveted most: by Albrecht Dürer, Hendrick Goltzius, and a few others. Prints provided the basis for many early modern devotional works, but at least some of these seem out of place in this self-consciously Lutheran space; an image of the martyrdom of Saint Sebastian after the Habsburg court painter Hans von Aachen, engraved in Amsterdam by Jan Muller, seems particularly difficult to reconcile with Protestant practices. In a more general way, these issues haunt the chapel as a whole. It was dedicated in 1617 in commemoration of the centennial of the Ninety-Five Theses, but Luther, who found the Torgau chapel unnecessarily rich, would likely have found the Frederiksborg chapel excessive in nearly every way. Luther recognized the role of the prince and considered his position ordained by God, in part for the protection of the church. Indeed, these were the chapels of the Lutheran territorial princes in their roles as summus episcopus, the leaders of the church within their territories, and in this capacity they outranked all other churches in the land.21 However, Luther evidently struggled to accept another consideration that the Danish kings, like other princes, considered self-evident: rulers must represent themselves with magnificence in all ways. This extended to their support and patronage of places of worship, and particularly those within the princely

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realm of the palace, which constitute a very large portion of the early Protestant chapels. Christian and others who adopted the Torgau model presented themselves very self-consciously not only as Lutherans but as Lutheran princes. These two aspects of their roles were inseparable.22

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Cornelis Floris’s Tombs for Denmark and Central Europe

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Although the general form of the Torgau chapel soon became associated with Lutheran princes, the Danish court first encountered it in the context of a dynastic celebration: the 1548 marriage of Anna of Denmark and August of Saxony. This reflects a much broader pattern in the way that the Danish monarchy approached cultural patronage. The pious Christian III did not build only chapels. He also commissioned a substantial tomb monument in Antwerp for his father, Frederik I. It was made by Cornelis Floris (ca. 1514–1575), one of the outstanding sculptors of the sixteenth century.23 This monument was created outside the specifically Lutheran world, in the Low Countries, which would provide both skilled talent and quality works for the Crown and the court more broadly. In a very general way, the commission of a tomb from Floris can be understood as part of a larger pattern of exportation of luxury goods from Netherlandish workshops. Altarpieces and tombs produced in Antwerp and Brussels in the sixteenth century can be found in churches scattered around the Baltic and beyond.24 Although the quality of Antwerp products was broadly recognized, the more specific impetus for the project came from the king’s relatives and contacts. In this instance, the main actors were Christian’s brother-in-law Duke Albrecht I of Prussia (r. 1510–25 as Grand Master of the Teutonic Order, 1525–68 as Duke of Prussia) and his painter and printmaker, Jacob Binck (ca. 1500–ca. 1569). Binck had worked for the Danish kings from 1533, primarily as a portraitist (fig. 8). He was later employed primarily by Albrecht and based in Königsberg. Binck was a prolific printmaker, producing more than 260 graphic works.25 Although these vary substantially, many are comparable to the production of the German “little masters,” who worked primarily in small format. Indeed, a number of his prints are copies of compositions by Hans Sebald Beham and others, although many more are his own elaborations on similar themes. He can be compared fairly precisely with two nearly exact contemporaries. Heinrich Aldegrever produced similar prints in Soest, not far from Binck’s native Cologne, and has often been marginalized to some degree for working outside of the BavarianFranconian milieu that was so productive in the earlier sixteenth century. Binck can also usefully be compared to Georg Pencz, who produced many prints in the same genres but was also a successful painter in southern Germany. Indeed, Pencz, too, accepted an invitation to work as court painter and engraver to Albrecht of Prussia. Had he not died en route, he would have replaced Binck in this post.26 Binck and Pencz in particular militate for a revised view of these artists that takes into account more than their often diminutive prints.

Figure 8 | Jacob Binck, Christian III of Denmark, 1535. The National Gallery of Denmark, Copenhagen. Photo © SMK .

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Binck entered Albrecht’s service in 1543 as a “loan” from Christian. This was not unusual. Most courts could do without one or another talent for a period, and sending a painter to a peer court showed goodwill toward another prince while also temporarily transferring the salary costs elsewhere. In 1541–42 Binck had worked as a guest of the Swedish court. Half a century later dowager queen Sophie of Denmark built a palace under the leadership of Philipp Brandin, who otherwise worked for her father in Mecklenburg.27 In the seventeenth century the composer Heinrich Schütz was discovered and trained by Landgrave Moritz of Hessen-Kassel, who lent him to Elector Johann Georg I of Saxony, never to get him back. In the 1630s and 1640s the elector in turn lent the composer to the Danish court for two periods, doubtless with strict instructions regarding his return.28 Christian cannot have expected that it would prove so difficult to bring Binck back to Denmark, and he sent a series of letters to Königsberg.29 Both Albrecht and Binck appealed to the king’s sense of family in explaining the prolonged absence. Dorothea, the king’s sister and Albrecht’s wife, had died in 1547, and Albrecht had commissioned a wall epitaph for the choir of the cathedral in Königsberg. Although the letters do not mention the maker, it was produced by Cornelis Floris. It was the sculptor’s first tomb monument, comprising a portrait and an extended inscription. Binck handled the commission. He traveled to Antwerp to settle the contract and then shipped it back to Königsberg. All of this delayed his return to Danish service, and the epitaph became a central point in the correspondence, as Albrecht played on their shared desire to commemorate Dorothea in gaining time before the painter’s return. Binck purchased paintings for Christian in Antwerp and wrote to the king that “when Your Majesty learns what I have seen and drawn in this land [the Southern Netherlands], of buildings [and] tombs . . . , with which I can serve Your Royal Majesty, [he] will not regret the time.”30 This was no idle chatter. In July 1551 Christian wrote to Albrecht that he had commissioned a tomb monument for Frederik I in the Low Countries and that Binck was the intermediary. The result, in the cathedral in Schleswig, is a freestanding block composed of alabaster with gilded accents against a black framework (fig. 9).31 The white-on-black format had broad appeal and was employed

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Figure 9 | Cornelis Floris,

The Art and Culture of Scandinavian Central Europe, 1550–1720

tomb of Frederik I of Denmark, Schleswig cathedral, 1551–53. Photo: author.

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in various forms throughout Central Europe.32 Although it is now in a cramped corner of the church, it was originally in the choir, surrounded by a grill. The king lies on his back in prayer, his torso raised slightly and supported by winged female sphinxes. A female figure holds a plaque at his feet, and another holds his arms at his head. Six caryatids bearing the attributes of the cardinal and theological virtues support the ensemble. In an early appearance of a motif that would become typical of the Floris workshop, the scrolls of the Ionic order rest on their

Figure 10 | Cornelis Floris, tomb of Birgitte Gøye and Herluf Trolle, Næstved, Denmark, 1566–68. Photo: author.

Reform and Reformation

heads, forming the transition to the entablature on which the king rests. Interspersed among the caryatids are four mourning putti. Its design is very close to that of an engraving published by Floris in 1557 and may have become an ideal type in the sculptor’s mind, either because of its successful form or its royal nature, although the latter is not mentioned in the printed inscription.33 The tussle between the courts for his services demonstrates that Binck was a respected figure, and his opinion on matters of artistic quality likely carried weight. It is thus difficult to say whether it was Albrecht’s commission from Floris—which Christian never saw—or Binck’s promotion of what he had seen in Antwerp that spurred the king to action. Likewise, it is unclear whether the idea for the epitaph for Dorothea in Königsberg originated with Albrecht, with Binck, or with someone else. Binck promoted the kind of elaborate decorative patterns employed by Floris, for he published a series of prints with similar motifs.34 Since he accompanied Anna of Denmark to her wedding in Saxony in 1548, he may also help to explain the link between the Torgau chapel and its early variants in Denmark, assuming he acted as a general artistic expert. At the least, he was centrally engaged with the production of the arts at these courts, and logistical issues kept him in frequent contact with the various princes. The tomb of Frederik I is of extremely high quality, but it is not especially monumental. It was soon surpassed in ambition and complexity by Floris’s monument for Albrecht. This enormous wall tomb featured a life-size figure of the duke kneeling in prayer. It dominated the end wall of the Königsberg cathedral from its installation in 1570 to its destruction in 1944.35

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Nor was the Schleswig tomb beyond the means of the Danish higher nobility. In 1566 Birgitte Gøye turned to Floris for an equally impressive double tomb with a separate, matching epitaph for herself and her deceased husband, Herluf Trolle, in their church at Herlufsholm (fig. 10). Abel Skeel commissioned a very similar one in alabaster and black and red marble for herself and her husband, Niels Lange.36 The form of the Gøye-Trolle tomb is closely related to another commissioned in 1566 by Heinrich Rantzau for his father, Johann. This was made of sandstone and installed in a family chapel in Itzehoe in Holstein, which Rantzau administered as a Statthalter, or governor, under Frederik II. It was not made by Floris, but by Karsten Hausmann in Bremen.37 The close dates make it difficult to define the relationship between the two tombs. Nonetheless, the mutual emulation among the nobility may itself have been troubling, for each of these monuments featured more figures and greater complexity than the tomb of Frederik I. It may have seemed that every church in Denmark would soon have a recumbent tomb of a noble more or less approximating that of Frederik I, although incorporating two figures rather than one. Thus, it was with an entirely new conception in mind that Frederik II returned to Floris in 1569 for a tomb for his father, Christian III, who had died a decade earlier (fig. 11).38 A Königsberg goldsmith named Hans de Wil­ lers, who had handled Albrecht of Prussia’s second commission from Floris, took on Frederik’s as well. It is once again a freestanding monument with a recumbent image of the king, but now housed within an arcaded pavilion supported by Corinthian columns. Four guardians stand at the corners. Above, a second image of the king kneels before a crucifix with four putti trumpeting his fame. The form has often been related to the tombs of Kings François I and Henri II of France in St. Denis (fig. 12). All feature two images of the deceased: recumbent nude figures of the king and queen below, surrounded by columns supporting kneeling figures above, made of bronze in the case of Henri. Jacques Androuet du Cerceau’s Second livre d’architecture (1561) includes variants of this design. In this interpretation, the royal nature of the deceased was absolutely clear, emphasized through reference to prominent examples elsewhere. This was certainly a desideratum. Citing recent monuments that “almost surpass all royal and princely tombs previously erected in the kingdom,” Frederik in 1576 introduced a series of sumptuary regulations on funerary memorials. Many of these governed materials, from textiles used in funerals to the stone acceptable for tombs. No

Figure 11 (opposite) | Cornelis Floris, tomb of Christian III, Roskilde, Denmark, 1569–75. Photo: author.

Figure 12 | Francesco Primaticcio and Germain Pilon, tomb of Henri II of France and Catherine de’ Medici, St. Denis, near Paris, 1561–73. Photo: author.

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noble was to raise a freestanding tomb made of alabaster or a similarly rich material.39 The decree was evidently directed at two tombs planned for the Church of Our Lady in Copenhagen, but a tomb more or less similar to the Gøye-Trolle tomb and completed in that year likewise remained uninstalled in the anticipated location in Aarhus cathedral. Epitaphs were used instead.40 The comparison to the French royal tombs provides a useful reference to overtly royal models that Frederik may have had in mind. However, it may also be informed by a modern habit of associating monuments in northern Europe with models in France and Italy. A tomb produced for the Saxon court, which was so often in dialogue with the Danish court, may be equally relevant. Indeed, Frederik and August of Saxony (r. 1553–86) were brothers-in-law and close friends. The Saxon court reconceived the way it memorialized its electors in these years. The traditional burial site in Meissen was abandoned for the cathedral in Freiberg, where the choir, unused since the Reformation, became a mausoleum for Elector Moritz following his death, in 1553. This rupture with tradition was a consequence of the disputed transfer of the electoral title from the Ernestine to the Albertine branch of the Wettin family. Moritz, the first Albertine elector, was considered a Saxon Judas for seizing it from his cousin through a military alliance with the Catholic emperor, Charles V, and these circumstances cast a shadow over the legitimacy of his heirs.41 August, Moritz’s brother and successor as elector, thus took on a rehabilitation of the family’s reputation. In commissioning a monument for Moritz, he did not turn to Floris, but given the correspondence between the courts in Denmark and Königsberg on their tomb commissions, he may nonetheless have had the tomb of Frederik I in mind (fig. 13).42 Although the Moritz tomb is larger and configured differently, many comparable elements appear in it, such as the mourning putti, the all’antica relief ornament, the gilded details in the armor and clothing, and the richly painted coats of arms. Other aspects are closer to contemporary projects elsewhere in the empire and beyond, including Michelangelo’s unfinished tomb for Pope Julius II and the tomb of Maximilian I in Innsbruck, planned from the beginning of the sixteenth century and completed in 1584. This is composed of a kneeling image of the emperor in bronze atop a stone base with relief images from his life. The early stages of the Maximilian project are difficult to parse, but work on the cenotaph itself began in the 1560s, as the Moritz monument approached completion. It, too, seems to have been developed in dialogue with the Saxon tomb.43 Like the Maximilian cenotaph, the monument for Moritz was a collaborative work. It was designed by the brothers Gabriele and Benedetto Thola from Brescia. The bronze elements were cast in Lübeck, and the marble was carved in Ant­ werp by Antonius van Zerroen. Unlike the Schleswig monument, the deceased is not presented on a bier, but kneeling on the battlefield, his mace and pistol on the ground in front of him. He is shown thanking God for victory in the Battle of Sievershausen, in which he was mortally wounded. If his political machinations for the electoral title had brought the Protestant side a major loss at Mühlberg in

Figure 13 | Gabriele and Benedetto Thola, Antonius van Zerroen, and others, tomb of Elector Moritz of Saxony, Freiberg, Saxony, 1559–63. Photo: author.

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1547, victory at Sievershausen (and elsewhere) was crucial in establishing legal recognition for Lutheranism in the Peace of Augsburg in 1555. August thus presented Moritz simultaneously as ordained by God for victory and as a Protestant martyr; the armor worn in battle, with a visible bullet hole, was displayed on the adjacent wall, making the association clear.44 Although aspects of the Freiberg monument are specific to its circumstances, it in turn provides an immediate point of comparison for the priant figure and the enlarged scale of Floris’s tomb of Christian III, particularly in those aspects that do not compare closely with the tombs in St. Denis. The small warriors in Roman costume bearing the arms of Moritz’s territories reappear as life-size guardians at the corners of the tomb of Christian, likewise bearing the king’s arms. Frederik I and Moritz are shown alone. This is repeated in the tomb of Christian III, although he is presented twice. Both comparable French royal

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The Art and Culture of Scandinavian Central Europe, 1550–1720

Figure 14 | Choir of Freiberg cathedral with Wettin funerary monuments, Freiberg, Saxony, from 1585. Photo: author.

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tombs present the royal pair; below, they are shown not as resting soldiers but as nearly naked corpses. Floris’s drawings suggest that he proposed many of the elements in the French tombs but that the Danish patrons rejected them.45 If the St. Denis tombs served as models, their influence was largely limited to the architectural form of the tombs. There are other indications that the Freiberg tomb must have been on Frederik’s mind. In 1571 Anna of Denmark, his sister and August’s wife, chided him for having done nothing to commemorate their parents. He responded that he had commissioned a monument unlike any in Denmark, thus pointing to an external conception. It was moreover to be part of a larger project. The body of Christian III was thus moved from Odense, where he evidently wished to be buried, to Roskilde, where it was placed in a chapel established by Christian I, the founder of the Oldenburg dynasty.46 This transfer constituted the first step in making the cathedral in Roskilde a dynastic burial church. St. Denis was likewise a medieval cathedral transformed into a dynastic sepulchre. And although it was not yet evident, the choir of the Freiberg cathedral, after the death in 1585 of Anna of Denmark, would also become an Albertine family mausoleum, with figures of the family gathered around the risen Christ, all cast in bronze by Carlo di Cesare del Palagio from Florence

Figure 15 | Willem van den Blocke, tomb of Johan III of Sweden, Uppsala, Sweden, begun 1593. Photo: author.

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(fig. 14).47 This extraordinary ensemble would make virtually every other contemporary tomb in northern Europe seem unremarkable. The decision to move Christian to Roskilde seems to have included a plan for a matching tomb for Frederik II. Executed between 1594 and 1598, it takes essentially the same form as that of Christian III, although enriched still further with double columns, reliefs narrating the king’s feats on the base, and allegorical figures of virtues on the upper level. The level of workmanship is lower, however. It was made by Gert van Egen from Mechelen (d. 1612), who was evidently required to match the general form of the earlier piece, with some elaborations, such as paired columns and relief panels with scenes from the king’s life. One of Floris’s few surviving drawings presents a tomb for Frederik. Had he not died in 1575, he might well have taken on the project. In the decades after Floris’s death, an alternative to Van Egen would have been Willem van den Blocke (1546/47–1628). He may have been part of the team that arrived in Königsberg in 1569 to set up Floris’s monument for Albrecht of Prussia. He soon received an independent commission from Margrave Georg Friedrich of Brandenburg-Ansbach for a similar wall tomb for himself and his wife that would be a pendent to the Floris monument in Königsberg cathedral. He stayed in the margrave’s service for at least fourteen years and in 1584 settled

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in Danzig, an independent trade city, where he remained until his death, in 1628. Prussia was a fief of the Polish crown, and the king, Stephen Báthory, commissioned Van den Blocke to make a tomb of his brother. A second royal tomb, commemorating Johan III of Sweden, was commissioned in 1593 by Johan’s son Sigismund III of Poland and Sweden, jointly with the Swedish Council of State. In 1599 Sigismund was deposed as king of Sweden, however, and the monument was not delivered in the ensuing crisis. It remained in Danzig until 1782 and was installed in Uppsala cathedral in an incorrect form in 1818 (fig. 15); it was intended as a wall monument comparable to the tombs by Floris and Van den Blocke in Königsberg.48 Other tombs from Van den Blocke’s workshop went to Danish and Swedish nobles, as well as to local patrons.49 All of these projects form part of a much broader group. The Baltic courts and cities hosted a remarkable number of sculptors with presumed roots in Floris’s workshop and even more with general Netherlandish backgrounds.50 These figures themselves have often been seen as a group, both because of their apparent ties to the Floris workshop and because of the dynastic bonds between these courts and cities, which encouraged such close artistic relationships. More broadly, they represented a fairly general cultural coherence around the Baltic Sea.51 This has tended to disconnect this group of sculptors and their works from comparable ones elsewhere, however. For instance, Floris and his workshop also made two prominent tombs for archbishops of Cologne. These are substantially different from those for the Danish Crown, but the reclining figures, leaning on their sides in costume appropriate to their position, are not so different from those incorporated in Van den Blocke’s royal tombs. The tombs in Schleswig, Roskilde, Königsberg, Freiberg, and Innsbruck were conceived in a dialogue, freely borrowing motifs from one another in a collaborative process that defies any unidirectional concept of influence or reception. However, it is essential to recognize that neither the Danish court nor the Prussian seems to have been specifically interested in Floris, who is unnamed in the documents until after his death, when his wife pressed Frederik II for payment. Indeed, because all of these commissions were handled by agents, it is unclear if the princes knew who made the monuments. Authorship seems likewise to have been of little concern in the case of the Moritz monument, which was subcontracted to masters in various locations. The cenotaph for Maximilian I in Innsbruck has a similarly complex authorship. Nevertheless, these and other prominent monuments in the German lands have often been categorized by authorship, distinguishing, for instance, works by Floris from those attributed to his workshop, followers, or other sculptors. This does not match court interests, which were notably unconcerned with authorship. Rather, the courts were concerned with effect and a suitable representation for deceased rulers, particularly within the larger context of peer courts. Reconceived in the terms in which they were originally perceived, these tombs appear as a group with substantial variations produced by an array of masters, but as a coherent group nonetheless.

chap ter th r ee

Frederik II and the Arts in Denmark in the Later Sixteenth Century Kronborg Castle, a magnificent fortified palace, looms above the sound linking the Baltic and the North Seas (fig. 16).1 Frederik II’s residence was one of the major building projects in northern Europe in the later sixteenth century, and it captured contemporary imagination. The Haarlem painter Hendrick Cornelis Vroom set a large seascape before the castle in 1612. Shakespeare set Hamlet there around 1600, and the names of two characters in the play, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, are derived from those of Danish noble families. Even before Frederik’s son-in-law James became king of England in 1603, the Danish king and his castle were recognized around the North Sea. The land on both sides of the sound was Danish territory until the late 1650s, when the eastern side was lost to Sweden in one of the many wars between the kingdoms. All passing ships paid a toll, which contributed substantially to the king’s income. Indeed, it was this income that funded Kronborg, which was both a palace and a toll house. It was largely destroyed by fire in 1629. Only the chapel survives more or less intact from Frederik’s reign. Recognizing its significance and showing filial respect, Christian IV rebuilt the rest of the structure with few changes. The strategic site on the sound had long been guarded by a fortress. In 1558 Christian III requested a plan for modernization from Hans von Dieskau, who worked for both the Saxon and Danish courts. His project is lost, and it is unclear if it was pursued. Any work begun at that point was absorbed in a building campaign begun around 1574 that seems to have been led by two Netherlanders, Hans van Paschen and then Antonis van Opbergen. When work at Kronborg drew to a close, Van Opbergen moved on to important projects in Danzig, Thorn (Toruń), and elsewhere.2

Figure 16 | Kronborg Castle, Elsinore, Denmark, expanded from 1574, rebuilt after 1629. Photo: author.

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The fortifications hide most of Kronborg’s lower story from the outside, and the exterior ornament is accordingly clustered in the upper stories, much of it quite large in order to be visible from a distance. A bold frieze crowns the walls, and the roofline is enlivened by a group of towers. The tallest of these breaks the horizon line from all viewing points in the sound and could easily be seen by any passing ship. Even as the block of the structure fades into the landscape, the tower retains the commanding presence desired by the king. Kronborg developed incrementally, with many changes of plan. Cut stone replaced brick, and curtain walls on the south and east became full wings. The south wing houses the chapel, previously an independent structure abutting the wall. Above it, the second floor is dedicated to an immense great hall that would become the grandest space in the structure. The addition of the east wing, housing a gallery leading from Queen Sophie’s apartment to the chapel, transformed the structure into an enclosed block. This did not bring uniformity, however. The accommodation of the older structure meant that the wings were all different widths, which implied different rooflines as well. Such variety was embraced to a large degree, and each wing has an individual character. This is most pronounced in the east wing, where the

ground floor is heavily rusticated and marked by massive inverted piers. The west wing has many windows to the north and few to the south, reflecting the different needs of the interior spaces. In the south wing, the magnificent chapel portal extends over two levels. Kings David and Solomon flank the doorway in niches set between Corinthian columns, and Moses crowns the ensemble. This self-consciously all’antica design is placed between the Gothic windows of the chapel. Throughout, the wings are divided by staircases set in towers protruding into the courtyard at intervals dictated by function. These seeming disjunctions have raised questions about Kronborg’s relation to the normative standards of Renaissance architecture. Some aspects of the castle’s design, such as the free mixing of Gothic and Renaissance motifs, now seem less troublesome.3 A royal monumentality was the primary goal, and the towers, rustication, and portals introduced richness and visual interest. In the next generation, Christian IV, who was much more invested in building than Frederik II, pursued architectural projects in largely comparable ways.

Outfitting Kronborg

Frederik II and the Arts in Denmark in the Later Sixteenth Century

Frederik commissioned two large-scale figural projects for Kronborg that must be considered together. One was an enormous fountain for the courtyard. The other, commissioned in 1581, was a group of forty-three tapestries for the great hall.4 These were woven in Elsinore under the direction of Hans Knieper (d. 1587), who came from the Low Countries (probably from Antwerp) in 1577. Knieper also worked as a portrait painter. This may have been an essential qualification for the project, which was to present a visual lineage of the Danish kings from the legendary King Dan to Frederik II and Prince Christian (IV), as presented by the medieval chronicler Saxo Grammaticus with subsequent additions. The sixteenth-century kings are instantly identifiable with other portraits on painted panels, medals, and so on, giving the sequence an air of authenticity. Each king is accompanied by a short inscription in German recounting his accomplishments. That of Frederik and Christian shows the Kronborg and Frederiksborg palaces in the background, the latter in its original form as a hunting lodge (color plate 2). As previously noted, dynastic genealogies were a crucial part of early modern representation. Many precedents for the Kronborg tapestries have been identified, but certainly the most direct spark for the project was the Johannes Magnus– based Gothic lineage that was pushed aggressively by the Swedish court. Around 1560 the Swedish Crown set another Antwerp painter, Dominicus ver Wilt, to work on a group of tapestries elaborating the lineage laid out by Magnus. Only five of these were completed, three of which are lost, but the project seems to have been the starting point for Frederik II’s grander effort. The Kronborg tapestries did not best Magnus in the antiquity of the lineage. Saxo described King Dan as a contemporary of King David, while Magnus traced the earliest Gothic kings to the family of Noah. Although Saxo’s lineage was adjusted in various editions, it could not easily be expanded by half without

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substantially manipulating the text or subsuming it in an alternative, such as the Gothic ancestry increasingly claimed by the Danish as well as the Swedish kings. Contemporary lore offered an alternative, quoting Humble, Dan’s father, tracing Danish lineage to Japhet, son of Noah.5 However, the more fundamental textual engagement with Gothicism among Danish historians would not reach its fullest expression until the seventeenth century. In the 1570s the tapestries’ polemics were expressed primarily in their greater number and richness in the great hall of Kronborg, which had no match in Sweden.

The Art and Culture of Scandinavian Central Europe, 1550–1720

Georg Labenwolf and Kronborg

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The tapestries were complemented by some of the outstanding sculpture produced in northern Europe in the 1570s. The elaborate fountain made by Georg Labenwolf (before 1533–1585) for Kronborg’s courtyard was a marvel of hydraulic complexity, if not of refined figural sculpture. (He was a specialist in the technical work of casting metal, rather than in modeling figures.) Like Knieper’s tapestries, it is an ideological presentation of the king on a grand scale, although it achieves this end through quite different means.6 The fountain was produced in Nuremberg, which supplied much of Europe with outstanding works of all kinds. The city was an alternative to Antwerp for the production and export of luxury goods, and metalwork was a special strength.7 In this way it balanced the Netherlandish presence in the Baltic, which has often been emphasized, and was a natural place for Frederik to turn for the Kronborg fountain. Public fountains provided water for everyday use. Courts and prosperous towns frequently turned them into showpieces with stone or bronze figures, and Nuremberg founders provided many for Central European clients. The Kronborg fountain thus paralleled many in northern Europe, although none matched its richness.8 The idea seems to have come from elsewhere, however. In 1575 the Danish astronomer Tycho Brahe stayed at the court of Landgrave Wilhelm IV of Hessen-Kassel, who in 1570–71 had commissioned from Labenwolf a similar but much smaller fountain with ten figures.9 Brahe may well have described the fountain to Frederik and encouraged him to order a similar one for Kronborg. He was in any case closely involved in the commission, for much of the correspondence regarding the project went through him.10 In this event, the initial impetus for the fountain could be traced to Wilhelm IV. If so, the situation echoes the first commission from Cornelis Floris. Once again the Danish king developed on a grander scale an idea received through a friendly court. The fountain, like Kronborg itself, was beyond the reach of virtually any other prince in the German-speaking world. Frederik commissioned the fountain in 1576, and it was installed in 1583. It was destroyed when the castle was sacked by Swedish armies in 1658–59. Three of the figures survive in Stockholm, but the others were melted down and the metal used for other purposes. A few written descriptions and three graphic

Frederik II and the Arts in Denmark in the Later Sixteenth Century

records allow us to reconstruct the concept, however. The fullest description was published by Johann Gabriel Doppelmayr in 1730, well after the work was destroyed, and is thus probably based on a sixteenth-century record.11 Indeed, it is accompanied by a print very similar to a drawing made in 1582 by the future municipal architect Wolf Jakob Stromer.12 Although there are small but significant differences between the print and the drawing, these seem to demonstrate Doppelmayr’s use of earlier sources and thus indirectly support his reliability (fig. 17). Doppelmayr presents Labenwolf through the Kronborg fountain alone, implying that it overshadowed everything else that he produced and itself justified his inclusion in the history of the city’s distinguished artistic and scientific tradition. He describes the work as “the most considerable, in that one of such size [or greatness, “Gröse”] had never been seen in Nuremberg, and thoroughly admired.”13 It was indeed known and admired in Nuremberg, for Labenwolf assembled and ran the fountain in the Stadtgraben for three days before transporting it to Denmark. Certainly the size and complexity were impressive. A central shaft of six meters or more supported a group of figures, culminating in Neptune balancing on one leg. The water pressure rotated the god, allowing him to survey his domains in all directions. Below him stood Minerva, Juno, and Venus. Around the perimeter of the basin were six kneeling archers and gunmen shooting water from their weapons. A 1654 description mentions large animals on the rim of the basin in between the marksmen.14 These figures are not included in the drawing or the print, or in a small earlier view by Braun and Hogenberg. They may have been added later or, if they did not conduct water, were perhaps not included in the Nuremberg demonstration. Altogether, Doppelmayr counts thirty-six cast figures. The print published by Doppelmayr is more legible than the sixteenth-century drawing, and it may also be more accurate on some points. Some of the differences, such as variations in the form of the basin, can no longer be verified. The print shows elephants above the garlands in the lowest zone of the column. These refer to the Order of the Elephant, the highest-ranking Danish noble society. No elephants are found in the drawing, yet it also seems unlikely that Doppelmayr, a Nuremberg mathematician, would have invented this entirely appropriate detail on his own. It is more likely that the drawing represents an earlier project, or that both the print and the drawing are copies after another representation of the fountain. The documentary value of the print is still more important in the representation of the basin, which is slightly different in the two images. Both show two circular maps in the front panel of the basin. The landmasses themselves are rather abstract and difficult to identify. At least one of these can be identified iconographically in both representations, however. That on the left shows two columns separated by a waterway through which a ship sails. This must represent the ancient twin Pillars of Hercules at the Strait of Gibraltar framing the entrance to the Mediterranean, the Roman mare nostrum (“our sea”). In the print,

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Figure 17 | Georg Labenwolf, Neptune fountain, formerly in Kronborg Castle, Elsinore, Denmark, 1576–83. From Doppelmayr, Historische Nachricht. Photo © bpk  / Staatsbibliothek zu Berlin.

Frederik II and the Arts in Denmark in the Later Sixteenth Century

the pendant map also shows a ship entering a narrow passage, on the bank of which stands a single column next to a castle. There is no comparably familiar identification for this, but the fountain itself may well provide the answer, for it constituted a monument taking the form of a pillar. Its form was echoed by Kronborg’s tower, which rises well above the horizon line when viewed from the sound, and approximates a pillar dominating the strait. Comparable reliefs elsewhere on the basin may have compared the other two straits controlled by Denmark to the Bosporus and the Dardanelles, paralleling textual comparisons made by a traveler in 1589 and by a court historian in the 1630s.15 The six figures perched on the basin, all in different costume, contrast with the Greco-Roman gods and goddesses on the central pillar of the fountain. These are certainly to be identified as a Teuton, Thracian, Gaul, Sarmatian, Muscovite, and Iberian, all described in a verse on the fountain composed by Joachim Pömer, a Nuremberg councilman involved in its completion.16 They introduce into the fountain’s iconography a different set of ancient references usually treated as an alternate, largely separate ancient history. Missing is a Goth, or perhaps a Vandal or Cimbrian, given the frequently overlapping nature of these identifications. The composite figure at the top may provide an explanation for this omission. Nearly all modern scholars have identified Neptune with Frederik himself, surveying his watery domain from the castle overlooking the sound. But Frederik simultaneously presented himself as king of the Goths, towering over the other ancient peoples scattered around his seas. This reading presents a Gothic king and a Roman god unified in the single allegorical figure of Frederik. These kinds of seemingly contradictory associations were not unusual. Hercules, a common royal model, was taken up in a long verse by Georg Stiernhielm, one of the foremost Swedish promoters of a Gothic ideology.17 Another seventeenth-century poem describes Minerva giving the Swedish field marshal Carl Gustaf Wrangel the military skills to become a Gothic Mars.18 Likewise, Scandinavian kings, as noted previously, routinely dressed in Roman costume even as they presented themselves as Goths in court festivities. If Neptune represents Frederik, this may constitute a similar kind of conflated allegory, an image of Neptunus Gothicus. Inscriptions on the fountain’s basin might have clarified much of this, but the plaques are blank in the drawing and the print. In the Kronborg tapestries, the verse accompanying each king makes no mention of a Gothic or Cimbrian genealogy. This may be because Saxo incorporated the Gothic tradition in an oblique way, and rather late, in his work. Rather than interpolate ancient Gothic origins into a project that invited comparison with Saxo’s well-known text, on which it was based, the tapestries seem to have omitted any reference to a Gothic past. This was left to the courtyard fountain, which had no explicit textual basis and linked the ancient and modern worlds in quite different ways. Doppelmayr and all other early commentators present the Kronborg fountain as a major achievement, a work unlikely to be seen again in Nuremberg. Indeed, the city council stepped in repeatedly to resolve delays. The council was clearly

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The Art and Culture of Scandinavian Central Europe, 1550–1720

Figure 18 | Georg Wurzelbauer, Fountain of the Virtues, Nuremberg, 1583–89. Photo: author.

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aware of the significance of the project. Likely anticipating future commissions from the king, it was determined that Labenwolf should present himself and the city professionally. Ultimately, it did more than was necessary. Pömer arranged for three motets celebrating the fountain and the king to be composed for the occasion. The composer is not recorded, but their quality is high, and it has been proposed that they are by Orlando di Lasso, working in Nuremberg in these years, or Leonhard Lechner.19 The Kronborg fountain was seen in Nuremberg for only three days in 1582. In the following year, the Fountain of the Virtues was undertaken for the square next to St. Lorenz in Nuremberg. Made by Labenwolf’s nephew and assistant, Georg Wurzelbauer, it is smaller but has a similar form and constitutes an echo

of the lost Kronborg fountain (fig. 18).20 Its more modest form and scale demonstrate the extraordinary stature of the Danish commission. If the comparison was intended to be more specific, it is possible that Nuremberg wished to emphasize its royal ties. This would complement the city’s long-standing imperial associations, cultivated through its traditional importance within the empire (including its role as the keeper of the imperial insignia), and its more informal role as the production center for many Habsburg cultural projects. It bears mention that the Scandinavian kings and the emperor were perceived as peers in numerous contexts. The Nuremberg city council may well have agreed.

Tycho Brahe and Uraniborg

Frederik II and the Arts in Denmark in the Later Sixteenth Century

Danish nobles such as Birgitte Gøye and Heinrich Rantzau commissioned remarkable and complex works from outstanding practitioners. Gøye and Rantzau were thoughtful, rich, well connected, and ambitious in the promotion of their families’ reputations. Rantzau in particular was deeply engaged with humanistic literary culture and published a number of Latin texts.21 He also pursued substantial artistic and architectural production, but little of this survives. One Danish nobleman stands out in the quality and character of his pursuits and in his place in European cultural life. Tycho Brahe (1546–1601) was one of the foremost astronomers and alchemists of the later sixteenth century.22 He cultivated ties to scientific circles around the empire and spent his last years at the imperial court of Rudolf II in Prague after a conflict with the young Christian IV. These scientific friendships had substantial artistic consequences for Denmark. As a guest of Landgrave Wilhelm IV of Hessen-Kassel, a passionate amateur astronomer, Brahe encountered the fountain that the prince had commissioned from Labenwolf, and he may have promoted the commission of a larger version for Kronborg. Brahe made many contacts with artists at home and in the course of his travels. In Augsburg he engaged craftsmen who would provide him with elaborate instruments. This work was later done at Brahe’s estate, much of it by the goldsmith Hans Crol from Westphalia. Brahe was deeply interested in arts of all kinds, from the astronomical and alchemical to the visual and the literary, and he frequently facilitated intersections between them. He had his portrait engraved twice by Jacques de Gheyn, in Haarlem and in Amsterdam, probably after a design by Tobias Gemperlin, a young Augsburg painter who came to Denmark at his behest.23 Brahe also rather presumptuously raided the group of artists and craftsmen who had come to work for Frederik. Thus, he referred to the royal builder Hans van Steenwinckel the Elder as “my architect” and employed him to prepare architectural drawings. Moreover, Van Steenwinckel and Gemperlin, and others as well, were to some degree absorbed into Brahe’s scientific work, receiving instruction in astronomy and assisting him in making observations.24 Frederik provided Brahe with the island Hven in the sound, not far from Kron­borg, to build his residence-observatory, called Uraniborg. Although not

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Figure 19 | Uraniborg,

The Art and Culture of Scandinavian Central Europe, 1550–1720

observatory of Tycho Brahe, Hven, Denmark, begun 1576. From Brahe, Astronomiae Instauratae Mechanica.

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large, it was quite remarkable (fig. 19).25 The plan of the central block was square and aligned with the cardinal points of the compass. Internally, it was divided into four equal spaces separated by corridors meeting at the center of the building. This symmetrical plan was familiar in the sixteenth century. François I’s château at Chambord, begun in 1519, employs a variant of it, although with a central staircase. It is often assumed that the most direct point of reference was Andrea

Johan Gregor van der Schardt in Denmark Labenwolf’s technical ingenuity captivated both Frederik and Brahe. The king also employed a very different kind of sculptor in Johan Gregor van der Schardt (ca. 1530/31–ca. 1581), Labenwolf’s colleague in Nuremberg. Originally from Nij­ megen in the Low Countries, Van der Schardt worked in various cities in Italy for about twelve years.29 In this he was much like Giambologna, his precise contemporary from Douai, who went to Rome in 1550 and then to Florence. Both found court employment—Giambologna with the Medici, Van der Schardt with Emperor Maximilian II and Frederik II—and both produced elegant figures that were prized by collectors. Giambologna’s reputation has survived, however, while Van der Schardt has become relatively unfamiliar. No works survive from Van der Schardt’s years south of the Alps, but he evidently did very well. In 1569 the imperial resident in Venice, Veit von Dornberg, recruited him to work for Maximilian II (r. 1564–76), who had evidently asked

Frederik II and the Arts in Denmark in the Later Sixteenth Century

Palladio’s Villa Rotonda near Vicenza, both because Brahe was in the Veneto in 1575 and was evidently impressed with what he saw there and because the plans for the building were published in 1570.26 The Villa Rotonda is also closer to Uraniborg in scale and simplicity of form. Regardless, he made substantial changes to suit the function of the house, which was not a suburban retreat but a kind of academy dedicated to astronomy, which supported a group of students and assistants. Thus, the floor plan was simplified, yielding larger work spaces. At the northern and southern extremities he added round pavilions with tall conical roofs. Each triangular roof section could be removed, allowing unfettered visual access to the stars in every direction. Smaller versions of these, supported by posts, were later added, allowing the use of more instruments. A separate underground observatory housing larger instruments was later built on the premises. Brahe’s ambitions for Uraniborg extended beyond its scientific functions. He had Labenwolf install a remarkable hydraulic system, with water running through pipes in the walls. It seems likely, then, that Labenwolf also provided the fountain at the meeting point of the four corridors. Corresponding to the cardinal directions with which the house was aligned, four heads representing the winds functioned as spouts pouring water into the basin. As at Kronborg, the water pressure rotated a figure, likely Urania, crowning the composition.27 The fountain stood directly under a gilded figure of Pegasus crowning the central dome. (This housed chimes and was not used as an observatory.) The print commissioned by Brahe shows the winged horse rearing, stamping his foot to bring forth the Hippocrene, the spring that nourished the Muses on Mount Helicon, which then appeared below in the fountain at the heart of the structure. In this case, however, Brahe was concerned primarily with one of the Muses: Urania, the muse of astronomy, to whom the house—Uraniborg, or Urania’s castle—was devoted. Much of this was elaborated in inscriptions and in poetry written and published by Brahe.28

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Figure 20 | Johan Gregor van der Schardt, Frederik II of Denmark, 1577–79. Photo: The Museum of National History, Frederiksborg Castle.

von Dornberg to find a sculptor. Citing the praise of the prominent Venetian patrician Daniele Barbaro and others, von Dornberg proposed Van der Schardt. Van der Schardt went to Vienna and soon thereafter settled in Nuremberg, apparently as an imperial court artist in absentia. There he produced a series of works both for the imperial court and for patrician connoisseurs, such as Paul Praun, a Nuremberg collector who came to own a particularly large group of his works.30 Maximilian II died in October 1576, and within a year Van der Schardt was working in Denmark, where he is documented from May 1577 to the autumn of 1579. He then returned to Nuremberg, and disappears from the record after 1581. His production in Denmark evidently consisted primarily of portraits of the king and queen. A terra-cotta bust of Frederik (fig. 20) was likely one of the bases for pendent bronze busts of Frederik and Sophie of Mecklenburg that were lost in 60

Frederik II and the Arts in Denmark in the Later Sixteenth Century

the Kronborg fire in 1629. Two other bronze busts of the king and queen, now in Rosenborg palace in Copenhagen, may be reduced variants of the lost Kronborg portraits. These busts stand out as the only bronze portraits made by Van der Schardt. All of his other portraits are in polychromed terra-cotta, which is much more pliable and suited to nuanced, naturalistic representations, although less durable, technically demanding, and prestigious than bronze. Van der Schardt is otherwise known to have used bronze only for mythological and allegorical figures, in which the abstracting quality encouraged by the material and process is more appropriate. It is likely that Van der Schardt expected further work for Frederik upon his return to Nuremberg, much as he resided there while working for Maximilian. There he would have had easier access to materials and skilled assistants and could also more easily take on commissions from other patrons. He seems to have taken the terra-cotta bust(s) with him to Nuremberg, providing the basis for future portraits as well. Indeed, the bronze busts now at Rosenborg were evidently made in Nuremberg, for they were owned by Paul Praun, who likely bought all of the sculpture in Van der Schardt’s shop after his death, around 1581. They may thus have been part of an unfinished project for Frederik. If Van der Schardt had an arrangement with Frederik for further work in Nuremberg, it would in some ways recast our understanding of the king as a patron and of the city’s view of the Danish monarch. It has been argued that after Maximilian’s death, in 1576, Van der Schardt would not or could not pay the fees to attain the citizenship required to work in Nuremberg, and thus sought alternatives.31 This fails to account for his return to the city two years later, however. Nuremberg was unusual in that it had no guilds, and the trades were overseen directly by the city council. This system is somewhat difficult to reconcile with the court artist’s traditional exemption from guild membership and citizenship requirements, particularly as it was a free city with no resident court that could exercise jurisdiction over employment rules. There had been prominent exceptions to citizenship requirements, however. Jacopo de’ Barbari’s appointment as court painter to Emperor Maximilian I in 1500 specified residence in Nuremberg.32 Likewise, the council evidently allowed Van der Schardt to reside in the city while working for Maximilian II, whether because of the precedent of de’ Barbari, because the arrangement brought prestige to the city and work for local craftsmen, or for some other reason. The council was in any case demonstrably invested in Labenwolf’s work for Frederik, taking unusual steps to ensure its completion after a series of delays and, perhaps, commissioning a smaller version for the city. Van der Schardt’s continued residence in Nuremberg is likewise best explained as an exception for Frederik, whom the council clearly considered a major patron. Tycho Brahe may have mediated Van der Schardt’s work for the Danish court, much as he likely did with Labenwolf. A letter of 1576 reveals that he knew the sculptor, very likely from his visit in Nuremberg in the previous year.33 He kept a

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Figure 21 | Johan Gregor van der Schardt, Mercury, ca. 1577? Photo © Nationalmuseum, Stockholm.

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Frederik II and the Arts in Denmark in the Later Sixteenth Century

figure of Mercury at Uraniborg, which may be identical with one of several versions of the messenger god made by Van der Schardt for various collectors. There is no clear indication that it was made by the sculptor, but it was a high-quality piece, for Duke Heinrich Julius of Braunschweig-Lüneburg requested it as a gift. Brahe reluctantly gave the statue to him, provided he receive a cast.34 A larger version of the Mercury statue, now in Stockholm, is central in Van der Schardt’s work (fig. 21). It is the only surviving signed piece and has served as a reference point in reconstructing the sculptor’s corpus. Its size and quality have led to the assumption that it was made for an important patron. The signature might also indicate that it was gift or presentation piece from the sculptor, rather than a commissioned piece. Maximilian II or his successor, Rudolf II (r. 1576–1612), have most often been proposed as the recipient. It would thus have come to Sweden with the seizure of much of the imperial collection in Prague in 1648. This may be the case, but the assumption is based on little more than the size and quality of the work. Moreover, this supposition has several problems. First, no clear reference to it appears in the Prague inventories of 1607–11 or in the more precise inventory taken in Stockholm in 1652. The figure is first documented unambiguously in the early eighteenth century in the inventory of Drottningholm Palace, near Stockholm, the residence of dowager queen Hedwig Eleonora.35 These issues are more easily resolved if the statue was instead made for Frederik II. The correspondence surrounding Van der Schardt’s imperial appointment makes no mention of such a presentation piece, nor is there an obvious need for such an introduction, since he was hired and entered Habsburg service quite quickly. Little is known about how Van der Schardt entered Frederik’s service, but such a presentation piece makes more sense in this context. Although Brahe may have met him in Nuremberg, there is no indication that he was recruited for the court. Van der Schardt would thus have known little more about the king than that he was wealthy and had a taste for elaborate bronze sculpture, as demonstrated in the Labenwolf commission, and that he might be interested in engaging another sculptor. This possibility might also help to explain the smaller figure apparently owned by Brahe, if it was in fact made by Van der Schardt. Although Mercury, the messenger god, was an appropriate adornment for an observatory—in 1610 Gali­ leo would publish Sidereus Nuncius (The starry messenger)—Van der Schardt’s figure would also have been a reduced version of a statue also owned by the king, much as the fountain within Uraniborg shared elements with the Kronborg fountain. Indeed, as the god of trade, Mercury was prominent in Danish royal iconography as well. Although they were not yet installed at the beginning of 1583, Mercury and Neptune frame the entry portal to Kronborg.36 Van der Schardt and Labenwolf together produced a second pairing of these two gods in bronze. The presence of the large Mercury in Drottningholm in the early eighteenth century might also support the supposition that it was originally in Denmark rather than in Prague, for Hedwig Eleonora was resident at Kronborg and Frederiksborg in 1658–59 as her husband’s troops raided the Danish palaces.

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There are indications that she may personally have taken possession of other bronze sculptures on this occasion, which—with statues taken earlier from Prague—later ornamented her gardens.37 If she claimed the Mercury at this point, it would never have been in the earlier Prague or Stockholm inventories. There is ultimately no conclusive evidence that Van der Schardt’s Stockholm Mercury was in Denmark. A drawing attributed to Frantz Cleyn, who worked in Denmark and in England, shows a figure similar to the statue, but the Mercury is not mentioned in the various early descriptions of the palaces.38 Nonetheless, this provenance is no less plausible than assumptions that the figure was a gift for Maximilian II or Rudolf II. Frederik was a major patron, and sculpture figured particularly highly. He recognized an opportunity to engage one of the best sculptors working in northern Europe in the 1570s, and Van der Schardt likewise recognized an opportunity to work for an ambitious court pursuing major projects.

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Melchior Lorck in Vienna and Copenhagen

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If Frederik II hired Van der Schardt away from the imperial court on the death of Maximilian II, he largely lost another talented figure to the Habsburgs in Melchior Lorck (ca. 1526/27–ca. 1583). Lorck, from Flensburg, was approximately the same age as Van der Schardt. He trained as a goldsmith and, like the sculptor, was active at various times in the Low Countries, Denmark, Italy, and at the imperial court. Yet the two men could hardly have been more different in character. Van der Schardt was a skilled and reliable professional, while Lorck was a free spirit who routinely declined or soured promising opportunities and allowed major projects to go unfinished.39 Christian III supported Lorck’s training, with the understanding that he would return to Denmark as a court painter. Instead, Lorck caught the attention of Emperor Ferdinand I, who engaged him and sent him on an embassy to Constantinople in 1555–59, in the course of which he produced engraved portraits of the ambassadors and of the Turkish court. He made many drawings of the topography, costume, and civil and military routines he encountered abroad, which he evidently planned to publish. Although he produced a number of woodcuts, the work was first published only in 1626.40 Working with Wolfgang Lazius, the Habsburg historian, antiquarian, and geographer, Lorck designed three triumphal arches and three fountains for the future Maximilian II’s entry into Vienna as king of the Romans in 1563. Soon thereafter, apparently in recognition of this, Ferdinand raised Lorck’s family to the nobility. In the following year Maximilian, now emperor, appointed him Hartschier, or a member of the imperial horse guard. This was a well-paid and largely ceremonial post, and unlike a court painter—such as Giuseppe Arcimboldo, who entered Maximilian’s service in 1562—he had few duties and could travel. Thus, in 1566 he followed the imperial army on a campaign against the Turks, perhaps in search of new material for his Turkish publication. He then spent a great deal of time in Hamburg and Antwerp, where he made contacts

with publishers, likewise presumably in relation to his various publication ventures. Lorck remained in contact with the Danish court in these years. In 1560 Duke Hans, bro­ ther of Christian III, requested a series of portraits of Charles V, Ferdinand I, and Suleyman the Magnificent with their consorts, along with portraits of any other rulers that he might know. Three years later, Lorck filled the order, likely reprising a role he seems to have taken on occasion for the imperial court.41 Frederik pressed for Lorck’s return, holding an inheritance as ransom until he fulfilled his duties to the Danish Crown. Maximilian II, evidently with high regard for Lorck and his place in the imperial court, petitioned Frederik on his behalf. In February 1580 Lorck finally took a post as Frederik’s court painter, only to be dismissed at the end of 1582 for unclear reasons. The only certain works from this short period are a woodcut of the emblem of the Order of the Elephant and an engraved portrait of Frederik, which, despite an inscription stating that it was made from life, bears a conspicuous resemblance to Van der Schardt’s busts of the king. A second portrait of Frederik, traditionally attributed to Hans Knieper, has more recently been given to Lorck (fig. 22).42 The image, ordered by Landgrave Wilhelm IV of HessenKassel, coincided with payments made in 1581 to Knieper for similar works. The full-length image in a defined space with a rich textile draped to one side approximates the portraits made by Titian and Jakob Seisenegger for the Habsburgs around the middle of the century. The elaborate inscription tablet, shown in steep perspective, recalls south German paintings and prints from the earlier sixteenth century. Lorck, with deep connections in Vienna and in southern Germany, seems a strong candidate for this importation to Denmark. Antwerp was also in the Habsburg lands, however, and these portrait types might just as well have been familiar to Knieper. The more significant question is the degree to which Frederik actively sought to adopt the pictorial conventions of the Habsburgs. He was often mentioned as a Protestant candidate for the imperial throne.43 Although he seems not to have

Figure 22 | Melchior Lorck or Hans Knieper? Frederik II of Denmark, ca. 1581. Photo: The Museum of National History, Frederiksborg Castle.

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pursued this or even to have taken it particularly seriously, he may nonetheless have wished to present himself as the royal Protestant counterpart to the Catholic emperor and as the guarantor of Protestant liberties. It is thus possible that Lorck’s extended employment by Maximilian II made Frederik ever more eager to bring him back to Denmark, where, in collaboration with Van der Schardt, Knieper, and others, he would reconceive the king’s public image in terms commensurate with this role. Although it was inconsistent, the engagement of the Scandinavian kings with imperial artists and their conventions continued in the seventeenth century. Lorck’s abrupt dismissal in November 1582 is difficult to reconcile with such goals. Maximilian II and Frederik II held substantially different expectations for him, however. Maximilian employed Arcimboldo and other painters and largely allowed Lorck to pursue his own interests. This likely accounts for his position as Hartschier, rather than court painter. Both Ferdinand I and Maximilian II seem to have regarded Lorck as an unconventional academic, the latest in a line of Habsburg scholars to write on the Turks. Lorck encouraged this by including inscriptions in Latin, Greek, Arabic, and Hebrew in his prints and by referring to himself as an antiquitatis studiosissimus (most studious antiquarian).44 This seems to have reflected his genuine goals. He made portraits of Lazius and others in his circle, and in Antwerp he established close connections with Abraham Ortelius, a map publisher turned scholar-geographer, who in some ways embodied the transformation that Lorck never achieved. Frederik supported certain kinds of scholarship—he was exceptionally generous with Tycho Brahe, who would join the imperial court after the king’s death—but he expected Lorck to serve as a court painter like any other.

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chap ter fo ur

Christian IV

King Christian IV has long held a special place in the Danish imagination, thanks to a glittering cultural moment that he fostered in Denmark.1 The projects by Cornelis Floris, Georg Labenwolf, Johan Gregor van der Schardt, and others in the sixteenth century were widely recognized and gave the kingdom a reputation in the arts. All of this would be surpassed in quantity and refinement in the earlier seventeenth century. Thus, while Kronborg is the heart of Frederik II’s architectural legacy, two major palaces, Frederiksborg and Rosenborg, ground Christian’s. He also built a number of new churches and other civic structures and established a series of new towns in Denmark and Norway. With all of this activity, the nobility’s ability to compete with the king faded. Although more ambitious than his father, Frederik II, Christian largely held to the parameters set by his predecessors and recognized by his peers. When Kronborg burned in 1629, he rebuilt it in virtually identical form, making only a few changes for practical reasons. Frederik had commissioned tapestries of the Danish kings from Hans Knieper, primarily for that palace. Christian ordered a series of paintings of Danish history for the restored building. Frederik had commissioned a Neptune fountain from Georg Labenwolf for Kronborg, and Christian ordered one from Adriaen de Vries for Frederiksborg. And like his father, Christian frequently conceived his ideas through projects at peer courts and then developed them on a grander scale. The cultural richness of Christian’s reign has often been understood as an extension of Netherlandish art. This view, encouraged by the large number of Netherlanders employed by the king and similarities to works made in the Low Countries, has in some ways obscured the frames of reference more appropriate for making sense of his cultural activities. Christian never visited the Low

Countries and evidently had no particular interest in Netherlandish culture. Politically, he harbored a deep disdain for the nascent United Provinces and considered their struggle for independence from Spain illegitimate.2 Although he frequently turned to talent from the Low Countries, the conceptual origins of his commissions are more often to be found within the Central European courts.

Adriaen de Vries and a Fountain for Frederiksborg Figure 23 | Adriaen de

The Art and Culture of Scandinavian Central Europe, 1550–1720

Vries, Neptune fountain, Frederiksborg Palace, Hillerød, Denmark, 1615–19 (destroyed 1659, reconstructed 1888). Photo: author.

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Christian approached the commission for a Neptune fountain for Frederiksborg palace in a roundabout way.3 In 1613 he planned to engage Adriaen de Vries (1556–1626), resident in Prague, for the project.4 However, he evidently changed his mind and sent his mintmaster, Nicolaus Schwabe, to Augsburg and Innsbruck in search of someone who could work in bronze. Soon thereafter Schwabe went looking for Hans Reichle by name, perhaps reflecting the king’s instructions. Reichle was the youngest and least established of an outstanding group of

Christian IV

sculptors working in the southern part of the Holy Roman Empire.5 This may have kept his prices lower than those of the others. More importantly, he may have seemed more likely to come to Denmark for an extended period, as Christian wished.6 Yet although the king sent Schwabe with a deposit for the work, the sculptor never arrived. Reichle was still expected to come to Denmark, but in 1615 Christian sent Schwabe to Prague to negotiate a contract for the project with De Vries. The figures were installed at Frederiksborg by 1619 or 1620. Like the Kronborg fountain, the Frederiksborg fountain featured Neptune surveying his domains (fig. 23). Here, too, the composition has long been associated with the king’s self-image as lord of the sea and ruler of the sound, particularly as it was commissioned in the rich years following the successful Kalmar War with Sweden, fought in 1611–13. Mercury, Fame, and Victory accompanied the three heraldic Danish lions on the rim of the basin. These alternated with tritons blowing water from conch shells. Below Neptune sat three female figures: Venus, Ceres, and a Naiad bearing grapes, all representing abundance. Like the Kronborg fountain, it was destroyed by Swedish troops in 1658–59. The figures were later reassembled in very different configurations in the gardens of Drottningholm Palace. After De Vries’s sculptures were identified in the nineteenth century, the fountain was reconstructed using copies of the original figures. De Vries was one of the outstanding sculptors of his generation. He was court sculptor to Emperor Rudolf II, who died in 1612. Even before Rudolf’s death, De Vries worked for a number of north German princes. Christian’s brother-in-law Duke Heinrich Julius of Braunschweig-Lüneburg was resident at the imperial court for long periods from the beginning of the seventeenth century. The duke had earlier received Tycho Brahe’s bronze Mercury, perhaps the work of Van der Schardt, during a visit to Denmark and now complemented it with a small equestrian portrait by De Vries.7 Nearby, Count Ernst of Holstein-Schaumburg commissioned a series of large bronzes from De Vries for his residence in Bückeburg and his tomb in Stadthagen.8 He wanted to complement these with a fountain for his palace and requested a design from De Vries in 1615 that would have been functionally and probably stylistically similar to the Frederiksborg fountain commissioned in the same year. Ernst’s fountain was never produced, however.9 It is difficult to parse the chronology of these projects, but the first record of the Frederiksborg fountain, already mentioning De Vries, comes in a letter of December 1613 to Duke August of Braunschweig-Lüneburg from the Augsburg patrician and art dealer Philipp Hainhofer, who made it his business to inform his clients and others of the latest cultural developments. Christian thus seems to have conceived his project before Ernst and may have provided the impetus for the latter’s proposal. If so, it reversed the pattern of the 1570s, in which Frederik II’s projects were often elaborations or expansions of ideas first developed by other princes. Nevertheless, the active dialogue with the German courts remained. In this case, however, the initial idea for it is not to be traced to Rudolf

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Figure 24 | François Dieussart, Christian IV of Denmark, 1643 (cast 1650). Photo: The Royal Danish Collections, Rosenborg Castle.

or to the German princes, but to Labenwolf’s Kronborg fountain, with a similar theme. Christian was very much aware of the cultural importance of Rudolf’s court and may have hoped to bring De Vries into his own service on a long-term basis. Reichle had no such imperial pedigree, but the Italian training that the sculptors shared was likely more crucial. Both Reichle and De Vries were assistants to Giambologna in Florence, and both made for the courts and cities of northern Europe bronze figures of a refinement much desired by the king’s peers. Christian may have made a short visit to Dresden in 1597.10 More certainly, he visited London for a second time in 1614, soon after Henry, Prince of Wales, received a number of small bronzes by Giambologna in a gift from the Medici court. He may have seen such works by the sculptor in both places and have had these in mind when he sent Schwabe abroad.11 Indeed, Schwabe purchased a number of wax models by Giambologna in Dresden at the same time that he bought several small bronzes by De Vries. They are listed interchangeably in his records.12

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François Dieussart in Denmark

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The preference for sculptors with strong Italian training extended beyond De Vries. In the 1640s Christian brought another outstanding sculptor to Denmark. François Dieussart (ca. 1600–1661) was originally from the Southern Netherlands but had spent a long period in Rome, working at least occasionally under Gianlorenzo Bernini.13 Dieussart probably came to Christian’s attention through his work in the early 1640s at the court of his nephew Charles I of England. He would later work in the Low Countries and for the Brandenburg court. In the spring of 1643 he declined an invitation to take on a substantial tomb monument for deceased Swedish king Gustaf II Adolf, in favor of a post in Denmark.14 Although Dieussart was then living in The Hague, Christian paid for his travel expenses from Italy, and documents routinely call him Francesco, likely reflecting what the king and the court wished to see in him. Dieussart’s busts of Christian, like those of his sons, present him in an all’antica format, with a Roman breastplate, pallium, and laurel wreath (fig. 24). All of these are absent in the portraits that Dieussart made for the courts in The Hague and Berlin, which present the sitters in contemporary armor and a more subdued pose. Dieussart’s cast bust of Christian is among the finest sculptural portraits produced in northern Europe in the seventeenth century. It was probably not the reason that he was called to Denmark, however. Already in the 1620s an unknown sculptor had produced a wax model for a large equestrian statue of the king.15 This was evidently never cast, and now Christian set Dieussart to work on another version. This, too, never progressed very far. We know only that Dieussart was paid a great deal over a number of months for a “metal horse,” and a document from January 1644 mentions a drawing for a “statuam equestrem.”16 Although not explicit, these references suggest that it was to be a large and ambitious work. Like

Christian IV

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Figure 25 | Giambologna, Grand Duke Cosimo I of Tuscany, Florence, 1587–93. Photo: author.

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the Frederiksborg fountain, it would have been a public statement of majesty and dominion. It would also have reflected an attitude toward sculpture—especially in bronze—that was increasingly current among the major royal courts but that still, in the 1640s, was not a priority for the imperial court. In the 1640s, before François Girardon’s statues of Louis XIV became standard points of reference, equestrian monuments were unmistakably bound to the Italian sculptural tradition. The ancient statue of Marcus Aurelius on the Capitoline Hill in Rome was the point of origin for numerous variants in the Renaissance. Giambologna’s Medici statues in Florence proved especially appealing to princes elsewhere (fig. 25). The variants for Henri IV on the Pont-Neuf in Paris (1604–14) and for Philip III (1606–17) and Philip IV (1634–40) in Madrid were major examples of this tradition outside of Italy. All were produced by Giambologna’s assistant and heir, Pietro Tacca. As crown prince, Charles I had tried unsuccessfully to bring Tacca to London to make a similar monument of his father, James I. He eventually settled instead for a somewhat stiff statue of himself on horseback by Hubert Le Sueur, who would later be replaced as court sculptor by Dieussart.17 In short, the format outgrew the Italian context and became a standard representational format for major princes.18

Christian’s second effort to produce an equestrian monument also failed. It imposed an impossible cost during the crisis years of the unexpected Swedish invasion of Denmark in 1643–44. The ongoing pursuit of a public equestrian monument was first realized in Denmark in the 1680s in Abraham-César Lamoureux’s lead statue of Christian V in Copenhagen (fig. 57). Jacques-FrançoisJoseph Saly’s bronze equestrian statue of Frederik V from the 1750s finally completed the effort.

Painting in Denmark It has often seemed that Christian was interested primarily in architecture, sculpture, and music and that he gave relatively little attention to painting. There may be some truth in this, but it has been exaggerated by several circumstances. The king bought groups of paintings of mediocre quality through dealers or agents. These were primarily to decorate relatively unofficial parts of the new palaces, however, and should not be confused with more significant commissions.19 More problematic, many of the more outstanding works were lost in fires in Kronborg (1629) and Frederiksborg (1859) and in the Swedish occupation of 1658–59. Many of the older court pictures present in the kingdom today were given away or sent abroad in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries and recovered on the market in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. Although these images do not reflect the full range and quality of his efforts, and Christian’s greatest interests seem to have been elsewhere, painting was nevertheless an essential part of his cultural efforts. Jacob van Doordt and Pieter Isaacsz

Christian IV

Jacob van Doordt (d. 1629) worked for a group of intertwined courts. Christian IV employed him around 1610–12. He also worked in Schleswig for a vassal of the king, in Braunschweig for Duke Heinrich Julius, and possibly in England for James I, both of the latter Christian’s brothers-in-law. He spent his last years at the Swedish court.20 In all of these places, Van Doordt followed a widely used formula that his employers evidently appreciated: his subject stands next to a table bearing some symbolic element, such as a flower or a helmet. His work is often slightly dry, emphasizing the refined details of costume over a lively presentation of the sitter. Some of these characteristics can also be seen in the work of Pieter Isaacsz (1568/69–1625), although he was a much more accomplished painter than Van Doordt.21 Karel van Mander, a Netherlandish painter and writer, particularly praised Isaacsz’s portraiture, which brought him considerable success during his years in Amsterdam.22 He portrayed Maurits of Nassau (later Prince of Orange), and other portraits for the larger circle of the prince are known through documents, raising the question of the degree to which Isaacsz functioned as a painter to the court of Orange.23 As a master of the human form, he provided

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figures for the architectural scenes of Hans and Paul Vredeman de Vries. More importantly, Isaacsz, according to Van Mander, was also “well experienced in histories” and had a number of narrative works in Netherlandish collections. Isaacsz was in regular contact with Christian from 1607 and was in the kingdom frequently from 1609. His permanent move to the Danish court in 1614 was likely delayed by war with Sweden in 1611–13. The conflict drained resources, but after its resolution in Denmark’s favor, Christian was flush with revenue and in triumphal spirits. One of Isaacsz’s first major works for Christian reflects this good fortune (color plate 3). At the outset of the war, Van Doordt had shown the king in dark battle armor. Here he stands victorious in rich silks holding a commander’s baton; a helmet, crown, and scepter rest on a plinth behind him. On the base of the plinth appears a Roman triumph with an emperor riding in a chariot, providing in visual form an ancient, imperial analogy to Christian’s success, also given literary form by court writers.24 Numerous copies of the image circulated, and in 1625 the Amsterdam engraver Jan Muller produced a large print of the image in which all of these elements are clearly visible. All of these portraits presented a victorious image of the king to those who were unlikely to see his palaces, paintings, or sculptures. Isaacsz’s talents are best seen in a portrait of Christian’s oldest son, PrinceElect Christian, who would have become Christian V had he not died in 1647, a year before his father (color plate 4). Here, relatively unencumbered by the demands of state portraiture, he presented a rather haughty boy with milky skin and bushy hair, his right hand on his hip and his left resting on his sword. He wears rich red silk brocade, fashionably slit, with lace at the cuffs and collar. Substituting ostentatious fashion for the regalia in his father’s portraits, Isaacsz placed an elaborate cap with pearls and ostrich feathers nearby. Perhaps more at home in extravagant luxury than his father, the prince appears at ease in a way Christian IV never did, regardless of the painter or sculptor. Here Isaacsz claims a place among the best portraitists of his generation. Pieter Isaacsz is still in many ways unknown. Although Van Mander thought highly of him and recorded his earlier biography, most of Isaacsz’s career came after the 1604 publication of Van Mander’s Schilderboek. In large part because of his travels and his work in Denmark, he was never incorporated into the literature on Netherlandish art or into that on Central European art, with a few exceptions in connection with Hans von Aachen, with whom he was associated early in his career, and with Hans and Paul Vredeman de Vries. Even in Denmark he was long relatively unfamiliar, because little of his work remained in the kingdom by the later nineteenth century, when systematic study of the period began. Much was lost in the 1859 Frederiksborg fire, and new pictures were identified and purchased only slowly; more certainly remain to be discovered. It was not Isaacsz’s presentation of the king, but that of Karel van Mander III, that captured the romantic national imagination and became the basis for a heroic image of Christian at the turn of the twentieth century.

The King and the Emperor

Christian IV

Isaacsz’s transformation from a successful Amsterdam painter to a court artist appears to have been very easy, which suggests that he may already have been familiar with court life. He seems to have sojourned in the thriving cultural world of Munich with Hans von Aachen. In Amsterdam, Isaacsz collaborated with Hans and Paul Vredeman de Vries. His portrait of Christian was engraved by Jan Muller. All of these men were associated in one way or another with the imperial court of Rudolf II in Prague. There are some indications that Isaacsz visited the city, but these are largely indirect. An Isaacsz allegory of vanity reflects a Titian composition that was owned by the emperor, although Isaacsz may also have seen it earlier in Venice. Perhaps more significantly, a mythological painting ascribed to him is similar in character to paintings by Bartolomeus Spranger (to whom it was previously attributed) and was in the imperial collection.25 Of greater relevance is the degree to which Isaacsz’s association with the imperial court was important to the king. The court of Rudolf II was one of the most active cultural centers in Europe around 1600, and emulation of it and employment of imperial artists—such as Adriaen de Vries—offered substantial prestige for a prince.26 Early writers emphasized this link. Karel van Mander stressed Isaacsz’s close contacts with von Aachen, a painter to the imperial court, and embedded his biography within that of the older painter. Johannes Isacius Pontanus, Isaacsz’s brother, who was Christian’s historian, also pointed to Prague as an important point of comparison. In an unusually personal passage in a description of Denmark, Pontanus describes Isaacsz’s studies with von Aachen and then proceeds to set up a triple comparison of Isaacsz and Christian, von Aachen and Rudolf, and Apelles and Alexander the Great.27 Comparisons to Apelles and Alexander are so common that they hardly merit comment. Here, however, it is elaborated to compare Christian to Rudolf, perhaps the greatest patron and collector of his generation. This textual association of the king and the emperor seems at odds with the king’s actions, however. Only after making peace with Sweden in 1613 did Christian emerge as a major patron of sculpture and painting, in large part to furnish his new palaces. This came soon after Rudolf’s death, in 1612, after which the group of imperial artists largely disbanded. Some were already dead, however, or, like von Aachen, who died in 1615, nearing the ends of their careers. Although some of Rudolf’s painters worked for other patrons, Christian arrived on the scene slightly too late to employ many of them.28 De Vries stands alone as an imperial artist to take on a major project for Christian. However, the Frederiksborg fountain is a large-scale project quite unlike anything he made for the emperor. De Vries and other sculptors produced impressive works for Rudolf, but these seem to have been almost exclusively cabinet pieces, although some were unusually large for this function. None seems to have been conceived as a public monument or even as a semipublic ideological statement comparable to that of the Neptune fountain in the outer courtyard at Frederiksborg.29 The king’s initial indecision about whom to hire further undermines a specifically imperial

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Figure 26 | Detail of gallery, Frederiksborg Palace chapel, Hillerød, Denmark. Photo: author.

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connotation. The case of the Jacob Hoefnagel (1575–ca. 1630) is still more telling. The court painter remained in Prague after Rudolf’s death, leaving only after the 1620 Battle of White Mountain and the subsequent expulsion of Protestants from Bohemia. Two years later he turned up in Sweden, staying first in Gothenburg, near the Danish border.30 His move north came during the years of Christian’s greatest patronage. But while he might have gone to Denmark instead, Christian evidently made no effort to bring him to Copenhagen. The employment of imperial artists could be understood as part of the creation of an imperial aura. Indeed, both Frederik II and Christian IV were discussed as Protestant candidates for the imperial throne.31 Here, too, the evidence is ambiguous, for enthusiasm for a Protestant emperor came primarily from the more radical Lutheran princes. Nonetheless, Christian was named an opposition candidate to the eventual emperor Matthias on the death of Rudolf II, in 1612, and in 1619 he was considered in the Bohemian royal election.32 The Crown of Bohemia was an elected title, but since 1526 it had always been held by a Habsburg. In 1619 the Bohemian estates rejected the Habsburg candidate, not in favor of Christian, but for another Protestant, Friedrich V of Pfalz. The king of Bohemia was one of the seven imperial electors, and Friedrich’s election produced a Protestant electoral majority. This posed a major and immediate challenge to Habsburg rule, and it was met harshly. The Battle of White Mountain, in 1620, which removed Friedrich from the throne and sent Bohemian Protestants into exile, including Jacob Hoefnagel, was one of the starting points of the Thirty Years’ War. This outcome was foreseen by many of the more cautious Protestant princes, and perhaps for this reason both Frederik II and Christian IV seem to have done little to encourage their candidacies for the Bohemian and imperial crowns. Indeed, their nominations may be seen as natural consequences of their stature as Protestant kings. However, it is possible that Christian was more deeply interested in the Crown of Bohemia in particular than has been recognized. A drawing of Rudolf II’s Bohemian crown in the Copenhagen graphic collection, dated 1610, emphasizes detail and accuracy.33 It is difficult to say precisely why the sheet was made, or even if Christian requested it. However, it may have formed the basis for a stucco representation in the chapel at Frederiksborg in which an angel perched in a spandrel offers the Bohemian crown to Christian in the adjacent royal oratory (fig. 26).34 In both cultural and political contexts, the degree and nature of Christian’s interest in Prague is ambiguous. Ultimately, Christian was doubtless aware of the significance of the Prague court and occasionally drew on the remaining talent, but he maintained some distance from it. As a point of reference, it was balanced by

other courts. The political significance of the imperial talent and symbolism is likewise unclear. Even the stucco presentation of the Bohemian crown to the king does not seem to reflect Christian’s actions, for he declined to provide financial or military support for the rebellious Bohemian estates, which he might once have hoped to rule.35 Perhaps in the intervening years he recognized the risks involved and downplayed such allusions. Karel van Mander III Pieter Isaacsz died in 1625, the year in which Christian IV became embroiled in the Thirty Years’ War. The war did not bring the end of the king’s patronage of the arts, but it was not until the 1630s that he found a replacement for Isaacsz in Karel van Mander III (1610–1670), the grandson of the painter and biographer. Van Mander presented the king very differently than did Isaacsz.36 Gone are the rich silks and the dashing figure, all replaced by a stout, broadly painted figure. In 1642–43, just as Christian set Dieussart to work on an unexecuted equestrian monument, Van Mander painted the king on horseback (color plate 5). More than three meters tall, it would not have been much smaller than the statue. It presented the king in armor before a battlefield, a sword in one hand and a pistol in the other. In contrast to the horses racing in the distance, the king and his mount move calmly across the picture plane, demonstrating absolute control. Van Mander also produced a peacetime version of the picture, with a riding crop replacing the sword. Both compositions were well received, and found an afterlife outside of Denmark. Elector Friedrich Wilhelm of Brandenburg produced a medal with a similar composition, and Duke Friedrich Wilhelm of Saxony-Altenburg had a virtually identical print made in 1666 with his own portrait. In the mid-1650s the Swedish field marshal Carl Gustaf Wrangel had David Klöcker Ehrenstrahl paint a similar portrait of him brandishing a sword on a livelier horse. This painting was itself reproduced in an ambitious print that was copied elsewhere.37 Three Cycles The Frederiksborg Oratory

Christian IV

Christian built three major palaces, including Kronborg, which he rebuilt after a fire in 1629, and he commissioned a coherent cycle of paintings for each. None has survived intact, so they can be presented only fragmentarily and with substantial uncertainty. Nonetheless, each had a different concept and character. Moreover, each spoke to a different aspect of life, for one was theological, one humanistic, and one devoted to a grand presentation of the kingdom’s history. The most private of these, already considered above, appeared in the oratory in the Frederiksborg chapel, to which Christian alone had access (see fig. 6). Pieter Isaacsz handled the project, drawing on his deep roots in Amsterdam to place the commissions for all but one of the twenty-three paintings. Pieter

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Lastman, Adriaen van Nieulandt, Jan Symonsz Pynas, Werner van den Valckert, and an unidentified “PH ” (perhaps Pieter van Harlingen) produced pictures for the project in 1618–20. Isaacsz painted the last himself. All of these paintings were destroyed in the palace fire of 1859. The images in the reconstructed oratory do not reflect the original content or arrangement. Enough descriptions of various kinds survive to piece together the basic elements of the series, however.38 The images seem to have emphasized themes appropriate to Protestant princely devotion. Baptism and Communion were presented not only through scenes of the baptism of Christ and the Last Supper but also in Let the Children Come to Me and the Wedding in Cana. Some of these can also be related to confession, which was part of the Lutheran service until the eighteenth century and which Christian received in the oratory. Other images, such as The Rich Man and Lazarus, spoke more precisely to pride and the responsibilities of a prince. Indeed, it reflected a major theme presented in the Fürstenspiegel, or Mirror for Princes, a treatise for rulers. The images in Christian’s oratory may have been predicated on a deep knowledge of scripture, but in contrast to the larger, adjacent chapel, they had no textual counterparts (see fig. 5). The Frederiksborg chapel is richly decorated, but aside from the altar, this decoration is almost entirely nonnarrative. A few religious images were installed on the second-floor gallery, but otherwise thematic content was introduced into the chapel primarily by a ring of plaques with biblical inscriptions.

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The Rosenborg Series

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In 1618 work began on a second, larger series in the gallery in Rosenborg Palace. Isaacsz was closely involved, although it, too, was a collaborative project. This time, however, all of the images were produced in Denmark by Christian’s painters: Isaacsz, Frantz Cleyn, Søren Kiær, Reinholdt Thimm, and Morten van Steenwinckel. Frederik IV renovated the space in 1705, dispersing the pictures. Fifteen survive that are more or less certainly from the set. Although their placement, high on the wall, is known, their order, or even their original number, is not. Prince Christian of Anhalt, who visited the palace in 1623, noted that these pictures represented “the complete human life.” Charles Ogier, a French secretary who saw the series in 1634, described it as presenting “man’s delights and occupations at every age.” With these starting points, Meir Stein has reconstructed a program for the space, which has formed the basis for all subsequent interpretations.39 In Stein’s reading, the pictures form a presentation of the seven ages of man, integrated with the seven planets and the seven liberal arts to form a comprehensive cosmological scheme. Thus, one of Isaacsz’s contributions to the series presents Saturn as the figure of time, associated both with old age and winter, dominating a tight space with a group of shivering figures crowded around a hearth on the left and a solitary old scholar on the right. In contrast to most of the other pictures in the series, which teem with figures, it is relatively spare. Even so, the

group on the left, virtually all turned to the fire, emphasizes the aged scholar’s isolation and melancholy, associated with Saturn, as death approaches (fig. 27). Despite its placement in a fairly formal space—in 1663 Frederik III had his throne of narwhal bone installed here—it has been proposed that this series served as an educational tool for Christian’s sons.40 It was hardly an isolated example of the king’s humanistic interest in the arts, or even of the theme. The better-documented marble gallery spanning the courtyard façade of Frederiksborg likewise presented the seven planetary gods.41

Figure 27 | Pieter Isaacsz, Saturn and the Scholar, ca. 1618–22. The National Gallery of Denmark, Copenhagen. Photo © SMK .

The Kronborg Series

Christian IV

The largest series was for Kronborg. Presenting a mythologized Danish history, it constituted a narrative complement to Hans Knieper’s tapestries, which survived the 1629 fire.42 Rather than show a lineage of individual rulers, however, it was to show “the brave and heroic deeds of the old kings of Denmark, which should be rescued from oblivion.”43 In 1637 Christian sent his engraver, Simon de Passe, to the Netherlands to commission a suite of drawings on Danish history from a number of different masters. His order demonstrates that the project was to take two forms. The

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drawings were to serve as the basis for a group of paintings to adorn the rebuilt Kronborg, then approaching completion. However, the preparation of eighty narrative scenes, an equestrian portrait of the king, a map of Denmark, the royal coat of arms, and a title page demonstrates that it was also to be a richly illustrated book.44 The largest group of drawings—twenty-nine—was produced by Simon de Passe’s brother Crispijn the Younger. Others were produced by Abraham Bloemaert, Gerrit van Honthorst, Jan van Bijlaert, Nicolaus Knüpfer, and others, all but one based in Utrecht. In 1639 the court placed an order with De Passe for a group of engravings, certainly after these drawings. They were to be accompanied by explanatory historical texts in German.45 The result would have been a complement to the Latin histories of the kingdom recently produced by Johannes Isacius Pontanus and Johannes Meursius, although with more visual appeal and less scholarly pretension. If the engraving was begun, however, it cannot have proceeded very far. The work never appeared, and no impressions of the images are known. In the same year, Christian commissioned a series of paintings for the great hall at Kronborg. The contract called for forty-seven paintings, but the number was later reduced, and it is unclear how many pictures were delivered. Fifteen survive, of which nine were painted by Van Honthorst. The painter also provided a second group of pictures, on Heliodorus of Emesa’s Aethiopica, for Christian’s apartment in Kronborg. Although the king may have chosen the general subject of the great-hall series, the physician, antiquarian, and collector Ole Worm (1588–1654) selected the historical episodes, with the assistance of several others. The earlier material was drawn primarily from Saxo Grammaticus and emphasized the ancient Cimbrian victories over the Romans in a series of remarkably violent images. Many of the subjects were culled from the histories by Pontanus and Meursius. The graphic but relatively unproblematic opposition of Cimbrian and Roman forces yielded to more contentious and topical material. Two of Saxo’s tales introduce conflicts between Denmark and Sweden. Thus, a drawing by Van Honthorst presents King Jarmeric, having just conquered Sweden, torturing captured Wends, a tribe often conflated with the Vandals. Both the Danish and Swedish Crowns claimed them as ancestors in various contexts, but in this case they are certainly to be understood as representing Swedes (fig. 28). A second sheet, by Jan van Bijlert, portrays the immense strength of Hrolf Kraki demonstrated in tests posed by the Swedish king Adils.46 Another group of images present the long-standing friendship of the Danes and the English, which is contrasted with the enmity depicted in images of Danish victories over the Swedes from the Middle Ages to the sixteenth century. The Kronborg series presents other subjects as well, but a great deal of the imagery is directly concerned with Sweden, Denmark’s traditional rival. Indeed, the subjects can be understood as historical antecedents to those in an earlier set of tapestries in Frederiksborg showing Christian’s victories over the Swedes in the Kalmar War.47

Figure 28 | Gerrit van Honthorst, King Jarmeric Torturing the Wends, ca. 1638. The National Gallery of Denmark, Copenhagen. Photo © SMK .

Christian IV

These two groups of images are more polemical than any others commissioned by Christian, and far more so than the relatively tactful historical works of Pontanus and Meursius. Worm was deeply involved in an antiquarianism that promoted Danish-Nordic history. His study of runic inscriptions identifies them as a Gothic legacy and as exclusively Danish. All comparable Swedish material is excluded.48 These divergent presentations are in part a consequence of delegating responsibility for the various projects to people with quite different views. Pieter Isaacsz, who chose the painters—and perhaps also the subjects and their presentation—for the Frederiksborg oratory and who was closely involved in the Rosenborg series, likely shared little of the polemical historical vision of Worm. The divergent attitudes also demonstrate the flexibility of these historical visions and the different views held by various parties within the court. Johannes Isacius Pontanus, the Danish court historian and Pieter Isaacsz’s brother, produced a much more subdued account of the kingdom’s early history in order to avoid the provocations that Worm evidently relished.49 Christian, meanwhile, though deeply involved with the endless details of the construction of his palaces,

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provided much less royal guidance for the historical works and painted cycles. A “Christian IV style” has been identified for the architecture of this period with the justification that the king’s involvement gave it coherence. No such unity can be found in the historical projects. These choices had consequences that Christian could hardly have foreseen. Kronborg and Frederiksborg suffered damage during the Swedish occupation of 1658–59, but the expressly political works drew a particularly harsh fate. Swedish troops cut the Kronborg pictures out of their frames. They were distributed among the occupying generals and scattered among manors across the Swedish countryside, where many eventually acquired alternative interpretations more flattering to Swedish history. The Neptune fountains at Kronborg and Frederiksborg, usually understood as representations of Danish mastery of the sea, were also disassembled and taken to Sweden. Yet the oratory and chapel at Frederiksborg were untouched, and Van Honthorst’s mythological paintings in Christian’s apartment at Kronborg were likewise undisturbed. These considerations, however, should not be overstated. The Swedish commanders may have prohibited the defacing of Lutheran churches, and other works with no apparent political meaning were taken. Nonetheless, the Kronborg series, with its deeply polemical historical vision, was almost completely destroyed after little more than a decade. Christian was not personally engaged in the painted cycles to the degree that he was in his sculptural and architectural commissions. Yet there are substantial qualitative parallels between them. If Christian valued François Dieussart highly, perhaps he held a similar opinion of Gerrit van Honthorst. Van Honthorst never resided in Denmark, but his work and his career were strikingly similar to Dieussart’s. Both were Netherlanders who were successful in Rome and worked in succession for the courts in The Hague, London, Copenhagen, and Berlin.50 Christian gave Dieussart his greatest opportunity and offered Van Honthorst a large share in an important project for Kronborg. More generally, these undertakings provided prestigious opportunities for very good Netherlandish painters who otherwise worked primarily for the art market or local collectors. The king’s employment of familiar painters, such as Van Honthorst, is frequently used to justify his quality as a patron. From a more historical point of view, however, he offered work producing large-scale erudite compositions for a royal patron—a rare opportunity in the Low Countries. Although Karel van Mander wrote before Christian’s rise as a patron and so neglected him in his text, the Schilderboek, like other Netherlandish publications after it, demonstrates that court employment held substantial prestige in the Low Countries.51 The royal employment of his painters thus helped to establish their reputations, which in turn were later used to justify the court’s significance, creating a circle of validation. That the choice of painters was made by agents rather than the king himself did little to undermine this prestige. Each series was ambitious, with relatively few counterparts elsewhere. They remain unfamiliar in the literature, however, and have only recently been reconstructed and studied. The Kronborg series was published in the later nineteenth

century and is thus more familiar than the others. Nonetheless, it was not until 1988 that the surviving drawings and paintings were published comprehensively. Likewise, serious study of the Rosenborg pictures came in the 1980s. And aside from regular but fairly general references, the paintings in the Frederiksborg oratory were first analyzed as a group only in 2007. Given the loss of many of the pictures and the late scholarly recovery of many of Christian’s main painting commissions, it is not surprising that sculpture, music, and architecture have long seemed to have dominated the king’s interests and artistic budget. This view now seems exaggerated, and perhaps unjustified. There have been too many losses for the quality and scope of his paintings to be fully reevaluated, but it is clear that they held an important place in royal projects.

A King’s Architecture Rosenborg and Frederiksborg

Christian IV

Of all Christian’s pursuits in the arts, architecture animated him the most. He gave personal directions of all sorts to his builders. He annotated and adjusted drawings and set the parameters for his commissions, which spanned the range of seventeenth-century building types, from palaces and churches to a series of new towns in Denmark and Norway.52 Most of these towns bear some version of the king’s name—Christiania (now Oslo) and Christianople, for example— suggesting a broadly personal and representative attitude in these projects. Early in his reign Christian began work on two palaces quite different from anything yet seen in the kingdom. Frederiksborg and Rosenborg were begun in quick succession—in 1603 and 1606—and they are in many ways complementary. Frederiksborg was conceived as a showpiece and was presented as such to visitors in a guide published in 1646.53 In contrast, Rosenborg began as a garden pavilion and grew in stages into a more representative suburban palace. It is today the best example of Christian’s architecture. Although it has seen some changes, Rosenborg is more intact than any of the king’s other palaces. With the exception of the chapel and the semidetached audience chamber, which was redecorated after 1665, all of the interiors of Frederiksborg were destroyed in a ruinous fire in 1859. The losses were enormous, but many of the rooms were renovated in the later seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, and the original interiors were thus largely lost much earlier.54 The structure of Rosenborg is in many ways comparable to Christian’s other buildings (fig. 29).55 It is built of red brick with bands, window casings, and other ornament in sandstone. A tower adjacent to the north façade houses the primary staircase. Other towers provided space for the king’s office and other functions. Only two bays deep, the building is relatively narrow. Inside, enough remains of Christian’s palace to appreciate its richness. The decoration is heavily pictorial. A group of cabinet pictures was produced on an almost industrial scale in Antwerp and mounted in the walls of the ground-floor Winter Room (fig. 30).56 The ceiling may originally have featured a di sotto in sù

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Figure 29 | Rosenborg Palace, Copenhagen, begun 1606. Photo: author.

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painting of musicians leaning over a railing, playing their instruments for the viewer below. (It is now elsewhere in the palace.) If so, this worked in concert with a unique conceit. The king’s outstanding musicians performed unseen in a chamber below, and the sound carried into the room through hidden ducts in the floor, surprising and delighting guests who could see only fictive musicians above.57 The most ambitious space was the third-floor gallery, added in an expansion of the palace after 1616. For this room Isaacsz and others produced a series of paintings presenting the seven ages of man. They were mounted in elaborate

stucco frames that introduced a figural component between the pictures. In this, the gallery may have reflected the earlier gallery at Fontainebleau, but as already noted, its renovation in the eighteenth century makes analysis difficult. Frederiksborg, begun in 1603, is a grander structure (figs. 23, 31).58 It was a comprehensive reconstruction of a large hunting lodge acquired by Frederik II from Herluf Trolle. The palace is really three buildings in one. The central wing housed the king and the queen, each with an apartment comprising a large salon and two smaller chambers. The “princess wing,” to the east, housed Christian’s sons, and across the courtyard were the chapel and the dance hall, or banqueting room. These were built separately, with the king’s wing followed by the chapel and, finally, the princess wing. This approach fragmented the palace to some degree, and communication from one wing to another proved difficult. This was improved in 1620–21 with the addition of a marble gallery, a loggia spanning the length of the central wing, for which the workshop of Hendrick de Keyser in Amsterdam provided a group of carved gods. The chapel, already discussed above, can be seen as the culmination of the group of palace chapels ultimately derived from that in Torgau in Saxony (see

Figure 30 | Winter Room, Rosenborg Palace, Copenhagen. Photo: The Royal Danish Collections, Rosenborg Castle.

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Figure 31 | Frederiksborg Palace, Hillerød, Denmark, begun 1603. Photo: author.

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fig. 4). It is certainly the largest and most richly ornamented of the group and associates Christian with the closely allied group of Lutheran princes responsible for these chapels. Above it lies the dance hall. Like the chapel, it occupies the full length and breadth of the wing. At the end, between two windows, stands a large black-and-silver fireplace, and toward the middle of the side wall, a matching loft for musicians supported by three columns. The ceiling is composed of intricate colorful forms arranged within a pattern of square coffers, and the walls were originally draped with a series of tapestries commemorating the Kalmar War. What can be seen today approximates somewhat closely the furnishings from the seventeenth century but is a reconstruction of the later nineteenth century. Other representative rooms in the palace can only be imagined very vaguely through early descriptions. Frederiksborg and Rosenborg were used in all seasons, to judge from the addresses given in Christian’s correspondence. Moreover, they were renovated several times in the later seventeenth and earlier eighteenth centuries to suit changes in taste and usage. They became a fundamental part of royal representation, to some extent supplanting the Copenhagen royal palace, an assemblage

of older wings that was often criticized as unsuited to the dignity of the Danish Crown. Ruler—Patron—Architect—Building Master

Christian IV

In 1649 Materiae Politicae, Burgherlicke Stoffen (Political subjects, civil matters) appeared in print. This tract on city planning by the Netherlandish architectural theorist Simon Stevin comprises text fragments, or a group of related texts, written in the years before his death, in 1620. These were reordered, elaborated where necessary, and published by his son Hendrick.59 It followed a long tradition of Renaissance theorizing on the ideal city, based on a belief that an orderly urban structure would promote an orderly and productive society. Stevin wrote in Dutch, and when he described those who should raise the buildings, he used the term boumeester (building master). When the text was published at midcentury, however, marginal notes provided an alternative and more self-consciously refined vocabulary. Boumeester thus became architect, and opperschool (upper school) became academia. Although the changes of terminology imply some conceptual shifts, these remained marginal, for the substance of the text was unchanged. “Building master” and “architect” appear as interchangeable terms in Materiae Politicae, reflecting an indecisive position between a local, Netherlandish idiom and a classical, Latin one that is reflected in the use of both Dutch and Latin in the title of the book. The building master and the architect are often understood as substantially different figures, however. The building master offered practical experience and typically came from one of the trades involved in building, such as carpentry or masonry. He had organizational skills and would oversee a construction project from start to finish. He might make drawings to work out various design problems or to present possibilities to the patron, but his primary duty was to the work site rather than the drafting desk or the study. The architect is understood to be the creative mind behind the design, ensuring its conceptual, aesthetic, and functional success. He was generally expected to have a firm intellectual grasp of the principles of building laid out in antiquity by Vitruvius and by more recent writers. In the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, these two tasks might be invested in one person, but in principle they were fundamentally different roles.60 Stevin was not involved in any of Christian’s projects. He was a mathematician and engineer, and his interest in architecture and many other practical fields grew out of this.61 He wrote as Frederiksborg and Rosenborg rose, however, and he worked in the Low Countries, the homeland of many of the craftsmen and artists active in Denmark, some of whom likely had direct contact with him or his works. Indeed, the urban structure of Christianstad, one of Christian’s new towns, is quite close to an ideal plan published in Materiae Politicae, and has often been related to Stevin’s ideas.62

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The characterizations of architect and building master outlined above were rarely so simple in practice, however, and the distinction between them has been fraught across much of northern Europe. Indeed, the ambivalence evident in Stevin’s posthumous publication may reflect the uncertainty of a moment of transformation in building practice in the Low Countries and elsewhere. The well-known builders of the earlier seventeenth century elsewhere in Central Europe often straddled these roles in various ways, and many may have been misconstrued by later historians imposing a more modern conception of the architectural profession on their work.63 These issues have also proved difficult in Denmark. Antonis van Opbergen from Mechelen, who worked both at Kronborg and in Danzig, exemplifies the interpretive challenges common to this larger region, for it is unclear whether he worked as an engineer and building master or as an architect in a more modern sense.64 The ready use of architectural prints by Sebastiano Serlio, Jacques Androuet du Cerceau, Hans Vredeman de Vries, Wendel Dietterlin, and others complicates matters further, as does the involvement of Christian, who inserted himself into the building process at every opportunity. A 1613 contract states that the king “himself has written on the design.” This might mean only that he signed a contract drawing, although it may also indicate that he made changes to a set of plans.65 More tellingly, in 1631–32 he had a carpenter make a ruler and drafting board “that His Majesty wishes to use himself for drawing.”66 Christian’s instructions were directed to a small group of figures who held significant responsibilities in the building process. Jørgen Friborg is mentioned repeatedly in the Frederiksborg documents. His contract required him to raise the structure according to the plan (Skabelonn) given to him by the king.67 But who made the plan that Friborg was to follow? Hans van Steenwinckel the Elder has often been presented as Frederiksborg’s architect.68 He would thus have made the drawings that Friborg was to execute. Van Steenwinckel died in 1601, however, just before work began. Even if he prepared a general plan for the structure, it can hardly have been followed very closely. Both the documents and the brickwork reveal that the complex was built in stages, with many alterations along the way. Alternatively, it has been proposed that the king acted as his own architect.69 Indeed, Johan Adam Berg, the keeper of Frederiksborg in the 1640s, wrote that “Christian himself determined the building’s form [Ordnung] for the building master and his colleagues, after which they could execute it.”70 While a royal amateur might explain some of the idiosyncrasies of Frederiksborg and other buildings—the lack of easy communication from one wing to another before the construction of the marble gallery, the consistent use of cramped spiral staircases in towers—this, too, is hard to accept at face value. Many rulers engaged decisively in architectural design, from François I of France in the sixteenth century to Friedrich II of Prussia in the eighteenth century, but these men are rarely considered architects in any full sense of the term.71

Ultimately, these explanations place too much emphasis on categories that were only beginning to take form in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. In much of northern Europe, the office-bound architect, laboring over a desk rather than on a building site, became a viable profession only in the middle decades of the seventeenth century, and then often somewhat haltingly. In Denmark, Christian’s enthusiasm for building itself poses a substantial complication to the agency of his builders. If the architect is considered the inventor of the design, he was also a servant of the king. If the ruler chose to delegate responsibility for the design, the architect could indeed take more or less full command of the project. However, precisely because Christian took a particular delight in architecture, his personal interventions, which were naturally to be adopted unquestioningly, gave his builders correspondingly less claim to the design and, retrospectively, a position more akin to that of the building master. More importantly, the prestige newly associated with design and with the title of architect did not imply total control over a project. In every architectural milieu in Europe, interventions by patrons were common, as were collaborations, late changes in plan, and so on. For Christian, the fluidity of architecture and the possibility of rethinking and revision must have contributed to its immense appeal. Christian IV’s Royal Architecture

Christian IV

Frederiksborg and the Neptune fountain standing before it seem to reflect substantially different approaches or traditions in the arts. Although Adriaen de Vries and François Dieussart were born in the Low Countries, Christian seems to have thought of both men as essentially Italian. This evident preference for the Italianate was not restricted to sculpture. The king and his son Prince-Elect Christian were perhaps even more proactive in recruiting Italian and Italian-trained musicians for the court, working through dynastic ties and contacts among the musicians themselves.72 Yet although terms like “Renaissance” and “Mannerism,” both with roots in Italian art, have been used to explain Christian’s buildings, it is difficult to relate Frederiksborg or Rosenborg to Italian architecture with any precision.73 In scores of letters dealing with architecture, Christian rarely discussed things in Italian terms, and scholars have been more inclined to relate his buildings to Netherlandish traditions. How, then, are we to make sense of this apparent disjunction in the king’s thinking? There are several ways to approach this problem. One is to observe that most of Christian’s buildings in fact have column orders and elements of antique ornament. Because their function is often decorative and rarely conforms to Roman or Italian usage, however, their significance as indicators of architectural refinement has often been challenged. More recently, Konrad Ottenheym has argued that architects (and patrons) in the Low Countries, Denmark, and elsewhere in northern Europe took a much more flexible approach to the legacy of antiquity

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than those presented by Serlio and Palladio. They sought new possibilities with the elements inherited from antiquity and Italian architectural publications, in ways that broke with conventions south of the Alps but were nonetheless considered legitimate interpretations of the ancient heritage.74 This was a viable choice for patrons until the middle of the seventeenth century, and the experimental attitude inherent in it suited Christian’s approach to architecture perfectly. A second possibility, entirely compatible with the first, would be to reconsider why and in what ways Christian should have felt bound by Italian architectural norms in the first place. He, like his peers in Dresden, Munich, and elsewhere, had a high regard for Italian artists. But should this imply that Italian architectural conventions were defining for them? Even a cursory look shows that this was hardly the case. Until the middle of the sixteenth century, long after antique forms were an established part of the formal repertoire of patrons and builders, refined Gothic forms were used in major projects in the Low Countries, England, Central Europe, France, Spain, and, in certain contexts, Italy. Although historians have struggled to account for this phenomenon within a paradigm that has long privileged antique forms and Italian culture, the Gothic tradition clearly constituted a viable alternative.75 Even when employing all’antica or Italianate forms more exclusively, designers and their patrons saw no need to adhere strictly to Italian conventions. When Philip II of Spain (r. 1556–98) built the Escorial, near Madrid, in the later sixteenth century, Michelangelo, Palladio, Vignola, Galeazzo Alessi, and Vincenzo Danti were consulted, and Juan Bautista de Toledo returned from Italy to lead the work.76 Yet despite this roster of the most famous architects of the sixteenth century, the Escorial does not approximate Italian palace types (fig. 32). Although the symmetry, clearly legible forms, and aspects of the severe column orders can all be associated with Italian Renaissance ideals, they are paired with a tall roofline punctuated by a number of towers crowned by tall pinnacles, all of which are much more closely comparable to major residences in the Low Countries and elsewhere in northern Europe.77 (The church embedded in the complex compares more closely to examples in Italy.) Although the architectural elements are very different, much the same could be said of Fontainebleau, near Paris. Italian painter-architects were involved in both the architecture and the decoration, yet the complex is an expansive group of pavilions assembled in a manner that cannot be traced back to Italy. The Escorial and Fontainebleau are important points of comparison, for they were the standards to which Christian himself looked. Johan Adam Berg’s 1646 description of Frederiksborg was published at the king’s request as an official guide and must reflect his views on the building. Berg explains that Frederiksborg is an ornament and rare pearl of the northern lands. He then writes that “Spain shows foreigners its Laurence Church [the Escorial], France its Fontainebleau, Venice and Electoral Saxony their art and treasure chambers [Kunst- und Schatzkammer], and Denmark this castle.”78

Figure 32 | Escorial, near Madrid, 1563–81. Engraving by Pedro Perret, 1583–89. Photo © The Trustees of the British Museum.

Christian IV

Berg’s statement is important for several reasons, if also somewhat opaque. Although aspects of the Netherlandish tradition—the brickwork with sandstone bands and the forms of the towers—are abundantly evident in Frederiksborg and Rosenborg, the guide makes no mention of the Low Countries.79 Netherlandish examples seem both indirectly and directly to have shaped Christian’s own ideas of what a palace should be, but Berg did not recognize these as showpieces comparable to Frederiksborg. It may be that they were excluded because they were, at most, the palaces of a regent rather than a monarch and thus not fully representative of royal rank. If so, it is difficult to explain both the inclusion of the Saxon and Venetian treasuries and the omission of the English royal residences, some of which Christian had seen in 1606 and 1614. Aspects of many English palaces—brick and sandstone construction, a tendency to build in discrete stages, and the adoption of motifs from prints—would have been familiar to the king. Berg also makes no reference to Italian architecture. It may be that Italian architecture offered little of use for Christian as a patron; direct emulation of Italian models was mostly restricted to portals and ornament. Alternatively, because it stood beyond the frame of reference of kings and princes to whom he was linked by rank or blood, it may not have provided a helpful point of comparison.

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Christian built a smaller structure that seems to have been something of an essay in Italianate architecture, which may help resolve this problem. Called Sparepenge, it was begun in 1598 on a site behind Frederik II’s Frederiksborg.80 It was razed in 1720 and is known primarily through a small group of visual records that are not completely in accord. Built in brick with sandstone bands and window casings, it sat on a high base. The façade was roughly square, with windows placed symmetrically. It was shallow, with a depth of only two bays. Unlike most contemporary buildings in Denmark, it had a flat roofline with a balustrade bounded at the corners by carved figures. Otherwise, only the top of a spiral staircase that rose through the middle of the structure broke the profile. This did not give the impression of a tower, but rather of a low belvedere. The interior is impossible to describe in detail. Sparepenge was an informal retreat, an alternative to the splendor and formality of a royal palace. It was one of a number of comparable structures with this function—often with the same name, “save money,” implying the antithesis of costly grandeur—that were paired with the other residences.81 In retrospect, Sparepenge’s design may seem more modern, but it intentionally lacked the visual impact that the king expected in a major royal residence. It may thus have appeared to Christian that the kinds of palaces built in Italy in the sixteenth century and presented in publications were simply too modest for royal representation. Although the Farnese and Lateran Palaces in Rome, among others, are impressive in scale, the experience of overtly Italianate buildings in northern Europe in the sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries suggested otherwise. The city residence in Landshut, built for the Duke of Bavaria in the 1530s with craftsmen recruited from the work site of the Palazzo del Tè, in Mantua, is an exquisite structure, but diminutive, and did not replace the older castle towering above the town (fig. 33). The Heidelberg palace self-consciously incorporated many Italianate elements, but it was composed of a series of relatively small structures joined together. In the Baltic region more familiar to the king, the Fürstenhof in Wismar built in 1553–55 by Duke Johann Albrecht I of Mecklenburg has many all’antica elements, including stacked pilaster orders on the courtyard façade and limestone and terra-cotta friezes with scenes from both ancient and biblical history. It is, however, a modest structure. The ducal palace at Güstrow, which Christian visited in 1595, is grander but also less observant of forms immediately recognizable as Italian or antique. Indeed, in many respects it recalls a heavily stuccoed version of Frederiksborg. Similar concerns about the appropriateness of strictly Italian models may explain choices made by Christian’s royal peers. Although Charles V had from 1527 built an enormous palace in Granada that employs a variant on the type of palace developed by Donato Bramante in Rome in the early sixteenth century, with a rusticated ground floor and half columns above, Philip II at least partially rejected this approach in the Escorial and other projects, such as the Valsaín, near Segovia, and the Alcázar and Pardo, in and around Madrid. In all of these

Figure 33 | City residence, Landshut, Bavaria, 1536–43. Photo: author.

Christian IV

he introduced architectural elements that he encountered during a 1549 visit to the Southern Netherlands, including a high roofline enlivened by a number of towers with comparable metal spires. Philip likewise imported Netherlandish craftsmen of all kinds, from carpenters to glaziers, to realize these features.82 Significantly, it is the Escorial rather than Charles’s unfinished palace in Granada that Berg recognized as the essential representative of the Spanish king. The prestige of the Spanish monarchy virtually guaranteed that its architecture would find echoes elsewhere. Because of Habsburg dynastic ties, it was appreciated almost immediately in the family’s dominions in Central Europe. Emperors Maximilian II and Rudolf II spent long periods in Spain, and both requested drawings from Madrid when developing new architectural projects.83 Although Christian was generally more closely attuned to the major Protestant courts to which he was related, the Danish and imperial courts employed the same artists in a number of cases. Certainly the many portraits of Habsburgs kept in his bedroom at Frederiksborg reminded him that his ancestor Christian II was Charles V’s brother-in-law. Moreover, there had been efforts later in the sixteenth century to revive marital ties to the Habsburgs, but these had foundered on confessional issues.84

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In Spain, the style rooted partly in the Netherlandish provinces, controlled by the Spanish king, seems to have been considered explicitly royal.85 Although this royal connotation did not necessarily hold elsewhere, it matched the goals of Christian, who likewise imported much of his talent from the Low Countries. In any case, the significance of his architecture was recognizable in its milieu in part because the basic elements had broad purchase across an enormous geographical area. Although the adoption of similar types by lower-ranking princes around northern Europe might have undercut any royal associations, the scale of Frederiksborg in particular ensured a royal quality, just as the scale and richness of its chapel surpassed all similar Lutheran princely chapels. Certainly the adoption of Netherlandish techniques and styles cannot be dismissed as a provincial adoption of a foreign idiom or as a substitute for a “genuine” Italian architecture that was either unobtainable or impractical in a northern context. It had broader purchase than the Roman Renaissance style itself and was more easily recognized within Christian’s milieu. This, then, explains how Christian could be very keen to bring to Denmark outstanding sculptors and musicians with Italian training, while simultaneously showing virtually no concern for an architecture that we would consider specifically Italianate. He seems to have had no deep cultural affinity for any particular region or tradition. Rather, his tastes and his patronage were defined largely by others within the various circles to which he belonged. This was to be expected, since he placed a premium on representation and the establishment of rank within conventions recognized by his peers, rather than an abstract notion of innovative design, enforcing substantial conformity. Within this visual paradigm, sculpture in the tradition best represented by Giambologna had long been appreciated and collected within an architectural setting much more like the palaces built by Christian than those in Florence and Rome.

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chap ter fiv e

Minerva’s World

Until well into the seventeenth century, Sweden, Denmark’s perpetual rival, was the poorer, weaker state in a region where the success of one seemed to come at the expense of the other. By 1650, however, the kingdom was the undisputed hegemon in the Baltic region. Its designation as a guarantor of the Peace of Westphalia two years earlier made it a great power and the acknowledged leader of the Lutheran states. It controlled the northern part of the Baltic, from southern Sweden to Riga, and held substantial territories on the southern coast as well. After 1648 the Swedish monarchs were major princes of the Holy Roman Empire as the dukes of Pomerania, in addition to other smaller territories in Germany acquired in the peace settlement or through dynastic inheritance.1 This towering position held until the earlier eighteenth century and collapsed during the reign of Carl XII (r. 1697–1718). Sweden’s transformation was accompanied by an awareness that older forms of representation were insufficient for a major power. Gustaf Vasa, the first king of independent Sweden, is generally acknowledged to have been preoccupied with state-building rather than the arts.2 He built a series of castles that served both as fortresses and residences. The other arts found less support. Jacob Binck, borrowed from the Danish court, produced a few portraits for the king in 1541– 42. Early in the seventeenth century, Karel van Mander recounted that Gustaf, ever short of money, paid for a Madonna by the Haarlem painter Jan van Scorel with a ring, a sleigh (which never arrived), a chest of marten skins, and a twohundred-pound cheese.3 At the end of his life, Gustaf Vasa brought in a series of portraitists from the Netherlands who primarily served his sons. Among these was the painter

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Dominicus ver Wilt, who came from Antwerp in 1556, and Willem Boy (ca. 1520– 1592), who served as court sculptor-architect from 1557 to his death, dividing his time between Stockholm and Mechelen.4 Ver Wilt, Boy, and others were among the many Netherlandish artists working across northern Europe. Their presence, combined with the importation of altarpieces and other high-quality goods from the Low Countries, demonstrates a clear awareness of the outstanding craftsmanship there. But much like the Danish kings, the Swedish Crown seems to have understood its larger projects, such as tombs, largely within a framework of peer courts. Boy’s tomb of Gustaf Vasa in Uppsala cathedral, with the king lying recumbent between two of his three wives, loosely approximates Alexander Colin’s slightly later double tomb of Emperors Ferdinand I and Maximilian II, with a third figure of Ferdinand’s wife, Anna of Bohemia and Hungary, in St. Veit’s Cathedral in Prague. The tomb of Johan III from the later 1590s was commissioned from another Netherlander, Willem van den Blocke, who worked in Danzig (see fig. 15). He had made tombs for Polish royalty, which may have been the basis for his selection for the project. Sweden’s cultural development in the seventeenth century had many roots. Most important was the kingdom’s new status as a major power and the accompanying awareness that this should be reflected in its presentation. A number of more practical realities also contributed to its transformation. The court resided in Stockholm permanently from the 1620s, allowing the city to grow with the kingdom’s stature.5 It became a permanent home for both the aristocracy and a rising professional administrative class. Magnates from the Low Countries and elsewhere with economic interests in the kingdom also established residences in the city and the countryside, creating channels for a vigorous cultural importation. Thus, Louis de Geer, an iron and copper magnate who divided his time between Sweden and the Dutch Republic, built four residences in the kingdom. His Stockholm residence was a simplified variant of Mauritshuis in The Hague, built in the 1630s by Jacob van Campen and Pieter Post for Jan Maurits of Nassau-Siegen.6 The success of the kingdom’s armies in a series of wars provided another basis for cultural growth. Noble (often elite military) and bourgeois patronage drove much of the cultural development in the kingdom and would continue to do so until late in the century. The Crown played a surprisingly small role in the cultural life of the kingdom in the first decades of the century. Thus, when Jacob Hoefnagel, formerly a painter at the court of Rudolf II in Prague, went to Sweden in the 1620s, he settled in Gothenburg rather than in Stockholm. King Gustaf II Adolf (r. 1611–32) seems to have learned only gradually that he was there. In 1624 Hoefnagel is documented as a court portraitist, well rewarded for his work with 150 Riksdalers and a gold chain (fig. 34).7 His work is at least the equal of that of other painters who had worked in Sweden, and he was evidently appreciated, but it is unclear whether the court saw him as a skilled Netherlandish master comparable to Willem Boy or Dominicus ver Wilt or more highly valued his imperial pedigree.

Figure 34 | Hendrick Hondius after Jacob Hoefnagel, Queen Maria Eleonora of Sweden, 1629 (Hoefnagel model, ca. 1624). Engraving. Photo © Nationalmuseum, Stockholm.

Hoefnagel produced very little work for the court and seems to have thought of Sweden as a haven for Lutherans rather than as a place where the arts were supported at a high level.

Art and War

There are paintings by all the best masters of times gone by. There are antique and modern statues of great value. There is a very large collection of all

Minerva’s World

At midcentury Raphael Trichet du Fresne, keeper of Queen Christina’s collections, described for Cardinal Francesco Barberini the extraordinary things then to be found in Stockholm:

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Figure 35 | Georg Petel,

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Gustaf II Adolf of Sweden, model produced in Augsburg, 1632. © Royal Court, Sweden. Photo: Alexis Daflos.

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kinds of medals among which there are a large number that have never been described. Furthermore, there is an infinite quantity of other rarities that well deserve to be publicly recognized. To all this, M. Naudé [Gabriel Naudé, Christina’s librarian] would be able to add a very exact and important catalogue of the virtually infinite number of manuscripts in the queen’s library.8 The transformation from a court that had a century earlier tried to pay for a picture with a large cheese to a court possessing one of the age’s outstanding groups of paintings, sculptures, and rare books and manuscripts came about through the kingdom’s involvement from 1630 in the Thirty Years’ War. The conflict brought Gustaf Adolf and his officers into direct contact with many of the cultural centers of the German-speaking world. In April 1632 the king entered Augsburg, a city divided by confession. Georg Petel (ca. 1601/2–ca. 1634), the leading sculptor in the city, made a portrait bust of him that may have been conceived as a gift from the city (fig. 35).9 More certainly, the thankful Lutheran

Minerva’s World

city councilors gave him silver and one of Philipp Hainhofer’s most magnificent ebony collectors’ chests.10 This and other gestures reflect the king’s status among Protestants following his successes against the Catholic League. In the Low Countries, Servatius Cock sold icon-like portraits of him against a gold-leaf background, wearing a laurel wreath and inscribed Restaurator Libertatis Germaniae (restorer of German liberty). Small-scale figurines of Gustaf Adolf in metal and wax abounded. Even ten years after Gustaf’s death in battle in November 1632, the Amsterdam publisher Crispijn de Passe the Younger published an emblem book in which the king is compared typologically to Moses, Aaron, Gideon, Joshua, Samson, and, ultimately, Christ.11 The situation was very different in enemy territories. After leaving Augsburg, the Swedish troops took nearby Munich. Although the king promised the burghers preservation of life and goods, his troops systematically plundered the residence of Elector Maximilian I of Bavaria, shipping works by Lucas Cranach, Hans Holbein the Elder, Hans Mielich, and others to Stockholm. Other works were taken from Braunsberg, Mainz, and elsewhere. The culmination came in the summer of 1648, when Swedish troops took the Malá Strana, the “small side” of Prague, which housed the imperial residence. The men plundered the Hradčany palace and the nearby Belvedere, where the remains of Rudolf II’s famous collection were kept. Within days nearly all of the objects—470 paintings, 69 bronze sculptures, 179 ivory objects, and much more—were sent to Stockholm. Paintings by Titian, Veronese, and Correggio, and sculptures by Adriaen de Vries and Leone Leoni, were among the shipment. Although the troops found only a portion of the former imperial collection and some pieces were lost in transport, an extraordinary treasure arrived in Stockholm in May 1649.12 In an age of restitution and scrupulous provenance research following the confiscations and forced sales of art under the Nazi regime, this kind of cultural pillage often seems like indefensible piracy. Although the Swedish commanders were particularly aggressive, it was practiced by all sides. In 1623, well before Sweden entered the war, the Palatine Library in Heidelberg was seized by Catholic troops under Maximilian I of Bavaria and given to Pope Urban VIII; most of its holdings remain in the Vatican Library. More importantly, plunder was accounted for in contemporary legal thought.13 Indeed, the sack of Prague was undertaken in great haste because anything seized after the conclusion of the Peace of Westphalia would have been considered illegal. Perhaps Gustaf Adolf would have become a serious collector had he survived the war. In the years after his death, however, direct engagement with artists and collections outside the kingdom fell to his officers and to Swedish diplomats and officeholders, many of whom were resident in the Holy Roman Empire for extended periods. For these men the campaigns provided something akin to the experiences of American GI s in Asia and Europe during and after World War II , which yielded a generation with much greater appreciation of the arts than the previous one.

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One fundamental difference between the soldiers of the 1640s and those of the 1940s stands out: the commander class from the Thirty Years’ War expected to become patrons of the arts at the end of the war. The military provided one of the primary means of social advancement, and the outstanding soldiers who became generals and field marshals were rewarded with land, titles, and other privileges. (Outstanding service in the government bureaucracy—which for much of this period meant enabling warfare through the administration of the state—provided another means of social promotion.) A number of the Swedish commanders were inducted into the Fruchtbringende Gesellschaft, the most elite literary society in the German lands. Some had legitimate cultural interests, and others may have been nominated purely for political reasons or in anticipation of financial support. There is, however, no reason why these men should not have been inducted on their military records alone. War was considered an intellectual pursuit comparable to literature or philosophy and fell under the protection of Minerva, the goddess of both wisdom and war and protectress of the arts. She thus embodied two rather different ambitions of Swedish society. This idea is presented in the House of the Nobility in Stockholm, a meeting place for the upper estates. A pediment there displays an array of weapons, trophies, and books. Jean de la Vallée, the architect who completed the structure, described these as “books and mathematical instruments, as well as weapons and munitions, mixed together to show that the noble class depends on these two studies, namely the civil and the military.”14 On the portal below, Minerva holds a book, and Mars, the god of war, holds a sword and shield. Both gesture to the inscription Arte et marte, “by skill and valor.” Those who entered did so with the approval of both gods. The campaigns introduced the Swedish commanders not only to outstanding works but also to outstanding masters, many of whom were eager to pursue opportunities farther north. Elias Holl, the Lutheran municipal building master of Augsburg, was dismissed from his post in 1631, when imperial troops took the city. After his reinstatement by Gustaf Adolf in the following year, he wrote in his family chronicle that “God, through special grace and the strong arm of the Swedish king .  .  . freed us again.” It proved a temporary reprieve, for the Catholic League retook the city in 1635. Holl, recognizing limited opportunities for Protestants, arranged for his three oldest sons to leave with the departing Swedish troops. The youngest, Matthäus, later made his way independently to the kingdom, where he worked as an architect.15 Likewise, Carl Gustaf of PfalzZweibrücken, a commander and future king who took part in the occupation of Prague, wrote that many excellent craftsmen in the city were Protestant and eager to follow him to Sweden.16 Even in peaceful circumstances, military commanders frequently provided the initial contact with masters elsewhere, the best of whom often moved on to royal employment. Simon de la Vallée, a highly regarded architect who had led the works at Honselaarsdijk and Ter Nieuburch for the stadtholder of the United

Provinces, Frederik Hendrik, came to Sweden in 1637 to work for Field Marshal Åke Tott. He accepted a court post two years later.17

Four Magnates Axel Oxenstierna

Figure 36 | David Beck, Axel Oxenstierna, chancellor of Sweden, ca. 1647–51. Photo: Livrustkammaren, Stockholm.

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Many civilian officeholders were also abroad for long stretches during the war, most often in the Holy Roman Empire. They, too, were essential for the gentrification of the kingdom. Axel Oxenstierna (1583–1654), the kingdom’s chancellor and leader of the regency after the death of Gustaf II Adolf, spent much of the earlier 1630s in the empire.18 While in Pomerania, on the south coast of the Baltic, he seems to have encountered Nicodemus Tessin the Elder (1615–1681), a young patrician ruined by the war. Oxenstierna employed him to oversee his building projects in the following years, and it was likely through his intervention that the young man was appointed court architect in 1646. In 1651–53 Tessin received royal support for a study trip undertaken through the Holy Roman Empire, Italy, France, and the Netherlands. This, too, may have been arranged by the chancellor, who received his only surviving report from abroad. Oxenstierna died in 1654, soon after Tessin’s return, and so did not reap the benefit of these travels. Rather, Oxenstierna’s investment was exploited by others, in particular Queen Hedwig Eleonora.19 Oxenstierna was constantly in search of new talent and often found it through his many contacts. The networks of eminent statesmen were easily employed to commission and import arts and other luxury goods, for they often comprised the same people. Michel Le Blon (1587–1656), engaged in 1632 to provide intelligence, soon became the chancellor’s chief mediator.20 Trained as a goldsmith and engraver in the Southern Netherlands and resident in Amsterdam as an agent for the Swedish and English courts, Le Blon was one of a group of middlemen who provided goods and information of all kinds.21 He brokered the sale of Peter Paul Rubens’s collection to the Duke of Buckingham in 1625–27 and soon filled orders for Oxenstierna as well, going to bookshops, sculptors’ workshops, and auction houses to find the requested works. In 1641 the chancellor asked him to find a suitable portrait painter for the court, and after a delay of five or six years, this evidently yielded David Beck (1621–1656), a Netherlandish student of Anthony van Dyck (fig. 36).

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Pieter Isaacsz, already noted above as one of Christian IV’s best painters, pursued a second career. Oxenstierna employed him from 1620 to provide intelligence on the Danish court and occasionally received paintings as cover for the payments sent to Denmark. Another Netherlander, Pieter Spierinck (ca. 1595– 1652), first came to Sweden in the same year as a representative of his father’s tapestry workshop in Delft, which had received a commission from Gustaf Adolf for twenty-seven tapestries.22 The Spierinck workshop had produced twenty-six tapestries for Christian IV in 1614, as well as projects for the Earl of Nottingham, the French statesman Pierre Jeannin, King Sigismund III of Poland, and the Turkish grand vizier. It also provided state gifts from the United Provinces for Queen Elizabeth of England and Henri IV of France.23 It was perhaps these ties to various princes, together with his business acumen, that made Spierinck one of Oxenstierna’s trusted financial advisors and diplomats and led to a post as the kingdom’s resident in The Hague. Like Le Blon, Spierinck moved seamlessly from Oxenstierna’s service to Christina’s, procuring objects for her collections in the Low Countries while conducting his more formal diplomatic duties. Spierinck’s career arc was remarkable but hardly unprecedented. Many of the painters and sculptors presented here had essentially international careers. Some were based in one city and sent works to clients elsewhere; others moved from court to court. In both cases, they cultivated contacts within a sprawling international network of practitioners, agents, nobles, and, increasingly, the princes themselves. These contacts benefited both artists and agents, whose career arcs could be similar. Thus, as an agent employed by Oxenstierna, Spierinck was, in broad terms, a colleague of Isaacsz and Le Blon. Le Blon corresponded directly with Charles I of England, Oxenstierna, and Christina and also with a group of painters. His personal friendship with Van Dyck yielded Beck’s engagement with the Swedish court. Spierinck, Le Blon, and Isaacsz, like many of these cosmopolitan courtiers, had roots in the Low Countries. One of their compatriots, Balthazar Gerbier (1592–1663), drew all of their activities and more into a single career.24 He was a skilled painter, but it was likely his excellent calligraphy that earned him a position in the service of Prince Maurits of Nassau and then, in 1617, in the retinue of the Dutch ambassador in London. In England he quickly attached himself to George Villiers, the Duke of Buckingham, perhaps the chief tastemaker at court, for whom he assembled one of the outstanding collections in England. He accompanied Buckingham on diplomatic trips to Madrid and Paris (where he met and befriended Rubens) and, after Buckingham’s assassination in 1628, served for a decade as the English resident in Brussels. His skill as a painter was useful even in the context of these diplomatic posts, as he painted the Spanish infanta for King James I. Although Gerbier’s career depended more on his skills as a networker and negotiator than as a painter, it shared many of the elements found in the careers of Isaacsz, Le Blon, Spierinck, and, most famously, Rubens. Indeed, it seems that Rubens’s celebrated career as a painter and diplomat was less anomalous than has often been thought.

Around 1635 Le Blon and Spierinck jointly executed an order from the Swedish court for thirty-five paintings, including works by Jacob Jordaens. This can hardly have been placed by the nine-year-old Christina. Rather, Oxenstierna likely stood behind the Swedish court’s first order from the painter. (There would be at least one more.) Tessin is largely associated with the Caroline dynasty of the second half of the seventeenth century, and Beck and Le Blon have always been closely tied to Christina. Yet the basis for the Swedish careers of all of these men lies with Oxenstierna, a giant in diplomatic and political history but hardly known as a cultural figure. Carl Gustaf Wrangel

Minerva’s World

Carl Gustaf Wrangel (1613–1676) was born to a nobleman from present-day Estonia, raised largely in Sweden, and saw many of the major centers in Central Europe in the course of his military career. An extraordinary soldier, he was named field marshal and supreme commander of all troops in Germany in 1646, at thirty-two years old. Two years later he became governor-general of Pomerania, a sort of viceroy administering the territory on behalf of the Swedish Crown. Perhaps in part because he was so rarely resident in Sweden, Wrangel built the most imposing private residence in Stockholm and an even larger country residence, Skokloster, north of the city. These he filled with treasures he commissioned, bought, received as gifts, and plundered.25 He maintained what amounted to a court painter—first Matthäus Merian the Younger and then the young David Klöcker, later ennobled with the surname Ehrenstrahl (1628–1698)—and assembled such a princely collection of luxury and art objects that he evidently saw himself as little less than the heir of the extinct Pomeranian dukes. Certainly he presented himself quite explicitly as a prince. In 1652 Ehrenstrahl portrayed him on a rearing horse, brandishing a sword before marching troops. It corresponds to a generalized type of ruler image and is derived specifically from Karel van Mander III’s equestrian portrait of Christian IV of Denmark painted in 1642–43, in which the king wields a sword in an identical fashion. Although Wrangel completed his studies with a period of travel in Germany, the Low Countries, and France, he saw much more in the course of the campaigns, now often with a greater awareness of its relevance for future projects at home. He may have accompanied Gustaf Adolf at the palace of the archbishopelector of Mainz at Aschaffenburg in November 1631 and heard him proclaim its magnificence and wish that there were something comparable in Sweden (fig. 37). Wrangel certainly saw the building when they returned in the following year, and once again in August 1646. The last encounter may have been particularly significant, for it came just as he began to plan Skokloster, which has a generally similar form (fig. 38). Each building has four wings of three stories bounded at the corners by towers, with an enclosed courtyard. Each is surmounted by a high roof, although the roofline and the façades are less fussy at Skokloster, lacking the large pediment ornamented with columns and obelisks. A manuscript from

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the 1660s for a topographical survey of Sweden, Suecia Antiqua et Hodierna, specifically compares the two structures.26 Wrangel was peripherally engaged in the production of Suecia Antiqua, and it is possible that he provided the comparison. The field provided the genesis of Wrangel’s palace in Stockholm as well (fig. 39). Christina gave him the land in 1648, while he was in Prague, and he immediately engaged an architect in the city to help him work out a design. We do not know whom he approached, but since he later wrote that he wanted the palace built in the Italian manner, it may have been Carlo Lurago, who was then active in the city. In the course of a siege of Warsaw in 1655–56, he wrote to his engineer that he preferred the low-rise roofs common on Polish palaces and wanted to reconsider the superstructure of his palace in light of this.27 Sometime before 1674 Ehrenstrahl, whose career at the Swedish court began in Wrangel’s service, proposed a group of paintings, almost certainly unexecuted, for the city palace.28 Two large pendants would form the centerpieces, one a triumph: Wrangel would be shown on horseback, presenting a trophy to the four Swedish monarchs he had served. A monument would show several “familiar actions,” doubtless Wrangel’s greatest victories. Figures of the Virtues would hover in the sky above him, bearing standards. The pendant was to show Parnassus, the dwelling place of Apollo and the Muses, often accompanied by Minerva.

Figure 37 (opposite, above) | Georg Ridinger, Johannisburg Palace, Aschaffenburg, near Frankfurt, 1605–14. Photo: author.

Figure 38 (opposite, below) | Caspar Vogel, Nicodemus Tessin the Elder, and others, Skokloster, near Stockholm, begun 1653. Photo: author.

Figure 39 | Nicodemus Tessin the Elder and others, Wrangel Palace, Stockholm, begun earlier 1650s. Photo: The Royal Library, Stockholm.

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Although Parnassus was typically presented as a pastoral home for the arts, this image was also to present a triumph. Minerva was to ride in a chariot drawn by four white horses. Wrangel would ride beside her in the form of a statue, accompanied by allegories of Victory, Nobility, and Magnanimity, with Victory crowning his image with a laurel wreath. These two elaborate pictures would have been accompanied by a group of smaller paintings of trophies and arms. Both of these inventions would have been remarkable celebrations of a private individual rather than a prince, and likely for this reason Ehrenstrahl conceived the triumph such that Wrangel offered the trophies and the glory to his rulers. Nonetheless, it may have been in an effort to moderate the tone that an undescribed monument replaced Ehrenstrahl’s first impulse to record Wrangel’s victories on a triumphal arch, normally reserved for sovereigns. Moreover, conceits of Apollo, Minerva, and Parnassus were already closely associated with Queen Christina and her successor, Hedwig Eleonora. In both of these images, then, Ehren­strahl’s apparently unsolicited proposal encroached on ideas associated with the royal house and with ruler imagery more generally. Thematically, however, the twin conception of the soldier and cultural figure, or the learned warrior, was consonant with the public presentation of the field marshal. A project by Tessin for Wrangel’s palace from the later 1650s includes on the façade images of Mars and Minerva, both identified with war. Minerva, associated with the intellectual aspects of war and with wisdom and learning more generally, played a more fundamental role, as attested by a 1667 poem describing her giving Wrangel the military skills to become a Gothic Mars.29 Likewise, Joachim von Sandrart wrote in his autobiography in Teutsche Academie that, upon taking Landshut, Wrangel examined two altarpieces at length and praised both the paintings and their painter, Sandrart himself.30 The comment that these were in the Jesuit church excludes any possibility that the general was there for devotional reasons. Rather, Wrangel is presented as a judge of knowledge and taste, filling a role more often given to a ruler or a famous painter. Significantly, this passage presupposes an audience prepared to accept a soldier as a cultural arbiter. Sandrart’s pairing of art and war was echoed in a different way in Wrangel’s initiation into the Fruchtbringende Gesellschaft. Each member was given a title on entry; Wrangel’s was “The Victor.” Carl Gustaf of Pfalz-Zweibrücken Carl Gustaf of Pfalz-Zweibrücken (1622–1660), who in 1654 succeeded Christina as Carl X Gustaf, was also initiated into the Fruchtbringende Gesellschaft. However, he is remembered primarily as a military figure, as the fearless commander who led an army across a frozen strait to crush Denmark in 1658–59 and extended the Swedish empire around the Baltic to its furthest reach.31 Although his commitment to the arts is uncertain and has often been overlooked, he was justifiably considered a major patron and cultural figure, especially in the years around 1650.

Carl Gustaf was heir to a minor branch of the Calvinist house of PfalzZweibrücken, a cousin of the palatine electors. His father, Johann Casimir, carried the title of count palatine but held no substantial lands. He married Gustaf II Adolf’s half-sister Katarina, and it soon became apparent that greater opportunity beckoned in Sweden, particularly after the election in 1619 of Friedrich V of Pfalz as king of Bohemia and the subsequent disaster for the Protestant side. Close dynastic ties to Friedrich made staying in Germany dangerous, particularly

Figure 40 | Joachim von Sandrart, Carl Gustaf of Pfalz-Zweibrücken (later Carl X Gustaf of Sweden), 1650. Photo: Livrustkammaren, Stockholm.

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Figure 41 | Georg Schweigger, Carl Gustaf of Pfalz-Zweibrücken (later Carl X Gustaf of Sweden), 1649. Photo © Nationalmuseum, Stockholm.

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since Johann Casimir had obvious political and confessional allegiances but no real power. The family came to Sweden in 1622 as aristocratic refugees. Carl Gustaf was born soon after their arrival. Because of his ties to the royal house and early promises to marry Christina (promises never fulfilled), Carl Gustaf was made Generalissimus over the armies in Germany in February 1648 and heir to the throne in March 1649. He took part in the looting of Prague and soon thereafter hosted the banquet in Nuremberg celebrating the Peace of Westphalia. In Nuremberg, Carl Gustaf established himself as a major patron. He had Joachim von Sandrart record the feast in an enormous group portrait given to the city of Nuremberg in the name of the Swedish Crown. The painter also produced an equestrian portrait of the prince crowned by victory (fig. 40). This was finished in 1650, soon after Carl Gustaf was named crown prince. Sandrart

Figure 42 | Georg Schweigger, Holy Roman Emperor Ferdinand III, 1655. Photo: Kunsthistorisches Museum, Wien.

Minerva’s World

addressed it to “[His] Royal Highness” and later presented the picture itself as a “crown-worthy rider.”32 This emphasis on royal presentation is in sharp contrast to a bronze portrait Carl Gustaf commissioned from the Nuremberg sculptor Georg Schweigger (1613–1690; fig. 41), a pendant bust of Christina, now lost, which may help explain the subdued presentation and the turned head.33 Even as the bust linked the general with the queen, Schweigger did not portray him in as presumptuously royal a manner as did Sandrart. In 1649, when it was produced, Carl Gustaf was neither engaged to Christina nor the full heir to the throne. The resolution adopted in that year recognized him as the heir only if Christina should die without issue. In October 1650 the queen induced the estates to accept Carl Gustaf unconditionally as crown prince, with the throne descending through his line. This resolved a delicate situation and helps to explain the substantial differences in presentation in the portraits by Schweigger and Sandrart. A comparison with the lost bust of Christina is impossible, but two other points of reference can help to orient the statue. In 1655 Schweigger portrayed Emperor Ferdinand III (fig. 42).34 This is similar to the bust of Carl Gustaf in costume and quality of workmanship but presents the emperor with a laurel wreath and an uncompromisingly frontal posture, his head tilted back slightly

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and looking down sternly on the viewer. Many of these qualities can also be found in Georg Petel’s 1632 portrait of Gustaf II Adolf (see fig. 35). In 1636 Ferdinand visited Augsburg, where he admired Petel’s bust in a visit to the foundry of Wolfgang Neidhardt, who cast it. The city soon purchased it from the workshop and gave it to the future emperor. Petel’s bust might thus have provided the basic composition for Schweigger’s portrait of Ferdinand.35 Carl Gustaf likely knew the earlier cast of Petel’s bust, either from Stockholm or Nuremberg, where in 1643 a second version was cast that eventually made its way to Sweden, or from the version owned by Ferdinand that was seized in Prague.36 He was certainly familiar with a similar bronze portrait of Gustaf Adolf by Hans von der Pütt, modeled in 1632, which he shipped to Christina from Nuremberg in June 1649, along with a group of antique statues and other works.37 The exaggerated frontal poses of these works could easily have made him aware of which elements to downplay in presenting a more demure image of himself. In 1669 the biographer Andreas Gulden wrote that Carl Gustaf approached Schweigger about erecting an equestrian statue of Gustaf Adolf in Nuremberg as a monument to the peace. In fact, it was Ottavio Piccolomini, the imperial representative, who proposed such a project. Perhaps Gulden confused this with another project he described in which von der Pütt was to make equestrian monuments of the dead king for Nuremberg, Augsburg, and Ulm, or with two unexecuted projects by Schweigger for equestrian monuments for Emperor Leopold I and Frederik III of Denmark, which were to be closely related.38 Alternatively, the passage may have exaggerated the depths of the sculptor’s ties to the royal court and the accompanying prestige. Regardless, Schweigger had long been engaged with Swedish commemoration projects in Germany. Already in 1633 he had prepared a model for a memorial for Gustaf Adolf at Lützen planned by Axel Oxenstierna.39 An equestrian monument in particular would have caused substantial political friction, however, explaining why no further efforts were made to realize it. Instead, Sandrart painted a replica of the equestrian portrait of Carl Gustaf for the Nuremberg town hall, with the figure of victory replaced by an elaborate hat. Even with this adjustment, it was considered too polemical and soon disappeared.40 With Christina’s abdication, in June 1654, Carl Gustaf became king. His projects thus became state commissions. He may have echoed Oxenstierna and Christina in commissioning a group of twelve paintings of the Passion from Jacob Jordaens.41 More certainly, he set about rebuilding the royal palace and proposing a new palace for the southern district of Stockholm, although neither of these came to anything. He also began two major churches, one near the proposed new palace in Stockholm and one in Kalmar, in southern Sweden, which were completed after long delays.42 As with Wrangel, the campaign awoke in Carl Gustaf an interest in the arts. Renewed war with Poland and Denmark may have developed this further, but the conflicts also dominated a short reign that ended with his early death, in February 1660, and left little time for him to cultivate projects in Sweden.

Magnus Gabriel de la Gardie

Minerva’s World

Magnus Gabriel de la Gardie (1622–1686) was resident in Prague in 1648 with Carl Gustaf and Carl Gustaf Wrangel.43 He was not a soldier but a wealthy aristocrat who enjoyed particular favor with Christina early in his career at court. In 1646, at twenty-three years old, he headed an embassy to Paris. This had no great political consequences, but his extravagance and the great quantities of luxuries he bought there made him something of a spectacle. It also caught the attention of outstanding craftsmen and artists who were attracted by the possibility of a career at the Swedish court. Perhaps most consequential was his contract with André Mollet (d. ca. 1665).44 Mollet’s father had been first gardener at the Tui­ leries and overseer of the princely gardens in The Hague in the 1630s, where he had worked alongside Simon de la Vallée at Honselaarsdijk Palace. Mollet designed several gardens in and around Stockholm and published an important treatise on gardening there in 1651.45 This emphasized the visual harmony of the garden and its structures, such as pavilions and fountains and the main residence. The essential point of his text, which would become a fundamental principle of seventeenth-century landscape design, is that the garden must be considered part of the overall architectural scheme of an estate. The book had a wide appeal. It was published in French, German, and Swedish, with an English edition following in 1670.46 Mollet returned to France in 1653, leaving his son, Jean, in Stockholm. André soon left France for London, where he served as chief gardener at St. James’s Park. Although Mollet worked on De la Gardie’s estate at Jakobsdal (now Ulriksdal), he was engaged on behalf of Christina. Others hoped to pursue careers in the count’s service or to use De la Gardie as a bridge to a court post. In practice, however, the count was less effective in this role than Oxenstierna or Wrangel. Elias Holl’s youngest son, Matthäus, made his way to Sweden in the later 1640s and took charge of a number of De la Gardie’s projects. Few of these were completed, however, and Holl’s career ended in shambles. An Italian visitor, Lorenzo Magalotti, commented in 1674 that De la Gardie undertook too many projects, spreading his efforts and his resources too thinly.47 Indeed, De la Gardie made notes around 1654 on repairs and renovations, many of them fundamental, that he planned to undertake on fourteen houses or estates in the ensuing ten years.48 This was wildly optimistic. Little was completed, and more might have been finished at a higher level of quality if he had focused his resources more effectively. Läckö, one of De la Gardie’s estates, has wall paintings of a series of Gothic kings. This kind of imagery is typically associated with official projects promoting the ruling dynasty or the state and is unusual in the context of a private residence. De la Gardie embraced this ideology more completely than others in the aristocracy, and his legacy is most secure in his promotion of historical scholarship. He recovered the so-called Silver Bible, a sixth-century Gospel in the Gothic language. It had been in Rudolf II’s collection in Prague and came to Stockholm in 1648–49. Christina evidently did not recognize its value and allowed her librarian, Isaac Vossius, to take it to the Netherlands, where Franciscus Junius

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published it in 1665 with a dedication to De la Gardie. Even before this edition appeared, the count had become aware of the manuscript’s tremendous textual and political significance for the Gothicist arguments pushed by the court. De la Gardie purchased it from Vossius in 1662 and gave it to the Uppsala University library seven years later. In 1671 Georg Stiernhielm prepared a new edition that emphasized the Gothic-Swedish continuity in an extended preface.49 De la Gardie succeeded Oxenstierna as chancellor of the university in Upp­sala and was crucial in making it a center for ideologically tinged historical research.50 In 1655 he proposed a new chair in Swedish prehistory, which would first be held by Laurentius Bureus, a court antiquarian who wrote tracts on Gothicism. Likewise, he promoted Olaus Rudbeck’s historical studies, culminating in Atlantica, which argues that all of European classical history traces its origins to Sweden.51 Beyond the university, De la Gardie was the driving force behind the establishment of the Board of Antiquities, a state office established in 1666 to identify, preserve, study, and publish ancient monuments in the kingdom.52 De la Gardie’s support of state-sanctioned ideology played well at court, but he can hardly have been motivated purely by political concerns. He promoted scholarship more generally and was fundamentally involved in bringing the wellknown scholar Samuel von Pufendorf (1632–1694) from Heidelberg to Sweden in 1667–68.53 Pufendorf occupied a chair at the university of Lund, established in 1666 in territory recently conquered from Denmark, and wrote his essential tracts on natural law there. In 1674, with war raging nearby, Pufendorf accepted the post of court historian in Stockholm and turned his attention to grand histories of the kingdom and its monarchs, including a richly illustrated account of the heroic deeds of Carl X Gustaf.54 Pufendorf was an important scholar, and his recruitment may have followed a precedent set by Axel Oxenstierna and Louis de Geer, who invited Jan Amos Comenius to Sweden in 1642.55 Comenius, an educational reformer and leader of the Moravian Brethren, had fled the imperial crackdown on Protestant heresy. Oxenstierna was interested in pedagogical reform, and De Geer wanted him to lead an academy at his estate at Finspong. Comenius was unwilling to stray too far from his followers in Leszno, Poland, however, and Oxenstierna was wary of alienating the orthodox Lutheran clergy.56 He was installed instead in a position in Elbing, in Royal Prussia, that allowed him to maintain regular contact with Leszno and with Stockholm. Although he was not formally part of the court, his early optimism that Carl X Gustaf would make Poland safe for Protestantism led him to publish panegyric comparable to that of court poets and historians.57 Christina, too, brought a group of intellectual celebrities to Stockholm in the early 1650s. They brought a glow to the court, but they seem to have left surprisingly little imprint on the kingdom after their dispersal, upon Christina’s abdication.58 De la Gardie’s circle of intellectuals and those he recruited for the court and the universities were much more significant for the kingdom than were Christina’s celebrity thinkers.

Color Plates

plate 1 (opposite) | Dominicus ver Wilt, Erik XIV of Sweden, 1561. Photo © Nationalmuseum, Stockholm.

plate 2 | After Hans Knieper, Frederik II and Prince Christian (IV), tapestry, after 1581. Photo: The National Museum of Denmark.

plate 3 (overleaf) | Pieter Isaacsz, Christian IV of Denmark, ca. 1614. Photo: The Museum of National History, Frederiksborg Castle.

plate 4 (overleaf) | Pieter Isaacsz, Prince-Elect Christian, ca. 1618. Photo: The Museum of National History, Frederiksborg Castle.

plate 5 | Karel van Mander III, Christian IV on Horseback, ca. 1642. Photo: The Museum of National History, Frederiksborg Castle.

plate 6 | Sébastien Bourdon, Queen Christina of Sweden, 1653. Photo © Photographic Archive, Museo Nacional del Prado.

plate 7 (overleaf) | Jürgen Ovens, Hedwig Eleonora of Schleswig-Holstein-Gottorf Crowned by Minerva, 1654. Photo © Nationalmuseum, Stockholm.

plate 8 (overleaf) | David Klöcker Ehrenstrahl, Allegory of the Regency of Carl XI / Hedwig Eleonora as Protector of the Arts, Drottningholm Palace, near Stockholm, 1697. Photo © Nationalmuseum, Stockholm.

plate 9 | David Klöcker

plate 10 (opposite) |

Ehrenstrahl, Sculpture, Poetry, and Painting Gathered Around Christina-Minerva, 1691. Photo © Nationalmuseum, Stockholm.

David Klöcker Ehrenstrahl, Self-Portrait with Allegories of Pictura and Inventio, 1691. Photo © Nationalmuseum, Stockholm.

plate 11 (opposite) |

plate 12 | Allart van

Georges Desmarées, Nicodemus Tessin the Younger, 1723. Photo © Nationalmuseum, Stockholm.

Everdingen, Nordic Landscape with Waterfall, 1640s. Photo © Nationalmuseum, Stockholm.

plate 13 | David Klöcker Ehrenstrahl, Black Grouses Courting, 1675. Photo © Nationalmuseum, Stockholm.

plate 14 | Caspar David Friedrich, A Walk at Dusk, ca. 1830–35. Digital image courtesy of the Getty’s Open Content Program.

plate 15 | Johan Thomas Lundbye, Dolmen at Raklev, Denmark, 1839. Photo: Thorvaldsens Museum, Copenhagen, www.thorvaldsensmuseum.dk.

chap ter s ix

Two Queens

Queen Christina, Collecting, and the Arts Queen Christina (1626–1689, r. 1644–54) is perhaps the best-known figure from Scandinavian history. Her enigmatic personality and her abdication, at the age of twenty-eight, to live in Rome as a Catholic convert have made her a figure of fascination both for historians and for the public.1 She was moreover an exceptionally cultivated woman. She brought René Descartes and other well-known intellectuals to Stockholm. In Rome, she established an academy and a theater. She was deeply involved in the city’s cultural life more generally, bringing together in her circle cardinals, artists, antiquarians, and others. At a very young age, Christina became a curiosity among observers around the continent. Many were amused that the kingdom known in the 1640s primarily for its uncompromising militarism was ruled by a young woman. This became amazement as word of her intellectual abilities and love of the arts spread. André Félibien, the biographer of the French painters, wrote that the queen “drew around her from all parts of Europe men who were among the most excellent in the arts and sciences, who wished to work in that part of the North. [Her] reputation for loving beautiful things and for being very free brought many people of merit to seek their fortunes with her.”2 Christina was a child when the first treasures from Munich arrived in the early 1630s, and she grew up with the notion that plunder was a standard way to acquire rarities. She was closely involved with the sack of Prague in 1648, which brought one of the most extraordinary early modern collections to Sweden. As soon as she heard that the Malá Strana had been taken, she wrote to her cousin Carl Gustaf, asking him to seize the library and some other unspecified objects.3

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It was only with the arrival of these objects in Sweden that historians can trace substantial interest in collecting on the part of Christina or anyone else in the kingdom. Far from relying on plunder alone to develop this interest, she began to buy through agents. Mathias Palbitzki, a Pomeranian courtier and diplomat, bought a group of antiquities for her in Rome, although these seem never to have reached her. In Amsterdam, Michel Le Blon bought for her a second group of antiquities, including statues of gods and busts of poets, philosophers, and prominent Romans.4 Christina never left the kingdom before her abdication and thus had little concrete sense of the organization of a princely collection. It was almost certainly for this reason that the architect Nicodemus Tessin the Elder wrote a long description of the Medici collections in the Palazzo Vecchio in Florence during his study travels. Writing explicitly for another reader—most likely Christina—he explained their presentation and display, creating a virtual visit for a queen with some of the outstanding collections of the age and no idea what to do with them.5 Tessin’s description may also have been a first step toward a proper home for the collections. Otherwise, Christina showed little interest in architecture. She built no new churches or significant public buildings in a growing capital and made no substantial renovations to a royal palace that was widely regarded as an embarrassment. Apart from necessary maintenance and repairs, her main additions to the royal palace were a library, a theater, and space to house the collections.6 Literature, theater and dance, and collecting: these were the heart of Chris­ tina’s world. To some extent these interests were intertwined. Theater and drama form a part of literature, and literature in written form was collected through purchase or plunder and organized in ways analogous to art objects. Many of the antiquities she acquired, especially the busts of writers and philosophers, seem likewise to have been placed in the palace library in a manner typical for the era.7 The most exceptional talents to come to Christina’s court were not painters and sculptors but thinkers. The most significant of these, René Descartes, arrived in the autumn of 1649. He was to instruct the queen in philosophy each morning at five. He complained bitterly of the cold and expired of pneumonia in February 1650.8 His duties were assumed by Isaac Vossius, a Netherlandish polymath. In addition to providing instruction in philosophy, Vossius served as librarian, bringing order to a collection that had grown exponentially and was in disarray.9 He soon found himself in competition with a group of Frenchmen, most specifically Gabriel Naudé, who was formerly librarian to Cardinal Jules Mazarin but fled the Fronde with an appointment in Stockholm. Raphael Trichet du Fresne, keeper of the collections of art objects, published the first edition of Leonardo da Vinci’s writings in 1651, with a dedication to Christina.10 He was to bring order to the collections, a responsibility comparable to Vossius’s work with the library. There were other well-known intellectuals at court, but what of painters, sculptors, and architects? The only figure comparable to the French scholars was

Figure 43 | Antoine Coyet after David Beck, Self-Portrait with a Portrait of Christina. From Meyssens, Image de divers hommes. The Getty Research Institute, Los Angeles (87-B 26043). Photo: Image Archive / Getty Research Institute.

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Sébastien Bourdon (1616–1671). He was an established master in Paris and a founding member of the Académie royale when he took a post as court painter in Stockholm in 1652. It is unclear whether the queen called him or he came at the suggestion of friends in her circle, as Félibien suggests. The uncertainties of the Fronde surely encouraged him to go north, but he also seems to have regarded a position in her court as a significant opportunity. Although he stayed in Stockholm for only slightly over year, the early biographies by Félibien, a personal friend, and Guillet de Saint-Georges regard this period as the high point of his career.11 He painted a large equestrian portrait of the queen accompanied by three dogs and a page with a falcon (color plate 6).12 Although accommodations are made for her gender—she wears a dress and rides sidesaddle—the presentation is comparable to elite portraiture both in a local context, such as Sandrart’s equestrian painting of Carl Gustaf, and in an international context, includ­ ing equestrian portraits by Titian, Rubens, and Diego Velázquez. The latter three painters worked for the Spanish court, and Bourdon’s picture was soon in direct juxtaposition with their works. Christina gave it to King Philip IV, and it soon hung in a prominent place in the Alcázar palace in Madrid. In patron, format, and audience, this equestrian work was Bourdon’s most prestigious. It formed the high point of a Swedish sojourn that enhanced his reputation at home and perhaps led to his nomination as rector of the académie soon after his return to Paris. In Stockholm, Bourdon filled a position vacated by David Beck. (Beck remained in Christina’s service but was sent abroad to paint “famous men” for her.) Born in Delft, trained partly in London by Van Dyck, and active also at the French and Danish courts, Beck was evidently engaged by Michel Le Blon at the request of the chancellor, Axel Oxenstierna.13 Although Christina had little to do with his appointment, he soon became closely associated with her. A print after a self-portrait, published in the Antwerp painter Jan Meyssens’s compendium of contemporary painters, presents Beck wearing rich silks and a large ring, standing in front of an easel with Christina’s portrait. In one hand he holds a scroll, in the other a golden chain given to him by the queen (fig. 43).14 In 1675 the painter and writer Joachim von Sandrart likewise stressed Beck’s connection to Christina in his Teutsche Academie.15 This bond between Beck and Christina was elaborated

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in a series of panegyric verses by the Amsterdam poet Joost van den Vondel. These were based on paintings by Beck and Sandrart that were evidently familiar in the Low Countries.16 (Van den Vondel also wrote verses on Carl Gustaf based on works by these painters.) Bourdon and Beck raised the level of painting in the kingdom substantially. Yet Christina may not have taken full advantage of their skills. In Stockholm they seem to have painted only portraits, mostly standard half-length images. Both were capable of allegorical inventions and history painting, but she seems hardly to have been interested. This was perhaps partly because these needs were filled by painters resident elsewhere. In 1648 Jacob Jordaens was contracted to paint thirty-five large paintings, possibly representing Psyche, for the ceiling of the hall of state in Uppsala Castle. At least seventeen of these were delivered in 1649 and installed instead in the Stockholm palace. All perished in the 1697 palace fire.17 The paintings from Prague and elsewhere likewise provided a large group of allegories and history paintings, albeit not specific to the context of the court. Christina’s overall interest in contemporary painting is also open to question. It is unclear whether she invited Bourdon. Beck, as noted, was evidently recruited by Le Blon for Oxenstierna. It is true that she tried to bring Erasmus II Quellinus and Salvator Rosa to Stockholm, but both declined her invitation.18 Stylistically, these were vastly different painters. Both had well-known intellectual/philosophical interests, however, which may have constituted their main appeal. Otherwise, Christina’s interest in painting appears to have been limited. Even after her abdication, she showed less interest in the excellent painters in Rome than might be expected of someone of her position and cultural focus.19 Like Christian IV, Christina seems to have been more animated by sculpture. In the early 1650s Mathias Palbitzki engaged for the court two Roman sculptors, Giuseppe Peroni and Nicolas Cordier. Peroni was attracted by Christina’s reputation in Italy but soon returned to Rome.20 Cordier remained in royal service until his death, in 1667, but it is unclear what he did during his sixteen years in the kingdom. The only piece that has been tied to him with any justification is a bust of Palbitzki’s spouse, Anna Regina Khevenhüller. He must have produced a great deal more that either has not been identified or, like Jordaens’s paintings and so much else, was destroyed in the 1697 palace fire.21 In the years before the arrival of Peroni and Cordier, Le Blon had sought other sculptors for the court. In particular, Christina hoped to engage Artus Quellinus (1609–1668), an outstanding Antwerp sculptor then working in Amsterdam. It was an optimistic plan. The sculptor was fully occupied with portraits of Amsterdam patricians and relief sculpture for the new town hall. The latter was one of the great sculptural projects of the seventeenth century, and Christina could not offer comparable work for him. Le Blon approached Quellinus but was obliged to inform the queen that he would not come.22 Quellinus seems, however, to have produced a group of terra-cotta models of Apollo and the Muses, now lost, for Christina around 1649. The subject arose from a conceit developed among a group of Netherlanders connected with the

Figure 44 | Jeremias Falck after Erasmus Quellinus, Christina-Minerva, 1649. Photo © Nationalmuseum, Stockholm.

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Swedish court. In the mid-1640s, probably at Le Blon’s suggestion, Joost van den Vondel wrote verses presenting Christina as Minerva, sprung from the head of Jupiter, identified as Gustaf II Adolf.23 The idea soon took visual form in medals and, perhaps most significantly, an engraving by Jeremias Falck. The print, based on a design by Erasmus Quellinus, presents Christina as a sculpted portrait bust of Minerva on a base, wearing an all’antica breastplate and a helmet crowned by a sphinx and a laurel wreath (fig. 44). She is turned toward the viewer with a lively glance, and ringlets fall lightly down her temples. This living bust forms part of a still life, placed on a table before a wall, against which an olive branch leans, emphasizing her role as a bringer of peace to Europe. To the left, an owl perches on three books, representing the wisdom associated with Minerva and, increasingly,

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with Christina. A short verse beneath the image, composed by Le Blon, describes Christina-Minerva springing from the head of Gustaf Adolf–Jupiter, concretely relating the conceit to Van den Vondel’s poetic invention. The composition worked thematically with the group of terra-cotta figures made for Christina around the same time by Erasmus’s younger brother Artus Quellinus. Apollo and the Muses were long associated with one another. Ovid describes Minerva visiting the Muses on Parnassus, and she thus became linked with the group. The sculpture group did not include a Minerva, however. The conceit, explained in a verse by Jan Vos, was that the sculpted figures were completed by the presence of the living Christina-Minerva. This conceptual combination of living and sculpted figures may also account for Falck’s unusual portrait of Christina as a living statue. It is important that this is a literary idea, developed by poets. Le Blon, who probably stood behind the Christina-Minerva conceit, recognized that the queen was much more likely to be impressed with images based on a literary invention. Although she purchased a group of marble blocks around this time, perhaps to realize Quellinus’s models in stone, they were never carved. Likewise, Falck’s print was not repeated. Rather, the Christina-Minerva idea was incorporated in other forms of greater interest to the queen: ballets performed in 1649 and 1651 took up the theme, probably with Christina herself dancing the part of Minerva.24 Only years later did she develop the idea in sculpture and architecture. She placed ancient statues of the Muses and a modern figure of Apollo in the Palazzo Riario, her Roman residence. The walls were frescoed with pastoral landscapes, and Pegasus was shown in the ceiling.25 The degree to which this was a delayed response to the inventions of Michel Le Blon, Joost van den Vondel, and Jan Vos remains an open question, however.

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Christina’s Departure In 1653 Christina wrote from Stockholm to Paolo II Orsini, Duke of Bracciano: There are [works of ] various masters, of Veronese, Polidoro, Correggio, Tintoretto, and many others, including Titian himself. The whole gallery of pictures that was in Prague is here. It is truly large and beautiful. There are an infinite number of pieces, but aside from thirty or forty original Italians, I do not care for any of the others. There are [works] of Albrecht Dürer and other German masters, whose names I do not know, which anyone else would admire very much, but I swear that I would give them all for a pair of pictures by Raphael and think that I was doing them too much honor. Please tell me about the masters [in Rome] who are currently admired? If Pietro da Cortona is still as before, if he has done anything else better than the sala and capella of the Barberini [Palace]. Please let me know if the cavaliere Bernini, having finished that beautiful fountain [the Four Rivers Fountain], is contemplating something new.

I would also like to know if there is any better composer than Carissimi, or if anyone approaches him? Who are the best Roman and Italian poets? They say that Balducci is no good; I think they are misinformed. What is said about the poem of Guarini? He seems worthy of some praise to me and would seem incomparable to anyone who has not read Tasso or Ariosto, but I only read him after them. What is the judgment of your academies on this subject?26

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This letter is usually understood to reflect the queen’s deeply held Italianism, stimulated by the arrival of the paintings from Prague, which took an even more profound form in her move to Rome. Certainly this is at least partly true. The latter half in particular reflects a boundless curiosity about the land she would soon encounter for the first time. Christina’s statement can also be understood in a very different way, as an admission that she had no appreciation for paintings that were broadly admired. After her abdication, she gave Dürer’s large panels of Adam and Eve, from Rudolf II’s collection, to Philip IV of Spain, who was recognized as a discriminating collector at the highest level. Although she was dismissive of them, she cannot have thought that she was giving him inferior works. She praised Raphael as a peerless painter, but the degree to which she actually knew his work is uncertain. She owned an important group of his drawings, but she had never seen one of his paintings.27 It is possible that she thought of his paintings primarily as signals of an outstanding collection, perhaps the more so because she had none. Nor had she seen anything by Gianlorenzo Bernini or Pietro da Cortona. Although she was keen to hear of them, it is significant that she was substantially more animated in her discussion of writers and showed genuine knowledge of them. Indeed, this attitude held after she moved to Rome. Although she became a close friend of Bernini, she showed less interest in Cortona after her arrival in the city than before. This ambivalence about paintings is reflected in the works Christina took with her when she abdicated in 1654 and moved to Rome. A persistent myth has it that she impoverished the royal collections. In fact, she took a fairly small group of paintings. About twenty-five were portraits of family members and intellectuals, and about forty-five pictures, mostly Venetian, came from the collection of Rudolf II. Among these were nine Titians, eleven Veroneses, and three Correggios. This corresponds perfectly with her own melancholy description of the treasure to Paolo Orsini. In addition, Christina took two volumes of Italian drawings, nineteen bronze statues, some works in ivory and silver, a number of tapestries, and the coin collections. True to her literary emphasis, she took a much larger share of the library: about 3,700 printed books and 2,000 manuscripts. These were the only objects that she requested during the sack of Prague six years earlier.28 Thus, of the almost 470 paintings from Prague, the booty from Munich and elsewhere, and important supplemental purchases and commissions of paintings and sculptures, a great deal remained in Stockholm. The naturalia collection, in

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which Christina apparently had little interest, remained whole, as did the group of ancient statues. Although she took some major paintings and bronze works and gave others away, the collections were otherwise largely intact until the end of the seventeenth century. A 1660 survey of the palace included two large rooms to house the objects, and in 1674 an Italian visitor, Lorenzo Magalotti, noted a room in Uppsala Castle filled with pictures from Prague. He was also able to buy a portrait attributed to Giorgione for Carlo de’ Medici, the brother of the grand duke.29 The truly devastating losses came with fires in the palaces in Stockholm and Uppsala in 1697 and 1702. The kingdom, locked in a war that would end its strong position in European affairs, could not easily replace the collections. Nonetheless, some major works that were in private collections or kept elsewhere remained in the kingdom. Early in the eighteenth century, the architect Nicodemus Tessin the Younger noted a number of these in a hypothetical project for a new gallery to replace the lost works.30 It is a sadly diminished list, but he could nonetheless point to paintings attributed to Giulio Romano, Veronese, Titian, Taddeo and Federico Zuccaro, and Annibale Carracci, among others, and to sculptures by Adriaen de Vries and Giambologna, as well as some ancient pieces. It also includes works by Nicolas Poussin, Carlo Dolci, Carlo Maratta, and a few others from the later seventeenth century. Dürer, Lucas Cranach, Anthony van Dyck, and Peter Paul Rubens appear on his list, but he disregarded many Northern paintings that were in the kingdom. Tessin generally privileged Italian and French art, and he likely considered landscape and genre scenes inappropriate for a royal gallery. A number of these works were sold in the nineteenth century as other states reconstructed their national patrimonies. In 1803 the imperial ambassador in Stockholm, Count Franz Lodron-Laterano, bought bronze works by Leone Leoni and Adriaen de Vries for the collections in Vienna, and at the end of the century the Bavarian government bought pictures by Jörg Breu and Hans Schöpfer the Elder that had been taken from Munich in 1632. Dulle Griet, a major painting by Pieter Bruegel the Elder, went to Antwerp in 1894.31 Even at the end of the twentieth century, major works emerged on the market, and important pieces remain in minor museums and private collections in Sweden, among them a monumental Mercury by Giambologna.32 But for half a century, one of the major European collections was to be seen in Stockholm. This lifespan compares favorably with those of other major collections in the seventeenth century. It was significantly longer than Charles I’s pictures remained in London, and about as long as Rudolf II’s reduced collection was in Prague.

Hedwig Eleonora and the Legacy of Christina A little-known painting by Jürgen Ovens presents Hedwig Eleonora of SchleswigHolstein-Gottorf (1636–1715) holding a lily and crowned by Minerva (color plate 7). Kneeling at bottom right is Ceres, goddess of fertility and the harvest, with

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a basket of fruit. Above Minerva, to the right, three putti hold Hedwig Eleonora’s arms, and to the upper left others bear a golden ring and the caduceus of Mercury. Ovens’s picture is usually interpreted in relation to Hedwig Eleonora’s marriage to Carl X Gustaf, in October 1654.33 The golden ring, the white lily, and the presence of Ceres all support such a reading. The circumstances of Hedwig Eleonora’s marriage were complicated, however. Ovens signed and dated the picture in August 1654, in the midst of a chaotic summer of marriage negotiations. The princess was initially betrothed to the Duke of Mecklenburg-Güstrow, so it was unlikely to have been painted for Carl Gustaf. In July, Christina passed through Holstein and discussed the possibility of marriage between one of Duke Friedrich III’s daughters and the new king. Carl Gustaf then sent a representative, who returned with miniatures of each of the two available daughters.34 These were the true marriage portraits. Although it was certainly conceived in the context of marriage plans for the princess, Ovens’s painting is exceptional and conveys a great deal about Hedwig Eleonora and the world in which she was raised. Allegories involving Minerva were common in the seventeenth century. They were prominent in the erudite pictures popular in Rudolf II’s court, in Rubens’s work, and elsewhere. But in the milieu in which Hedwig Eleonora grew up, the most direct point of reference was Christina-Minerva, the allegorical alter ego of the queen familiar through poems, medals, and Jeremias Falck’s print. Falck was well known in Gottorf, for he had engraved a portrait of Hedwig Eleonora’s father.35 Indeed, Ovens’s painting may have its origins in contact with Christina herself as she passed through Holstein, for he seems to have painted a portrait of her, probably for the ducal court.36 If it was not yet clear that Hedwig Eleonora would succeed Christina on the Swedish throne, the painting suggests that the young princess planned to fill the queen’s role in the northern German cultural world. Thus, Christina-Minerva instills her wisdom, learning, and eloquence in Hedwig Eleonora. Marriage portraits with complex allegorical inventions are rare, but in the context of Christina’s abdication and departure for Rome, an image of Hedwig Eleonora filling her cultural role in the region was entirely appropriate. A second portrait of Hedwig Eleonora suggests the realization of Ovens’s allegory (color plate 8). Painted by David Klöcker Ehrenstrahl in 1697 as part of a cycle of images on her life, and mounted in the audience room in her palace at Drottningholm, the portrait shows the queen, now a dowager, sitting enthroned.37 In her right hand she holds an oval portrait of her son, the young king Carl XI, for whom she served as a regent from 1660 to 1672. In her left hand she holds a rudder bearing the king’s monogram, guiding the ship of state in these years. Although she led the regency, Hedwig Eleonora did not rule alone. Five other high officials joined her in this duty. In the portrait, however, they have been transformed into depersonalized allegories of virtues. Moreover, they have been pushed into the background, making room in the foreground for personifications of the arts. Sculptura (Sculpture) holds a bust of Carl X Gustaf, Hedwig Eleonoraʼs deceased husband and Carl XIʼs father. Pictura (Painting) is shown in

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the act of drawing; the results of her work are evident in Ehrenstrahl’s pictures and the large group of paintings distributed throughout the palace. Architectura (Architecture) offers the queen a series of plans of her own palaces: Gripsholm, Strömsholm, and Drottningholm, in which the visitor stands. These are all marked clearly. Lest there be any confusion, a fourth figure in the foreground, Magnificentia (Magnificence), gestures to the three allegories of the arts while holding a scroll labeled “The Palace of Queen Hedwig Eleonora.” The origins of Ovens’s portrait remain murky, but Ehrenstrahl’s pictures were made at Hedwig Eleonora’s command. There can be no doubt about the significance or the identification of the allegories, for he explained them in detail in a published guide to his own pictures.38 However, the image allows room for ambiguity about the central point. It has been described both as an allegory on the regency of Carl XI and as Hedwig Eleonora as protector of the arts. In accord with the other pictures in the series, the former emphasizes the political nature of the picture; the latter interpretation emphasizes the allegories of the arts that are given a central role. Ehrenstrahl did not assign a title to the work and did not suggest one reading over the other. Rather, he likely assumed that these two roles, and these two emphases, fit so perfectly together that one need not distinguish them. In this, the picture is much like Ovens’s portrait, which joins the political symbolism of a coronation with the essentially cultural figure of Christina-Minerva. Ultimately, the young princess succeeded Christina as queen of Sweden. In this role she sought to continue the development of the arts initiated in the middle of the century. With Carl X Gustaf’s death, in 1660, she became financially independent through a jointure. Simultaneously, she acquired a formal role in state governance as part of the regency for her son, Carl XI. Through these two developments, she became a fundamental figure both in private and in state support of the arts. However, she pursued cultural patronage rather differently from Christina. She inherited much of the collections that were left behind and added significantly to them, but she seems to have had more of a taste for collectors’ chests, fine china, and carved ivory than for philosophy. The major intellectuals who came to Sweden after Christina’s abdication, such as Samuel von Pufendorf, came through contacts with De la Gardie and others.39 Yet Hedwig Eleonora may have been more fundamental for the development of the visual arts in Sweden than Christina was. She was the dominant patron in the kingdom from 1660 to her death, in 1715. Not only did she commission works from many of the leading artists and architects—she was an enthusiastic builder of palaces, which then needed to be furnished—but she also supported them in many other ways. She found and recruited talent, funded travel periods, and wrote countless letters of introduction. Her own interests and court appointments often became entangled. For instance, the sculptor Nicolaes Millich (ca. 1630–after 1687) came from Antwerp to Stockholm to take a post with the royal court. However, she treated him as her personal employee, and the great majority of his works are in her palace at Drottningholm, much of the remainder being

freelance commissions for other nobles. The only documented works for the Crown are ephemeral decorations for the 1672 celebrations for the accession of Carl XI.40

Hedwig Eleonora and Drottningholm Drottningholm Palace, built by Nicodemus Tessin the Elder, was the centerpiece of Hedwig Eleonora’s interest in the arts (fig. 45).41 It was also the most important and the most closely watched project in Sweden before the reconstruction of the royal palace in Stockholm from 1692. As its significance became clear, the queen increasingly set the standard for artistic production in the kingdom. Drottningholm was the grandest of the country palaces around Mälaren lake. Taking advantage of easy access by water from Stockholm, the nobility built country houses in great numbers in the middle of the seventeenth century, sometimes replacing or modernizing earlier structures and sometimes developing new sites. These estates complemented urban residences in Stockholm built after the court settled permanently in the city during the 1620s, establishing in Sweden the dichotomy of urban and country life that increasingly appealed to elites elsewhere as well. Many of these were built by Tessin the Elder.42 He likely attached himself to the retinue of Chancellor Axel Oxenstierna in northern Germany in the 1630s and through this connection attained a court position in 1646 and release from his duties in 1651–53 to travel in Germany, Italy, France, and the Low Countries.

Figure 45 | Nicodemus Tessin the Elder, Drottningholm Palace, near Stockholm, begun 1662. Photo: author.

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Oxenstierna died soon after Tessin’s return to Sweden, however. Tessin spent the remainder of the 1650s overseeing a somewhat unwieldy project to turn Borgholm Castle on Öland, an island in the Baltic, into a representative residence for Carl X Gustaf, while his primary competitor, Jean de la Vallée, remained in Stockholm, cultivating his network and accepting more appealing commissions. Tessin’s fortunes changed in the 1660s. In quick succession he was named the first municipal architect of Stockholm (1661) and architect of the royal palace (1663), which in fact extended to royal projects more generally. However, it was Drottningholm, begun in 1662, that more fully established the architect and the queen as the acknowledged arbiters of taste in the kingdom. Tessin’s success can be attributed partly to professional reforms that the queen helped to introduce, some of which were based on the way she set up the building works at Drottningholm, very likely adopting the architect’s suggestions in the process. She may also have promoted him in her capacity as leader of the regency. Hedwig Eleonora used this position to appoint to court posts figures she intended to use primarily for her own projects, such as the sculptor Nicolaes Millich, who was engaged at her request by the Swedish resident in Amsterdam. Despite his appointment to the royal court in the name of Carl XI, Millich was immediately set to work at Drottningholm. Likewise, she gave David Klöcker Ehrenstrahl a court post but often treated him as her personal employee. Soon after his appointment, in 1661, she took him with her on an eight-day excursion to view the paintings recently plundered from Denmark. Almost immediately thereafter, she sent him on an extended tour of northern Germany to paint portraits of her relatives. This provided one basis for his enduring reputation among the courts in the region.43 Upon his return, he provided two groups of allegories for Drottningholm, as well as a large number of other canvases that visitors encountered throughout the palace. These generally fall within the conventional categories of seventeenthcentury painting, but Ehrenstrahl was unusual in working across so many of them. He was the only painter of his generation in the kingdom to take on complex allegories, and he was generally regarded as the best portraitist available—a talent also employed to document the king’s favorite horses and Hedwig Eleo­ nora’s dogs. In addition, he painted views of favorite royal hunting grounds and recorded remarkable plant and animal specimens. Examples of most or all of these genres could be found in the queen’s palaces. Hedwig Eleonora did not appoint Tessin to his court post, but she stood behind his career in numerous ways. Most fundamentally, Drottningholm became the local standard of excellence, and those who worked there were soon in demand for projects for the aristocracy. One after another, noblemen approached the talent that the queen assembled, trying to persuade them to take on their own projects. Already in 1663, when the plans were still in flux and little had been built, the chancellor, treasurer, and other high noblemen would linger about the Drottningholm construction site, waiting to speak with Tessin.44 These were the clients for whom Tessin designed urban palaces and country houses. However, to find him, they evidently often had to come to Drottningholm in person,

Figure 46 | Nicodemus Tessin the Younger, Drottningholm Palace gardens. From Dahlbergh, Suecia Antiqua. Photo: The Royal Library, Stockholm.

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confirming its centrality both in their frame of reference and as the basis of Tessin’s reputation. Even Magnus Gabriel de la Gardie, who, more than anyone else in the kingdom, had the position and resources to be a dominant and independent figure in the arts, moved substantially toward the model that Hedwig Eleonora established. His palace at Läckö, rebuilt from 1654 by Matthäus Holl, has been interpreted as a variant of the old royal palace in Stockholm—an irregular complex defined by its many towers.45 Yet when De la Gardie visited the noble estate at Ekolsund in 1670, he stated that “the design of the house itself did not please. Rather, it was wished that the building at Drottningholm were paired with that garden [at Ekolsund].”46 Karlberg Palace, rebuilt for the count by Jean de la Vallée around that time, is much closer to Drottningholm in form and ornament. When Hedwig Eleonora or her guests visited Drottningholm, they invariably arrived by boat. The primary façade is thus toward the water, with a small dock near the main portal. The extended profile of the façade hides from view a large formal garden designed by Tessin the Younger. A false-perspective gallery encountered immediately on entering the building offers a hint of what lies behind, but the gardens are fully revealed only on arriving at the first story, where they can be seen panoramically through large windows (fig. 46). The symmetry, carefully trimmed parterres, and integrated water works, all aligned axially with the palace, point to the tradition closely associated with André Mollet and André Le Nôtre, first gardener to Louis XIV. The ties were direct and immediate. Mollet had worked in Stockholm, leaving a treatise that, among other things, suggested flora that would grow well in the Far North.47 With the help of

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Figure 47 | Nicodemus

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Hedwig Eleonora, who intervened at court on his behalf and secured funding for him, Tessin the Younger complemented a long sojourn in France and Italy with a study of garden and landscape design in England and France, where he developed a particularly close personal relation with Le Nôtre (1613–1700).48 Drawing on this experience, he had a plan for the gardens ready in 1681. In 1683 Hedwig Eleonora approached the Marquis de Feuquière, the former French resident in Stockholm, about the possibility of recruiting skilled workers from the French court to prepare her gardens.49 Whether because of the friendship between Le Nôtre and Tessin or because the request was treated as a diplomatic affair between allied governments, Le Nôtre soon offered to draw up plans for the Drottningholm gardens himself and to send one of his best assistants to execute it. Work had progressed on Tessin’s plan of 1681, however. A fountain engineer and a master gardener from Versailles arrived in 1684, but Le Nôtre’s offer was declined. His offer in 1693 to design the gardens for any royal residence drew only polite refusals. As noted above, Artus Quellinus sent clay models of Apollo and the Muses to Christina in the late 1640s. She did not take them to Rome, so they very likely

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remained in the Stockholm palace in the 1660s. They may have served as the basis for a group of statues by Nicolaes Millich that forms one of the essential themes elaborated in Drottningholm. Upon entering the palace, visitors immediately climb a monumental staircase (fig. 47). At the first landing they encounter Apollo and Polyhymnia and Calliope, two of the nine Muses. The remaining seven await higher on the staircase and are encountered sequentially while climbing to the apartments above. The staircase thus takes the guise of Mount Parnassus, the Muses’ home.50 The staircase itself takes on an allegorical quality, but the queen did not. Hedwig Eleonora never presented herself as Minerva, even as she sought to associate herself both with the Roman goddess and with Christina. Thus, the first piece Millich made in Sweden was Minerva, completing Quellinus’s group but violating the original conceit that they should accompany a living goddess. In Drottningholm, Apollo, Minerva, and the Muses are housed and protected by the queen, just as she, as a regent and queen mother, nurtured the king. Intertwined with the Parnassus conceit is a broader dynastic theme. The history and glorification of the house of Pfalz-Zweibrücken—the lineage of Carl X Gustaf and Carl XI—dominates.51 Elsewhere in the palace, their battles are illustrated in a series of large-scale paintings by the Nuremberg painter Johann Philipp Lemke.52 In the later 1660s Ehrenstrahl provided a group of allegories on the destiny of Carl XI for the queen’s formal bedroom. In the 1690s he produced a second group of allegories, presenting Hedwig Eleonora as regent and guardian of the state and thus her own role in the dynasty’s history.53 The Pfalz dynasty was supported and legitimized by the presence of earlier rulers. Georg Petel’s portrait of Gustaf II Adolf was in the palace, as was Georg Schweigger’s bust of Carl X Gustaf (see figs. 35, 41). These major pieces were bolstered with a great quantity of more standard family and ancestral portraits.54 Together, they created an extended royal lineage that encompassed her family. All of these images, and especially the sculpted portraits, were complemented by fourteen busts of Gothic rulers carved by Millich for the staircase and adjacent vestibules. Two portraits of Carl X Gustaf and Carl XI in a similar format and by the same sculptor highlight the continuity from the ancient Gothic kings to the contemporary ones (figs. 48, 49).55 The classicizing presentation of the Gothic kings is likewise consonant with Millich’s more overtly Greco-Roman figures of Apollo, Minerva, and the Muses, with which they are directly juxtaposed in the staircase Parnassus. Clio and Melpomene, the uppermost Muses on the staircase, point to the ceiling with their index fingers. Here Hedwig Eleonora introduced a new element into the Gothic narrative (fig. 50). Among the trompe l’oeil coffers in the vaults are three painted medallions with profile views of women. One is identified as Disa, a mythical Swedish queen famous for her virtue, popularized by a seventeenthcentury text by Johannes Messenius.56 Disa is paired with Tomyris, queen of the Massagetae but identified here as a Gothic queen through the traditional identification of the Getes as Goths. Tomyris faces a reclining Hercules, crowned by

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Figure 48 | Nicolaes Millich, Gothic king, Drottningholm Palace. Photo: author.

Figure 49 | Nicolaes Millich, Carl XI of Sweden, Drottningholm Palace, 1670. Photo: author.

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Fame, who in turn looks up at the figure of Magnanimity recumbent on a cloud. Rather than a crown, Tomyris wears a lion skin. This appropriates one of Hercules’s attributes but also adopts a secondary identifying marker of Magnanimity outlined in Cesare Ripa’s early handbook of allegorical figures.57 This quality thus complements the strength and wisdom of the demigod, frequently adopted by rulers, while also blending elements of Gothic and Greco-Roman antiquity. On the other side of the lantern lies a medallion with another Gothic queen, Amalasuntha. Above, the figure of Royal Majesty drives away envy and selfinterest. She sits on a cloud that obscures a fourth medallion. The fragmentary inscription and an early description suggest that it portrays Pantaleon, evidently to be considered a Gothic queen, although the name is otherwise associated with an ancient tyrant.58 An identification of the figure with the Amazon warrior queen Penthesilea is much more in keeping with the theme of the ceiling.59 These figures are closely associated with Hedwig Eleonora, whose monogram appears in the lantern, crowned with laurel by Mercury and Minerva. More than merely interpolating female figures into the familiar male lineage, the Gothic queens relate directly to the interests of the patron. Tomyris is described by Herodotus and Jordanes both as a strong ruler on the death of her husband and as the founder of a town in Moesia, near the Danube, in celebration of her victory over the Persians.60 She was thus a successful regent and a builder. Amalasuntha was the daughter of the Gothic emperor Theodoric and ruler of Italy as regent for her son, Athalaric, whom she educated in the Roman tradition.61 One of her surviving letters thanks Emperor Justinian for the gift of a group of marbles— statues or perhaps columns or other architectural elements—through which would “shine resplendent that Roman world which the love of your Serenity renders illustrious.”62 Most importantly, Olaus Magnus’s history of the Northern

peoples presents Amalasuntha within the context of a larger group of Gothic warrior women, emphasizing her wisdom, virtue, and protection of the Roman heritage.63 This emphasizes the ancient coherence of Roman and Gothic culture, which found a modern counterpart in the repeated juxtaposition of Roman and Gothic themes by the Scandinavian courts. These ancient queens thus prefigure and justify two of Hedwig Eleonora’s primary occupations: architecture and the upbringing of Carl XI. They are paired with more general allegories of Magnanimity and Royal Majesty, which are also suited to her position.64 Ehrenstrahl and Sandrart both mention marble figures of the Virtues that were to go in the Drottningholm staircase. A bozzetto by Millich for a figure of Faith links the sculptor to this apparently unexecuted project.65 Taken as a whole, the statuary would have reflected the virtuous presentation of the Goths emphasized by Johannes Magnus, as well as their Christian faith, powerfully demonstrated by the Gothic translation of the Gospels in the manuscript given by De la Gardie to Uppsala University. The figures would also have provided a context for the allegories of Magnanimity and Royal Majesty, which constituted royal virtues. Two traditions—one militantly Northern and anti-Roman, the other drawn from the heart of classical antiquity—coexist in Drottningholm. This juxtaposition is found repeatedly in court productions of the seventeenth century. The

Figure 50 | Johan Sylvius and David Klöcker Ehrenstrahl, ceiling of stairwell, Drottningholm Palace, begun 1686. Photo: author.

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Drottningholm ceiling, where figures from Jordanes’s Gothic history and Cesare Ripa’s Iconologia mingle freely, may explain this juxtaposition better than any other source, for Amalasuntha epitomizes a Gothic queen imbued with classical culture. Gothic and Roman culture mixed and formed different aspects of late antiquity that cannot be fully separated. Like the conceits in the staircase ceiling, many of the elements that Hedwig Eleonora incorporated in Drottningholm were already familiar in the kingdom, often in Christina’s circle. Jan Vos’s conceit of Apollo and the Muses was extended to Hedwig Eleonora by the Netherlander Hendrik Jordis, who describes a new golden age of prosperity, trade, theater, and architecture under her patronage. Likely building on Vos’s poem for Christina, he presents Apollo and Minerva as living with Hedwig Eleonora.66 Likewise, Millich’s figures are inconceivable without Artus Quellinus’s terra-cotta ones, on which they may have been based. Falck’s print and, perhaps, Quellinus’s bozzetti were attempts by Michel Le Blon to give visual expression to an essentially literary conceit. (Although Christina wanted to bring Quellinus to Stockholm, there is little evidence that she commissioned the group of Apollo and the Muses. Like the print, these may be a form of panegyric devised by Le Blon.) Neither project was developed by Christina before her abdication. Hedwig Eleonora assembled these elements in a way that recognized their literary roots, but made them function more effectively within the structure of the palace. For Christina, the figures remained illustrations of literary concepts. For Hedwig Eleonora, who possessed an architectural logic that surpassed Christina’s, they took on greater significance through their more complex conceptual and spatial scheme. Although the interests of the two queens diverged, the legacy of ChristinaMinerva endured in Hedwig Eleonora’s circle. Around 1691 Ehrenstrahl painted an allegory of sculpture, poetry, and painting gathered around a marble bust of Christina-Minerva (color plate 9). This work is often understood as a recognition of Christina’s death, in 1689, and her importance as a protector of the arts.67 It was almost certainly in Drottningholm and may have been a final acknowledgment of Christina’s significance for her successor.68

Hedwig Eleonora and the Professionalization of the Arts Drottningholm became the standard of taste for the Swedish nobility, and those employed there—the Tessins, Millich, Ehrenstrahl, and the Carove family of stuccoists—were in great demand. The team assembled by Hedwig Eleonora also formed the creative core for court productions. Tessin, Ehrenstrahl, and Millich collaborated in the ceremonies for the accession of Carl XI in 1672.69 These men, all of whom held court positions, would presumably have provided something aesthetically similar to Drottningholm had efforts at midcentury to rebuild the Stockholm palace succeeded. Two decades later, Ehrenstrahl worked with Tessin the Younger—who was repeatedly described in court documents as a replacement for his deceased father70—on the reconstructed north wing of the palace,

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providing two enormous paintings for the chapel. It was only around the time of the destruction of the royal palace by fire in 1697, with the subsequent commission to build a more modern replacement and Ehrenstrahl’s death in 1698, that Tessin the Younger became the single dominant artistic figure at court. With his rise, the queen’s collaborative ensemble disintegrated. The adoption of Hedwig Eleonora’s talent can be partially explained as a consequence of her position in the regency of Carl XI (1660–72). She appointed Ehrenstrahl and Millich to court posts in the name of Carl XI in the 1660s, and she signed virtually every contract drawing for royal architectural commissions. In 1697 she headed the committee that reviewed the plans submitted by Tessin the Younger for a new royal palace. This important post seems not to have been titular, but a recognition of her architectural expertise.71 The queen’s perceived expertise stemmed both from the obvious success of her projects and from her personal involvement in them. She found talent and demanded regular reports on progress. More importantly, Drottningholm was the site of a major revision in building practice. Here, Hedwig Eleonora reorganized the works, no doubt in consultation with her architect, Tessin the Elder. The solutions she found or adopted were often transformative in the local context and progressive in northern European architecture. Tessin had held a post with the royal court since 1646, and his contract from that year specified that he was not only to prepare drawings for new buildings but also to spend a great deal of time at the work site overseeing progress. As was usual throughout Europe, he was as much a building contractor as a designer. However, the few, very rudimentary drawings from the early years and the contractual emphasis on overseeing the work site imply that the organizational aspect of construction was at the center of his work.72 Hedwig Eleonora would have been fully justified in expecting Tessin to approach Drottningholm in this manner, but she did not. Rather, in 1664 she transferred nearly all administrative duties to Balthasar Gyldenhoff, the manager of one of her estates. He was to order and pay for building materials for the palace and the gardens. He was also to hire and oversee the laborers and master craftsmen, write a contract for each, oversee their work, and distribute pay, while inspecting the quality of their work and ensuring good progress on the palace. All of these duties fell to Tessin in his court post. Although he still bore responsibility for the site and typically worked at Drottningholm two days a week, Tessin focused on the conceptual and design aspects of the queen’s project. Sometime between 1671 and 1674 Tessin wrote a memo to the Crown explaining his vision for architectural practice in the kingdom.73 He argued that the proper work of the architect consists exclusively of devising plans and explaining their nature to those who should build them, thus separating design and construction. Although refined buildings are fundamentally important to a kingdom, the architect’s work is conceptual and thus fundamentally unlike that of the building master, a craftsman who oversees construction and is necessarily bound to the work site. Tessin’s proposal largely describes the way that he had worked

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at Drottningholm for a decade, which is contrasted with the requirements of his court contract. He was evidently persuasive; all aspects of the proposal were accepted by Carl XI, who acknowledged Tessin’s service to the Crown and to Hedwig Eleonora.74 Tessin did not mention the palace or the dowager queen in his letter, but the significance of his work for her was understood. It demonstrated the viability of his methods, which now became standard procedures in all royal building projects. The transformation of Tessin’s working methods, and indeed of the nature of architecture, was not unique in Sweden in these years. His colleague David Klöcker Ehrenstrahl initiated comparable changes in his own work. His use of assistants is first recorded in 1667.75 This was of course standard practice, and some were sufficiently skilled to move on to important positions elsewhere. Most were less gifted, but they became increasingly central to Ehrenstrahl’s production as his stature grew, both because of growing demand for his pictures and because he was ever more distracted by other concerns. He married the daughter of the bronze producer Willem Momma in 1663 and took over the works in 1680.76 As Sweden was the greatest exporter of iron and copper in Europe, this was an important engagement, but it brought negative consequences for his dedication to his studio. These were compounded by frequent attacks of rheumatism and curative spa visits. Ehrenstrahl seems to have recognized the risk posed to the quality of the work sold under his name. Around 1675 he brought in Martin Hannibal to help run the studio. Hannibal had spent his youth in various German courts and in Italy, where he assembled a collection of drawings and prints that Ehrenstrahl’s students copied. Perhaps more significantly, in 1678 Ehrenstrahl received royal permission to establish an “Academie” free of guild regulations. His close friend Erik Dahlbergh, who had accompanied him in Italy, defined an academy as a place “where one draws or sketches after living and naked people,” suggesting that the students drew from live models.77 It seems that Ehrenstrahl and Hannibal developed something similar to other academies established around the same time in the German lands, about which we know very little. The academies in Nuremberg and Augsburg were established around 1662 and 1670–74. Academic initiatives soon followed in Dresden (ca. 1680), Vienna (1692), and Berlin (1696), among other places.78 In Copenhagen, a group of artists independently established a “Kunst-Academie” in 1701.79 Most of these German academies were initially private enterprises taken on by ambitious court painters, and were thus likely comparable to Ehrenstrahl’s undertaking. Joachim von Sandrart was deeply involved in the foundation of the academies in Nuremberg and Augsburg. His Teutsche Academie der Edlen Bau-, Bild- und Mahlerey-Künste (German academy of the noble arts of architecture, sculpture, and painting), published in Nuremberg in 1675–79, was an effort to promote academic instruction in the arts in the German lands. Ehrenstrahl’s personal acquaintance with him and his work must certainly be the immediate source for the Stockholm variant, which was established just as the publication became

available. If Ehrenstrahl’s “Academie” was something more ambitious than formalized instruction in draftsmanship and study of live models, it likely built on the material in Sandrart’s book. Teutsche Academie provided models of ancient statues and buildings, prescriptive discussion of materials and techniques, basic literary content such as Ovid’s Metamorphoses, as well as biographies of outstanding practitioners. In short, it provided a comprehensive curriculum for aspiring painters. It could not provide the practical experience attained in a workshop, but in the context of a studio-academy such as Ehrenstrahl’s, it could be invaluable. The publication of Teutsche Academie and the establishment of academies in these years indicate that Ehrenstrahl’s efforts were not unique in northern Europe. Nor were their issues of interest only to practicing painters. The Uppsala professor Johannes Schefferus’s Graphice, Id Est de Arte Pingendi (1669) draws on a long tradition of humanist writing on rhetoric and the arts and was intended as part of a broad curriculum for aristocratic youths.80 It shows more practical concerns than most such works, however, and has been proposed as a fundamental source for Sandrart.81

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Tessin the Elder closed his memo to the king with a hint that “His Majesty [might] grace his old servant with some improvement and advancement, which certainly falls to the architects in the service of other high potentates.” He was, in short, requesting a noble title, which was granted in July 1674. The royal letter of investiture granting the title describes architecture as “that noble art [which is] held in great value in all kingdoms and republics,” and recognizes the fullness of Tessin’s learning in it.82 This letter summarizes substantial portions of Tessin’s own memo; indeed, he had described architecture as “that noble art.” It could be understood as a noble art only if the architect’s work exercised knowledge-based skills, however. Tessin’s contract from 1646, which described him as “a faithful and honest servant” charged with occasionally “renovating some old building,” could hardly be considered the work of a gentleman. Ehrenstrahl was ennobled in the same year as Tessin. No petition for a title survives, and it may be that it was an obvious consequence of Tessin’s elevation, since they held similar posts. In 1690 Ehrenstrahl was named court steward, a promotion celebrated with a large allegorical self-portrait (color plate 10). He described the picture with considerable pride in his explication of the allegories he produced for the Crown, with this image as the culmination of his work.83 He sits before a canvas with a chalk in hand, poised to begin work. To either side of him stand Pictura and Inventio (Painting and Invention). The former offers a palette and brushes, the latter a note with the command to paint the majesty’s immortal fame. A putto with a mask and a gold chain hovers above. The figure, Ehrenstrahl tells us, represents love of painting. As a mask can present any visage, so can a painter present any form. The chain, with its strength drawn from many smaller links, represents the elements of painting—invention, color, composition, affect, and so on—which must be mastered to produce quality work. All of this is personalized still further in a note on the back of the canvas explaining

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that “in 1691 [the/his] Royal Majesty’s court steward David Klöcker Ehrenstrahl made this painting, in his sixty-second year, with which he wished to show how, out of love for painting, he seeks with his inventions the immortal fame of the high lord.” Tessin’s petition and Ehrenstrahl’s description of his self-portrait both emphasize knowledge and technical mastery. This was the basis for their elevations. They were part of a larger group of professionals—largely secretaries and civil servants—ennobled by the king in these years for exceptional service to the state. Art was now understood as a skilled profession and a fundamental part of the apparatus of government, reflecting perfectly the approach taken by Tessin and Ehrenstrahl. Ehrenstrahl’s elevations were conferred by Carl XI. The celebratory selfportrait hung in Drottningholm, however, as did most of the images presented in his book. It was almost certainly painted for Hedwig Eleonora, and it can thus be understood as a token of appreciation for the queen, either for her support throughout his career or perhaps more specifically for his new status, if he regarded this as a result of her interventions. The documentation surrounding Tessin’s professional transformation and ennoblement also hints subtly but clearly at Hedwig Eleonora’s involvement. Hedwig Eleonora’s significance has also left a trace in Sandrart’s Teutsche Academie, which includes biographies of a number of artists active in Sweden. Many of these worked for Christina. Of those active after her abdication, only Tessin, Ehrenstrahl, and Millich are present. All are praised extravagantly, but each biography gives special attention to the dowager queen.84 Millich’s biography states clearly that he came to Sweden to work for her—reflecting reality much more closely than does his contract to work for the royal court—and describes only the statues in Drottningholm. That palace and Strömsholm, which are described as the queen’s projects, are the primary buildings mentioned in Tessin’s biography, and Ehrenstrahl’s speaks of the strong reception he received from the king (then five years old) and his mother when he returned to Stockholm in 1661. Ehrenstrahl provided Sandrart’s information for these biographies.85 He was perhaps careful to curry favor with the queen, who would likely peruse the work. Nonetheless, to a reader attentive to the arts at the Swedish court, Christina and then Hedwig Eleonora stand out as the essential patrons, and Millich, Tessin, and Ehrenstrahl are clearly identified with the latter. Others associated more closely with De la Gardie or other nobles are omitted entirely. More significantly, Ehrenstrahl and the Tessins embodied the professional and social developments that Sandrart hoped to foster. Enabled and encouraged by Hedwig Eleonora, they were pioneers in the professionalization of the arts in northern Europe.

chap ter s ev e n

Absolutism

In the 1660s and 1670s the most ambitious projects in Sweden were undertaken by Hedwig Eleonora, Magnus Gabriel de la Gardie, and Carl Gustaf Wrangel, rather than the Crown. As all three of these outsize personalities were members of the regency that ruled from 1660 to 1672, they represented the royal house’s interests as well, but they focused on their private commissions. Drottningholm (see figs. 45–50) was the standout project in these years. Perhaps the second most important project was Wrangel’s city residence (see fig. 39), which visitors often considered the most impressive building in Stockholm. It is telling that when the royal palace burned in 1697, the court moved first to De la Gardie’s Karlberg Palace and then to Wrangel’s city residence while Tessin the Younger’s massive new palace was built. With the kingdom’s transformation into an absolute monarchy in the 1680s, the Crown asserted itself as the dominant patron. Although all of the arts were called into the service of the absolute ruler, architecture took on a greater importance in Sweden, as it did in many courts around 1700. Tessin the Younger (1654–1728) became an impresario of the arts, while David Klöcker Ehrenstrahl’s successor as court painter, David von Krafft, took a reduced share of the responsibility for royal representation.1

The Absolute Artist: Nicodemus Tessin the Younger Both Gustaf II Adolf and Christina gave land in lieu of payment and as a reward for outstanding service. Christina in particular gave land to favorites as well. One goal of these donations was to transform much of the Crown’s income from the goods produced on estates into cash extracted from the owners in the form of

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taxes. This approach also enhanced Stockholm as a representative residence city, for individual plots were given to those with the means to build impressive residences on them. Wrangel, for instance, built his palace on a site received from Christina. In practice, these donations were disastrous for the state’s finances, transferring substantial landholdings from the Crown to the high nobility without generating the anticipated income. Already in 1655 Carl X Gustaf forced the magnates to choose either regular payments to the Crown or a partial reclamation of the estates. This action was delayed by the regency governing from 1660, for the kingdom was administered by those elites who profited most from the donations. Carl XI (personal rule 1672–97) moved aggressively to reclaim the alienated estates after taking control of the state. After 1680 the king was not only solvent, he had also hobbled the upper nobility. Although fundamentally bound to the reclamation of estates, this move toward centralization went beyond solvency and economic power. In 1682 Carl obtained formal recognition of a sole right to legislate and interpret law as an absolute monarch.2 In this, he was about two decades behind his Danish counterpart, Frederik III, who initiated absolute rule following the disaster of the Swedish invasion of 1658–59. After 1680 the Swedish Crown took a comparably absolute approach to cultural production. Two related episodes encapsulate this transformation. The first is the reconstruction of the royal palace. After many years of embarrassment about the state of the old palace, Tessin the Younger in 1692 received approval to rebuild the north wing. This became a lifelong project to rebuild the whole palace, after a fire in May 1697 destroyed both the new wing and the earlier structure. The second is the creation of a new office to oversee the palace works and the Crown’s patronage more generally. In the summer of 1697, as planning for the new palace was under way, Tessin was named superintendent of the arts in the kingdom. This position was modeled after the French Surintendance des bâtiments du Roi, held from 1664 by Louis XIV’s first minister, Jean-Baptiste Colbert, as France likewise moved toward absolutism and the arts came under stricter state control. Tessin admired the structure established by Louis and Colbert, and he helped shape the Swedish variant of it. Indeed, his control of the arts surpassed that of his French colleagues, for he simultaneously filled the roles of Colbert, the painter Charles Le Brun, the architect Jules Hardouin-Mansart, the gardener André Le Nôtre, and others.3 A generation earlier, a group of capable architects, painters, and sculptors had competed with each other for commissions. Now virtually all aspects of artistic production in Sweden fell under Tessin, an absolute architect and representative of the Crown’s interests. Tessin was groomed for this role. His early work with his father was complemented by studies in Rome, Paris, and elsewhere in 1673–77, 1677–80, and 1687–88. His court position gave him access to Gianlorenzo Bernini, Carlo Fontana, Hardouin-Mansart, and Le Nôtre, among others. With this came insight into the workshop operations of many of the standout masters of the later

seventeenth century. On his return to Stockholm, he was among the best-trained architects in northern Europe, but it was clear that things were changing and that there would be few commissions from the nobility. Unlike his father, who held a court position but drew much of his income from aristocratic clients, Tessin the Younger dedicated himself to a career of absolute service to the monarch, of which architecture would be only one manifestation. Tessin wrote about the kinds of honors that a faithful and talented artist could acquire. Rehearsing a series of clichés from the literature of art, he recalled the story of Titian dropping his paintbrush in the presence of Charles V and the emperor stooping to retrieve it for him. He recounted the legend of Leonardo da Vinci dying in François I’s arms. He ended with Peter Paul Rubens negotiating peace between England and Spain and being rewarded with ennoblement by Charles I of England.4 Each of these stories presents a painter ennobled through outstanding service to a powerful monarch, and it is clear that royal validation was central to Tessin’s conception of professional and artistic success. Tessin’s industry and loyalty became a self-reinforcing cycle, bringing him ever-higher honors and titles: baron, count, chancellor of the University of Lund, royal councilor, and, from 1716, the highest office in the kingdom, marshal of the realm. The portrait of him made near the end of his life shows him as a statesman, with no indication of his work as an architect aside from the rather generic architectural background commonly used for sitters of all kinds (color plate 11). Even as the frailty of the Swedish imperial position became evident after the crushing defeat at Poltava in 1709, his support of the king never wavered.5

Ambition and Representation: The Stockholm Royal Palace

Absolutism

Tessin gave visible form to the ideology of the absolute monarch. As was typical in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, he not only built and furnished palaces and churches, he also designed spectacles for weddings, coronations, and triumphs in battle or gave a church or a city an appropriately mournful appearance for funerals. A generation earlier, these responsibilities had been divided among Tessin the Elder, Ehrenstrahl, and others. All now fell to Tessin, the superintendent.6 It was, however, the royal palace that became the primary focus of Tessin’s work. In spite of various plans to renovate or rebuild in the second half of the seventeenth century, the palace for which Tessin inherited responsibility was a jumbled amalgam of wings built at various times from the Middle Ages on. These wings were typically built to provide a particular function—to house a new suite of offices or a new apartment—with little thought given to an overall aesthetic or functional logic.7 Tessin’s first intervention in this structure was a reconstructed north wing, built between 1692 and 1694, which housed a chapel on the ground floor and apartments above. This wing constituted the latest addition to the existing palace, a continuation of a long-running tradition. However, the architect had already

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Figure 51 | Nicodemus Tessin the Younger, royal palace, Stockholm, from 1697. Photo: author.

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conceived a more comprehensive renovation, and positioned himself and the project carefully to appeal to the king without seeming too ambitious.8 Historians have usually read the situation through Tessin’s eyes, sharing the architect’s dismissive view of the old palace and ambitions for the new one. They have consequently tended to see Carl XI as a foil, a somewhat reluctant partner too cautious or frugal to accept unconditionally the proposals of his well-trained architect. In part, this reflects a heroic image of Tessin in the older literature. It is also encouraged by the sources, since the architect’s drawings and written notes, memos, and letters provide a remarkably full record of his views. The king’s views are known only through official actions and occasional recorded comments. Rather than proceed cautiously out of frugality, however, perhaps he considered the new wing a natural elaboration of the palace, the latest in a series of additions. Moreover, the cobbled end result could be seen as an analogue to the residences in Munich and Vienna, whose lack of stylistic and chronological uniformity served as evidence of the long histories of the ruling families. This approach was embraced by the king’s relatives, the Wittelsbach rulers of Bavaria, but it was anathema to Tessin, who scorned the Munich residence.9 Certainly the medieval Three Crowns tower at the heart of the palace had substantial symbolic value as an emblem of the monarch. The name, which was commonly used to refer to the old palace more generally, referred to the three crowns of the royal crest, which thus linked the structure to the monarchy. Tessin wished to destroy it, but the king and others may well have seen substantial symbolic value in it.

Whether through Tessin’s prodding or the king’s initiative, plans were soon in place for a more complete reconstruction of the palace. Any debates on the merits of the old structure were rendered irrelevant on 7 May 1697, when, just weeks after the death of Carl XI, the palace burned, leaving little usable fabric. Drawing heavily on plans he had already developed, the architect soon had a new proposal ready and received approval to proceed. Although the internal structure of the new palace was revised—the chapel was moved from the north wing to the south and paired with the hall of state— the external form was a perfected version of Tessin’s earlier plans (fig. 51). It comprised a large block with a central courtyard. Each façade was conceived more or less independently to work with the views from each direction. The north façade is extended by lower wings to each side. It is a bold geometric form with bronze figures of fame above the portal, which come into view as the visitor approaches by a series of ramps. The east façade, which rises above a garden terrace and is fully visible only from across a substantial inlet, features large, bold forms legible at a distance. The nine central bays are set off with heavy rustication on the ground floor and giant-order Corinthian pilasters against a sandstone background in the upper two stories. The south façade, facing a small square, is enlivened with bronze plaquettes, sculpture niches, and other elements that are effective only when viewed at a close distance. The central five bays are conceived as an elaborate triumphal arch, crowned with trophies and an inscription to Carl XII. To the west, two curving arms frame the elaborate central part of the façade. Rising above a rusticated basement, ten female herms alternate with the second-story windows. The windows above are crowned by relief busts of the monarchs from Gustaf Vasa to Carl XI. Beyond this elaborate central composition, the same stucco and sandstone elements are used throughout.

The French Craftsmen

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Tessin described his general approach to building as employing the Italian tradition for the exterior form and the French for the interior decoration.10 This is fully attested in the Stockholm palace. He routinely compared the design to Roman buildings. He was equally clear about the sources of the interior and its decoration. He described the Gallery of Carl XI (fig. 52)—with the adjoining rooms, the only interiors completed in his lifetime—in direct comparison to Jules Hardouin-Mansart’s gallery at Versailles: “At Stockholm there is a gallery in the palace arranged [ordonée] in the taste of the two preceding [Versailles and St. Cloud]. All the ornaments and compartments there are of gilded stucco, and the figures white. At the two ends one sees on a cloth, which partially covers the cornice, the busts of King Carl XI and of Queen Ulrica Eleonora, surrounded by virtues.”11 Both the form and the content—a narrative of the reign of the king—were thus derived from Versailles. Moreover, Tessin’s gallery linked the king’s and the queen’s apartments, forming a spatial ensemble like that at Versailles. Although he was unable to convince the king to place the gallery and

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Figure 52 | Nicodemus

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Tessin the Younger, Gallery of Carl XI, royal palace, Stockholm, begun 1697. © Royal Court, Sweden. Photo: Alexis Daflos.

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the representative apartments on the first floor, the true piano nobile, rather than the second floor, following local custom, he evidently had broad power to choose a stylistic orientation.12 Tessin went one step further and brought in skilled craftsmen from Paris and Versailles to execute the work. Hedwig Eleonora was the first to do so when she used diplomatic channels to contact André Le Nôtre and bring French gardeners to Drottningholm in the 1680s. Tessin now hired a team, with specialists in sculpture, ornamental sculpture, casting, figural and decorative painting, and more. These were not the Huguenots expelled from France after 1685, who found work in many Protestant lands. Tessin specifically requested men who had worked in the king’s apartment at Versailles, guaranteeing both quality and prestige. Moreover, these men had experience within the Bâtiments du Roi and would thus would work well within the new organizational scheme based on the French model and headed by Tessin. The French Crown was reluctant to allow them to leave the kingdom. Although they were largely idle because of Louis XIV’s wars, Daniel Cronström, the Swedish resident at Versailles, went to

Figure 53 | Jacques Foucquet, equestrian monument of Carl XI of Sweden, 1699. © Royal Court, Sweden. Photo: Sven Nilsson.

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great lengths to negotiate permission for each to leave for a fixed period, which was granted largely as a diplomatic gesture of goodwill. They came and went at different times, but for two decades these men produced a series of refined sculptures and interiors, both in the royal palace and in Tessin’s private residence.13 Perhaps the most ambitious project undertaken by the French team was an equestrian monument of Carl XI, modeled by Jacques Foucquet, for the courtyard of the palace (fig. 53).14 This was a conscious emulation of the statues of Louis XIV produced by François Girardon (1628–1715). In 1687 Tessin had visited the Place Vendôme in Paris with Girardon and examined a large model for the Louis XIV statue. Tessin also saw a wax model in Girardon’s studio and described it very precisely in his notes.15 Cronström and Tessin consulted Girardon and Antoine Coysevox in recruiting the craftsmen for Sweden, and one, René Chauveau, had studied with Girardon, and another, François Aubry, had assisted

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in the casting of one of his royal monuments.16 Although there was a long tradition of equestrian ruler portraits, all of which can be traced in some form to the ancient statue of Marcus Aurelius on the Capitoline Hill in Rome, Tessin conceived the statue of Carl XI in relation to Girardon’s. The French craftsmen working in Stockholm in the decades around 1700 represent a substantial shift in practice at the Swedish court. After the introduction of absolutism, positions as court painters and sculptors no longer went to those who distinguished themselves in work for the aristocracy, for those patrons could no longer afford to undertake substantial projects. In practice, most of these had been German and Netherlandish because of long-standing dynastic, cultural, and confessional ties. The case of the sculptor Balthasar Permoser (1651–1732) is illuminating, for it shows the declining opportunities available in Sweden even for outstanding talents from the German lands. Permoser, from Bavaria, worked in Rome and Florence from 1674/75. In 1690 he accepted a post in Dresden, but two years later he turned up in Stockholm, where he produced ephemeral decorations for the funeral of Queen Ulrica Eleonora.17 We do not know if he hoped to remain in Stockholm, but he was never likely to receive a permanent post with the court, because he did not match Tessin’s ideals. Although the king had firm ideas about aspects of the palace design, Tessin was free to pursue Frenchmen on behalf of the Crown. He turned to Versailles for outstanding craftsmen trained in precisely the sort of milieu that he wished to create in Stockholm. Although Tessin seems to have understood this primarily as an aesthetic choice, it was no coincidence that he recruited masters who had proved themselves in the representation of an absolute monarch.

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Although it would take decades to complete, the palace was the centerpiece of Tessin’s vision for a new royal capital.18 This larger urban plan was elaborated in the following years (fig. 54). Already in planning the north wing of the palace in the early 1690s, Tessin proposed a new square across the water, which Carl XI accepted. In 1708 he designed a massive dynastic church for the north side of the square, facing the palace (fig. 55), with a new bridge creating an axis between the two structures. Four new officials’ residences would frame the square to the east and west. A year earlier, in 1707, he had conceived an enormous new arsenal/trophy house on the water to the east of the church, with equestrian statues of Gustaf II Adolf and the three Caroline kings standing before it. In 1712 he proposed razing the stables that he had built in the 1690s and replacing them with a grander structure. With these major new projects came plans to give the medieval church next to the palace a modern exterior, to build a separate house for the chancery and appeals court, and to effect various other changes in the administrative center of Stockholm. The heart of the city was to shift north, organized around an urban plan defined by a group of buildings on a scale larger than anything else in the city.

Figure 54 | Nicodemus Tessin the Younger, plan for the reconstruction of Stockholm, ca. 1712. Photo: Riksarkivet—the Swedish National Archives, Stockholm / Kurt Eriksson.

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In one respect, Tessin’s plan seems to have responded very specifically to the fall of the high nobility within the kingdom. Around 1650 Axel Oxenstierna had begun an enormous new residence just to the west of the royal palace. Only a small part of it was built before his death, in 1654, but it was nonetheless prominent. Had it been completed, it would have been the most modern and grand in the city at midcentury. The contrast with the royal palace would have been stark, for it stood directly opposite the main entrance and would have framed every ceremonial procession and ambassadorial visit. Moreover, Oxenstierna was an outspoken champion of the nobility, which was now a virtually heretical cause.19 Tessin proposed to work Oxenstierna’s palace into the larger royal complex as the basis for a new appeals court, making use of the fabric but visually erasing it from the cityscape. The arsenal would likewise have replaced the older De la Gardie residence, familiarly called Makalös (Nonesuch), itself a provocative name for a private residence facing the royal palace. Tessin doubtless disliked the outdated palace, but its replacement by an unambiguously royal structure promised to appeal to the king. (Although still closely associated with the De la Gardie family, Makalös served as an arsenal following its seizure by the state in the 1680s.) Carl Gustaf Wrangel’s city residence (see fig. 39), the only other comparably

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Figure 55 | Nicodemus Tessin the Younger, project for a Caroline dynastic church for Stockholm, 1708. Photo © Nationalmuseum, Stockholm.

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grand private palace in Stockholm, already served as a temporary royal residence during construction of the new palace and was thus in practice transformed into a royal structure. The Torstensson residence and some others in the immediate vicinity of the palace complex would also have been remade under Tessin’s plan, but these cannot be seen in strictly comparable terms.20 Tessin began his expanded plan for Stockholm in 1707–8. He had time to prepare it because progress on the palace had largely stopped around 1705. In these years, before the disastrous defeat at Poltava in 1709, from which the kingdom would never recover, it seemed possible to believe that peace and renewed financial resources were only a victory away. He continued to develop his ideas, however, and put all of these projects together in a single urban plan around 1712. At this point it must have seemed clear to Tessin, who became privy councilor in the same year and would increasingly take responsibility for the kingdom’s finances, that his ideas would never be built. Could the architect or anyone else have believed that it might be possible to build this project? This question, often asked, does not really get to the heart of its purpose. The palace, the heart of the project, was built, as was an earlier incarnation of the stables. Even a reduced version of the larger urban scheme was ambitious, however, and could hardly have been plausible even before 1705. What, then, did Tessin hope to achieve with the great effort that he put into these drawings? In 1703–6 Tessin had proposed to Carl XII to present the French court with a project for the completion of the Louvre.21 This had been the great architectural project of the 1660s, and Gianlorenzo Bernini had come to Paris from Rome to complete the east wing. Although they were not executed, Bernini’s plans were a major point of reference for Tessin, who brought the Italian master’s drawings for the Louvre home to Stockholm. Four decades later, Tessin could hardly have thought that his project for the Louvre was likely to be built, both because it came so late, long after the court had moved to Versailles, and because it required even more reconstruction and expense than Bernini’s expansive plans.22 Rather, Tessin thought of the Louvre project as a way to reaffirm Sweden’s friendship with France, at a moment when a formal alliance was politically impossible, and simultaneously to present a major project to a king and group of artists whom he admired. These goals seem to have been understood at Versailles, where the model and drawings were shown. The responses were polite, but there was no discussion of building it.23 Similar goals seem to have been in play with the plans for Stockholm. All of Tessin’s ideas were presented through correspondence with the absent king. Particularly in the years 1709–13, when Carl XII was effectively captive in the Ottoman city of Bender (now Tighina, in Moldova), a series of letters between Tessin and Casten Feif, the head of the chancery, who accompanied the king, reveal a rather different urgency to the project. Feif wrote that “His Majesty takes great pleasure in buildings, and the Court Marshal [Tessin] cannot give His Majesty greater pleasure than if he sends drawings now and then of that which has been built in Stockholm since His Majesty’s departure.” Some months later he

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reminded Tessin that he “could best preserve His Majesty’s favor by trying to give him pleasure in every way.” In a difficult time, the projects for Stockholm seem to have provided the king a great deal of diversion: “I [Feif ] torment Your Excellence [Tessin] so much with my building correspondence that Your Excellence will tire of it. But if I am to calm His Majesty, so it must be. His Majesty likes it a great deal and reads your letters himself . . . and I think that a lord cannot have a healthier pleasure.”24 The correspondence also reveals that the king daily examined the images of the palace sent by Tessin. Feif transmitted the king’s comments and critiques of various projects. These do not give the impression of an aesthetically astute man so much as a ruler who saw building as one of his duties and prerogatives and had a particular love of horses.25 He was especially interested in the stables—Feif wrote several times that the king had so far looked only at those plans—and to a lesser degree the arsenal. Both Tessin and Feif understood the architectural plans to be crucial in maintaining the ruler’s good humor and his favor. Certainly they provided a way for Tessin to remain in his consciousness. Whether directly related or not, the correspondence coincided with a spectacular advancement in Tessin’s nonarchitectural career. This was not dependent solely on the king’s favor. Tessin understood that Feif had particular influence with him and that these drawings also provided Feif with an invaluable aid in maintaining the king’s spirits. He noted in 1712 that Feif had done more in a year to promote him than his predecessor had done in all.26 Indeed, in that year Tessin was made privy councilor. Two years later he was made a count, and in 1717 marshal of the realm. The following year the king named him supreme prefect, which would have put him above the judiciary and regional governments in his duty to ensure total compliance with new austerity measures, but the position was never realized.27 Even as the crown lost the ability to build on a grand scale, then, Tessin’s projects helped advance his political career as one of the king’s most trusted men.

The Absolute Image in Scandinavia and Beyond The work involved in Tessin’s ideal plan for Stockholm was justified by a second consideration. The architect carefully generated awareness of it elsewhere, first with a 1695 print made in Paris by Sébastien Le Clerc of the new north wing of the palace. This plate was later incorporated into a larger suite of prints presenting his expanded vision for a new center of Stockholm.28 Both of these publications were conceived expressly as presentation pieces for foreign courts; Carl XI paid for Le Clerc’s engraving and set aside one hundred impressions to send to Italy, two hundred each for France and Germany, and three hundred for himself to distribute as gifts in various contexts.29 These prints were soon complemented in this role by Suecia Antiqua et Hodierna, a topographical survey of the kingdom finished in 1715, although many of the images circulated earlier. The survey’s exterior view of the north wing is a reduced variant of Le Clerc’s enormous plate, now available to a broader audience. Tessin’s promotional efforts encouraged rec-

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ognition of the Stockholm palace as one of the outstanding buildings in northern Europe around 1700. An enthusiastic review of it, illustrated with a large-format copy of the view from Suecia Antiqua, was published in Theatrum Europaeum, a running chronicle of European events.30 These court-sponsored publications and the copies derived from them placed images of the palace and the urban plan in the hands of princes and builders around the empire and beyond. This gave the architect a substantial reputation, and the palace soon became one point of reference for a number of new projects elsewhere. It was not unusual for architects to present their works directly to princes through similar means. Tessin the Elder had had his son present the drawings for Drottningholm to various rulers (and perhaps others) he met in the course of his travels.31 More remarkably, the mature Tessin the Younger presented elaborate projects to the French court. His counterpart at the imperial court, Johann Bernhard Fischer von Erlach (1656–1723), sent prints of his designs for Schönbrunn Palace, near Vienna, to Berlin and elsewhere. One of the recipients of these may have been Tessin, who owned an impression of the print in 1718.32 In the course of a 1704 visit to Berlin, Fischer presented King Friedrich I with a drawing for an enormous country residence in or near the city, which was never built. More generally, the publication of major projects, already familiar in the sixteenth century, became fairly routine by the eighteenth century and cumulatively constitutes an enormous corpus of built and unbuilt architecture traceable in the libraries of princes and their artists.33 Peer courts stayed abreast of developments elsewhere through these publications and other channels. Diplomats, received in palaces, described them for their employers. It was through these means that the Danish king Christian V (r. 1670–99) asked Tessin in 1693 about the north wing of the Stockholm palace, then under construction, and requested plans for a palace for Copenhagen.34 The immediate incentive for the project was a fire in Amalienborg Palace in 1689. After some years of inaction on a design proposed by the Danish court architect, Lambert van Haven, Tessin was engaged instead. After presentation of the drawings in Copenhagen in the summer of 1694, the project was approved. Contrary to Christian’s express command that the plans not be published, Tessin had the drawings engraved so that his design could be appreciated and critiqued elsewhere.35 These prints are quite rare, however, and may have been published in a strictly limited edition that the architect sent to a select group of colleagues. Although the concept is substantially different, the Amalienborg project shares many elements with the Stockholm palace, which Tessin developed simultaneously (fig. 56). Indeed, the two projects were in dialogue with one another. Amalienborg employs three full wings, more or less comparable to those he would design for Stockholm after the 1697 fire. A low fourth wing is capped with figures and urns and encloses a courtyard. The full wings are substantially richer than those of the north façade of the Stockholm residence, the only point of comparison in the early stages of the Copenhagen project. The main façade for Amalienborg demarcates nine central bays with giant-order pilasters, using

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Figure 56 | Nicodemus Tessin the Younger, project for Amalienborg Palace, Copenhagen, 1694. Photo © Nationalmuseum, Stockholm. Because the façade was to be symmetrical, Tessin drew only the left half.

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a solution similar to Bernini’s for the Chigi palace in Rome, an arrangement that would reappear in different form on the east wing of the Stockholm palace. Likewise, the chapel and theater take similar forms and positions in Stockholm and Copenhagen. Although Christian V seems to have been committed to the project, Amalienborg was never built. Practical problems brought delays, and the king died in the summer of 1699. His successor, Frederik IV, soon invaded Sweden, making impossible the required cooperation between the two courts. It is possible that another consideration motivated the commission for Amalienborg, which was disrupted by renewed war. The initial inquiry about Tessin’s renovations to the Stockholm palace was mediated by the Danish ambassador, Jens Juel, who was seeking a treaty of neutrality with Sweden. It came only weeks after the death of Christian’s sister Ulrica Eleonora, who had been married to Carl XI in an explicit effort to maintain peace between the two kingdoms. There would soon be efforts to create a new alliance through marriage, which would fail. Although the evidence is largely contextual, it is possible that the Amalienborg project was above all an effort to maintain dialogue and friendly relations

between the Danish and Swedish courts, with the added benefit of a new palace for Copenhagen.36 The contingent nature of the effort might explain Christian’s reticence to allow publication of the plans, for it could have failed at any time with a shift in political winds. The degree to which Tessin understood this aspect of the project is unclear, but it would have established a clear basis for his later investment in essentially diplomatic architectural projects for the French court and in his own relations with the absent Carl XII. The royal image around 1700 required more than a new palace. Elsewhere in Copenhagen, Abraham-César Lamoureux (ca. 1640–1692) from Metz installed a monumental equestrian statue of Christian V (fig. 57).37 Despite his French background (Metz was controlled by the French king from the sixteenth century), Lamoureux was not an analogue to Foucquet, brought from Paris to create a close variant of Girardon’s statues of Louis XIV. He began work on the statue around 1682, before Girardon’s was unveiled, and it is substantially different. The king wears a helmet, and the four figures seated at corners of the tall base are Virtues rather than chained slaves. (A drawing suggests that bound captives were initially planned, however.) The horse tramples the outstretched figure of Envy. Particularly in the latter respect, it is more precisely comparable to a project simultaneously under way for Friedrich Wilhelm, the Great Elector of Brandenburg, in

Figure 57 | Abraham-César Lamoureux, equestrian monument of Christian V of Denmark, 1682–88. Photo: Museum of Copenhagen.

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which the horse was to trample the prostrate figures of War and Unrest. On the corners of the base, the four winds would spread the elector’s fame, and below them would be the four cardinal virtues. This is known only through a wax model Tessin noted in an Amsterdam workshop in 1687, but the enormous price indicates that it was to be a large-scale monument.38 A figurine of the Great Elector made around 1680 by Gottfried Leygebe shows similar motifs, with the rider dressed in Roman costume, trampling a chimera with the heads of an eagle, a lion, and a goat. Like Lamoureux’s figure of Christian V, he wears a helmet encircled by a laurel wreath.39 The similarities of these three equestrian figures need not imply that they were directly related. Nonetheless, they point to broader relationships among the princes and their artists. Lamoureux was related by marriage to a family of artists descendant from François Dieussart, who had worked for the courts in London, Copenhagen, Berlin, and other parts of northern Europe in the middle of the seventeenth century and whose heirs continued to work in northern Germany and Scandinavia. But whereas Dieussart came to Copenhagen from London, where he had been the main sculptor working alongside Anthony van Dyck and Inigo Jones, Lamoureux now went to Denmark on the strength of his work for Magnus Gabriel de la Gardie and, perhaps most of all, Hedwig Eleonora.40 These major projects could have an effect even before they were built. Christian V approached Tessin on the basis of the unfinished north wing of the Stockholm palace. Likewise, the model for the Copenhagen palace was enough to spur the young Swedish king, Carl XII, to best it in the postfire reconstruction. Tessin must have been thrilled when Carl said that the new Stockholm palace “should not in any way stand behind the Danish [palace] in magnificence.”41 This competitive awareness of artistic activities at peer courts was typical of the age and went well beyond the traditional rivalry of Denmark and Sweden. Other major princes, and especially those in the German lands, watched developments in Copenhagen and Stockholm closely. Stockholm was of particular relevance, as the Danish kings imported aspects of their royal imagery from Sweden at this point; Copenhagen was of greater interest for its ceremony and ritual. Around 1700 a fever among the German princes for royal titles fueled the keen interest in the Scandinavian courts. The princes were barred from royal titles within the Holy Roman Empire, but in these years they discovered that they could take royal titles outside its boundaries. The Scandinavian kings provided a model for this, with ducal titles within the empire and royal titles outside of it. Thus, with the help of generous bribes, Augustus the Strong, elector of Saxony (r. 1694–1733), became King Augustus II of Poland in 1697. Four years later, Elector Friedrich III of Brandenburg (r. 1688–1713) became King Friedrich I in Prussia, and in 1714 the elector of Hannover became King George I of England. Others schemed unsuccessfully for royal titles. Johann Wilhelm of Pfalz dreamed of becoming king of Armenia, but nothing came of it. With the push for royal titles came demand for royal palaces and other trappings appropriate for a king. Friedrich III/I set about building a massive new

palace and remaking Berlin as a royal capital. A few years later Augustus the Strong of Saxony-Poland did the same in Dresden, although little of this was completed. Even Johann Wilhelm had plans drawn up for an enormous new palace in Düsseldorf.42 These new palaces had to be substantially different from the kinds of structures that had served previously, for they represented significant elevations in rank and thus ruptures with local tradition. They also had to be recognizable as royal residences within a broader network of peer courts, which encouraged some conformity in the designs. These concerns raised a series of questions about which sources were appropriate. Versailles is often considered a universal model for the German princes, but in fact very few palaces were derived from it in any direct way. Not only was it conceived and built on a scale unmanageable for nearly all patrons in the empire, it was also in some ways difficult to reconcile with the traditions of the German residence. Versailles was a country palace, with expansive gardens that functioned in tandem with the representative spaces. In contrast, most primary residences in the empire were urban, requiring a different approach to the building and the city around it. Other aspects of Louis XIV’s representation proved more useful. In terms of reception, one of the great successes was the equestrian statue of the king in Roman imperial armor developed by François Girardon around 1685 and placed in the centers of public squares around the kingdom. Jacques Foucquet’s model for a monument in Stockholm was derived from Girardon’s statue (see fig. 53). (Lamoureux’s rather different statue of Christian V predates Girardon’s but serves a similar function [fig. 57].) These were iterations of a long tradition, but around 1700 Girardon provided the most successful version.43 The German princes scheming for royal crowns considered equestrian monuments absolute necessities, and variants were planned or produced for a number of them. In Berlin, the first major project Andreas Schlüter (ca. 1659–1714) took on for Friedrich III/I as court sculptor was an equestrian statue of Friedrich Wilhelm, the Great Elector, the king’s father. It was placed on the Lange Brücke, near the palace, in a position echoing that of an earlier equestrian monument of Henri IV in Paris.44 Others were planned or produced for Dresden, Düsseldorf, Munich, Warsaw, and St. Petersburg, all for aspiring or actual kings.

The Synthetic Royal Image: Stockholm and Berlin

Absolutism

In Berlin, Elector Friedrich III made it very clear that a royal image was nothing less than a justification for a royal title, saying, “If I have all the attributes of kingliness and in greater measure than other kings, why should I not seek to bear the title of king?”45 In a published description of the coronation and accompanying celebrations, his ceremony master, Johann von Besser, justified the claim to a royal crown by enumerating attributes demonstrating that Friedrich had always been a king in stature and grandeur, if not in title. These included the extent

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Figure 58 | Andreas Schlüter and Johann Friedrich Eosander von Göthe, royal palace, Berlin, rebuilt from ca. 1698, destroyed 1950. Photo: private collection.

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of his territories, size of his armies, and the “magnificence and renown of the court.”46 Other princes made similar arguments. A ballet performed for the Dresden court in 1653 proclaimed: “It is right that the Electoral Hat should be elevated to the same level as the crowns, for the Electoral purple is equal in dignity and honour to their [royal] gold. The estate of Elector and King are of equal weight, their praiseworthy status is known throughout the world.”47 For the new title, nearly every aspect of court ceremony in Berlin had to be revised, as it also was in Dresden. This began with the 1701 coronation ceremony. To demonstrate his unsurpassed rank, Friedrich crowned himself in the court chapel in Königsberg. This was the culmination of a series of rituals that contemporary observers identified with those in use in the royal courts in Copenhagen, Stockholm, London, and elsewhere, thus recognizing a composite royal image.48 The centerpiece of royal Berlin was a rebuilt palace (fig. 58). As with the coronation rituals, Friedrich looked about for appropriate models. In 1698 he paid the Saxon court architect Johann Friedrich Karcher twenty-five ducats, evi­dently for his drawings for a royal palace in Warsaw planned for Augustus the Strong.49 More importantly, he approached a number of established architects with the demonstrated ability to conceive and execute a royal palace. Specifically, he seems to have courted Domenico Martinelli, an Italian architect then working in Vienna, and Tessin the Younger. Martinelli declined on religious grounds, saying he had no desire to work among heretics.50 The situation with Tessin is less clear. In the 1690s he was

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consulted on the construction of Lietzenburg (later Charlottenburg) Palace, near Berlin, and in May 1697 Friedrich’s council resolved that “the famous architect from Sweden should be contacted about speaking with his electoral highness.”51 This complements a note in a letter by Tessin regarding some unexplained journey to Berlin early in 1698 for a project that would require his presence there.52 In the end, he was almost certainly not involved in the design of the Berlin palace. The day after the Berlin council discussed Tessin, the old palace in Stockholm burned. The construction of a new palace on its ashes became the focus of the architect’s career and made it very difficult to draw him elsewhere. The prince settled instead on his sculptor, Andreas Schlüter, followed in 1707 by Johann Friedrich Eosander von Göthe (1669–1729).53 Friedrich’s recruiting strategies are telling, for although he showed awareness of developments at Versailles and Rome, he does not seem to have privileged them over other places. Indeed, unlike other German princes, Friedrich supported few lengthy study trips to those centers for those who worked for him. The main exception is Christian Eltester, who worked in Rome in the circle of Mattia de’ Rossi in the 1690s and later visited Paris and London. However, Eltester died before he could produce substantial works for the court. Friedrich also sent Schlüter to Rome in 1696. He was to procure casts of antiques from the Vatican collections for the new academy in Berlin, and he remained in the city a relatively short time.54 Since this came before his appointment as palace architect, any architectural study was from personal interest. Eosander, who succeeded Schlüter in the post, was well traveled in northern Europe but never went to Rome. Rather than prioritize regional traditions employed in France and Italy, Friedrich seems to have privileged a royal provenance for the artists he employed and the designs they produced.55 Antoine Pesne, hired as court painter in 1710, brought a distinguished background both in the academy in Paris and with his uncle, Charles de la Fosse, who had played a key role in the decoration of Versailles.56 Schlüter, Pesne’s counterpart in sculpture, had worked for the Polish court, and little distinction seems to have been made between these two royal backgrounds. Indeed, Schlüter was far more central to the new king’s royal presentation than was Pesne, who arrived in Berlin only three years before Friedrich’s death. Likewise, the architect Jean de Bodt studied in the Parisian academy, but it may have been at least as important to Friedrich that he had been successful in London and prepared designs for Whitehall Palace, which he valued highly and brought to Berlin.57 Although these men brought backgrounds from an array of royal courts, much of the literature on the palace built for Friedrich by Schlüter and Eo­san­ der focuses on the perceived Roman characteristics of the building—its blocky form and heavy, rich articulation—and the practical means through which such a design was possible in Berlin around 1700. However, the Roman qualities are belied by some fundamental elements that are foreign to Roman building. Specifically, the triumphal arch incorporated by Eosander in the west façade is not

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traditional. Although some early modern Roman palaces have portals that approximate triumphal arches in the most general terms, they are much more subdued and limited to the space immediately around the door. Eosander’s encompassed most of the façade and was to be accentuated with a tall tower, which was a preoccupation for Friedrich. The Three Crowns tower in the older Stockholm palace and the towers that are so prominent in Christian IV’s showpieces suggest that towers were privileged as royal markers. Christian V requested a tower for Amalienborg, but Tessin, a more determined Romanist than almost any other northern architect, argued that no Italian palace would incorporate one.58 The 1697 fire that destroyed the Three Crowns tower at the heart of the Stockholm castle may have obviated a debate with the king about retaining it. A subtler characteristic is still more important in both the Stockholm and Berlin palaces. They were built for absolute monarchs. The canonical Roman residences were built for lower-ranking princely families and cardinals (although the grandest projects were often taken on by the family of the reigning pope). Although many hold prominent sites on squares and even define the urban logic of various neighborhoods, none dominates an entire city, or at least the heart of it, in the way expected of a palace for an absolute king.59 Even the papal palaces do not meet this standard. The Vatican and Lateran Palaces are outside the center of Rome, in locations defined by the adjacent Constantinian basilicas. The Quirinal Palace, developed from an earlier villa into a summer residence, at the end of the seventeenth century still had some aspects of a suburban residence, with a site between the dense urban center and fields to the east. Tessin’s design exploits the elevated site to create a palace that dominates its surroundings. The architect was extremely conscious of the views from the palace, frequently commenting on them in his notes and letters to Carl XII. More importantly, he was very aware of the views of the palace and exploited them to royal advantage. Where possible, he created distance between the palace and the urban fabric of the city to keep the structure separate and visually prominent. On two sides of the palace, water separates the building from any viewing point, creating a more continuous space around it than was possible with any structure in the urban core of Rome, and new avenues leading to the palace at angles create a dynamic approach that enhances the view. The new square opposite the north wing, framing the full expanse of the façade, would be connected to the palace by a bridge built on flattened arches to maintain as low a profile as possible, making the palace loom more imperiously over approaching visitors.60 The site of the palace in Berlin was less dramatic, but it was nonetheless set off by the river and the gardens and formed the endpoint of the boulevard Unter den Linden. A project for a new palace in Dresden, undertaken in earnest from 1711 by the architect Matthäus Daniel Pöppelmann (1662–1736), was likewise to be built on a much larger scale than other elite residences in the city (fig. 59). Occupying an elevated site at a bend in the Elbe, it, too, was to form an expansive complex, with a massive square block at its heart. The only part to be realized was the Zwinger, a large enclosed space to house the festivals for which the court was famous.61 Although some of these elements of architecture and urban planning

Figure 59 | Matthäus Daniel Pöppelmann, unbuilt project for a royal palace for Dresden, ca. 1710. Photo: SLUB Dresden / Deutsche Fotothek / Regine Richter.

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are comparable to elements particularly associated with Rome, the effect, better suited to a dynastic absolute monarchy, was rather different. Friedrich III/I approached the creation of a new royal court and residence city as an assemblage of royal elements. In a context in which a royal provenance for the motifs (and also for the artists) outweighed all other concerns, the Scandinavian monarchies were highly regarded, and their palaces and other monuments were seen as important constituents of a larger group of royal models. Thus, for instance, the hovering angels holding a large crown in the royal loggia of the chapel of the Lietzenburg/Charlottenburg Palace, designed by Eosander, are derived in part from two royal pews in the Stockholm cathedral designed by Tessin (figs. 60–61). The general form of the chapel bears a conspicuous similarity to the uppermost level of Tessin the Elder’s staircase at Drottningholm (see fig. 47), turned laterally and enclosed. In each, short three-bay arcades form the long walls. At Drottningholm, these are turned into a variant of linked Serlianas, giving maximal space and light in linking the staircase to the upper vestibule. The short walls are likewise divided into three, each with a larger central space framed by two smaller, lower ones. At Drottningholm, these central panels offer trompe l’oeil murals—themselves evidently derived from the Ambassadors’

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Figure 60 | Johann Friedrich Eosander von Göthe, royal loggia, chapel, Charlottenburg Palace, Berlin, begun 1704. Photo: Alain Janssoone, www.all-free-photos.com.

Figure 61 | Nicodemus Tessin the Younger, royal pews, St. Nicholas’s, Stockholm, 1684. Photo: author.

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Staircase at Versailles62—framed by door-like niches holding statues of muses. In Berlin, the trompe l’oeil murals are moved to the blind arcades on the right side. The niches become faux doorways framing the altar, and, at the rear of the chapel, openings to the royal pew crowned by the figures derived from Tessin’s royal pews. Above, in the coved Swedish vaults, a cloudburst of figures breaks through the ornamented ceiling. In Berlin, these are biblical rather than the allegorical ones at Drottningholm.63 An unusually large rectangular lantern crowns both spaces. Likewise, Eosander’s preparations for the funerals of Queen Sophie Charlotte in 1705 and of Friedrich in 1713 reflect those Tessin devised for Queen Ulrica Eleonora in 1693 and Carl XI in 1697. Eosander worked in Sweden around the time of the 1693 funeral, and if he did not see the temporary transformation of Riddarholm church in Stockholm, he certainly knew the prints Tessin had engraved in Paris.64 Although the general character of these projects can be traced to Bernini’s theatrical works in Rome that Tessin knew so well, their essential quality in this context is the presentation of the king. These strategies to develop a royal image extended beyond the visual arts. In 1688, after some years of negotiation, Samuel von Pufendorf moved from Stockholm to Berlin to take a position as court historiographer.65 (He remained simultaneously in the service of the Swedish king.) He had undertaken a range of work in Sweden, including much of the legal theory that made him one of the great thinkers of the seventeenth century. Although Friedrich Wilhelm initiated Pufendorf’s move to Berlin, he died soon after the polymath’s arrival. His principal project for Friedrich III/I was a history of the Great Elector modeled directly

on his history of Carl X Gustaf of Sweden.66 Although confessional issues were likely prohibitive, there was also a proposal to bring Pufendorf to Vienna to serve as the Habsburg court historian.67 In this post he would doubtless have produced imperial biographies comparable to those of Carl Gustaf and Friedrich Wilhelm. The remaking of these cities as royal capitals shows not just the competitive aspect of the rivalry among these courts, but also the collaborative. Formal permission was required—and given—for Tessin to work for the Danish court. He was also consulted on the design of Lietzenburg/Charlottenburg Palace and was likely considered for a larger role in the reconstruction of the Berlin palace. Friedrich III/I looked to other peer courts as well, as is demonstrated by his acquisition of Karcher’s drawings for a palace for Augustus the Strong in Warsaw. Some years later, in the course of planning a new palace after a 1703 fire in the Dresden palace, Augustus similarly procured Schlüter’s plans for the Berlin palace.68 In addition, he purchased Fürstlicher Baumeister (Princely building master, 1711–16), a comprehensive presentation of an ideal royal palace. It was produced by Paul Decker, who had worked in Schlüter’s workshop and used this experience as a basis for his designs.69 Accordingly, it has long been noted that various schemes for Dresden clearly look back to the Berlin palace.70 The emergence in Dresden of an extremely rare engraving of Tessin’s project for Amalienborg suggests that Augustus and his architects were likewise very much aware of royal architecture in Sweden and Denmark.71 Many of these negotiations required formal or informal cooperation among the courts. This group could be expanded. For instance, Louis Remy de la Fosse appears to have adopted aspects of Tessin’s palace design—specifically, the idiosyncratic use of mezzanine windows—for the residence in Darmstadt, where he was engaged in 1715–26.72 In this mundane example, the Stockholm palace served as a model, much as individual architectural details by Roman architects left traces far afield. It is, however, a much lower order of dialogue than that found among the great courts pursuing an absolutist image. In this collaborative formulation of a royal image in Central Europe, no linear trajectory of influence can be traced. Each court was aware of the others’ representations and was content to adopt appropriate elements. If Tessin played an especially large role in this dialogue around 1700, it was because he and the other court artists in Sweden had, over the course of half a century or more, developed a representative image for a northern European royal court, in part through a similar process of assimilation.73 Berlin, Dresden, and other newly royal German courts were required to develop a new milieu very quickly, and naturally looked to their Northern peers for models.

Of all the thriving cultural centers in northern Europe around 1700, one has been conspicuously absent here: Vienna. The imperial capital was sufficiently active to employ three major architects: Johann Bernhard Fischer von Erlach, Johann Lucas von Hildebrandt, and Domenico Martinelli. The outstanding Italian painter

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Imperial Vienna and the Royal Courts

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Andrea Pozzo worked in the city, as did many sculptors, stuccoists, engineers, and others. Indeed, Vienna became a destination. In 1710 Augustus the Strong sent Pöppelmann on a six-month study trip with two declared goals: Vienna and Rome. He had to wait another five years to see Paris.74 The talent working in Vienna was in many ways comparable to that at work elsewhere in Central Europe and likewise formed part of a loose, expanded network. Tessin the Younger and Fischer von Erlach trained in the circle around Bernini and probably knew each other as young men. Later in life, they corresponded and traded designs.75 Hildebrandt trained with Bernini’s associate Carlo Fontana, who worked with many young northern European architects, including Tessin.76 Fischer and Hildebrandt were likewise associated with projects under way at other Northern courts. A relative disengagement from the visual arts distinguishes the Habsburg emperors from the other princes considered above. In Vienna much of the major patronage came from the aristocracy gathered in the city. It was not the emperor, but a group of noblemen, who brought Martinelli from Rome to Vienna. These families built palaces that made the imperial residence, the Hofburg, seem increasingly outdated and incapable of supporting the image or the protocol expected of an emperor.77 The Belvedere palace, near Vienna, built by Hildebrandt for Prince Eugene of Savoy, the emperor’s great general, was recognized as a major work and was published in a comprehensive series of views by Salomon Kleiner. Other Viennese noble residences were published in collections that conspicuously omitted the Hofburg.78 Among Habsburg projects from around 1700, only Schönbrunn Palace, near Vienna, is comparable to the sorts of projects planned in Berlin, Dresden, and Stockholm (fig. 62). Schönbrunn was built by Fischer von Erlach from 1696 for Crown Prince Joseph in his capacity as king of the Romans. In this context, it, too, was a royal project, and it shares some elements with the competing palaces farther north. It was to have a large equestrian monument of Joseph, not in the gardens or on a nearby bridge, but mounted on the roof under the central bay of an arcaded belvedere.79 This idiosyncratic placement was mirrored in some of Pöppelmann’s projects for the unbuilt Dresden palace. Fischer emphasized the royal nature of the palace in the inscription of his print of Schönbrunn. This was almost certainly the print that he sent to Friedrich III/I in 1701, with an introductory letter stressing the royal character and context of the building still more emphatically: “The special esteem that Your Royal Majesty has variously shown before my lord, the Roman King, allows me to present in a print the royal pleasure palace [i.e., Schönbrunn], which under my humble direction is mostly finished. . . . I send this in deepest respect, with the request that it may with royal grace be approved and the humble author commended. It would be the greatest satisfaction to demonstrate in the work for Your Royal Majesty with what zeal and devotion I am forever Your Royal Majesty’s [most humble and obedient servant].”80 Although Schönbrunn seems to have been conceived in no small part for Emperor Leopold I’s own use, Fischer

Figure 62 | Johann Bernhard Fischer von Erlach, Schönbrunn Palace, near Vienna, begun 1696. From Fischer von Erlach, Entwurff. Getty Research Institute, Los Angeles (86-B 22036). Photo: Image Archive / Getty Research Institute.

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describes the print only as “the royal pleasure palace.”81 His repeated references to “His Royal Majesty” linked the rank of the recipient (Friedrich) and the stature of the building. It is possible that with this letter Fischer had intentions beyond circulating his design. He sent it in 1701, the year in which Friedrich was elevated to royal status. Fischer knew very well that major architectural changes to Berlin would accompany this elevation, and perhaps was offering his services with a demonstration of his expertise in royal architecture. If so, he had missed his opportunity. Friedrich had sought architects in the later 1690s but by 1701 had no need for another. If Fischer’s letter is to be understood as a job application, it was foresighted. In the same year, the War of Spanish Succession erupted and Habsburg patronage evaporated. In 1704, with little to do, he visited Berlin. The letter of introduction from the emperor states clearly that he was eager to see the buildings then under way, of which the most important was the palace.82 While in Berlin, he presented Friedrich with a drawing for a country palace near the city. The design is a variant of an expansive alternative project for Schönbrunn, and an inscription in Fischer’s hand describes it as “a royal pleasure palace . . . for King Friedrich of Prussia.”83 Aside from Schönbrunn, it was only after 1715 that Fischer built a series of new representative structures for the Habsburgs, including a magnificent library,

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Figure 63 | Johann Bernhard Fischer von Erlach, Karlskirche, Vienna, begun 1715. Photo: author.

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an enormous stable, and a court chancery. Work began at this time on the Karls­ kirche, the “Charles Church,” in which the iconography of Karl VI (r. 1711–40) and that of his name saint, Carlo (Charles, Karl) Borromeo, are bound seamlessly together (fig. 63).84 Thus, the twin columns recount the story of Carlo Borromeo, but they do so in winding reliefs like those on the columns of Trajan and Marcus Aurelius in Rome. This introduced the continuity of the ancient imperial tradition that was central to Habsburg imagery.85 Unlike the ancient columns, however, they were paired in a way that recalled the impresa of Charles V, under whom the Habsburg empire reached its greatest extent. Although it was a votive church, promised should Vienna be saved from the plague, the Karlskirche was intimately identified with the emperor and was thus an analogue to the dynastic church planned for Stockholm. The Karlskirche bears a striking relation to Tessin’s dynastic church designed a few years earlier (see fig. 55). Especially from the front—from a fixed public vantage point that conceals their rather different plans—the two buildings are remarkably similar, each with a pedimented porch surmounted by a dome on a

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high drum, and twin bell towers to each side. Even the rather unusual balustrade above the porch is common to both. The similarities of the Karlskirche and the Caroline church have been traced to their designers’ studies in Rome, particularly in the milieu of the Accademia di San Luca.86 As with the palaces considered above, a broadly Roman conception provided a level of modernity, but this was refashioned for an absolute monarch. The two churches were essentially representative, more fundamentally about dynasty than religious function. Had it been built, Tessin’s structure would have been connected to the palace by a bridge and would have defined the north-south axis of the city. (A dynastic church planned for Berlin by Jean de Bodt would have had a similar connection to the palace.)87 These representative characteristics transcended political and confessional differences. Two dynasties, one militantly Catholic and the other militantly Lutheran, which had been engaged in a fight to the death in the Thirty Years’ War, now found similar forms of devotionalrepresentative architecture. This formula was recognized even outside of western Christendom. In 1724 Tsar Peter I (“the Great”; r. 1682–1725) of Russia asked Tessin to provide plans for a church in St. Petersburg. Recognizing that the Caroline church would never be built in Stockholm, Tessin sent a slightly revised version of the design. Although Peter’s Western orientation made it less problematic, Russia had a vastly different tradition of religious architecture, suited to the Orthodox faith. Tessin made no concession to Orthodox practice, however. He ignored religion altogether in his letter to the tsar, presenting the church instead as Peter’s opportunity to build an immortal monument to himself. All evidence suggests that both Peter and Tessin approached the project earnestly and that it remained unbuilt because of the tsar’s death a few months later rather than any theological, liturgical, or political incompatibility.88 Peter likewise brought Andreas Schlüter to St. Petersburg in 1713, but he produced little before his death in the following year. In 1716 Bartolomeo Carlo Rastrelli came to Russia and soon began work on an equestrian statue of the tsar in Roman costume that approximated the various public monuments noted above, which trace their lineage to the ancient statue of Marcus Aurelius on the Capitoline Hill in Rome.89 This relatively standardized equipment for a king and absolute ruler—most basically, a large modern palace and an imposing equestrian monument, with many possible elaborations—raises the question once again of the Habsburg lack of interest in the visual arts and architecture in particular. Certainly the emperor did not wish to be upstaged by noble families and cannot have been pleased when visiting architects such as Pöppelmann were more interested in the city’s private residences than in the imperial ones. However, it became a more pressing issue when Augustus the Strong of Saxony, Pöppelmann’s employer, and Friedrich III/I of Brandenburg found ways to flout the ban on royal titles in the empire. Moreover, the boundless ambition was evident. In 1705 Augustus wrote a series of notes under the title “Project in case the House of Austria [i.e.,

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Habsburg] should die out.” A decade later his son married the niece of Karl VI, placing the Saxon rulers in a strong position to succeed the Habsburg emperor, who had no male heir.90 The Wittelsbach electors of Bavaria were likewise increasingly bold in their challenge to the Habsburgs and pushed a rival claim to the imperial crown in the 1740s. Augustus’s project came to nothing, but it was neither idle nor discrete. He dedicated a substantial portion of the decoration of the Zwinger to the presentation of Hercules Saxonicus. This formed part of a broader iconographic program, elaborated in print, that presented Augustus in imperial terms in something of a challenge to the Habsburgs.91 This challenge was certainly recognized, for it was presented in precisely those formats—both printed and built—that princes and architects observed so closely. Karl VI was compelled to set Fischer von Erlach to work on the Karlskirche and other new projects after 1715, with an emphatically imperial theme.92 Although informed by widely accepted standards, this vibrant dialogue was to a large extent internal to the expanded Germanic world. Tessin the Younger tried relentlessly to establish a reputation in France but found at best a polite response from a politically allied court. The one success previously given to him, the château Roissy, was an unexecuted project.93 It was within the Holy Roman Empire that Tessin found an appreciative audience. This was particularly true in Berlin, where his designs for all manner of royal imagery, from the palace to pews, provided useful points of reference for a court that was trying to synthesize a royal image very quickly and that strove for precisely the position Sweden held in regional politics. Friedrich’s view of him as the “famous architect from Sweden” was in no way unique, however. He was highly respected throughout the German world, to which his court milieu was so closely connected not only dynastically and diplomatically but artistically as well.

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E pilo g ue

The Romantic North

Dissolution and Reconstitution States rise and fall, and both Denmark and Sweden lost much of their political stature by the earlier eighteenth century. Although the rise of each kingdom brought an accompanying elevation in the ambition and quality of its patronage, artistic production was not necessarily closely bound to political and economic fortunes. Christian IV pursued patronage at a high level virtually to the end of his long reign, despite devastating setbacks at war in the 1620s and again in the 1640s. Although the decade between 1615 and 1625 is often seen as his outstanding moment, the years around 1640 were also rich, with François Dieussart and Gerrit van Honthorst, among others, contributing to a series of expansive and complex projects comparable to the best anywhere in Central Europe. Sweden suffered crushing military defeat in the early eighteenth century, which had a clear effect on the arts. Work on the royal palace in Stockholm slowed from about 1705 and stopped with the disastrous battle of Poltava in 1709. (It resumed in 1728.) This does not correlate particularly closely with the departure of the best talent, however. Losses were substantial well before the disastrous Great Northern War (1700–1721). Indeed, the most prominent figures to leave the kingdom moved either before 1705 or significantly later, when there had been little patronage for some time. Explanations for the decline in the arts must lie elsewhere, and two other considerations seem more pertinent. First, the number of prominent posts was always rather small. These were controlled by a few well-connected figures who had come during the heady years at the middle of the seventeenth century. They trained a new generation of students, many of them their own sons and nephews, at a substantially higher level than

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had earlier workshops. The number of positions did not increase, however, and it was difficult for these young men to establish themselves, particularly as the posts often went to family members of the most entrenched court artists. In 1676 Tessin the Younger was named court architect explicitly because of the services and position of his father. Upon Ehrenstrahl’s death, in 1698, the post of court painter was filled by his nephew, although this followed efforts to recall Michael Dahl (1659–1743), trained in part in Ehrenstrahl’s studio but active in London, and to hire a French painter.1 Certainly, in the eighteenth century the Swedish court’s ability to commission ambitious works was reduced from its height in the seventeenth century, but at no point could it have supported the careers of all the talented men in the generation that came of age around 1700. Second, the reclamation of estates around 1680 proved devastating for the cultivation and retention of artistic talent. Previous generations of noblemen had found talent independently, often returning home with people encountered in the course of travels abroad. The most skillful frequently moved into court positions. Now few nobles had the means to take on projects that would attract quality painters and architects. This coincided with a substantial shift in recruiting strategies at court, although the one was probably unrelated to the other. Tessin the Younger hired a small group of men from Versailles on fixed-term contracts, further reducing the possibilities for those with Central European backgrounds who might otherwise have worked in the kingdom. Those unable to find suitable work in Sweden left for posts elsewhere. The fate of these men provides an opportunity to gauge the perception of the talent employed at the Scandinavian courts. Before the mid-sixteenth century the only artists to leave Denmark for significant posts elsewhere were those who probably always regarded their stays in the North as temporary sojourns. Much the same could be said of Sweden before the mid-seventeenth century. This changed over time, however. In the sixteenth century Jacob Binck and Melchior Lorck were in demand at several prominent courts. In 1623 James I of England formally petitioned Christian IV to allow the painter Frantz Cleyn (1588–1658) to accept a post in his service. Cleyn, originally from Rostock, in Mecklenburg, worked for Christian, primarily in Rosenborg, from 1617 until his departure for London in 1625. (Ongoing obligations in Denmark delayed his departure for two years.) In England, Cleyn collaborated with Inigo Jones on ephemeral arches, probably for the entry of Queen Henrietta Maria, and made smaller works, such as a crucifix for St. James’s Chapel. He now appears to have worked as a portraitist as well, but his primary duty in England was as chief designer at the Mortlake Tapestry Factory.2 Caius (Kai) Gabriel Cibber (1630–1700), from Flensburg, received support from the Danish Crown for study in Rome. He traveled through the Low Countries and England on his return around 1659, and remained in London, where he established a thriving practice. He worked closely with Sir Christopher Wren, carving the relief on the base of his monument of the Great Fire (1673–75) and the east pediment of Hampton Court, enlarged by the architect for

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William III in the 1690s, as well as various decorative elements in St. Paul’s. In 1693 he was appointed sculptor in ordinary to the king.3 Had he been born a generation earlier, Johann Friedrich Eosander, later en­ nobled with the name Göthe, would very likely have found an architectural career at the Swedish court. He was born in 1669 in Stralsund and found work in the 1690s at the Swedish residence of Nils Bielke, the governor-general of Pomerania.4 At midcentury this post might have led to a position with the Crown, but Eosander had little hope of displacing Tessin the Younger, and other possibilities in Sweden were few. Berlin, which Friedrich III/I was remaking as a royal city, offered greater promise. His moment came in January 1707, when he replaced Andreas Schlüter as palace architect. Although he was constrained by the fabric left by Schlüter, he extended the palace to the west, contributing enormously to one of the great building projects of the era (see fig. 58). Eosander was only one of many to leave Sweden. Some found leading positions in major cultural centers. Georges Desmarées (1697–1776) was painter to the dukes of Bavaria from 1730 (see color plate 11), and Martin van Meytens the Younger (1695–1770) was appointed painter to Empress Maria Theresia in 1732 and head of the Viennese academy in 1759. Although he did not hold a court position, Michael Dahl was a very successful portraitist in London from about 1700. The Swedish court seems to have been somewhat frustrated with their departures.5 While these can be seen as reflecting an inability to retain talent, and thus as an acknowledgement of the limitations of patronage in the kingdom, it can also be understood in more positive terms. In 1650 no painter trained in Sweden could have achieved the profile of any of these men. Half a century later, they were but a few of the artists leaving Stockholm for important posts elsewhere. Although all complemented their initial training with substantial study tours elsewhere—as was standard throughout northern Europe—they represent a widespread recognition that the artistic quality at the Scandinavian courts had reached an international standard. The best talent moved easily from one place to another, continuing a long-standing pattern of migration within Central Europe. Simultaneously, the Scandinavian courts gained substantial authority as cultural centers and became formal models and study destinations. In 1791, in the course of planning a monument in Berlin to King Friedrich II of Prussia, the sculptor Johann Gottfried Schadow (1764–1850) undertook renewed study of equestrian statues.6 There were many examples in Britain, but none was judged worthy. The French kings, and especially Louis XIV, had been portrayed on horseback many times in monuments that quickly became canonical. However, the Revolution made travel in France difficult and would soon bring the destruction of the very works that he would have wished to see. Schadow had already been to Italy, and the famous equestrian statues there, by Giambologna, Francesco Mocchi, and others, may in any case have been considered both too old and too far afield from the project at hand for a militaristic king. The journey that Schadow did undertake was arranged by the director of the Berlin academy,

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Friedrich Anton von Heinitz, who emphasized the need to study recent works. Moreover, Schadow was to speak with the sculptors and casters who had made them, paying as close attention to the technical aspects of the statues’ production as to their composition and effects. Thus, Schadow traveled to Stockholm and Copenhagen to inspect the equestrian statues in those cities. In Stockholm it was not Jacques Foucquet’s statue of Carl XI that held his interest. This had never been executed as a major monument, and the smaller model was now nearly a century old. Rather, Schadow studied the monument to Gustaf II Adolf executed in the later eighteenth century by Pierre-Hubert l’Archevêque and Johan Tobias Sergel. It was not yet finished, but Schadow met with Sergel and saw the model, which he sketched and annotated much as Tessin the Younger and others routinely made notes of the things they saw in Italy and France. In Copenhagen he was particularly keen to see Jacques-François-Joseph Saly’s statue of Frederik V at Amalienborg Square. During his stay in Stockholm, he heard that complex casting work was taking place in St. Petersburg, and quickly added an unanticipated leg to his journey. There he saw the most extraordinary of the three statues: Etienne-Maurice Falconet’s monument of Tsar Peter I on a rearing horse, mounted high on a rough stone base that approximates a rocky bluff. He was, however, disappointed by the effect, particularly in relation to the cost of the project. Schadow’s tour of the Baltic capitals provided him with much to think about and personal contacts that he cherished, but it did not, in the end, contribute to the monument for Friedrich II. The project was debated endlessly and completed only in 1851 by his student, Christian Rauch.

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Even as Schadow went north in search of examples of modern representative sculpture, the image of the Scandinavian kingdoms was in flux. Rather than produce fine examples of a more or less standardized international court art, they were increasingly understood elsewhere as somewhat dreamy emblems of an exotic North. This fit well with aspects of the ideological shift traditionally known as Romanticism, but in this context the development was deeply rooted in early modern traditions that never quite died. This is certainly true of pictorial traditions, as eighteenth- and nineteenth-century painters very consciously looked back to earlier models from the Far North. This continuity paralleled the persistence of the deeply ideological vision of Olaus Rudbeck and the Gothic historians. Rudbeck died in 1702, and it is usually assumed that the Gothic tradition died soon after, its demise attributed variously to the decline of the Swedish state, the rise of a more skeptical historical profession, and Enlightenment thought more generally. Certainly this way of thinking found much less traction in the eighteenth century, but it never perished, and can be traced in various forms well into the nineteenth century. The scientific aspects of Rudbeck’s history— his chronology, his etymological methodology, and his use of evidence more

Epilogue

generally—were discredited and abandoned. So were his outlandish claims that Sweden was the cradle of classical antiquity, which were always an aberration within the larger Gothic discourse. The direct lineage from the sons of Noah and accommodation to biblical history also fell away. However, aspects of the larger narrative remained vibrant. It perhaps became more emphatically literary but still recounted a glorious national history, in which a misty prehistory of Norse saga and tribal legend merged seamlessly into medieval history and the formation of the modern state.7 Substantial new research is necessary before the relation of the lingering Gothic tradition and nascent Northern Romanticism can be clarified. However, their early modern roots are intertwined, and in some cases it may be that the later manifestations are entangled as well, even if the articulation was substantially different. This short epilogue sketches the ongoing significance of Scandinavia for Germanic art and of the early modern culture presented in this book. Even in the nineteenth century, traditionally considered the high point of nationalistic attitudes, the northern kingdoms and Germany, now cohering as a modern state, cannot be fully separated without substantial damage to the cultural history and interpretation of each. At the conclusion of the Great Northern War, in 1721, Sweden’s hold on the Baltic was shattered. Before losing the last vestige of its empire in 1815, Sweden retained only the patch of the southern Baltic coast around Stralsund and Greifs­ wald, along with the windswept island of Rügen, with steep chalk cliffs that drop into the sea. Along with Schleswig-Holstein, which Denmark lost to the emergent Prussian state in the middle of the nineteenth century, Swedish Pomerania served as a lingering territorial bond between Scandinavia and northern Germany. It also served as a site of German interest in, and claim to, the North. Jakob Philipp Hackert (1737–1807) was born in Prenzlau, in Pomerania, in Prussian territory just south of the Swedish part of the province.8 Given the divided region, it was natural that he would study in Berlin but then find work from 1762 with a Swedish administrator in Stralsund, Adolf Frederik von Olthoff, who had a residence in the town and an estate on Rügen. Hackert made a number of drawings of the island’s dramatic topography and published a group of them in 1763. In the following year he accompanied Olthoff to Stockholm, where he was introduced at court and produced at least one landscape painting for King Adolf Fredrik and a group of drawings for Queen Louisa Ulrica. The queen’s drawings are lost or unidentified, but they were very likely comparable to a larger group of drawings from the Swedish sojourn. A view of Svenarum (fig. 64), in southern Sweden, disregards the representative structures in the capital and around the kingdom built by the Tessins and others. Rather, Hackert presents a group of rustic houses on the right, with a church and separate bell tower visible in the center. All are built of wood, marking them as poor counterparts to the stone houses of the more prosperous and image-conscious classes. The structures are perched on a rocky outcropping overlooking the road. They are dwarfed by a group of trees atop a bluff to the left. The nearest of them has lost its battle with the climate;

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Figure 64 | Jakob Philipp Hackert, View of Svenarum, Sweden, ca. 1764. The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York. Purchase, Mr. and Mrs. David T. Schiff Gift, 1981. Photo: www.metmuseum.org. Figure 65 (opposite) | Caspar David Friedrich, Study of Two Pine Trees and a Rock, 1812. Digital image courtesy of the Getty’s Open Content Program.

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it is a torso with broken branches and no leaves. Behind it stands a cluster of evergreens, with jagged boughs silhouetted against the sky. The conifers mark the landscape as Northern, and this is accentuated by the rocky and windblown land. These characteristics are also found in many of the views in Suecia Antiqua et Hodierna, a topographical work produced around 1700 (see fig. 3). Hackert may have used Suecia Antiqua as a resource for some of his images.9 Certainly he turned to other seventeenth-century prints in composing Northern landscapes, as did others of his generation. Although his Swedish views can generally be distinguished and are often identified by inscriptions, in character they are comparable to those made on Rügen. Johann Wolfgang von Goethe wrote that Hackert, his close friend, during his stay in Sweden made many drawings for later use.10 Indeed, some were subsequently published in print collections, and others were reworked as paintings. He returned occasionally to the Northern landscape, but after his permanent move to Italy, in 1768, he largely abandoned it in favor of sun-drenched pastoral scenes that drew comparisons to the landscapes of Claude Lorrain, who worked in Rome and Naples in the middle of the seventeenth century.11

Epilogue

Hackert has been described as the discoverer of Rügen and its pictorial possibilities.12 His move to Italy kept him from developing this genre of Northern landscape, but others took on the challenge. Caspar David Friedrich (1774–1840), from Greifswald, visited Rügen frequently. Even after moving to Dresden in 1798, he traveled north to see his family and to spend time sketching the island’s landscape.13 These drawings, like others he made in the rocky regions of Saxony and Bohemia, emphasize a distinctly northern landscape. A fairly typical sheet presents two pine trees in graphite, their trunks clearly visible through the thin branches (fig. 65). Even as a pair, they hardly seem robust, with prominent vacant areas highlighted by the white ground lacking any sort of setting beyond the small patch of ground from which the trees grow. Although there is little indication of setting, the location of the pines to the right of the sheet places them within a larger abstracted space, making them seem still more vulnerable within their environment. Below the two trees, Friedrich offers an alternative view. Here a loosely formed tree is set against two massive rocky outcroppings, with a third, larger one indicated at right with a single, broken line. These are formed with bold, sharp strokes, with fissures tearing across the face of the rocks. Only in a few places—the tree and the shrubbery at its base, and a few staccato strokes atop the rock formation—does life appear in the scene. The notation of the date, 9 June 1812, makes evident the documentary nature of Friedrich’s drawing. It and similar sheets were used as the basis for a number of paintings of lone trees—some far more wind beaten and broken than those in the drawing— before a vast and somewhat abstracted landscape. Friedrich and his friends were much more assiduous than Hackert in collecting such imagery and exploiting it in their studios, thus transforming the sketches into formal subjects. For Friedrich, Rügen and the Baltic landscape figured as more than dramatic scenery. It was one locus of a more fundamental conceptual revision that defined, so far as possible, the Romantic turn of the late eighteenth century. Through a teacher, he met Gotthard Ludwig Kosegarten (1758–1818), a poet, theologian, and

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pastor from neighboring Wolgast. Kosegarten was a leader in a move toward a deeply introspective piety that was understood both as essentially Northern and also as intimately linked to the natural world. He gave “shore sermons,” in which the spiritual message was delivered not in Wolgast’s late medieval church but outside, in God’s creation. These were typically held on Rügen, where the landscape best matched the spare, ascetic nature of the message. The link to Friedrich’s work seems to have been rather clear at the time. Kosegarten was an early supporter of Friedrich, collecting his works and, in 1806, inviting him to make an altarpiece for the shore chapel in Vitte, a town on a particularly exposed finger of land off Rügen. The contemporary writer Heinrich von Kleist spoke of the “Kosegartenian effect” of one of Friedrich’s major works.14 Greifswald was in Swedish Pomerania. Friedrich was thus born a Swedish subject, and this seems to have been quite important to him. He apparently became quite distressed when, in 1815, the region was ceded to Prussia.15 Some years earlier, he had painted on his own initiative the so-called Tetschen Altarpiece, an image of a cross atop a mountain peak backlit by streaming rays of sunlight, mounted within a gilded frame recalling late medieval retables, as a gift for King Gustaf IV Adolf of Sweden, after whom he named his son. The intended gift was no mere courtly gesture from a subject; it recognized and honored the king’s piety and politics. But Friedrich was nonetheless very mindful of the place of the kingdom in the world in which he worked.16 Although he was born in the same region as Hackert, Friedrich did not turn to the academy in Berlin for further study. Nor did the outstanding institutions in Dresden and Vienna attract him. Stockholm and Copenhagen likewise offered academic study in the arts. Whatever remained of David Klöcker Ehrenstrahl’s informal “Academie” from 1678 was superseded by the establishment of a royal institution in Stockholm in 1735.17 In Denmark a group of artists independently established a “Kunst-Academie” in 1701. A royal initiative in 1738, finally realized in 1754, created a state-sponsored institution.18 The origin of both of these organizations in private enterprises undertaken by court painters closely parallels the formation of many of the academies in the German lands. Of these options, Friedrich chose to study in Copenhagen, where he worked with Nicolai Abildgaard and others in 1794–98.19 This proved to be a crucial decision in many respects. Abildgaard (1743–1809) had trained much like any other eighteenth-century painter, with extensive study in Rome and mastery of the classical tradition. However, he brought to this background a preoccupation with Nordic subjects. He painted scenes from Norse myth and, more frequently, from the poems published by James Macpherson in the 1760s as the works of the ancient poet Ossian, which had survived in Gaelic sources in the Scottish Highlands.20 Although their authenticity was in doubt almost from the beginning—consensus opinion now holds that Macpherson collected some fragments in the Highlands but elaborated these so substantially that the works as wholes constitute new texts and are thus forgeries—the Ossianic works were enormously popular in the later eighteenth century. Their presentation as the work

Epilogue

of a third-century bard encouraged comparisons to Homer, but they were often seen both as more vital and as a distinctly Northern counterpart to the Iliad and the Odyssey. Alongside the requisite figure studies and other academic exercises, Abild­ gaard seems to have employed these historical themes in his teaching. Probably at his direction, his student Asmus Jakob Carstens drew The Priest of the Rügeners Before Heinrich, King of the Wends. An inscription on the sheet indicates that the textual source was Ove Malling’s Great and Good Deeds of the Danes, Norwegians, and Holsteiners, a primer presenting schoolchildren with Northern heroes rather than Greco-Roman ones.21 Much like his early modern predecessors, Malling freely mixed Norse myth, tribal legend, and documentary history in a deeply flattering synthetic presentation of Denmark’s past. No evidence suggests that Friedrich was interested in such topics during his studies in Denmark. Certainly his later work shows little direct debt to Abild­ gaard. Stylistically, a point of reference may have been the atmospheric landscapes of Jens Juel, whose nocturnal scenes bear similarities to Friedrich’s later work. However, Juel was a professor of portraiture.22 Landscape was not taught at the academy, but it was quite popular in Copenhagen, which would soon become a major center for the genre. It is unclear how these considerations figured in Friedrich’s decision to attend the academy, but it was a common choice for young painters from around the Baltic. In these years the institution attracted not only Friedrich but also Philipp Otto Runge, from Wolgast; Georg Friedrich Kersting, from Güstrow; Christian Morgenstern, from Hamburg; and other future standouts. However, Abildgaard’s overt interest in the expression of a Northern culture may itself have been decisive, and outranked training in the landscapes that Friedrich would later produce. It has been argued that the Copenhagen academy, and Abildgaard in particular, offered the closest visual analogue to the ideas of Kosegarten.23 However, Abildgaard’s interest in Northern mythology, and Carstens’s drawing from Vandalic history, place aspects of the academy’s teaching still more squarely within a long local tradition. Indeed, the subject of Carstens’s drawing would have fit well within the Kronborg series made for Christian IV (see fig. 28). Friedrich went from the academy in Copenhagen to Dresden, where he made his career. In one way this can be seen as the continuation of a long-standing tradition linking the two cities that had never quite died. The very close contacts between Denmark and Saxony in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries continued to some extent in the eighteenth. Nicolai Eigtved was an assistant to the Saxon-Polish court architect Karl Friedrich Pöppelmann in the 1720s before becoming a leading builder in Denmark, and the Saxon sculptor Johann Christoph Petzoldt taught at the academy in Copenhagen.24 Ismael Mengs, father of Anton Raphael Mengs, was born in Copenhagen and received his first training there before settling in Dresden, where he served as court painter and professor in the academy.25 More practically, Dresden was a thriving center for the arts and supported the sorts of work that Friedrich and others pursued. Although it may not have been of great concern for him, Adrian Zingg and Anton Graff, Dresden

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academicians in the later eighteenth century, instituted a tradition of wandering about the countryside, sketching dramatic natural motifs. In many respects these are comparable to the drawings that Hackert made in Pomerania and Sweden at about the same time, and also to the drawings that constituted the whole of Friedrich’s early work. At a very basic level, Zingg and others developed a market for the sorts of images that Friedrich made. Retrospectively, at least, the Dresden academy would seem to have been a logical choice for Friedrich’s training. Zingg, who could have been his teacher, drew landscapes in the Elbe valley around Dresden and in the mountainous region of “Saxon Switzerland” and Bohemia, where Friedrich himself would later wander and draw. Although Zingg’s drawings do not have the self-conscious pathos of Friedrich’s work, they have often been seen as precursors to the sorts of images that he and his colleagues produced in the earlier nineteenth century.26 A short biography of Friedrich by his close friend Carl Gustav Carus may help to explain his early lack of interest in the Dresden academy, and indeed the somewhat remarkable fact that a painter who produced landscapes almost exclusively should have studied with a history painter. Carus writes dismissively of landscape painting in Germany at the end of the eighteenth century. He complains of an increasingly empty rehearsal of the traditions inherited from a group of seventeenth-century painters: Jacob van Ruisdael and Allart van Everdingen, active in the Low Countries, and Claude Lorrain and Nicolas Poussin, active in Italy:

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The memory of Ruisdael, Everdingen, [and] Waterloo, on the one hand, and Claude Lorrain, Poussin, Salvator Rosa, and Swanenvelt, on the other, was ever more spun out. . . . A couple of dark mannered trees on either side of the foreground, some ruins of an old temple, or a bit of cliff next to it, then, in the middle ground, some staffage on foot or on horse, where possible with a river or a bridge and some cattle, some blue mountains behind all of this and some competently painted clouds above. This, more or less, was what then counted as a landscape.27 Carus singles out Hackert as the most talented painter of his generation, but nonetheless guilty of these faults. Zingg is not mentioned, but Carus, and perhaps also Friedrich, may have considered him similarly facile. Carus specifies Van Everdingen and Van Ruisdael in his binary opposition of the Northern and the Italianate landscapes. Van Everdingen, from Haarlem, traveled to Sweden and Norway in 1644 and introduced into Netherlandish painting a genre of rugged and distinctly un-Netherlandish landscapes with dark pine forests and waterfalls, which were explicitly associated with the Scandinavian North. These often included humble timber houses and other elements of rustic life (color plate 12). Van Ruisdael retained a broader range of subjects but also found success with his versions of the Nordic landscape. The Northern landscapes by both painters were enormously popular in the Low Countries in the seventeenth

Epilogue

century. Van Everdingen produced not only paintings of these scenes but also finished drawings and prints for a much larger market. These seem to have been understood as somewhat exotic images of a region that, in the middle of the seventeenth century, was increasingly important but rather mysterious.28 Van Everdingen is also relevant because his paintings were one starting point for the uncompromising Northern landscapes that Hackert pioneered and then abandoned. Some of Hackert’s Rügen images directly cite Van Everdingen’s works, much as some of his Swedish views may cite Suecia Antiqua. Goethe likewise made a group of landscapes derived from Van Everdingen, some of which are unrevised copies.29 Friedrich’s close friend Johan Christian Dahl (1788–1857), who studied in Copen­hagen and came to Dresden in 1818, likewise pointed to Van Everdingen and Van Ruisdael as models for landscape painters, assigning them the foundational importance that antiquities held for Raphael’s development. Moreover, Dahl argued for the Northern landscape as a separate category of image, fundamentally different from that of the “southern sky.” He described himself as a “more Northern painter,” on the basis of his preference for sea coasts, mountain scenery, waterfalls, and boats and harbors in daylight and moonlight.30 To judge from his works, he could have added stormy skies, dark forests, and battered trees to this list of characteristics. Although some of these subjects could be found in Saxony, he considered the local scenery inferior to the Scandinavian nature. Dahl returned to his native Norway five times in the course of his career in Dresden, sketching constantly and collecting material for his paintings. It was likely this northern land that he had in mind when he wrote, in terms echoing Edmund Burke’s characterization of the sublime, published in 1756: “Here [in Dresden] I have some [things] that can serve as aids in the study of the small, but the truly great and true is always missing. Therefore it is necessary through frequent travels to supplement what is missing in the given place of residence.”31 Although the context was vastly different, the Nordic landscape was thus of great interest in the seventeenth century and again in the decades around 1800. In the seventeenth century, Van Everdingen and Van Ruisdael capitalized on a general interest in Scandinavia and a natural environment that was perceived as exotic. No evidence suggests that either painter linked the Northern landscape to the Gothicist ideology pushed by the Scandinavian courts. However, many travelers wrote at length about the physical characteristics of the countryside, marveling at the endless forests and the rocky terrain. This echoed one aspect of the arguments of Johannes Magnus and Olaus Rudbeck, which, taking a geographical cast, were very often framed in terms of the land that produced the people. Some foreign visitors, clearly following these texts, explicitly linked the nature and the Gothic history in their travel journals. The topographical views in Suecia Antiqua and Ehrenstrahl’s landscapes and animal paintings, many of which were displayed in official spaces, also bound the landscape and the ideology.32 Although he made relatively few such images and they did not reach a broad audience, Ehrenstrahl’s landscapes are comparable on many points to

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those of Van Everdingen and Van Ruisdael, which he certainly knew well from his studies in Amsterdam in the late 1640s (color plate 13). Neither Van Everdingen’s images for a curious Netherlandish market nor Ehrenstrahl’s court pictures are compatible with Friedrich’s ideal of an independent art guided by the vision of the artist, but all shared a sense that the Northern landscape held great power. Many of these issues appear to come together in a painting Friedrich produced in the 1830s (color plate 14). A crescent moon casts a cool purple tint across a landscape of barren trees. In the foreground, a man bows his head before a dolmen, a megalithic tomb comprising stacked boulders. Like the studies of pine trees, this, too, has a documentary aspect. In 1802 Friedrich drew such a tomb near Greifswald and used the sheet as the basis for several paintings. Here, however, the positioning of the figure suggests a staged quality, as if he exists primarily to call attention to the ancient tomb. This painting is often interpreted as a meditation on the cycle of life and death understood through the natural world. This accords with larger interpretive structures frequently applied to Friedrich’s paintings, in which nature becomes an allegory of Christian thought and God is understood through creation. Here, however, an alternative reading is possible. For a painter who consciously rejected travel to Italy and study of Roman landscape and ruins, windswept scenes dotted with megalithic tombs constituted a Northern analogue. The cool, moonlit night was a Northern alternative to the luminous landscapes of the Roman Campagna produced in great numbers from the seventeenth century by Claude Lorrain, Hackert, and others. Friedrich’s Northern variant was legitimized by an alternative tradition that recognized and accommodated a different environment. Carus and Dahl traced the lineage of the Northern landscape to Claude’s Netherlandish contemporaries, Van Everdingen and Van Ruisdael, but it was developed by painters working in Scandinavia, from Ehrenstrahl to Jens Juel. The printed views included in antiquarian and topographical works, such as Suecia Antiqua, should also be recognized as variants of their works. In the nineteenth century Danish painters expanded this tradition exponentially. Some embraced subjects comparable both to these earlier Scandinavian works and to Friedrich’s image of a man before an ancient tomb. Johan Thomas Lundbye (1818–1848), for instance, painted a nearly identical dolmen at Raklev in Denmark in 1839 (color plate 15). It is set in a spare landscape with rocks and a few distant trees but without the viewer or the misty, atmospheric evening light. The perceived interest in metaphysics experienced through nature that has often been associated with Friedrich’s works is also apparently absent. Lundbye’s landscape may instead be linked more closely to an interest in national history and its visible remains, consistent with his stated purpose: “I have made it the goal of my life as a painter to paint my beloved Denmark.”33 This took a specifically historical turn in the use of his images of such ancient monuments in contemporary Danish archaeological studies. The books in which Lundbye’s drawings appeared stripped away much of the accrued legend surrounding these sites. He did not entirely endorse this revision. In a drawing of another dolmen,

at Refsnæs, he included a passage from the ballad of Prince Valdemar the Young, who, according to legend, was killed in a hunt there in 1231. Although Lundbye may have thought it was an authentic medieval text—it was published as such in 1812, and he wrote the text on the sheet in a faux medieval script—it was actually a seventeenth-century invention.34 Nonetheless, its publication and his depiction of it point both to a concerted effort to preserve old legends of all kinds and to the continuing legacy of the literature and history writing of the seventeenth century, now framed in terms typical of the early nineteenth century. Certainly Lundbye’s images of dolmens, presented as evidence of an impressive and ancient local history and linked both to archaeological documentation and to myth, join three major strands of early modern historical scholarship in the region, to which they may have been more tightly bound than most present-day scholarship has recognized. Olaus Worm included an image of precisely such a tomb in his study of Danish antiquities published in 1643. While we do not know whether Lundbye looked at Worm’s works, other Danish artists working around 1800 adapted his prints for historical subjects.35 Worm himself received renewed interest in Denmark in the early nineteenth century. Several academic studies gave him a central place in the history of Northern archaeology and presented his works in accessible Danish summary and in the context of other sixteenthand seventeenth-century antiquarians and their methods.36 The Swedish Board of Antiquities likewise set out to document all such ancient monuments in the kingdom, some of which were published in Suecia Antiqua. This work, too, had a long afterlife. After its completion in 1715, the images were issued periodically throughout the eighteenth and earlier nineteenth centuries, both as bound volumes and as individual sheets, and the recut plates were used for several new editions after 1856. Certainly the images were readily available to Hackert and others in the region and beyond in the decades around 1800. Worm’s works, Suecia Antiqua, and other early publications presented Northern antiquities in fairly narrow, national terms that were easily reconceived in Romantic terms in the earlier nineteenth century. Malling’s book on Northern heroes for students is only one example that was published in numerous editions and reached a broad and, in this case, malleable audience. Although much work remains to be done in order to define its scope and character, the enduring legacy of early modern Northern literary and visual culture played an important role in the nineteenth century. Sometimes this was cited directly, and sometimes it filtered through the shifting viewpoints and traditions of the period in between, but in both forms it found a receptive audience.

Epilogue

The Copenhagen academy around 1800 provided one basis for a vibrant strain of Romantic painting. Although this strain existed alongside many other approaches, from J. M. W. Turner’s luminous views of Venice to Eugène Dela­croix’s images of North Africa, it insisted both on the power of the northern natural world and on the value of the myths and traditions originating there. While this can be understood as a quintessential Romantic interest in the exotic and unfamiliar,

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on the one hand, and in the sublime quality of the endless dark forests, on the other, it is crucial to recognize that much of this was not so much new as it was a renewal and reconception of interests and traditions that had been developed in somewhat different terms in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. Likewise, the easy movement between Scandinavia and Germany, the sense of a shared tradition, and the ideological or even spiritual value of the Nordic landscape as a more profound variant of that found in Saxony and Bohemia are rooted in the long-held understanding that, in cultural terms, at least, the Scandinavian kingdoms were integral parts of a larger whole that incorporated much of Central Europe. This understanding remained strong even as national identities solidified and aligned with nation states, including, for the first time, Germany. There were of course divergent views. In 1772 Goethe published a tract on the cathedral in Strasbourg, reevaluating medieval Gothic architecture in a positive light and as inherently German.37 This was soon republished by Johann Gottfried Herder in On German Nature and Art (Von deutscher Art und Kunst, 1773). Goethe’s essay is intensely critical of Italian and French classicism, and although it does not explicitly exclude other parts of Central Europe, it seems to be conceived in a narrower interpretation of Germany, understood as Deutschland rather than Germania. Yet this must be juxtaposed with Goethe’s evident admiration for Scandinavian landscapes produced by a Netherlander, Allart van Everdingen, and with Herder’s inclusion of essays on Ossian and William Shakespeare in the volume.38 Alongside the emerging sense of a more concrete German nation, the Scandinavian North remained an essential part of a broader Germanic culture and heritage. Thus, Ernst Moritz Arndt, a seminal writer on the German national spirit and a friend and correspondent of Caspar David Friedrich, included Scandinavia in his 1803 description of Germania, as did many earlier writers.39 Even within the intensely national mind-set of the later nineteenth century, the Edda, the Norse myths, and other Scandinavian traditions were accepted parts of the Germanic patrimony and were employed in Richard Wagner’s operas and many other contexts.40 Although they took a different character in the nineteenth century, these myths, which in earlier centuries were overshadowed by and absorbed into the Gothic myth, had long formed one basis for a sense of unity among these lands. They were complemented by other deep ties that kept the Central European courts and cities in close contact, and by the reality that fortunes change and talented painters and architects in this region were likely to move from center to center. Sometimes opportunity brought outstanding figures to Denmark and Sweden; sometimes it took them from those kingdoms to Brandenburg, Saxony, Bavaria, or elsewhere. This, too, was a tradition as ingrained as any myth, and it created its own sense of unity.

Notes

P refac e and Acknowledg ments 1. E.g., Hempel, Baroque Art and Architecture; Kaufmann, Court, Cloister, and City. 2. Henningsen et al., Wahlverwandtschaft.

I nt rodu ct ion 1. Hoople, “Baroque Splendor.” 2. Kaufmann, School of Prague. 3. Windt, Lind, and Gröschel, Preußen 1701. 4. Hempel, Baroque Art and Architecture, 62–86; Langer, Thirty Years’ War, 187–234. 5. Sandrart, “LebensLauf,” 3, as quoted in Graf, German Baroque Drawings, unpaginated introduction. 6. Clark, Civilisation, 221. 7. Evans, “Culture and Anarchy”; Kaufmann, Court, Cloister, and City, 233–81; Kaufmann, “War and Peace.” 8. Böttiger, En krönika, 20; Böttiger, “Inredningarna,” 215, 279n6. 9. Theuerkauff, Bildwerke in Elfenbein, 98–105; Steguweit, Raimund Faltz. 10. Holland, Johann Friedrich Eosander, 142–47. See also chapter 7. 11. Asche, Balthasar Permoser. 12. Roosval, Den baltiska Nordens kyrkor; Roosval, “Das baltisch-nordische Kunstgebiet”; Białostocki, “Baltic Area”; von Bonsdorff, Kunstproduktion und Kunstverbreitung; Larsson, “Konstnärlig utveckling”; Kaufmann, “Early Modern Ideas About Artistic Geography”; North, Baltic. Cf. Braudel, La Méditerranée.

13. Huizinga, Nederland’s beschaving, 144–45. 14. See, e.g., Dee and Walton, Versailles, and Magnusson, “Nicodemus Tessin il giovane.” 15. Persson, Servants of Fortune; Persson, “Kingdom of Sweden.” 16. Josephson, Stadsbyggnadskonst i Stockholm, 5; Rosenhane, “Stockholms Märkwärdigheter,” 51. 17. Vasari, Le vite, 1:254–55; Maginnis, “Duccio’s Rucellai Madonna.” 18. The keen awareness of nation among writers of the nineteenth and earlier twentieth centuries is a familiar problem in the historiography of art and culture. In the Scandinavian context, see Josephson, “Le problème d’un style suédois”; Josephson, Nationalism och humanism; Josephson, Om den nordiska konstens egenart; and Olin, Konsten och det nationella. 19. A similar criticism has been made about the notion of hybridity in Latin America. See Dean and Leibsohn, “Hybridity and Its Discontents.”

Ch a pt er 1 1. Tacitus, Germania 3.1; McDonald, “Maximilian I of Habsburg.” Martin Luther was also portrayed as Hercules Germanicus. See Hofmann, Luther und die Folgen, 158–59. 2. López Torrijos, La mitología, 115–85; Brown and Elliot, Palace for a King, 163–70, with further literature. 3. Lucian, Herakles, 63–71; Diodorus Siculus, Bibliotheca historica (Library of History) 4.18–28, 5.24. See Jung,

Notes to Pages 13–33

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Hercule dans la littérature française, and Rebhorn, Emperor of Men’s Minds, 66–79. 4. Geary, “Europe of Nations,” with further literature. 5. Droixhe, L’étymon des dieux. 6. Bömelburg, Frühneuzeitliche Nationen, esp. 409–18. 7. Schöffer, “Batavian Myth”; Swinkels, De Bataven. 8. Schmidt-Voges, De antiqua claritate; Neville, “Gothicism and Early Modern Historical Ethnography.” 9. Tacitus, Germania 44; Jordanes, Getica (Gothic History) 8–10. Goffart, Narrators of Barbarian History, 3–111; Søby Christensen, Cassiodorus. 10. Münster, Cosmographia, 296. 11. J. Magnus, Historia . . . de Omnibus Gothorum; O. Magnus, Description of the Northern Peoples. See Johannesson, Renaissance of the Goths, and Santini, I fratelli Giovanni e Olao Magno. 12. Johannesson, Renaissance of the Goths, 80–102. 13. Saxo Grammaticus, History of the Danes. 14. Rosefontanus, Refutatio Calumniarum. 15. Skovgaard-Petersen, Historiography, 95–104, here 101. 16. Svaning, Chronologia Danica, chronology: 1, 11. 17. Rudbeck, Atland eller Manheim. All citations are from the Nelson edition. For commentary on the text, see Eriksson, Atlantic Vision, and Eriksson, Rudbeck, 1630– 1702, 257–496. 18. Rudbeck, Atland eller Manheim, 2:449–595. 19. Ibid., 2:692. 20. Micraelius, Erstes Buch deß Alten Pommerlandes, unpaginated introduction. 21. Clüver, Germaniae Antiquae, 3:139–41. 22. Irenicus, Germaniae Exegeseos. The literature on early modern German investigations of their own origins is large. See esp. Borchardt, German Antiquity; Brough, Goths and the Concept of Gothic; and Wood, Forgery, Replica, Fiction. 23. Irenicus, Germaniae Exegeseos, fol. 17r. 24. Lazius, De Gentium, 676–745, esp. 687, 693. 25. Ibid., 692–718. 26. Ibid., 736. 27. Huttich, Imperatorum Romanorum Libellus; Cuspinianus, Ein außerleßne Chronicka. See Polleroß, “Romanitas in der habsburgischen Repräsentation.” 28. Wagner von Wagenfels, Ehren-Ruff Teutschlands, 6. 29. Columbus, En swensk ordeskötsel, 92–93. 30. De Beer, “Gothic: Origin and Diffusion of the Term”; Frankl, Gothic; Brough, Goths and the Concept of Gothic, 103–31. 31. Fürst, Die lebendige und sichtbare Histori, 197–264; Kalina, “Hybrid Architecture.” The Bohemian churches seem to have made no reference to the Gothic tribes. 32. Ellehag, Jean de la Vallée, 85–87.

33. Olin, Det karolinska porträttet; Gillgren, Vasarenässansen, 56–83. 34. Ehrenstrahl, Certamen Equestre; Rangström, “Karl XI:s karusell”; Gerstl, Drucke des höfischen Barock, 115–55. 35. Ehrenstrahl, Certamen Equestre, 194. 36. For further examples and discussion, see Neville, “Land of the Goths and Vandals.” 37. Dahlbergh, Suecia Antiqua. 38. Johannesson, Renaissance of the Goths, 114. 39. Rudbeck, Atland eller Manheim, 1:58. 40. Ibid., 1:156–65. See further Neville, “Antiquarianism Without Antiques,” and Neville, “History and Architecture.” 41. Plato, Timaeus and Critias 116.d; Adam of Bremen, Archbishops of Hamburg-Bremen, 207. 42. Rudbeck, Atland eller Manheim, 1:57–61. Rudbeck cites Vitruvius, De architectura 1.2 and 4.7, neither of which supports his claims. Temple types are discussed in Vitruvius’s books 3 and 4, although without clear justification for Rudbeck’s arguments. 43. Momigliano, “Ancient History and the Antiquarian”; Haskell, History and Its Images; Burke, “Images as Evidence.” 44. For a rather different reading of perceptions of antiquity in medieval and early modern German art and architecture, see Wood, Forgery, Replica, Fiction. 45. Hodgkin, Letters of Cassiodorus, 323–24. 46. Kostof, “Architect in the Middle Ages,” 67–68. 47. Cochlaeus, Vita Theodorici. 48. McKeown, “Recovering the Codex Argenteus”; Munkhammar, Silver Bible.

Ch a pt er 2 1. Grell, Scandinavian Reformation; Czaika, “La Scandinavie”; Nilsén, “Reform and Pragmatism”—all with further literature. 2. Grell, Scandinavian Reformation; Lausten, Church History of Denmark, 85–123; Asche and Schindling, Dänemark, Norwegen und Schweden. 3. Lausten, Johann Bugenhagen. 4. Wex, “Oben und Unten,” 16. 5. H.-J. Krause, “Die Schlosskapelle in Torgau”; Krause, “Cranachs Bildausstattung.” 6. “Suiten og Ceremoniellet”; Bäumel, “Die Festlichkeiten.” 7. Norn, “Hercules at the Frontier”; Nyborg and Poulsen, Slotskirker på Koldinghus. 8. Wex, “Oben und Unten.” 9. Martin Luthers Werke, 2. Abteilung, 5:533; 1. Abteilung, 49:592. 10. Magirius, Die evangelische Schlosskapelle zu Dresden.

the tombs. Floris, too, would publish two books of ornament, but these would not appear until the mid-1550s. See Van Mulders, “De prentenreeksen.” 35. Ehrenberg, Die Kunst am Hofe, 34–67; Huysmans, Cornelis Floris, 93–96; Baresel-Brand, Grabdenkmäler, 132–37. 36. Huysmans, “De grafmonumenten,” 112. 37. Steinmetz, Heinrich Rantzau, 261–71, 690–92; Neville, “Cornelis Floris.” The chapel and the tomb were destroyed in the 1640s, but the latter is known through a few fragments, a drawing, and a print. 38. Johannsen, “Dignity and Dynasty.” 39. Secher, Forordninger, 2:8, 33–39. 40. Norn, “Niels Langes og Abel Skeels gravmæle,” 79; Johannsen, “Dignity and Dynasty,” 117–19. 41. Blaschke, Moritz von Sachsen. 42. This is proposed by Smith, German Sculpture, 176. For the monument, see Lipińska, Moving Sculptures, 205– 20, with further literature. 43. Scheicher, “Grabmal Kaiser Maximilians”; Smith, German Sculpture, 185–92; Scheicher, “Kaiser Maximilian.” 44. Smith, German Sculpture, 175–85. 45. Van Ruyven-Zeman, “Drawings for Architecture”; Johannsen, “Dignity and Dynasty,” 119–39. 46. Johannsen, “Dignity and Dynasty,” 119. 47. Meine-Schawe, Die Grablege der Wettiner; Dombrowski, “Die Grablege der sächsischen Kurfürsten.” 48. This was recognized by Hahr, Föregångarna till Johan III:s grafmonument. 49. Skibiński, “Early-Modern Netherlandish Sculptors.” 50. Hedicke, Cornelis Floris, 1:127–69; Jolly, “Netherlandish Sculptors”; Ottenheym, “Sculptors’ Architecture.” 51. This was first defined in Roosval, Den baltiska Nordens kyrkor, and Roosval, “Das baltisch-nordische Kunstgebiet.” Important restatements and reformulations include Białostocki, “Baltic Area”; von Bonsdorff, Kunstproduktion und Kunstverbreitung; Kaufmann, “Der Ostseeraum als Kunstregion”; North, Baltic.

Ch a pt er 3 1. Wanscher, Kronborgs Historie; Mikkelsen, Kronborg. 2. Gąsiorowski, “Antonis van Obberghen”; Bartetzky, Das Grosse Zeughaus; Bartetzky, “Antonis van Obberghen.” 3. Kavaler, Renaissance Gothic. 4. Mackeprang and Müller-Christensen, Kronborgtapeterne; Woldbye, “Flemish Tapestry Weavers.” 5. Mackeprang and Müller-Christensen, Kronborgtapeterne, 5. 6. Neville, “Frederik II’s Gothic Neptune,” with further references.

Notes to Pages 33–52

11. Doering, Des Augsburger Patriciers Philipp Hainhofer Reisen, 202–3. 12. Smith, German Sculpture, 99–101; Lipińska, Moving Sculptures, 143–59. The altarpiece was later moved to Torgau. 13. Verzeichnus der Reise. Slange, Geschichte Christian des Vierten, 2:239, places Christian in Dresden in 1597. No Saxon record of such a visit exists. 14. Friis, Samlinger, 369; Norn, “Hercules at the Frontier,” 162. 15. Berlage, “Die Erbauung des Schlosses Hansburg,” 27–28; Berlage, “Das Schloß Hansburg,” 326–28. Christian IV ordered the painting and gilding of the furnishings in the Haderslevhus chapel in 1606–8, and the degree to which this enriched the interiors from the 1560s is unclear. 16. For the Frederiksborg chapel, see Moltke et al., Danmarks Kirker—Frederiksborg Amt, 3:1673–926, and Johannsen, “Protestant Palace Chapel.” 17. Berg, Kurtze und eigentliche Beschreibung, unpaginated [45–56]. See also the detailed inventory in Petersen, “Frederiksborg Slots Inventarium,” 119–28. 18. Johannsen, “Christian IV’s Private Oratory.” 19. Heym, “Die Hofkirchen.” 20. Heitmann and Scholz, “Die Ebenholz-SilberArbeiten.” 21. Magirius, “Die Hofkapelle,” 78. 22. Johannsen, “Regna Firmat Pietas.” 23. Huysmans, Cornelis Floris, 81–84, with further references. 24. Jacobs, Early Netherlandish Carved Alterpieces; Lipińska, Moving Sculptures. 25. Illustrated Bartsch, 16:9–63; Hollstein: German Engravings, 4:12–113. For documentation, see Ehrenberg, Die Kunst am Hofe, 34–57, and Norn, Hesselagergaard; Riis, “Jacob Binck in Lübeck.” 26. Dyballa, Georg Pencz, 52–53. 27. Jolly, “Philip Brandin.” 28. Wade, Triumphus Nuptialis Danicus, 221–78. 29. The correspondence is published in “Nogle Efterretninger,” and Ehrenberg, Die Kunst am Hofe, 163–94. 30. Ehrenberg, Die Kunst am Hofe, 182. 31. Huysmans, Cornelis Floris, 81; Baresel-Brand, Grabdenkmäler, 98–105; Meys, Memoria und Bekenntnis, 99–103, 688–92. 32. For sculpture from the Netherlands in Central Europe, see Kavaler, “Diaspora of Netherlandish Sculptors,” and Lipińska, Moving Sculptures. 33. Floris, Veelderley niewe inuentien. 34. Hollstein: German Engravings, 4:84–99. These are undated, making it difficult to define their relationship to

179

Notes to Pages 52–73

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7. Maué, Quasi Centrum Europae. 8. Smith, German Sculpture, 198–244. 9. A link to Wilhelm IV’s fountain has been supposed by most who have written on the Kronborg fountain. For Brahe’s stay in Kassel, see Thoren, Lord of Uraniborg, 93–96. 10. Friis, Samlinger, 310–26. 11. Doppelmayr, Historische Nachricht, 293–94. 12. Smith, German Sculpture, 241–43. 13. Doppelmayr, Historische Nachricht, 293–94. 14. Wolf, Encomion, 516. 15. Carlsson, “Springbrunnen,” 54–55. For comparisons of the Danish straits to the Mediterranean ones, see Pontanus, Rerum Danicarum, 726, and Jensen, “Johann David Wunderers ‘Reysse,’” 141. 16. The verse is transcribed in Larsson, “Bemerkungen zur Bildhauerkunst am dänischen Hofe,” 179, where there is important commentary. 17. Stiernhielm, Poetiska skrifter, 1:7–26; Malm, “Rhetoric, Morals, and Patriotism.” 18. Ellenius, Karolinska bildidéer, 44. 19. Kongsted, Kronborg-Brunnen. 20. Smith, German Sculpture, 241. 21. Ludwig, “Der Humanist Heinrich Rantzau”; Lohmeier, Heinrich Rantzau, with further references. 22. Thoren, Lord of Uraniborg. 23. Christianson, On Tycho’s Island, 284–87. 24. Thoren, Lord of Uraniborg, 99, 133–35. 25. Ibid., esp. 105–15, 144–50; Johannsen, “Arkitektur på papir.” 26. Androuet du Cerceau, Le premier volume, includes a plan of Chambord. However, the first installment was published in the year in which Frederik II deeded Hven to Brahe, after which construction probably began very soon. Although copies of du Cerceau’s work almost certainly circulated in Denmark, they probably became available only after work had begun on Uraniborg. 27. A number of extant descriptions of the fountain date from the late sixteenth century, but none provides for a more precise identification of the figure. They are collected in Beckett, Uraniborg, 33n10. 28. Brahe, Epistolae Astronomicae; Brahe, Astronomiae Instauratae Mechanica. See Tychonis Brahe Opera Omnia, vols. 5–8, and Zeeberg, “Inscriptions.” 29. For Van der Schardt, see Honnens de Lichtenberg, Johan Gregor van der Schardt; Scholten, “Johan Gregor van der Schardt”; and Neville, “Johan Gregor van der Schardt”—all with further references. 30. Schoch, Kunst des Sammelns. 31. Larsson, “Imitation und Variation,” 279. 32. Böckem, Jacopo de’ Barbari, 88–93. 33. Honnens de Lichtenberg, Johan Gregor van der Schardt, 20.

34. Larsson, “Merkur auf Stjärneborg.” 35. For the inventory of Rudolf II’s collection, see Bauer and Haupt, “Das Kunstkammerinventar Kaiser Rudolfs II.”; for the 1652 inventory of Christina’s collection, see Geffroy, Notices et extraits, 120–93. 36. Wanscher, Kronborgs Historie, 139. 37. Böttiger, Bronsarbeten, 20; Olausson, “En dansk Adriaen de Vries,” 177. 38. Burk, “‘Quo me fata vocant,’” 68–69. 39. Fischer, Melchior Lorck. 40. Lorck, Wolgerissene und geschnittene Figuren. 41. Fischer, Melchior Lorck, 1:106–7. 42. Heiberg, “Samtidige portrætter,” 189–91; Heiberg, Danske portrætter, 81; Fischer, Melchior Lorck, 1:43, 136. 43. Duchhardt, Protestantisches Kaisertum, 69–81; Lockhart, Frederik II, 87–90, 255. 44. Fischer, Melchior Lorck, 1:107–12.

Ch a pt er 4 1. Heiberg, Christian IV and Europe; Lockhart, Denmark in the Thirty Years’ War; Heiberg, Christian 4.—en europæisk statsmand. 2. Römelingh, “Christian IV and the Dutch Republic.” 3. Larsson, Adrian de Vries, 67–75; Frits Scholten and Thomas DaCosta Kaufmann, “The Neptune Fountain,” in Scholten, Adriaen de Vries, 218–29; Christensen, “Adriaen de Vries’ Neptunspringvand.” 4. Scholten and Kaufmann, “Neptune Fountain,” 218. 5. Eikelmann, Bella figura. 6. Larsson, “Die Brunnen auf Schloss Frederiksborg,” 73. 7. Lietzmann, Herzog Heinrich Julius; Luckhardt, Hofkunst der Spätrenaissance. 8. Larsson, Adrian de Vries in Schaumburg. 9. Borggrefe and Fusenig, “Pieter Isaacsz,” 301. 10. Slange, Geschichte Christian des Vierten, 2:239. 11. Watson and Avery, “Medici and Stuart”; Warren, “Giambologna in Inghilterra”; Syndram, Woelk, and Minning, Giambologna in Dresden. 12. Friis, Bidrag, 211–12. 13. Avery, “François Dieussart”; Neville, “Christian IV’s Italianates,” with further references. 14. Steneberg, Kristinatidens måleri, 61–62. 15. G. Krause, Tagebuch Christians, 97. 16. Avery, “François Dieussart,” 78. 17. Peta, “Equestrian Bronzes.” 18. Liedtke, Royal Horse and Rider. 19. Noldus, “Art and Music on Demand.” 20. Borggrefe and Fusenig, “Pieter Isaacsz.” For the question of Van Doordt in England, see Millar, “Some Painters and Charles I.”

52. Skovgaard, King’s Architecture; Roding, Christiaan IV. 53. Berg, Kurtze und eigentliche Beschreibung. 54. This is evident from descriptions written before the 1859 fire: Høyen, “Frederiksborg Slot”; Rasbech, Frederiksborg Slots Beskrivelse. 55. Wanscher, Rosenborgs Historie; Roding, Christiaan IV, 41–61; Hein, Johansen, and Kristiansen, Christian 4. og Rosenborg. 56. Wadum, “Winter Room.” 57. Spohr, “Concealed Music.” 58. For Frederiksborg, see esp. Beckett, Frederiksborg II, and Heiberg, Christian 4. og Frederiksborg. 59. Stevin, Materiae Politicae. See Van den Heuvel, “De Huysbou,” 7–8, 158–60. 60. De Jonge, “Standardizing ‘Antique’ Architecture,” 48–49. For the position of the architect in the Low Countries more generally, see Ottenheym, “Rise of a New Profession,” and De Jonge, “Court Architect as Artist.” 61. Dijksterhuis, Simon Stevin; Crone and Dijksterhuis, Principal Works. 62. Taverne, In ’t land van belofte, 81–94; Roding, Christiaan IV, 88–90. 63. Bartetzky, Die Baumeister der “Deutschen Renaissance.” 64. Bartetzky, Das Grosse Zeughaus in Danzig; Bartetzky, “Antonis van Obberghen.” 65. Beckett, Frederiksborg II, 51–52. 66. Steenberg, Christian IVs Frederiksborg, 21. 67. Lassen, “Bidrag,” 575–76. 68. For a critical review of the issue, see Neumann, “Die Baukunst Christians IV.,” and Neumann, “Schloss Frederiksborg.” 69. Wanscher, Christian 4.s Bygninger, esp. 42–43, and, in a more moderate way, Langberg, Danmarks bygningskultur, 1:156–57. 70. Berg, Kurtze und eigentliche Beschreibung, unpaginated. 71. Warnke, Könige als Künstler. 72. Moe, “Italian Music.” 73. See Bach-Nielsen et al., Danmark og renæssancen, and Andersen, Johannsen, and Johannsen, Reframing the Danish Renaissance. 74. In the Danish context, see Ottenheym, “Hendrick de Keyser and Denmark.” 75. Wittkower, Gothic vs. Classic; Kavaler, Renaissance Gothic. 76. Kubler, Building the Escorial, 45–56; Rivera Blanco, Juan Bautista de Toledo y Felipe II; Wilkinson-Zerner, Juan de Herrera, 84–115. 77. Chueca Goitia, “La influencia de los Países Bajos”; De Jonge, “Netherlandish Model?”

Notes to Pages 73–90

21. Roding and Stompé, Pieter Isaacsz; Noldus and Roding, Pieter Isaacsz; Borggrefe and Fusenig, “Pieter Isaacsz.” 22. Van Mander, Lives, 1:420–23. 23. Noldus and Roding, Pieter Isaacsz, 290. 24. Mikael Bøgh Rasmussen, “Portrait of Christian IV,” in Noldus and Roding, Pieter Isaacsz, 274. Cf. Lyschander, Triumphus Calmariensis. 25. Badeloch Noldus, “Mars, Venus, and Amor,” in Noldus and Roding, Pieter Isaacsz, 267. Borggrefe, “Pieter Isaacsz,” 50–53, argues that Isaacsz was in Prague around 1601. 26. Kaufmann, School of Prague; Prag um 1600; Fučíková, Rudolf II and Prague; Konečný, Rudolf II. 27. Pontanus, Rerum Danicarum, 728. The Chorographica is a semi-independent text appended to Rerum Danicarum. 28. Kaufmann, School of Prague, 105–15. 29. Larsson, “Bemerkungen zur Bildhauerkunst am rudolfinischen Hofe”; Larsson, “Bemerkungen zur Eigenart.” 30. Vignau-Wilberg, Joris und Jacob Hoefnagel, 461–72. 31. Duchhardt, Protestantisches Kaisertum, 69–81; Lockhart, Frederik II, 87–90, 255. 32. Lockhart, “Denmark and the Empire,” 408. 33. Fischer, “Eine Zeichnung.” 34. Johannsen, “Slotskirken,” 150. It is here identified incorrectly as the imperial crown. 35. Lockhart, “Religion and Princely Liberties,” 9. 36. Eller, Kongelige portrætmalere; Roding, Karel van Mander III. 37. Eller, Kongelige portrætmalere, 155–56. 38. This discussion is based on Johannsen, “Christian IV’s Private Oratory.” 39. G. Krause, Tagebuch Christians, 95; Ogier, Ephemerides, 47; Stein, “Christian IV’s Programme”; Stein, Billedverden, 21–55. 40. Roding, “Seven Ages of Man.” 41. Stein, “Marble Gallery”; Kragelund, “Olympens guder.” 42. Schepelern and Houkjær, Kronborg Series. 43. Friis, Samlinger, 361–62. 44. Houkjær, “Kronborg Series,” 10. 45. Friis, Samlinger, 364. 46. Schepelern and Houkjær, Kronborg Series, 66–69. 47. Lind, “Christian 4.s tapeter.” 48. Worm, Runir; Worm, Danicorum Monumentorum. See Malm, Minervas äpple, 35–42, and Bach-Nielsen, “Hieroglyphs of the North.” 49. Skovgaard-Petersen, Historiography, 166–69. 50. Avery, “François Dieussart,” 63; Judson and Ekkart, Gerrit van Honthorst, 46. 51. See esp. Meyssens, Image de divers hommes, and the elaborated variant, De Bie, Het gulden cabinet.

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78. Berg, Kurtze und eigentliche Beschreibung, unpaginated. 79. De Jonge, “Netherlandish Model?” 80. Beckett, Frederiksborg II., 29–32; Agerbæk, “Børsen og sparepenge”; Beyer, “Lysthusene.” 81. Grinder-Hansen, “‘Im Grünen.’” 82. Checa, Felipe II, 71–109; De Jonge, “Netherlandish Models from the Habsburg Sphere.” 83. Jiménez Díaz, El coleccionismo manierista, esp. 35–60, 131–37, with further references. 84. Petersen, “Frederiksborg Slots Inventarium,” 143–44; Lockhart, Frederik II, 89. The images in the king’s bedroom appear in an inventory taken in 1650, two years after Christian’s death, but based in part on an inventory of 1636. 85. De Jonge, “Netherlandish Model?,” 222.

Notes to Pages 90–112

Ch a pt er 5

182

1. Roberts, Swedish Imperial Experience; Fiedler, “Königin Christina”; North, Baltic, 117–44. 2. Larsson, Gustav Vasa. 3. Van Mander, Lives, 1:202–5. 4. Woldbye, “Flemish Tapestry Weavers”; Gillgren, Vasarenässansen, 56–83. Hahr, Villem Boy. Cynthia Osiecki is preparing a dissertation on Willem Boy at the University of Greifswald. 5. Hall, Stockholm. 6. Noldus, Trade in Good Taste, 56–84. 7. Steneberg, “Ett Gustav Adolfporträtt”; Steneberg, “Ett Maria Eleonora-porträtt”; Vignau-Wilberg, Joris und Jacob Hoefnagel, 461–72. 8. Brummer, “Minerva of the North,” 86. 9. Feuchtmayr and Schädler, Georg Petel, 125–27, 139–41, 149–50; Kranz, “Georg Petel,” 136–41. 10. Boström, Det underbara skåpet. 11. McKeown, “Reformed and Godly Leader.” 12. Cavalli-Björkman, “La collection de la reine,” with further references. 13. Trevor-Roper, Plunder of the Arts; Tauss, “Looting of Art.” 14. Lohmeier, “Das ikonographische Programm,” 235. 15. Meyer, Die Hauschronik, 36, 88; Karling, Matthias Holl. 16. Eimer, Carl Gustaf Wrangel, 69. 17. Nordberg, De la Vallée; Ottenheym, “Passion for Building.” 18. Wetterberg, Kanslern Axel Oxenstierna. 19. Neville, Nicodemus Tessin, 31–60, 78–91. 20. Noldus, “Spider in Its Web,” with further references. 21. Cools, Keblusek, and Noldus, Your Humble Servant; Keblusek and Noldus, Double Agents. 22. Noldus, “Loyalty and Betrayal”; Noldus, “Peter Spierinck”; Veldman, “Portrait of an Art Collector.”

23. Thieme-Becker, 31:373. 24. De Boer, “Balthazar Gerbier”; Keblusek, “Cultural and Political Brokerage.” 25. Eimer, Carl Gustaf Wrangel; Losman, Carl Gustaf Wrangel och Europa; Losman, “Carl Gustaf Wrangel, Skokloster, and Europe.” 26. Spies, Schloß Johannisburg in Aschaffenburg, 21. 27. Eimer, Carl Gustaf Wrangel, 129–31. 28. Rydboholmssamling E 8110, Riksarkivet, Stockholm; Ellenius, Karolinska bildidéer, 37–54. 29. Lüdemann, Carmen Eucharisticon; Neville, Nicodemus Tessin, 106–8. 30. Sandrart, “Lebenslauf,” 18. 31. Asker, Karl X Gustav, with further references. 32. Klemm, Joachim von Sandrart, 177–78, 183–91. 33. Larsson, European Bronzes, 64–65; Hauschke, “Messingguss und Eisenschnitt,” 256–58, 473, with further references. 34. Hauschke, “Messingguss und Eisenschnitt,” 256–58. 35. Larsson, European Bronzes, 52–55. 36. Kranz, “Georg Petel,” 136–41. 37. Granberg, Svenska konstsamlingarnas historia, 1:53– 54; Barock in Nürnberg, 110–11. 38. Neudörfer, Nachrichten, 206–8. See Bange, “Beiträge zu Georg Schweigger,” and Schuster, “Georg Schweigger,” 9, 108–11, 130. 39. Barock in Nürnberg, 117; Schuster, “Georg Schweigger,” 101–8, catalogue pp. 29–31. 40. Klemm, Joachim von Sandrart, 183–84. 41. D’Hulst, Jacob Jordaens, 30. The pictures are untraced. 42. Rosell and Bennett, Kalmar domkyrka; Ellehag, Jean de la Vallée, 48–67. 43. Rystad, “Magnus Gabriel de la Gardie”; Ljungström, Venngarn, with further references. 44. Karling, Trädgårdskonstens historia, 285–314; Karling, “Importance of André Mollet.” 45. Mollet, Le jardin de plaisir. 46. De Jong, “Une affaire de goût,” 305–6. 47. Magalotti, Relazioni, 323. 48. Ljungström, Venngarn, 47–53. 49. D.N. Jesu Christi SS. Evangelia ab Ulfila Gothorum; McKeown, “Recovering the Codex Argenteus.” De la Gardie gave the library other early texts and documents pertaining to Gothic history. 50. Hansson, “Lament of the Swedish Language.” 51. Norris, Pilgrimage to the Past; Eriksson, Rudbeck, 1630–1702, 85–189. 52. Schück, Kungliga vitterhets historie och antikvitets akademien. This was a reorganization and expansion of an office established in 1630 with the appointment of Johannes Bureus as state antiquarian. 53. Jägerskiöld, “Samuel von Pufendorf in Schweden.”

54. Pufendorf, Commentariorum; Pufendorf, De Rebus a Carolo Gustav. 55. Blekastad, Comenius; Murphy, Comenius. 56. Wetterberg, Kanslern Axel Oxenstierna, 2:990. 57. Comenius, Panegyricus. 58. Lindberg, “Die gelehrte Kultur.”

Ch a pt er 6

Notes to Pages 112–125

1. Masson, Queen Christina; Buckley, Christina; Rodén, Drottning Christina. 2. Félibien, Entretiens, 4:243. 3. Cavalli-Björkman, “La collection de la reine,” 301. 4. Bulst, “Die Antiken-Sammlungen”; Cavalli-Björkman, “La collection de la reine,” 299. 5. Neville, Nicodemus Tessin, 48. 6. Nordberg, “Slottets historia,” 244–73; Donnelly, “Theaters.” 7. Brummer, “Till belysning.” 8. De Raymond, La reine et le philosophe; Nordin, Drottningen och filosofen. 9. Blok, Isaac Vossius, 268. 10. Farago, Re-reading Leonardo. 11. Félibien, Entretiens, 4:240–68. Guillet de SaintGeorges’s recollections are published in Dussieux et al., Mémoires inédits, 1:87–103. See also Ponsonailhe, Sébastien Bourdon, 91–144, and Thuillier, Sébastien Bourdon, 92, 117–18. 12. Danielsson, “Sébastien Bourdon’s Equestrian Portrait”; Bodart, “Le portrait équestre.” 13. Van Bleysewijk, Beschryvinge der Stadt Delft, 2:854– 55; Steneberg, Kristinatidens måleri, 59–76, 129–54. 14. Meyssens, Image de divers hommes, 18. This is repeated in the derivative work by De Bie, Het gulden cabinet, 160–61. 15. Sandrart, Teutsche Academie, 1:310–11. 16. Van den Vondel, Poëzy, 206–9, 549. 17. D’Hulst, Jacob Jordaens, 29–30. 18. Haskell, Patrons and Painters, 126; Noldus, “Spider in Its Web,” 172. 19. Bjurström, “Christina and Contemporary Art”; Borsellino, “Cristina di Svezia collezionista”; Montanari, “Il cardinale Decio Azzolino”; Van Tuyll van Serooskerken, “Königin Christina als Sammlerin,” 220–22. 20. Passeri, Vite, 339–40. 21. Cavalli-Björkman, “Christina Portraits.” 22. Kernkamp, Verslag van een onderzoek, 53–54; Noldus, “Spider in Its Web,” 172–76. 23. Steneberg, “Court ‘Parnassus’”; Becker, “Zu Vondels Gedichten.” Van den Vondel knew Le Blon through literary circles in Amsterdam. 24. Gustafsson, “Amor et Mars vaincus”; Dahlberg, “Theatre Around Queen Christina,” 171–72; Fogelberg Rota, “Queen Christina’s Heroic Virtue,” 4–5.

25. Elvira Barba, “Las Musas de Cristina”; Biermann, Von der Kunst abzudanken, 127–28, 224, with further references. 26. Bildt, “Cristina di Svezia,” 25–27. The translation is slightly condensed. 27. Meijer and Van Tuyll van Serooskerken, Disegni italiani; Montanari, “Precisazioni”; Bjurström, “Christina’s Collection.” 28. Cavalli-Björkman, “La collection de la reine.” 29. Magalotti, Relazioni, 122n63, 291. The 1660 survey of the palace specifies: “noted with [number] 37 is the Kunstkammer where a number of rarities are kept,” and “38 is a square room, where a group of pictures and paintings [Skillerij och målninger] is kept.” Quoted in Granberg, Svenska konstsamlingarnas historia, 1:92. The 1660 plan is illustrated in Olsson, Stockholms slotts historia, vol. 1, plate 4. 30. See Granberg, Svenska konstsamlingarnas historia, 2:98–104, passim, for discussion of other collections in Sweden after Christina’s abdication. 31. Planiscig, Die Bronzeplastiken, 128; Scholten, Adriaen de Vries, 109–11, 140–43, 159–161, 172–78; Granberg, Svenska konstsamlingarnas historia, 1:50, 102 (where the Schöpfer is attributed to Ludwig Refinger); De Coo, Museum Mayer van den Bergh, 33. 32. Avery, “Giambologna’s ‘Bathsheba’”; Avery, Giambologna, 154, 168, 256, 261. 33. Seitz, “Jürgen Ovens’ kröningsvision”; Drees, “Höfische Kultur,” 66; Köster, Jürgen Ovens, 74–79. For Hedwig Eleonora, see Skogh, Material Worlds, and Neville and Skogh, Queen Hedwig Eleonora. 34. Alm, “Tre noggrant examinerade drottningkandidater,” 113; Asker, Karl X Gustav, 148. 35. Block, Jeremias Falck, 186–88. 36. Roosval, “Ett nyfunnet Kristina-porträt”; Schmidt, Jürgen Ovens, 177. The picture is otherwise untraced. 37. Skogh, Material Worlds, 143–47. For context, see Ellenius, Karolinska bildidéer, 19–22, and Neville and Skogh, introduction to Queen Hedwig Eleonora. Kjell Wangensteen is preparing a dissertation on Ehrenstrahl at Princeton University. 38. Ehrenstrahl, Die vornehmste Schildereyen, 12–14. 39. See, however, Jarlert, “Hedwig Eleonora.” 40. Waldén, Nicolaes Millich. 41. Alm and Millhagen, Drottningholms slott. 42. Neville, Nicodemus Tessin. 43. Neville and Skogh, introduction to Queen Hedwig Eleonora, 7–8. 44. Nils Olofsson to Carl Gustaf Wrangel, 14 March 1663, Skoklostersamlingen E 8437, Riksarkivet, Stockholm, cited in Sirén, Gamla Stockholmshus, 1:64. 45. Lindahl, “Läckö.” 46. Cited in Ellehag, Fem svenska stormanshem, 114.

183

Notes to Pages 125–145

184

47. In the Swedish edition of his treatise, for instance, Mollet suggested substituting lingon bushes for boxwood. See De Jong, “Of Plants and Gardeners,” 50. 48. Olausson, “Tessin and Le Nôtre”; Olausson, “Le Nôtre.” 49. Wollin, Drottningholms lustträdgård, 327–30. 50. Steneberg, “Court ‘Parnassus’”; Snickare, “Trapphuset”; and other essays in Alm and Millhagen, Drottningholms slott. 51. Ellenius, Karolinska bildidéer, 55–142; Olin, Det karolinska porträttet. 52. Magnusson, “Lemkes bataljmålningar.” 53. Laine, “Most Important Events.” 54. Larsson, European Bronzes, 52, 64; Skogh, Material Worlds, 73–147. 55. Waldén, Nicolaes Millich, 100–102. 56. Messenius, Disa. 57. The female allegory of Magnanimity is partially conflated with Divine Justice. See Ripa, Iconologia, 229– 30, 294–96, 300, 359–60, 364. 58. Waldén, Nicolaes Millich, 101n5. 59. Ljungström, “Drottning höjd.” 60. Herodotus, Histories 1.205–216; Jordanes, Getica (Gothic History) 61–62. 61. Procopius, History of the Wars 5.2.1–29. See Vitiello, Amalasuintha. 62. Hodgkin, Letters of Cassiodorus, 423. 63. O. Magnus, Description of the Northern Peoples, 1:278–79. 64. For a different interpretation of this aspect of the Drottningholm staircase, see Alm, “‘Beqvämligheet och skiönheet,’” 211–14. 65. Waldén, Nicolaes Millich, 98–100, 130–32. 66. Jordis, Stockholms Parnas, 15. 67. Ellenius, Karolinska bildidéer, 17–19; Dahlbäck, Ehrenstrahl, 63–64. 68. It is probably the picture described in the 1719 Drottningholm inventory as “a [painting] of three goddesses of art (presenting painting), with a gilded frame.” Böttiger, Hedvig Eleonoras Drottningholm, 105. 69. Ehrenstrahl, Certamen Equestre; Rangström, “Karl XI:s karusell.” 70. Neville, Nicodemus Tessin, 211–12. 71. Olin and Snickare, “Arte e politica,” 97. 72. Neville, Nicodemus Tessin, 117–50; Neville, “Hedwig Eleonora.” 73. Neville, Nicodemus Tessin, 243–45. 74. Stockholms magistrat och rådhusrätt, Kungliga brev, E 1a:5, letter #113, 7 July 1674, Stadsarkivet, Stockholm. 75. Ellenius, Karolinska bildidéer, 37. 76. Müller, Merchant Houses, 169. 77. Sjöblom, Ehrenstrahl, 18; Weimarck, Akademi och anatomi.

78. Pevsner, Academies of Art; Boschloo et al., Academies of Art. 79. Fuchs and Salling, Kunstakademiet. 80. Ellenius, De Arte Pingendi. 81. Heck, Théorie et pratique, 38. 82. Riksregistraturet, vol. 410, fols. 577r–580r, 20 July 1674, Riksarkivet, Stockholm; Neville, Nicodemus Tessin, 164–67. 83. Ehrenstrahl, Die vornehmste Schildereyen, 33–34. See Ellenius, Karolinska bildidéer, 11–19, and Wangensteen, “Hedwig Eleonora as Patron.” 84. Sandrart, Teutsche Academie, 2:334–35, 2:347. 85. Gerstl, “Joachim von Sandrarts Teutsche Academie.”

Ch a pt er 7 1. Josephson, Nicodemus Tessin d. y.; Snickare, Tessin— Nicodemus Tessin the Younger. 2. Upton, Charles XI. 3. Tessin, Traictè, 213; Snickare and Olin, “Collector and Organizer”; Hinners, De fransöske handtwerkarne, 116–18, 394. 4. Tessin, Traictè, 216. 5. Lindahl, “Architectural Career.” 6. Snickare, Enväldets riter; Stork, Geregeltes Vergnügen. 7. Olsson, Stockholms slotts historia. 8. Josephson, “Det tessinska slottet”; Vahlne, “Tessin d.y. och slottet Tre Kronor.” 9. Tessin, Travel Notes, 401–3; Lorenz, “Tradition oder ‘Moderne’?”; Bøggild Johannsen, “Appropriating Anachronism.” 10. Tessin, Observationer, 72. 11. Tessin, Traictè, 107. 12. Vahlne, “Tessin d.y. och slottet Tre Kronor,” 100–101. 13. Hinners, De fransöske handtwerkarne, here 49–50. Much of Tessin’s correspondence with Cronström is published in Weigert and Hernmark, Les relations artistiques. 14. Hinners, De fransöske handtwerkarne, 253–59. 15. Tessin, Travel Notes, 179–81. 16. Le soleil et l’étoile du nord, 48–49; Olin, Det karolinska porträttet, 128–32; Hinners, De fransöske handtwerkarne, 253–59—all with further literature. 17. Böttiger, En krönika, 20; Böttiger, “Inredningarna,” 215, 279n6. 18. Josephson, Tessins slottsomgivning. 19. For an interpretation of the aristocratic building projects from the middle of the century as a republican challenge to the Crown, see Bedoire, Guldålder. 20. The House of the Nobility, a meeting place for the aristocracy built around midcentury, falls outside of the surviving plans for the remaking of the city. However, Tessin evidently intended to expand the square before it. See Josephson, Tessins slottsomgivning, 116–17.

53. Hinterkeuser, Das Berliner Schloss; Holland, Johann Friedrich Eosander. 54. Hinterkeuser, Das Berliner Schloss, 29–30. 55. Neville, “Royal and Roman.” 56. Du Colombier, “Antoine Pesne,” 37. 57. Kuke, Jean de Bodt, 27. 58. Josephson, Tessin i Danmark, 73. 59. Connors, “Alliance and Enmity.” 60. Josephson, “Det tessinska slottet,” 71–72, 139. The embankments were raised before the new bridge was built, nullifying the low profile planned by Tessin. 61. Heckmann, Pöppelmann, 42–101; Marx, Pöppelmann, 138–96. 62. Bjurström, “Johan Sylvius.” 63. Sophie Charlotte, 328–31. 64. Snickare, Enväldets riter, 83–129, 191–94; Holland, Johann Friedrich Eosander, 142–50. 65. Döring, “Samuel von Pufendorfs Berufung.” 66. Pufendorf, De Rebus Gestis Friderici Wilhelmi Magni; Pufendorf, De Rebus a Carolo Gustav Sveciae Rege Gestis. Pufendorf seems to have gone to Berlin with a fair copy of the text on Carl X Gustaf in his possession. 67. Moraw, “Kaiser und Geschichtschreiber,” 169. 68. Hinterkeuser, “Blick nach Europa,” 254. 69. Lorenz, “Die Baupolitik August des Starken,” 293–94. 70. Heckmann, Pöppelmann, 42–101. 71. Langberg, “Tessins Amalienborg.” 72. Schneider and Wolf, Louis Remy de la Fosse, 41–43. 73. Persson, “Space for Ceremony.” 74. Lorenz, “Pöppelmann,” 171–72. 75. Neville, “Early Reception”; Kieven, “Fischer von Erlach.” 76. Hager, “Carlo Fontana.” 77. Lorenz, “‘Vienna Gloriosa.’” 78. Kleiner, Residences memorables; Lorenz and Weigl, Das barocke Wien. 79. Iby and Koller, Schönbrunn, 63. 80. The passage is altered somewhat for legibility. The original is published in Kühn, “Notizen und Nachrichten.” 81. Iby and Koller, Schönbrunn, 63–65. 82. Hantsch, “Aufenthalt in Berlin”; Sedlmayr, Fischer von Erlach, 207–9. 83. Sedlmayr, Fischer von Erlach, 223–25. 84. Ibid., 280–300. 85. Polleroß, “Romanitasa in der habsburgischen Repräsentation”; Polleroß, “Geschichte als Mythos.” 86. Lorenz, Fischer von Erlach, 11; Sladek, “Fischer von Erlach.” 87. Kuke, Jean de Bodt, 72–83. 88. Hallström, “En Stockholmskyrka”; Neville, “Early Reception.” 89. Baudez, “Monument to Peter the Great.”

Notes to Pages 145–161

21. Josephson, L’architecte de Charles XII, 47–87; Walton, “Tessin as Diplomat.” 22. For a different view, see the entries by Dee in Dee and Walton, Versailles, 96–100. 23. This is the argument of Walton, “Tessin as Diplomat.” 24. Feif, “Bref till Kongl. Rådet,” 137, 151, 154, 177. 25. Josephson, “Karl XI och Karl XII,” and the critique by Olin, “Tessin’s Project,” which I have partly followed here. 26. Weigert and Hernmark, Les relations artistiques, 376. 27. Lindahl, “Architectural Career,” 31–32. 28. Tessin and Haton, Arx Regia Holmiae. 29. Josephson, “Det tessinska slottet,” 35. 30. Theatri Europaei, 293–94. The review was written by Johann Friedrich Eosander von Göthe, considered below. 31. Tessin, Travel Notes, 68. 32. For these and other examples, see Neville, “Schlüter—Tessin—Fischer von Erlach.” 33. Prange, Salomon Kleiner; Michaela Völkel, Das Bild vom Schloss. 34. Josephson, Tessin i Danmark, 27–75; Snickare, “Three Royal Palaces.” 35. Josephson, Tessin i Danmark, 37–39; Langberg, “Tessins Amalienborg.” 36. Josephson, Tessin i Danmark, 27–30. 37. Waldén, Nicolaes Millich, 161–73; Bøggild Johannsen and Johanssen, Ny dansk kunsthistorie, 2:190–96. 38. Hinterkeuser, “Visions of Power,” 25. 39. Kessler, Andreas Schlüter, 59–61. 40. Waldén, Nicolaes Millich, 161–73; Ljungström, Venngarn, 58–61, 95–98. 41. Josephson, “Det tessinska slottet,” 62. 42. Lorenz, Domenico Martinelli, 62–66, 88–90, 174–75; Schmidt and Syndram, Unter einer Krone; Windt, Lind, and Gröschel, Preußen 1701. 43. U. Keller, Reitermonumente; Ziegler, Der Sonnenkönig, 116–32. 44. Hinterkeuser, “Visions of Power”; Kessler, “Das Reiterdenkmal.” 45. Markus Völkel, “Margravate of Brandenburg,” 220. 46. Friedrich and Smart, Cultivation of Monarchy, 227. 47. Watanabe-O’Kelly, Court Culture in Dresden, 134. 48. Besser, Preussische Krönungs-Geschichte, translated in Friedrich and Smart, Cultivation of Monarchy; Duchhardt, “Die preußische Königskrönung”; Baumgart, “Die preußische Königskrönung.” 49. Hinterkeuser, Das Berliner Schloss, 113. 50. Lorenz, Domenico Martinelli, 64. 51. Peschken, Das königliche Schloß, 1:124. 52. F.-E. Keller, “Planvorschläge Nicodemus Tessins”; Hinterkeuser, “Von der Maison de plaisance.” No documentation confirms that Tessin went to Berlin in 1698.

185

90. Czok, August der Starke, 65. 91. Schlechte, “Hercules Saxonicus”; Lorenz, “Die ‘gleich­sam redenden Bildungen.’” 92. Lorenz, “Imperial Hofburg.” 93. Dufour, “Tessin and Roissy.”

E pilogue

Notes to Pages 162–176

1. Olin, Det karolinska porträttet, 201–4. 2. Beckett, Frantz Clein; Howarth, “Southampton Album.” 3. Faber, Caius Gabriel Cibber; Whinney, Sculpture in Britain, 48–51. 4. Holland, Johann Friedrich Eosander; Wahlberg Liljeström, Att följa decorum, 207–11. 5. Olin, Det karolinska porträttet, 189–93. 6. Eckardt, Johann Gottfried Schadow, 53–57; Kragelund, “Abildgaard and Schadow in Copenhagen.” 7. See esp. Roling, “Rudbeck and Oriental Studies,” and Roling, Odins Imperium. For a very different interpretation of Gothicism in England in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, see Kliger, Goths in England. 8. Weidner, Jakob Philipp Hackert; Jakob Philipp Hackert: Europas Landschaftsmaler. 9. Forssman, “Hackert und Schweden”; Sjöberg, “Hackert in Sweden.” 10. Goethe, “Philipp Hackert,” 418. 11. Weidner, Jakob Philipp Hackert, 95–103. 12. Busch, “Der Rügen-Mythos.” 13. Zschoche, Caspar David Friedrichs Rügen; Leppien, “Friedrich und Pommern.” For detailed discussion of Friedrich’s drawings, see Grummt, Caspar David Friedrich. 14. Variants of this narrative appear in nearly every work on Friedrich. I have relied on Koerner, Caspar David Friedrich, 76–94. See also Holmes, Kosegarten’s Cultural Legacy. 15. Vaughan, Friedrich, 165. 16. Koerner, Caspar David Friedrich, 50. 17. Weimarck, Akademi och anatomi. 18. Fuchs and Salling, Kunstakademiet. 19. Kragelund, Abildgaard; Howoldt and Gassner, Nicolai Abildgaard.

186

20. Lederballe, “Nicolai Abildgaard.” For the Ossianic texts, see Moore, Ossian and Ossianism, and Gaskill, Reception of Ossian. 21. Malling, Store og gode Handlinger. See Bertsch, “Akademische Prägungen?,” 18. 22. Ohlsen, “Friedrichs und Dahls Studienzeit.” 23. Koerner, Caspar David Friedrich, 81. 24. Erlandsen and Kryger, Johann Christoph Petzoldt. 25. Roettgen, Anton Raphael Mengs, 2:74. 26. Weisheit-Possél, Adrian Zingg; Kuhlmann-Hodick, Schnitzer, and von Waldkirch, Adrian Zingg. 27. Cited in Hinz, Caspar David Friedrich, 204–5. 28. Davies, Allart van Everdingen. 29. Busch, “Der Rügen-Mythos,” 64; Maisak, “Der Zeichner Goethe,” 110; Maisak, Goethe: Zeichnungen, 108–9. 30. Cassirer, Künstlerbriefe, 207–9. For Dahl and Friedrich, see Kuhlmann-Hodick et al., Dahl und Friedrich. 31. Cassirer, Künstlerbriefe, 209. 32. Ahlund, “Nationalization of Nordic Nature”; Ahlund, “Wilderness Inside Drottningholm”; Neville, “Land of the Goths and Vandals.” 33. Quoted from Berman, In Another Light, 114. 34. Hedin, “Hieroglyphical Boulders.” See also a drawing by Lundbye dated 1844 (now in the Metropolitan Museum of Art) that portrays a figure (Lundbye himself?) sitting before a similar dolmen, with his head resting on his hand in a traditionally melancholy pose associated with artists. It is inscribed with a line from Longing for Death, a verse by Novalis (Georg Philipp Friedrich Freiherr von Hardenberg, 1772–1801) that takes up much larger themes of death and afterlife. 35. Worm, Danicorum Monumentorum, 8; Pedersen, “Jelling Monuments,” 289–92. 36. Werlauff, Udkast; Werlauff, “Ole Worms Fortienester.” 37. Goethe, “On German Architecture.” 38. Herder, Von deutscher Art und Kunst. 39. Arndt, Germanien und Europa, esp. 426. 40. Weber, “Das nordische Erbe,” and the important exhibition catalog in which it is published. See also Hafner, Norden und Nation.

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Index

Page numbers in italics indicate illustrations. Aachen, Hans von, 37, 74–75 Aarhus, 7, 44 Abildgaard, Nicolai, 170–71 absolutism in Denmark, 136 in France, 136 in Sweden; and the arts, 136–46, 154, 164; and reclamation of estates, 136, 164 Académie royale (Paris), 115, 153 academies, 59, 112–13 academies of arts, 132–33 in Augsburg, 132 in Berlin, 132, 153, 165, 167, 170 in Copenhagen, 132, 170–71, 173, 175 in Dresden, 132, 170–72 in Nuremberg, 132 in Paris (see Académie royale) in Rome (see Accademia di San Luca) in Stockholm, 132–33, 170 Teutsche Academie (see Teutsche Academie [Sandrart]) in Vienna, 132, 165, 170 Accademia di San Luca (Rome), 161 Adam of Bremen, 26 Adils, mythical Swedish king, 80 Adolf Fredrik, king of Sweden, 167 Aestii, 16 Aethiopica (Heliodorus of Emesa), 80 agents, art, 3, 34, 124 diplomats as, 59, 102, 114, 124, 126, 140

employment by Danish court, 48, 73, 77, 82 employment by Swedish court, 101–3, 114, 124, 126, 140 See also diplomacy, arts and Alba, Fernando Álvarez de Toledo y Pimentel, duke of, 22 Albrecht I, duke of Prussia, 38–39, 41 tomb of, 41, 43, 47–48 Alcázar (Madrid), 92, 115 Aldegrever, Heinrich, 38 Alexander the Great, king of Macedonia, 75 Alessi, Galeazzo, 90 Ållonö manor (near Norrköping, Sweden), 23–24, 24 Amalasuntha, queen of the Goths, 128–30 Amalienborg Palace (Copenhagen), 147–50, 148, 154, 157 Amsterdam art market in, 101, 114 as artistic center, 52, 73, 116, 150, 174 Danish court and, 36, 57, 74, 77–78, 85 imperial court and, 37, 75 as publishing center, 80, 99 Swedish court and, 101, 114, 116, 124 town hall of, 116 Androuet du Cerceau, Jacques, 43, 88, 180n26 Anna of Bohemia and Hungary, 96 Anna of Denmark, electress of Saxony, 33, 38, 41, 46 Anne of Denmark, queen of Scotland and England, 10 Antwerp, 34 cultural exports, 34, 44, 52, 116 cultural exports to Baltic, 38–41 Danish court and, 38–39, 41, 51, 65, 83 guild of St. Luke, 22

Index

Antwerp (continued) portraiture, 22, 51, 65 as publishing center, 64, 66, 115 Swedish court and, 22, 51, 96, 115, 120, 122 Apelles, 75 Apollo Christina and, 106, 116–18, 126, 130 Hedwig Eleonora and, 106, 126–27, 130 Wrangel and, 105–6 Archimedes, 27 architect, definition of, 87–89, 131–32 See also building master, definition of architecture Gothic, 21, 90, 176 publication of, 23–24, 87–92, 146–47, 156–59 Arcimboldo, Giuseppe, 64, 66 Arctic Ocean, 6 Arndt, Ernst Moritz, 176 Ariosto, Ludovico, 119 Arthur, king of Britain, 27 Aschaffenburg, 103, 104, 105 Athalaric, king of the Goths, 128 Atlantica (Rudbeck), 17, 25–26, 112, 173 Atlantis, 17 Temple of Poseidon on, 25–26 Aubry, François, 141 Augsburg academy in (see academies of arts: Augsburg) cultural production in, 1, 57, 68–69 Gustaf II Adolf and, 98–100, 110 Augsburg, Peace of, 45 August, duke of Braunschweig-Lüneburg, 69 August, elector of Saxony, 33–34, 38, 44–45 Augustus the Strong, elector of Saxony and king of Poland, 4, 150–52, 157–58 Habsburgs and, 161–62 Augustusburg (near Chemnitz, Saxony), 34–35 Austria, xiii

208

Bach, Johann Sebastian, 2–3 Balducci, Francesco, 119 Baltic Sea, xiii, xiv, 6, 95, 166 as cultural region, 5, 11, 38, 48, 52, 92, 171 Danish dominion over, 6, 9, 49 Gothic polemics and, 17–18 Netherlandish presence in, 38, 48, 52 Romantic image of, 169 Swedish dominion over, 6, 9–10, 95, 106, 167 Barbari, Jacopo de’, 61 Barbaro, Daniele, 60 Barberini, Cardinal Francesco, 97 Batavians, 13–14 Bâtiments du Roi, 136, 140

Báthory, Stephen, king of Poland, 48 Bavaria, 4, 120, 162, 176 cultural production of, 1–2, 92, 165 See also Munich Beck, David and Christina, 103, 115–16, 115 and Oxenstierna, 101–3, 101 Beham, Hans Sebald, 38 Bellori, Giovan Pietro, 26 Belvedere (Prague), 99 Belvedere (Vienna), 158 Berg, Johan Adam, 88, 90 Berich, king of the Goths, 19 Berlin, 5, 12, 70, 82, 132, 165 academy in (see academies of arts: in Berlin) Fischer von Erlach and, 147 remaking as a royal capital, 2, 150–57, 161, 165 (see also royal palace [Berlin]) Bernini, Gianlorenzo, 11, 70, 158 Christina and, 118–19 Tessin the Younger and, 136, 145, 148, 156, 158 Besser, Johann von, 151 Bielke, Nils, 165 Binck, Jacob, 38–39, 39, 41, 95, 164 Bloemaert, Abraham, 80 Board of Antiquities (Sweden), 112, 175 Bodt, Jean de, 153, 161 Bohemia, 19, 21, 169, 172, 176 Denmark and, 76–77 Sweden and, 107 See also Prague Borgholm Castle (Öland, Sweden), 124 Borromeo, Carlo, 160 borrowing of artists. See lending of artists Bourdon, Sébastien, 115, plate 6 Boy, Willem, 96 Brahe, Tycho and Frederik II, 57–59, 66 and Labenwolf, 52 and Van der Schardt, 61, 69 Bramante, Donato, 2, 92 Brandin, Philipp, 39 Braniewo. See Braunsberg Braudel, Fernand, 5 Braunsberg, 99 Bremen, 10, 43 Breu, Jörg, 120 Bruegel, Pieter the Elder, 120 Brussels, 38 Buckingham, George Villiers, duke of, 101–2 Bugenhagen, Johannes, 31 building master, definition of, 87–88, 131–32 See also architect: definition of

Bureus, Laurentius, 112, 182n52 Burke, Edmund, 173

Index

Callot, Jacques, 4 Carissimi, Giacomo, 119 Carl IX, 10 Carl X Gustaf, king of Sweden, 63, 106–10, 107, 108, 124 biography by Pufendorf of, 112, 157 and Christina, 108–10, 113 commemoration of, 121, 127, 142 and Gustaf II Adolf, 107 and Hedwig Eleonora, 121–22, 127 and Nuremberg, 108–10 and occupation of Prague, 100, 108, 110–11 and reclamation of estates, 136 Carl XI, king of Sweden absolutism, introduction of, 136 accession ceremonies of, 22–23, 23, 123, 130 allegorical imagery of, 22–23, 23, 121–22, 127 portraits of, 127, 128, 139, 141–42, 141, 166, plate 8 and reclamation of estates, 136 reforms in the arts under, 132, 134 and royal palace, 138–39, 146 (see also royal palace [Stockholm], after 1697; Tessin the Younger) and Ulrica Eleonora, 148 Carl XII, king of Sweden and architecture, 145–46 and the royal palace, 139 and Tessin the Younger, 145–46, 149–50, 154 Carl Gustaf of Pfalz-Zweibrücken. See Carl X Gustaf Carlo di Cesare del Palagio, 46, 46 Caroline dynasty. See Carl X Gustaf; Carl XI; Carl XII; Hedwig Eleonora; Ulrica Eleonora Carove, Carlo, 130 Carove, Giovanni, 130 Carracci, Annibale, 120 Carstens, Asmus Jakob, 171 Carus, Carl Gustav, 172, 174 Cassiodorus, 27 Catholic League, 100 Central Europe cultural history, patterns of, 1–4, 176 definition of, xiii–xiv, 5–6, 176 Chambord (near Blois), 58 Charles I, king of England and Scotland, 70, 72, 102, 137 Charles V, Holy Roman Emperor, 20, 44, 92, 137, 160 Danish court and, 65, 93 Charles VI, Holy Roman Emperor. See Karl VI Charlottenburg Palace (Berlin), 153–57, 156 Chigi Palace (Rome), 148 Christian I, king of Denmark, 46 Christian II, king of Denmark, 29–30, 93

Christian III, king of Denmark, 3, 39, 64–65 and Kronborg, 49 and the Reformation, 1, 29–31 and the Saxon court, 33 tomb of, 41, 43–46, 48 and tomb of Frederik I, 38–41, 40 Christian IV, king of Denmark, 67–94, 71, 154, 163, plate 3 as architect, 88–89 and Bohemia, 76 derivations of his commissions, 77, 103 and Dresden, 34, 70 emulation of Frederik II as patron, 67 and England, 10, 70, 164 and Italian architecture, 89–92 and the Habsburg house, 93, 182n84 and Frederiksborg Palace, 51, 67, 83, 85–89, 86, plate 2 (see also Frederiksborg Palace) and Frederiksbog Palace chapel, 35–38, 77–78 and Koldinghus Castle, 34 and Kronborg Castle, 49, 51, 67, plate 2 (see also Kronborg Castle) and the Kronborg series, 79–83, 171 and music, 83–84, 89 portraits of, 51, 70–74, 71, 77, plate 5 and Rosenborg Palace, 83–85, 84, 85, 89 (see also Rosenborg Palace) and the Rosenborg series, 78–79, 79 and Rudolf II, 69, 75–77 and Pieter Spierinck, 102 Christian V, king of Denmark, 147–51, 149, 154 Christian, prince-elect of Denmark, 74, 89, plate 4 Christian of Anhalt, 78 Christiania, 83 Christianople, 83 Christianstad, 87 Christina, queen of Sweden, 113–20, 115, 117, plate 6 abdication of, 110, 112–13, 118–21 agents of, 102–3, 114, 116 and architecture, 114 and Carl X Gustaf, 108–10, 115 collection of, 97–98, 102, 113–14, 118–20 and contemporary art, 116, 118–19 and dance, 114, 118 and donations of lands, 135–36 and Hedwig Eleonora, 121 intellectuals at court of, 112–14 library of, 98, 113–14, 119 and literature, 114, 119 as Minerva, 116–18, 117, 121–22 in Rome, 113, 118–19 Sandrart and, 134 and Philip IV, 115, 119 and theater, 113–14, 118

209

Index

210

Chronicon (Cassiodorus), 27 Cibber, Caius (Kai) Gabriel, 164–65 Cimabue, 11 Cimbrians, 15, 55, 80 Clark, Sir Kenneth, 4 Claude Lorrain, 168, 172, 174 Cleyn, Frantz, 64, 78, 164 Clovis, king of the Franks, 27 Clüver, Philipp, 18 Cock, Servatius, 99 Codex Argenteus, 27, 111–12, 129 Colbert, Jean-Baptiste Colin, Alexander, 96 collections of Charles I, 120 of Christina (see Christina: collections of ) of Hedwig Eleonora (see Hedwig Eleonora: collections of ) Medici, 114 Modena, 18 repatriation of, 120 imperial, 19, 75, 99, 118–20 (see also Prague: sack of; Rudolf II: collection of ) Saxon, 90–91 Swedish private collections, 27, 103, 120 Vatican, 153 Venetian (treasury of St. Mark’s), 90–91 Cologne, 38, 48 Colosseum (Rome), 27 Columbus, Samuel, 20 Comenius, Jan Amos, 112 Copenhagen, 152, 171 academy in (see academies of art: Copenhagen) Amalienborg Palace in (see Amalienborg Palace) as part of the Baltic region, 5 as model, 150, 152, 166 as residence city, 7 Our Lady, church of in, 44 Rosenborg Palace in (see Rosenborg Palace) royal palace in (see royal palace [Copenhagen]) university of, 31 Cordier, Nicolas, 116 Correggio, 99, 118–19 Cortona, Pietro da, 11, 118–19 Cosimo I, grand duke of Tuscany, 72 Council of Basel, 16 Council of State (Denmark), 31 Council of State (Sweden), 48 Coysevox, Antoine, 141 Cranach, Lucas the Elder, 1, 33–34, 99, 120 Critias (Plato), 25–26 Croll, Hans, 57 Cronström, Daniel, 140–41

cultural exchange, 10–12 Czech Republic, xiii Dahl, Johan Christian, 173–74 Dahl, Michael, 164–65 Dahlbergh, Erik, 132 See also Suecia Antiqua et Hodierna Dan, mythical king of Denmark, 51 Danti, Vincenzo, 90 Danzig, 5, 18, 48–49, 88, 96 Darmstadt, 157 David, Old Testament king, 51 Decker, Paul, 157 De Geer, Louis, 96 and Comenius, 112 De Gentium Aliquot Migrationibus (Lazius), 19 De Gheyn, Jacques, 57 De Keyser, Hendrick, 85 Delacroix, Eugène, 175 De la Gardie, Magnus Gabriel, 111–12, 122, 129, 134, 182n49 and Christina, 111 and Drottningholm, 125 Paris, embassy in, 111 as regent, 135 Stockholm residence of, 143 Denmark, xiii, xiv, 4, 171 artistic talent leaving, 165 conflicts with Sweden, 9–10, 17–18, 80 (see also under war) as destination for artists, 165–66 Jutland, 6–7, 15, 17 and Netherlandish culture, 6, 67–68, 82, 89 reformation of, 30–31 Sealand, 6–7 See also Copenhagen; Elsinore De Passe, Crispijn the Younger, 80, 99 De Passe, Simon, 79 Descartes, René, 113–14 Desmarées, Georges, 165, plate 11 De Vries, Adriaen Frederiksborg fountain by, 67–70, 68 and Italy, 70, 89 and Prague, 75, 99 in Swedish collections, 99, 120 De Willers, Hans, 43 Dieskau, Hans von, 49 Diet of Worms, 31 Dietterlin, Wendel, 88 Dieussart, François, 70–72, 71, 77, 82, 150, 163 and Italy, 70–72, 82, 89 diplomacy, arts and, 21, 101–3, 140–41, 145–49 See also agents, art

diplomats, artists as, 102, 145 Disa, mythical queen of Sweden, 127 Dolci, Carlo, 120 dolmen, 174–75, 186n34, plates 14, 15 Dominican Order, 31 Doppelmayr, Johann Georg, 53, 54, 55 Dornberg, Veit von, 59 Dorothea, queen of Denmark, 33 Dorothea, duchess of Prussia, 39, 41, 48 Dresden, 1, 5, 12, 142 academy in (see academies of arts: in Dresden) in the nineteenth century, 169, 171–73 palace chapel, 33–37 remaking of as a royal city, 4, 151, 154–58, 155 Drottningholm Palace (near Stockholm), 63, 69, 123–35, 123, 125, 126, 129 dynastic themes in, 127 furnishing of, 121–24 gardens of, 125–26, 125 Gothicist themes in, 127–30, 128 as model, 123–25, 130, 155, 156 staircase of, 126–30, 155–56 Duccio di Buoninsegna, 11 Dürer, Albrecht, 1, 3, 27, 120 and Christina, 118 and the Dresden palace oratory, 34 and the Frederiksborg chapel, 37 and the Reiche Kapelle, Munich, 37 Düsseldorf, 1, 151 Dutch Republic. See Low Countries

Falck, Jeremias, 117–18, 117, 121, 130 Falconet, Etienne-Maurice, 166 Faltz, Raimund, 5 Farnese Palace (Rome), 92 Feif, Casten, 145–46 Félibien, André, 113, 115 Ferdinand I, Holy Roman Emperor, 19–20 and Lorck, 64–66 tomb of, 96 Ferdinand III, Holy Roman Emperor, 109–10, 109 Feuquières, Isaac de Pas, marquis de, 126, 140 Filmer, king of the Goths, 19 Finland, xiii, 6 Fischer von Erlach, Johann Bernhard, 147, 157–62, 159, 160 and Friedrich I, 158–59 and Tessin the Younger, 147, 158, 160–162 Florence, 2–3, 11–12 as center of artistic production, 59, 72, 94 collections in, 114 as training center for northern artists, 70, 142 Floris, Cornelis, 38–48, 40, 41, 42, 52, 67 Fontainebleau (near Paris), 85, 90 Fontana, Carlo, 11, 136, 158 Foucquet, Jacques, 141, 141, 149, 151, 165, 166 Four Rivers Fountain (Rome), 118 France academy in (see Académie royale) as cultural model, 1–3, 12, 44, 136, 153 Loire valley in, 1 Sweden and, 9, 145–46, 165 as travel destination, 101, 103, 123, 126, 136 See also Paris; Versailles François I, king of France, 58, 88, 137 tomb of, 43, 45–46 Frederik I, king of Denmark, 29, 31 tomb of, 38–41, 40, 43–45, 48

Index

Edda, 26, 176 Ehrenstrahl, David Klöcker, 130–31, 135, plates 8, 9, 10 “Academie” of, 132–33, 170 and accession of Carl XI, 22–23, 23, 130 allegories by, 121–24, 127, 133–34 ennoblement of, 133–34 and ephemeral projects, 22–23, 137 and Hedwig Eleonora (see Hedwig Eleonora: and Ehrenstrahl) landscapes by, 173–74, plate 13 and Sandrart, 132–33 workshop of, 132, 164 and Wrangel, 77, 103, 105–6 Eigtved, Nicolai, 171 Eisleben, 29 Ekolsund manor (near Stockholm), 125 Elbing, 112 Elizabeth I, queen of England, 102 Elsinore, 7, 51 Eltester, Christian, 153 England, xiv, 22, 80, 90, 102, 137 royal palaces in, 91

as travel destination, 126, 164 See also London Eosander, Johann Friedrich and Charlottenburg Palace, 155–56, 156 and funeral decorations for Queen Sophie Charlotte in Berlin, 5, 156 and royal palace in Berlin, 152, 153, 165 and Tessin the Younger, 5, 155–56, 156, 165, 185n30 and work in Stockholm, 5, 165 Erik XIV, king of Sweden, 18, 22, plate 1 Ernst, count of Holstein-Schaumburg, 69 Escorial (near Madrid), 90, 91, 93 Estonia, xiv Euclid, 27 Eugene, prince of Savoy, 158

211

Index

Frederik II, king of Denmark and August of Saxony, 44 and Brahe, 57–58 and Frederiksborg Palace, 51, 85, plate 2 and the Habsburg house, 65–66, 76 and Kronborg Palace, 34, 49–57, 67, plate 2 and Lorck, 64–66, 65 as patron, 34, 43–44, 49–57, 59–66, 69 and sumptuary regulations, 43–44 tomb of, 47–48 and tomb of Christian III, 43, 46, 48 and Van der Schardt, 59–64, 60, 62, 66 Frederik III, king of Denmark, 79, 110, 136 Frederik IV, king of Denmark, 78, 148 Frederik V, king of Denmark, 73, 166 Frederik Hendrik, stadholder of the United Provinces, 101 Frederiksborg Palace (Hillerød), 7, 52, 67–70, 68, 154 architect of, 88 chapel of, 35–37, 35, 37, 76–78, 76, 82 destruction of, 83 fountain of, 63, 67–70, 75 international context of, 89–94 marble gallery of, 79, 85 and Netherlandish architecture, 89 oratory of, 36–37, 36, 77–78, 82 renovations to, 86 sack of, 63–64, 69, 73, 82 tapestries for, 80, 86 Freiberg (Saxony), 44–45 Wettin tombs, 45, 46–47, 46 Friborg, Jørgen, 88 Friedrich I, king in Prussia, 2, 147, 150–57, 161, 165 and Fischer von Erlach, 158–59 and Tessin the Younger, 152–53, 157 Friedrich II, king of Prussia, 88, 165–66 Friedrich III, elector of Brandenburg. See Friedrich I, king in Prussia Friedrich III, duke of Schleswig-Holstein-Gottorf, 121 Friedrich V of Pfalz, 107 Friedrich Wilhelm, elector of Brandenburg, 77, 149–51, 156–57 Friedrich Wilhelm, duke of Saxony-Altenburg, 77 Friedrich, Caspar David, 1, 169–74, 169, 176, plate 14 Fronde, 114–15 Fruchtbringende Gesellschaft, 100, 106 Fürstlicher Baumeister (Decker), 157

212

Gaul, 13 Gdańsk. See Danzig Gemperlin, Tobias, 57 Georg Friedrich, margrave of Brandenburg-Ansbach, 47 George I, king of England, 150 Gerbier, Balthazar, 102

Germania, 13, 19, 176 Germany, xiii, 176 Getica (Jordanes). See Jordanes Giambologna, 59, 70, 72, 72, 120, 165 and the northern courts, 70, 72, 94 workshop of, 70 Giorgione, 120 Girardon, François, 72, 141–42, 149, 151 Giulio Romano, 120 Goltzius, Hendrick, 37 Goethe, Johann Wolfgang von, 168, 173, 176 Gothenburg, 20, 76, 96 Gothic architecture. See architecture, Gothic Gothicism, xv, 15–17, 176 in the Holy Roman Empire, 18–21 De la Gardie and, 111–12 environmental presentation of, 23–25 legacy of, 166–67, 175 polemic in Scandinavia, 17–18, 51–52, 80–81 visual presentation of, 23–28, 127–30, 173 See also Goths Goths, 15 and classical culture, 25–28, 54–55, 128–29 Danish descent from, 17 Spanish descent from, 16 Swedish descent from, 15–18 See also Gothicism Gotland, 17–19 Gottorf, 121 governor-general, 103, 165 Gøye, Birgitte, 41, 43–44, 57 Graff, Anton, 171–72 Graphice, Id Est de Arte Pingendi (Schefferus), 133 Granada, 92–93 Great and Good Deeds of the Danes, Norwegians, and Holsteiners (Malling), 171, 175 Great Fire (London), monument of, 164 Great Northern War. See war: Great Northern War Greenland, xiv, 6 Greifswald, 29, 167, 170, 174 Grimmelshausen, Johann Jakob Christoffel von, 3–4 Gripsholm Castle (near Stockholm), 122 Guarini, Giovanni Battista, 119 Guillet de Saint-Georges, Georges, 115 Gulden, Andreas, 110 Gustaf I, king of Sweden. See Gustaf Vasa, king of Sweden. Gustaf II Adolf, king of Sweden, 70 as Biblical figure, 99 and donations of lands, 135 figurines of, 99 and Hoefnagel, 96–97 as Jupiter, 118

monuments for, 70, 110, 142, 166 and Oxenstierna, 101 and Petel, 98, 98, 110 and plunder of art, 99 as Protestant hero, 98–100 and Spierinck, 102 and Wrangel, 103 Gustaf IV Adolf, king of Sweden, 170 Gustaf Vasa, king of Sweden, 16, 18, 139 and the arts, 95–96 and the Reformation, 29, 31 tomb of, 96 Güstrow, palace, 92 Gyldenhoff, Balthasar, 131

Iceland, xiv, 6 Iliad (Homer), 171 Innsbruck, 27, 44, 48, 68 Irenicus, Franciscus, 19 Isaacsz, Pieter, 36, 73–75, 77, 81, 181n25, plates 3, 4 and the Frederiksborg oratory, 77–78

Index

Habsburg, house of, 13 and the arts, 158–62 descent from Goths, 19–20, 27 descent from Romans, 20 See also Charles V; Ferdinand I; Ferdinand III; Joseph I; Karl VI; Leopold I; Maximilian I; Maximilian II; Rudolf II Hackert, Jakob Philipp, 167–69, 168, 172–75 Haderslev, 7 See also Haderslevhus Castle Haderslevhus Castle (Haderslev), 33–34, 179n15 Hague, The, 70, 82, 96, 102 gardens in, 111 Hainhofer, Philipp, 34, 37, 69, 99 Hamburg, 2, 64 Hamlet (Shakespeare), 49 Hampton Court Palace (near London), 164–65 Hannibal, Martin, 132 Hans, duke of Schleswig-Holstein-Haderslev, 33–34, 64 Hardouin-Mansart, Jules, 136, 139 Hartenfels Castle (Torgau, Saxony), 32–33, 32 Luther’s criticism of, 33–34, 37 reception of, 32–38, 41, 85–86 Hausmann, Karsten, 43 Hedwig Eleonora, queen of Sweden, xv, 63, 120–35, plates 7, 8 and allegory, 120–22, 127–30 plates 7, 8 artistic production, engagement with, 122, 131, 150 and Christina, 121–22, 127, 130 collections of, 63, 122 and Drottningholm (see Drottningholm Palace) and Ehrenstrahl, 121–22, 124, 127, 129–31, 134 and Gothicist themes, 127–30, 128 jointure of, 122 and Minerva, 120–21, 127 and Sandrart, 134 and Tessin the Elder, 101, 123–24, 130–32, 134 as regent, 122, 127, 131, 135

Heidelberg Palatine Library, plunder of, 99 residence in, 92 Heinitz, Friedrich Anton von, 166 Heinrich Julius, duke of Braunschweig-Lüneburg, 63, 69, 73 Henri II, king of France tomb of, 43, 45–46 Henri IV, king of France, 1, 72, 102, 151 Henrietta Maria, queen of England and Scotland, 164 Henry VIII, king of England, 30 Henry, Prince of Wales, 70 Hercules, 5, 13, 27, 55 and Hedwig Eleonora, 127–28, 129 Hercules Gallicus, 13 Hercules Germanicus, 13, 14 Hercules Saxonicus, 162 Herder, Johann Gottfried, 176 Herlufsholm (Næstved, Denmark), 41, 43 Herodotus, 128 Hildebrandt, Johann Lucas von, 157–58 Hillerød, 7 See also Frederiksborg Palace Hoefnagel, Jacob, 76 in Sweden, 96–97, 97 Hofburg (Vienna), 158 Holbein, Hans the Elder, 1, 99 Holl, Elias, 100, 111 Holl, Matthäus, 100, 111, 125 Holstein, 43, 121 Danish rule, 7, 11 and the Reformation, 31 Holy Roman Empire, 4–5 and Gothicism, 18–21 as travel destination, 101, 103, 123 Homer, 171 Hondius, Hendrick, 97 Honselaarsdijk Palace (near The Hague), 100, 111 House of the Nobility (Stockholm), 100, 184n20 Hrolf Kraki, mythical Danish king, 80 Hradčany (Prague), 99 Huizinga, Johan, 6 Humble, father of King Dan, 52 Hungary, xiii, 13 Hven. See Uraniborg Hyperboreans, 17–18

213

Isaacsz, Pieter (continued) and the Rosenborg series, 78–79, 79, 84–85 as spy, 102 Isacius Pontanus, Johannes. See Pontanus, Johannes Isacius Italy as cultural model, 1–3, 12, 89–94, 118–20 Italian artists active in northern Europe before 1600, 43, 44, 46, 61, 64, 90 Italian artists active in northern Europe after 1600, 116, 152, 158 See also Florence; Rome; Venice Itzehoe (Holstein), 43

Index

Jakobsdal (near Stockholm), 111 James VI/I, king of Scotland and England, 49, 72–73, 102, 164 Jan Maurits, prince of Nassau-Siegen, 96 Japhet, 52 Jarmeric, mythical Danish king, 80 Jeannin, Pierre, 102 Johan III, king of Sweden, 11 tomb of, 47, 48, 96 Johann Albrecht I, duke of Mecklenburg, 92 Johann Casimir, count palatine of Pfalz-Zweibrücken, 107–8 Johann Friedrich, elector of Saxony, 33 Johann Georg I, elector of Saxony, 39 Johannisburg Palace (Aschaffenburg), 103, 104, 105 Johann Wilhelm, elector of Pfalz, 150–51 Jones, Inigo, 150, 164 Jordaens, Jacob and Carl X Gustaf, 110 and Christina, 116 and Oxenstierna, 103 Jordanes, 15–16, 18–19, 27, 128–29 Jordis, Hendrik, 130 Joseph I, Holy Roman Emperor, 158 Joseph, king of the Romans. See Joseph I Juel, Jens (ambassador), 148 Juel, Jens (painter), 171–74 Julius II, pope, 44 Julius Caesar, Roman emperor, 20 Junius, Franciscus, 111 Justinian, eastern Roman emperor, 128 Jutland. See Denmark: Jutland

214

Kaliningrad. See Königsberg Kalmar, 110 Kalmar Union, 9, 29 Kalmar War. See war: Kalmar War Karcher, Johann Friedrich, 152, 157 Karl VI, Holy Roman Emperor, 160, 162

Karlberg Palace (near Stockholm), 125, 135 Karlskirche (Vienna), 160–62, 160 Katarina of Sweden, 107 Kersting, Georg Friedrich, 171 Khevenhüller, Anna Regina, 116 Kiær, Søren, 78 Kleiner, Salomon, 158 Kleist, Heinrich von, 170 Klöcker Ehrenstrahl, David. See Ehrenstrahl, David Klöcker Knieper, Hans, 51, 65–67, 65, 79 Knüpfer, Nicolaus, 80 Kolding, 7 Koldinghus Castle (Kolding), 33–34 Königsberg, 5, 38, 152 cathedral of, 39, 41, 47 Kosegarten, Gotthard Ludwig, 169–70 Krafft, David von, 135 Kronborg Castle (Elsinore), 7, 49–57, 50, 67, 154 architect of, 88 changes in plan of, 50, 51 fountain of, 51–57, 54, 63, 70 Kronborg series, 79–83 sack of, 52, 82 tapestries for, 51, 67, 79 Labenwolf, Georg, 52–57, 54, 59, 63, 67 Läckö (near Lidköping, Sweden), 111 la Fosse, Charles de, 153 la Fosse, Louis Remy de, 157 Lamoureux, Abraham-César, 73, 149–51, 149 landscape, Northern, 23–25, 167–75 Landshut, 106 city residence in, 92, 93 Lange, Niels, 43 l’Archevêque, Pierre-Hubert, 166 Lastman, Pieter, 36, 78 Lateran Palace (Rome), 92, 154 Latvia, xiv la Vallée, Jean de, 100, 124–25 la Vallée, Simon de, 100–101, 111 Lazius, Wolfgang, 19, 66 Le Blon, Michel and Christina, 102, 114, 116, 118, 130 and Oxenstierna, 101–3, 115 Le Brun, Charles, 136 Lechner, Leonhard, 56 Le Clerc, Sébastien, 146 Leipzig, 2 university in, 29, 30 Lemke, Johann Philipp, 127 lending of artists, 39, 95 Le Nôtre, André, 125–26, 136, 140

Leonardo da Vinci, 2, 114, 137 Leoni, Leone, 99, 120 Leopold I, Holy Roman Emperor, 110, 158 Le Sueur, Hubert, 72 Leszno, 112 Leygebe, Gottfried, 150 Lietzenburg Palace. See Charlottenburg Palace linguistics. See philology Lodron-Laterano, Franz, 120 Loire valley, 1 London, 72, 102, 120, 152 Christian IV in, 70 as cultural center, 64, 73, 152–53, 164–65 Dieussart in, 82, 150 St. James’s Park in, 111 as study center for the arts, 115, 126, 153 Longing for Death (Novalis), 186n34 Lorck, Melchior, 64–66, 65, 164 Louis XIV, king of France, 72, 125, 136, 140 portraits of, 141, 149, 151, 165 Louisa Ulrica, queen of Sweden, 167 Louvre Palace (Paris), 145 Low Countries exports to Baltic, 38–41, 52, 101–2 homeland of mobile artists, 22, 47–48, 96, 102 magnates in Scandinavia, 96 Netherlandish artists active in Denmark, 82, 89 (see also Dieussart; Isaacsz; Knieper; Van der Schardt; Van Egen; Van Mander III; Van Opbergen, Van Steenwinckel) Netherlandish artists active in Sweden, 22, 48, 96 (see also Beck; Boy; Hoefnagel; Millich; Ver Wilt) and Spain, 14, 68, 92–94 and royal architecture, 90–94 as travel destination, 39, 64, 101, 103, 123, 164 See also Amsterdam; Antwerp; Brussels; Hague, The; Utrecht Lübeck, 5, 44 and Swedish War of Independence, 30 Lucian, 13 Lund University of, 112, 137 Lundbye, Johan Thomas, 174–75, 185n34, plate 15 Lurago, Carlo, 105 Luther, Martin, 32 and the Danish Reformation, 29–31 and Hartenfels Castle, 32–33, 37 and the Swedish Reformation, 29–30 Lützen, 110

Index

Macpherson, James. See Ossian Madrid, 72, 90, 92–93, 102, 115 Magalotti, Lorenzo, 111, 120

Magnus, Johannes, 16–19, 26, 51, 129 environmental presentation of Gothicism by, 25, 173 literary portraits of Gothic kings by, 22 Magnus, Olaus, 16–19, 128 Magog, 16, 25 Mainz, 99 elector of, 103 Makalös Palace (Stockholm), 143 Malling, Ove, 171, 175 Maratta, Carlo, 120 Marcus Aurelius, Roman emperor column of, 160 equestrian statue of, 23, 72, 142, 161 Maria Eleonora of Brandenburg, queen of Sweden, 97 Maria Theresia, Holy Roman Empress, 165 Mars, 100 Wrangel and, 55, 106 Marseilles, 13 Martinelli, Domenico, 152, 157–58 Materiae Politicae, Burgherlicke Stoffen (Stevin), 87 Matthias, Holy Roman Emperor, 76 Mauritshuis (The Hague), 96 Maurits of Nassau, 73, 102 Maximilian I, duke of Bavaria, 37, 99 Maximilian I, Holy Roman Emperor and de’ Barbari, 61 as Hercules Germanicus, 13, 14 tomb of, 27, 44, 48 Maximilian II, Holy Roman Emperor, 2 and Lorck, 64–66 in Spain, 93 tomb of, 96 and Van der Schardt, 59–61, 63–64 Mazarin, Jules, 114 Mechelen, 34, 47, 96 Medici, Carlo de’, 120 Medici, Catherine de’, queen of France, 43 Medici collections, 114 Medici, Cosimo I, grand duke of Tuscany, 72 Medici family, 59, 70, 72 Mediterranean Sea, 5, 53 Meissen, 44 Melanchthon, Philipp, 30 Mengs, Anton Raphael, 171 Mengs, Ismael, 171 Mercury Hedwig Eleonora and, 64, 120, 128 statues of, 62, 63–64, 69 Merian, Matthäus the Elder, 21 Merian, Matthäus the Younger, 21, 103 Messenius, Johannes, 127 Metamorphoses (Ovid), 133 Metrobius, 27

215

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Meursius, Johannes, 80–81 Meyssens, Jan, 115 Michelangelo, 44, 90 Micraelius, Johannes, 18 Mielich, Hans, 99 Milan, 2 Millich, Nicolaes, 126, 127, 128, 129–31, 129 and ephemeral projects, 123, 130, 137 appointment by Hedwig Eleonora, 122–24, 131 and Quellinus, 127, 130 and Sandrart, 134 Minerva, 53, 100 Christina as, 106, 116–18, 117, 121 Hedwig Eleonora and, 106, 120–22, 127–28, 130, plate 7 Wrangel and, 55, 105–6 mining industry, 9–10, 96 Mirror for Princes, 78 mobility, social arts and, 133–34, 146 bureaucracy and, 100 military and, 100 Mocchi, Francesco, 165 Mortlake Tapestry Factory, 164 Mollet, André, 111, 125, 184n47 Mollet, Jean, 111 Momma, Willem, 132 Mor, Anthonis, 22 Moravian Brethren, 112 Morgenstern, Christian, 171 Moritz, landgrave of Hessen-Kassel, 39 Moritz, elector of Saxony, 33, 44–45 tomb of, 44–46, 45, 48 Moses, 51 Mühlberg, battle of, 44 Muller, Jan, 37, 74, 75 Munich, 12 as a cultural center, 2–3, 75, 90 entry by Gustaf II Adolf, 99 palace in, 37, 138, 151 sack of, 99, 113, 119–20 See also Bavaria Münster, Sebastian, 16 Muses Christina and, 117–19, 126 Hedwig Eleonora and, 126–27, 126, 130 Wrangel and, 105–6 myth, Norse, 170–71, 176

216

Naples, 168 Naudé, Gabriel, 98, 114 Neidhardt, Wolfgang, 110

Neptune statues of, 63 Frederiksborg fountain of, 67–69, 68, 75, 82, 89 Kronborg fountain of, 53, 54, 55, 67, 82 Netherlands. See Low Countries Neumann, Balthasar, 2–3 Noah, 15–16, 25, 51, 167 North Sea, 6 northern Europe, definition of, xiv Northern Seven Years’ War. See war: Northern Seven Years’ War Norway, xiii, 6, 9, 83, 173 Novalis (Georg Philipp Friedrich Freiherr von Hardenberg), 186n34 Nuremberg, 1, 52–57, 60–61, 63 academy in (see academies of arts: in Nuremberg) Carl X Gustaf and, 108–10 Oddysey (Homer), 171 Odense, 46 Ogier, Charles, 78 Olai, Ericus, 16 Old Uppsala, 25–26 Oldenburg dynasty. See Christian I; Christian II; Christian III; Christian IV; Christian V; Frederik I; Frederik II; Frederik III; Frederik IV; Frederik V Olthoff, Adolf Frederik von, 167 On German Nature and Art (Herder), 176 Opitz, Martin, 3–4 Orange, house of, 73, 96, 101–2 Order of the Elephant, 53, 65 Orlando di Lasso, 56 Orsini, Paolo II, duke of Bracciano, 118–19 Ortelius, Abraham, 66 Oslo. See Christiania Ossian, 170–71, 176 Ottenheym, Konrad, 89 Our Lady, church of, 44 Ovens, Jürgen, 120–22, plate 7 Ovid, 118, 133 Oxenstierna, Axel, 101–3, 101, 110–11, 115 diplomatic network of, 101 and Comenius, 112 palace of, 143 and Tessin the Elder, 101, 103, 12–24 Palazzo Barberini (Rome), 118 Palazzo Riario (Rome), 118 Palazzo Vecchio (Florence), 114 Palbitzki, Mathias, 114, 116 Palladio, Andrea, 59, 90 Pantaleon, 128

union with Sweden, 10, 48 wars with Sweden, 105, 110 See also Danzig; Warsaw Poles in accession ceremonies of Carl XI, 22 Polidoro da Caravaggio, 118 Poltava, battle of, 10, 137, 145, 163 Pömer, Joachim, 55–56 Pomerania, 10–11, 167, 172 Swedish monarchs as dukes of, 95, 103, 165, 167, 170 Swedish occupation of, 101 See also Greifswald; Rügen; Stralsund Pontanus, Johannes Isacius, 75, 80 Pöppelmann, Karl Friedrich, 171 Pöppelmann, Matthäus Daniel, 4–5, 154, 155 and Vienna, 158, 161 portraiture allegorical, 55, 116–18, 117, 120–22, 133–34 and Gothicism, 13, 14, 21–23, 23, 127, 128 equestrian, 3, 72–73, 103–10, 151, 165–66; of Carl X Gustaf, 107, 108–9; of Carl XI, 22–23, 141–42, 141, 151, 166; of Christian IV, 70, 72–73, 77, plate 5; of Christian V, 73, 149–50, 149; of Christina, 115, plate 6; of Frederik V, 73, 166; of Friedrich Wilhelm, 149–50; of Louis XIV, 72, 141, 149, 151, 165; of Peter I, 161, 166 marriage portraits, 121 royal qualities of, 108–10, self-portraiture, 115, 133–34, plate 10 Portugal, 22 Post, Pieter, 96 Poussin, Nicolas, 120, 172 Pozzo, Andrea, 158 Prague Carl X Gustaf and, 100, 108, 110 Christina and works from, 113, 116, 118–20 as cultural center, 2–3, 57, 75, 96, 181n26 Danish court and, 75–76 De la Gardie and, 111 De Vries and, 68–70 Isaacsz and, 75 Rudolf II and, 2, 57, 75, 96 sack of, 63–64, 99, 113 Wrangel and, 105 Praun, Paul, 60–61 Primaticcio, Francesco, 43, 90 Prince Valdemar the Young, ballad of, 175 Prussia, 48, 167, 170 Pufendorf, Samuel von, 112, 122, 156–57 Pütt, Hans von der, 110 Pynas, Jan Symonsz, 78

Index

Pardo (near Madrid), 92–93 Paris academy in (see Académie royale) as cultural center, 72, 111, 115, 151, 153 as center of cultural production, 1, 3, 140–41, 145, 149 as publishing center, 146, 156 as study center, 6, 136, 153 as travel destination, 102, 153, 158 See also Fontainebleau; St. Denis; Versailles Parnassus Drottningholm and, 127 Wrangel and, 105–6 Peace of Westphalia, 9–11, 95, 99, 108 Pencz, Georg, 38 Penthesilea, queen of Amazons, 128 Peroni, Giuseppe, 116 Permoser, Balthasar, 4–5 in Stockholm, 5, 142 Pesne, Antoine, 153 Petel, Georg and Ferdinand III, 110 Gustaf II Adolf, bust of, 98, 98, 110, 127 Peter I, tsar of Russia, 10, 161, 166 Petri, Laurentius, 30 Petri, Olaus, 30 Petzoldt, Johann Christian, 171 Pfalz-Zweibrücken, house of, 107–8, 127 See also Carl X Gustaf; Carl XI; Carl XII Philip II, king of Spain, 90, 92 and the Low Countries, 92–93 Philip III, king of Spain, 72 Philip IV, king of Spain, 72, 115, 119 philology, as historical evidence, 17–20 Piccolomini, Ottavio, 110 Pillars of Hercules, 53 Pilon, Germain, 43 Plato, 17, 25, 26 Pliny, 13, 18 plunder of art Christina and, 113 Hedwig Eleonora and, 64 by the imperial army, 99 laws concerning, 99 by the Swedish army, 98–100, 120 (see also Frederiksborg Palace: sack of; Kronborg Palace: sack of; Munich: sack of; Prague: sack of ) in World War II, 99 by Wrangel, 103 Pirckheimer, Willibald, 19 Poland, xiii, 5, 10, 13, 48, 102, 112, 152 union with Saxony, 4, 150–51

217

Index

Quellinus, Artus Christina and, 116–18, 126, 130 Hedwig Eleonora and, 126–27, 130 Quellinus, Erasmus II Christina and, 116–17, 117 Quirinal Palace (Rome), 154

218

Ragvaldi, Nicolaus, 16, 18 Raklev, Denmark, 174 Rantzau, Heinrich, 43, 57 Rantzau, Johann, 43 Raphael, 118–19, 173 Rastrelli, Bartolomeo Carlo, 161 Rauch, Christian, 166 Ravenna, 27 reduction. See absolutism: Sweden: reclamation of estates Reformation, 3–4 in Denmark, 30–31 and seizure of church property, 30–31 in Sweden, 29–30 Refsnæs, Denmark, 175 Reiche Kapelle (Munich), 37 Reichle, Hans, 68–70 representation Lutheran, 37 standardization of, 3, 48, 150–62 Riddarholm church (Stockholm), 21, 156 Riddarhuset. See House of the Nobility Riga, 5, 95 Ripa, Cesare, 128, 130 Romanesque architecture, 26 Romanticism, 166–76 Rome, ancient conflict with northern tribes, 15–16, 19, 22, 25, 28, 80 contributions of Goths to (see Goths: and classical culture) early modern reception of, 22–23, 37, 72, 142, 161 Habsburgs and, 20, 27, 160 Rome, modern as center of cultural production, 1–2, 11, 168 Christina and, 113, 116, 118–19 reception of, 3, 6, 89, 92, 94, 139, 148, 153–56 as training center for northern artists (see also Accademia di San Luca); for artists of German and Scandinavian origin, 101, 136, 142, 153, 158, 164, 170; for artists of Netherlandish origin, 59, 70, 82 Rosa, Salvator, 116 Rosenborg Palace (Copenhagen), 61, 67, 83–85, 84, 85, 154, 164 and Netherlandish architecture, 89 renovations to, 86 Rosenborg series, 78–79, 84–85 Roskilde, 9, 46–47

Rossi, Mattia de’, 153 Rosso Fiorentino, 90 royal palace (Berlin), 150–55, 152, 157–58, 165 royal palace (Copenhagen), 23, 33, 86–87 royal palace (Dresden), project for, 154–55, 155, 158 royal palace (Stockholm) before 1697, 114, 116, 120, 125, 137, 138 destruction of, 116, 120, 131, 135–36, 139, 153 efforts to modernize, 110, 130, 136–37 and residences in Munich and Vienna, 138 royal palace (Stockholm) after 1697, 137–42, 138, 140, 158, 163 gallery of Carl XI, 139–40, 140 as model, 150–51, 157 See also Tessin, Nicodemus the Younger: and the royal palace royal palace (Warsaw), project for, 152, 157 Rubens, Peter Paul, 120–21, 137 collection of, 101 and Gerbier, 102 portraiture of, 115 Rudbeck, Olaus, xv, 28, 166, 173 antiquarianism of, 26 and De la Gardie, 112 See also Atlantica (Rudbeck) Rudolf II, Holy Roman Emperor and Brahe, 57 and Christian IV, 69–70, 75–77 collection of, 75, 99, 118, 120; provenance from, 69, 111, 116, 118–20; sack of (see Prague: sack of ) as cultural patron, 2, 69, 75, 96, 121 and De Vries, 69–70 in Spain, 93 and Van der Schardt, 63–64 Rügen, 167–70 runes, 81 Runge, Philipp Otto, 171 Russia, xiii, 6, 10 St. Cloud (near Paris), 139 St. Denis (near Paris), 43, 46 St. James’s Chapel (London), 164 St. Nicholas’s Cathedral (Stockholm), 30–31, 142 royal pews in, 155, 156 St. Paul’s Cathedral (London), 165 St. Petersburg, xiii, 10, 151, 161, 166 St. Veit’s Cathedral (Prague), 96 Saly, Jacques-François-Joseph, 73, 166 Sami, lands of, 6 Sandrart, Joachim von, 4, 129 and Carl X Gustaf, 107, 108–9, 115 and Christina, 115–16 and Ehrenstrahl, 132–33

academy in (see academies of art: in Stockholm) reconstruction projects for, 110 and the Reformation, 29–30 as residence of the court, 96, 123, 136 royal palace in. (see royal palace [Stockholm]) urban plan of, 142–46, 143, 144; publication of, 146–47 Storkyrkan. See St. Nicholas’s Stralsund, 5, 167 Strasbourg, cathedral of, 176 Stromer, Wolf Jakob, 53 Strömsholm Palace (near Västerås, Sweden), 122, 134 Suecia Antiqua et Hodierna (Dahlbergh), 23–24, 125, 146–47, 174 Gothicism and, 23–24, 24, 173 Hackert and, 168, 173 legacy of, 175 Wrangel and, 105, 105 See also Dahlbergh, Erik Suleyman the Magnificent, Ottoman emperor, 65 Surintendance des bâtiments du Roi, 136 Svaning, Johannes the Elder, 17, 19 Svaning, Johannes the Younger, 17 Svenarum, 167–68, 168 Sweden, xiii, 4, 9 artistic talent leaving, 165–66 conflicts with Denmark (see Denmark: conflicts with Sweden) as destination for artists, 165–66 frameworks of patronage, 96, 163–65 monarchs as princes of the Holy Roman Empire, 95 and Paris/Versailles, 6 political rise of, 95–97 reformation of, 29–30 and Rome, 6 See also Old Uppsala; Stockholm; Uppsala Swedish War of Independence. See war: Swedish War of Independence Sylvius, Johan, 129 Tacca, Pietro, 72 Tacitus, 13, 16, 18 Tasso, Torquato, 119 Tè, Palazzo del (Mantua), 92 Ter Nieuburch (Rijswijk), 100 Tessin, Nicodemus the Elder and Christina, 114 and Drottningholm, 123–25, 126, 129, 130, 147, 155–56 ennoblement of, 133–34 and ephemeral projects, 130, 137 and Hedwig Eleonora. See Hedwig Eleonora: and Tessin the Elder and Oxenstierna, 101, 103, 123–24

Index

and Hedwig Eleonora, 134 and Wrangel, 106, 116 Sarmatians, 13 Saxo Grammaticus, 17, 51, 55, 80 Saxon Switzerland, 172 Saxony, 90, 169–73, 176 See also Dresden; Freiberg; Leipzig Scandinavia, definition of, xiv, 6 Scandza, 16–17, 19 Schadow, Johann Gottfried, 165 Schefferus, Johannes, 133 Schilderboek (Van Mander). See Van Mander, Karel Schleswig, 73 cathedral in, 39 Danish rule of, 7 Schleswig-Holstein, 167 See also Holstein; Schleswig. Schlüter, Andreas, 151, 152, 153, 157, 161, 165 Schmalkalden, 33 Schönbrunn Palace (near Vienna), 147, 158–59, 159 Schöpfer, Hans the Elder, 120 Schütz, Heinrich, 39 Schwabe, Nicolaus, 68–70 Schweigger, Georg, 108, 109–10, 109, 127 Schwerin, 33 Sealand. See Denmark: Sealand Seisenegger, Jakob, 65 Sergel, Johan Tobias, 166 Serlio, Sebastiano, 88, 90 Shakespeare, William, 49, 176 Siena, 11–12 Sievershausen, battle of, 44–45 Sigismund Vasa, king of Sweden and Poland, 10, 48, 102 Silver Bible. See Codex Argenteus Skanderborg, 20 Skeel, Abel, 43 Skokloster (near Stockholm), 103, 104, 105 Soest, 38 Solomon, Old Testament king, 33, 51 Sønderborg Castle (Sønderborg), 33 Sophie, queen of Denmark, 39, 50, 60–61 Sophie Charlotte, queen in Prussia, 156 Spain, 14–15, 22, 68, 90–94, 137 Sparepenge (Hillerød), 92 Spierinck, Pieter, 102–3 Spranger, Bartolomeus, 75 Stadthagen, 69 Stecker, Nikolaus, 29–30 Stein, Meir, 78 Stevin, Hendrick, 87 Stevin, Simon, 87–88 Stiernhielm, Georg, 55, 112 Stockholm, 5, 152, 167

219

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220

Tessin, Nicodemus the Elder (continued) and professional reforms, 124, 131–32, 134 training of Tessin the Younger, 136 travels of, 101 and Wrangel, 106 Tessin, Nicodemus the Younger, 135–58, 160–62, plate 11 and Amalienborg, 147–50, 148, 154, 157 artistic preferences of, 120 and Bernini, 136, 145, 148, 156 and Carl XI, 138, 142 and Carl XII, 145–46, 149, 154 and Caroline dynastic church, 142, 144, 160–61 and Christian V, 147–50, 154 decorations for funeral of Ulrica Eleonora by, 5, 142, 156 and Drottningholm, 125–26, 147 and Eosander, 155–56 and Feif, 145–46 and Fischer von Erlach, 147, 158, 160–62 and Friedrich I, 152–53, 157, 185n52 and garden design, 125–26, 125 and Gothicism, 21, 28 and Hardouin-Mansart, 139 and Hedwig Eleonora, 126 and Le Nôtre, 126, 136 and the Louvre, 145 and Paris/Versailles, 6, 136, 139–42, 147, 162, 164 and Peter I, 161 political career of, 137, 146 reputation of, 162 and Rome, 6, 136 and the royal palace (Stockholm), 130–31, 135 and Stockholm, urban plan of, 142–46 as superintendent of the arts, 136 and Tessin the Elder, 136, 164 travels of, 126, 136, 147, 150, 166 Teutsche Academie (Sandrart), 4, 106, 115, 132–34 Theatrum Europaeum (Merian), 147 Theodoric, king of the Goths, 18, 22, 27, 128 Thimm, Reinholdt, 78 Thirty Years’ War. See war: Thirty Years’ War Thola, Benedetto, 44, 45 Thola, Gabriele, 44, 45 Thorn, 49 Thoruń. See Thorn Timaeus (Plato), 17, 25 Tintoretto, 118 Titian, 65, 75, 99, 115, 120, 137 Christina and, 118–19 Toledo, Juan Bautista de, 90 Tomyris, queen of Massagetae, 127–28 toponyms as historical evidence, 17–20

Torgau, 32–33 See also Hartenfels Castle Torstensson Palace, 145 Totila, king of the Goths, 18 Tott, Åke, 101 Trajan’s column, 160 Trichet du Fresne, Raphael, 97, 114 Trolle, Herluf, 41, 43, 85 Tuilleries, gardens of (Paris), 111 Turks in accession ceremonies of Carl XI, 22 court of, 64, 102 Lorck and, 64, 66 Turner, Joseph Mallord William, 175 Ulm, 110 Ulrica Eleonora, queen of Sweden, 139, 148 funeral of, 5, 142, 156 Ulriksdal. See Jakobsdal Uppsala, 25–26 archbishops of, 16 castle in, 116, 120 cathedral of, 48, 96 university of, 30, 112, 129, 133, 182n49 Uppsala, Old. See Old Uppsala Uraniborg (Hven, Denmark), 57–59, 58, 180n26 Urban VIII, pope, 99 Utrecht, 80 Valamir, king of the Goths, 19 Valsaín (near Segovia), 92 Van Bijlert, Jan, 80 Van Campen, Jacob, 96 Van den Blocke, Willem, 47–48, 47, 96 Van den Valckert, Werner, 78 Van den Vondel, Joost, 116, 118 Van der Schardt, Johan Gregor, xv, 59–64, 60, 62, 67, 69 and Lorck, 64–66 Van Doordt, Jacob, 73 Van Dyck, Anthony, 101–2, 120, 150 Beck and, 115 Van Egen, Gert, 47–48 Van Everdingen, 172–74, 176, plate 12 Van Haven, Lambert, 147 Van Honthorst, Gerrit, 80, 81, 82, 163 Van Mander, Karel, 73–75, 82, 95 Van Mander, Karel III, 74, 77, 103, plate 5 Van Meytens, Martin the Younger, 165 Van Nieulandt, Adriaen, 78 Van Oberberg, Hercules, 34 Van Opbergen, Antonis, 49, 88 Van Paschen, Hans, 49 Van Ruisdael, Jacob, 172–74

Van Scorel, Jan, 95 Van Steenwinckel, Hans the Elder, 57, 88 Van Steenwinckel, Morten, 78 Van Swanevelt, Herman, 172 Van Zerroen, Antonius, 44, 45 Vandals, 15, 18, 80 Variae epistolae (Cassiodorus), 27 Vasa dynasty. See Carl IX; Christina; Erik XIV; Gustaf II Adolf; Gustaf Vasa; Johan III; Sigismund Vasa Vasari, Giorgio, 11, 21, 26 Västerås, parliament of, 30 Vatican Library, 99 Vatican Palace, 154 Velázquez, Diego, 115 Venice, 2, 90 northern artists and, 59–60, 75 Verden, 10 Veronese, Paolo, 99, 118–20 Versailles (near Paris), 145, 153 artists in Sweden from, 126, 140–42, 164 as model, 6, 139–40, 151, 155–56 ver Wilt, Dominicus, 22, 51, 96, plate 1 Vienna, 152, 157–62 academy in (see academies of arts: in Vienna) Lorck resident in, 65 Ottoman siege of, 1 Vignola, Giacomo Barozzi da, 90 Vitruvius, 26 Vitte, 170 Von deutscher Art und Kunst (Herder), 176 Vor Frue kirke (Copenhagen). See Our Lady, church of Vos, Jan, 118, 130 Vossius, Isaac, 111–12, 114 Vredeman de Vries, Hans, 74–75, 88 Vredeman de Vries, Paul, 74–75 Vroom, Hendrick Cornelis, 49

Zingg, Adrian, 171–72 Zuccaro, Federico, 120 Zuccaro, Taddeo, 120 Zwinger (Dresden), 154, 162

Index

Wagner, Richard, 176 Wagner von Wagenfels, Hans Jakob, 20 war as an academic pursuit, 100 and the arts, 97–101 Great Northern War, 10, 120, 163, 167 Kalmar War, 9, 69, 74–75, 80, 86 Northern Seven Years’ War, 9 Thirty Years’ War, 3–4, 9, 20, 76, 161; Danish intervention in, 73, 77; Swedish intervention in, 98–100 Second Northern War, 10, 106, 136–37, 145, 163 Swedish War of Independence, 9, 17, 29 War of Spanish Succession, 159 World War II, 1, 99–100

Warsaw, 151–52 siege of, 105 Waterloo, Antoni, 172 Wends, 80 Westphalia, 4 Whitehall Palace (London), 153 White Mountain, battle of, 76 Wilhelm IV, landgrave of Hessen-Kassel, 52, 57, 65 Wilhelm V, duke of Bavaria, 2 William III, king of England and Scotland, 165 Wismar, 10, 92 Wittelsbach, house of, 1, 92, 138, 162, 165 See also Maximilian I, duke of Bavaria; Wilhelm V Wittenberg, 29–31 Wolgast, 170 World War II. See war: World War II Worm, Ole, 80–81, 175 Wrangel, Carl Gustaf, 55, 110–11 as learned warrior, 106 in Prague, 105, 111 and princely representation, 77, 103, 106 as regent, 135 and Skokloster, 103–5, 104 and Suecia Antiqua et Hodierna, 105 travels of, 103 and Wrangel Palace, 105–6, 105, 136 Wrangel Palace, 105–6, 105, 135–36 as royal palace, 143, 145 Wren, Sir Christopher, 164–65 Würzburg, 2 Wurzelbauer, Georg, 56, 56

221