Risk, Emotions and Hospitality in the Christianization of the Baltic Rim, 1000-1300 9782503600390, 2503600395

Table of contents :
Preface
Acknowledgements
Chapter 1. Introduction
Chapter 2. Baltic Frontier Societies, Peripheral Visions, and Emotional Palimpsests
Chapter 3. Fear in Missionary and Crusader Risk Societies, Tenth–Thirteenth Centuries
Chapter 4. Pagan Hosts, Missionary Guests, Spaces of Hospitality, Tenth–Twelfth Centuries
Chapter 5. Hospitality and Its Discontents inHelmold of Bosau’s Chronica Slavorum,Twelfth Century
Chapter 6. Emotional Bonding and Trust during Sieges, Twelfth–Thirteenth Centuries
Chapter 7. Politics of Emotions and Empathy Walls in Livonia, Thirteenth Century
Chapter 8. Hospitality and the Formation of Identities in the Livonian Rhymed Chronicle, Thirteenth Century
Chapter 9. Epilogue
Bibliography
General Index
Early European Research

Citation preview

RISK, EMOTIONS, AND HOSPITALITY IN THE CHRISTIANIZATION OF THE BALTIC RIM, 1000–1300

EARLY EUROPEAN RESEARCH VOLUME 17 General Editors Susan Broomhall, University of Western Australia Kirk Essary, University of Western Australia Editorial Board Tracy Adams, University of Auckland Emilia Jamroziak, University of Leeds Matthias Meyer, Universität Wien Fabrizio Ricciardelli, Kent State University Florence Center Juanita Feros Ruys, University of Sydney Jón Viðar Sigurðsson, Universitetet i Oslo Nicholas Terpstra, University of Toronto Series founded by Andrew Lynch and Claire McIlroy with the Australian Research Council Network for Early European Research, and now directed by The University of Western Australia Centre for Medieval and Early Modern Studies. Volumes published in this series are listed at the back of the book.

Risk, Emotions, and Hospitality in the Christianization of the Baltic Rim, 1000–1300

wojtek jezierski

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

© 2022, Brepols Publishers n.v., Turnhout, Belgium. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise without the prior permission of the publisher. D/2022/0095/138 ISBN 978-2-503-60039-0 eISBN 978-2-503-60099-4 DOI 10.1484/M.EER-EB.5.130219 ISSN 2295-9254 eISSN 2295-9262 Printed in the EU on acid-free paper.

It is thus that the Ministry of Abstract Engineering has sent the topographers of Conceptual Machine-Space to various destinations so that they may collect reports, rumors, folktales, and intimations of machines that do not and cannot exist. Of these we excerpt below three accounts of the subcategory of Ambiguity Machines: those that blur or dissolve boundaries. [From the first account:] The engineer had a poetic sensibility, and the weapon described in his papers was metaphoric. But how can you explain metaphors to a man with a gun? Vandana Singh, Ambiguity Machines: An Examination

Table of Contents

List of Illustrations

11

Preface

13

Acknowledgements

15

Chapter 1. Introduction Enemy at the Gates, 1205 Argument: Risks, Emotions, and Hospitality in the Christianization of the Baltic Rim Scope: Baltic Experiments, 1000–1300 Problem: Risk and Uncertainty Response: Emotions Response: Hospitality Operationalization: Frames and Framing Outline of the Book

19 19

Chapter 2. Baltic Frontier Societies, Peripheral Visions, and Emotional Palimpsests State of the Art: Frontier Societies on the Baltic Rim Intercultural Encounters: Clashes of Cultures or Meetings of Minds? Identity-Formation and Subjectivization in Frontier Societies Sources: Peripheral Visions Emotional Palimpsests and Imaginary Resolutions Chapter 3. Fear in Missionary and Crusader Risk Societies, Tenth–Thirteenth Centuries A Hostage’s Anguish, a Schoolmaster’s Worry, 994 Sources of Fear, Eleventh–Thirteenth Centuries Ansgar: Early Forms of Missionary Fearlessness Timor clericalis in High Medieval Missionary Contexts Timor clericalis in High Medieval Crusader Contexts Emotional Space: terra horroris Concluding Remarks

21 25 30 36 40 43 44 49 49 52 54 57 59 63 63 66 68 74 81 87 93

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TABLE OF CONTENTS

Chapter 4. Pagan Hosts, Missionary Guests, Spaces of Hospitality, Tenth–Twelfth Centuries Burning Down the House, 1124 Assembly: St Adalbert, 997 Kitchen: Bruno of Querfurt, 1009 Harbourage: Bernhard the Spaniard, 1122 Antechamber: St Otto of Bamberg, 1124–1125, 1128 Asylum: St Otto of Bamberg, 1124 Neighbourhood: St Otto of Bamberg, 1128 Concluding Remarks

97 97 102 107 115 121 125 131 136

Chapter 5. Hospitality and Its Discontents in Helmold of Bosau’s Chronica Slavorum, Twelfth Century A Slavic Potlatch, 1156 Festen: Senses of Medieval Conviviality Naked Lunch: Ethnic Hospitality Another Round: Strategic Hospitality La grande bouffe: Metaphorical Hospitality Concluding Remarks

139 139 142 145 149 164 169

Chapter 6. Emotional Bonding and Trust during Sieges, Twelfth–Thirteenth Centuries A Siege of Fear, 850s Emotions and the Arrival of the Idea of Crusade to the Baltic Rim Method, Sources, and Emotional Bonding on the Frontier Between a Rock and a Hard Place: Communities under Siege Pagani: From Political Enemies to Enemies of the Faith Fear and Terror as Public, Political, and Weaponized Emotions Fear and Terror as Histrionic Emotions Concluding Remarks Chapter 7. Politics of Emotions and Empathy Walls in Livonia, Thirteenth Century Close Encounters of the Third-Degree Burn, 1222 Method: Asymmetrical Emotional Ascription Statistics of Emotions and the Binarity of Evil Joy Division: gaudium, vrôlich, vreuden Love Will Tear Us Apart: caritas, fraternitas, lieb Politics of Comfort: consolatio and trôsten Concluding Remarks

175 175 177 179 182 187 192 199 204 207 207 210 213 221 228 232 237

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Chapter 8. Hospitality and the Formation of Identities in the Livonian Rhymed Chronicle, Thirteenth Century Danish Discomfort Food, 1223 Clashes of Cultures and Meetings of Minds Chivalry, Courtesy, and Conversion Death of a Salesman: Miracle of Inhospitality Sauna: Hostipitality in the Other Space Metaphors: Hostile Guests and Hospitable Enemies Concluding Remarks

241 241 243 245 253 258 262 271

Chapter 9. Epilogue Conquest, Colonization, and Cultural Change: Emotions Conquest, Colonization, and Cultural Change: Hospitality Risks before Modernity, Knowledge without Concepts

275 275 278 280

Bibliography

285

General Index

347

9

List of Illustrations

Figures Figure 1. Figure 3.1. Figure 3.2. Figure 7.1. Figure 7.2. Figure 7.3.

Map of the Baltic Rim, 1000–1300. 17 Gaudium, timor, terror in Henry’s Chronicon Livoniae. 83 Map of Adam of Bremen’s and Helmold of Bosau’s terrae horroris. 91 Emotional attribution in Henry’s Chronicon Livoniae. 219 Emotional attribution in the Livonian Rhymed Chronicle. 219 Distribution of joy and rejoicing in Henry’s Chronicon Livoniae. 226

Tables Table 7.1. Emotion words in Henry’s Chronicon Livoniae. Table 7.2. Emotion words in the Livonian Rhymed Chronicle.

214 215

Preface

This is my Gothenburg book. The majority of chapters were written during a period when the Department of Historical Studies at the University of Gothenburg was my main base and a place to return to, despite my zigzagging academic journey. The department is full of lovely colleagues, co-teachers, and research companions. This inspiring interdisciplinary mi­ lieu has taught me many things, above all that medievalists must learn to read wider and think bigger. Over the years and during innumerable venues, many people have read or listened to different iterations of the chapters and ideas gathered here, generously sharing their insightful feedback, their own research, and new and original thoughts. Many have also kindly invited me to speak at semi­ nar series at their home institutions, workshops, and conference sessions, or asked me contribute to their volumes. My warm thanks go to Gerd Al­ thoff, Arnoud-Jan Bijsterveld, Jacek Banaszkiewicz, Helene Castenbrandt, Alexander Drost, Thomas Foerster, Tim Geelhaar, Kate Gilbert, Henrik Janson, Kurt Villads Jensen, Bernhard Jussen, Linda Kaljundi, Lars Kjær, Geoff Koziol, Kristian Kristiansen, Thomas Lindkvist, Pavel V. Lukin, Christina Lutter, Eduard Mühle, Michael North, Martin Öhman, Anders Ottosson, Grzegorz Pac, Walter Pohl, Helmut Puff, Barbara H. Rosenwein, Leif Runefelt, Kirsi Salonen, Silke Schwandt, Jón Viðar Sigurðsson, Marek Tamm, Lewis Webb, Stephen D. White, Grischa Vercamer, Helle Vogt, and Ian N. Wood. I am particularly indebted to a number of individuals, however. First are the three Nordic musketeers and my recurrent co-editors and friends: Lars Hermanson, Hans Jacob Orning, and Kim Esmark. I am thankful for their inspiration and tireless feedback, but, above all, for their support and unwavering belief in my work, which carried me over the years. Similarly, Sari Nauman and Cordelia Heß have read more than their fair share of the chapters gathered here. Their intellectual clarity, criticism, encouragement, and generous friendship have proved invaluable. The members of the online Korona-kontoret group — Irene Selsvold, Frida Espolin Norstein, Anna R. Locke, as well as Lewis and Sari — have made research life during the pandemic fun and sparkling. Guy Carney at Brepols deftly guided me through the editorial and reviewing process, for which I am very grateful. I am also much obliged to the peer reviewer of this book, appointed by Brepols, whose criticism

14

PREFACE

and reassuring words have helped me to improve this book, as did the peer reviews of the individual chapters beforehand. Erik Goosmann at Mappa Mundi Cartography, as always, drew fabulous maps. Sarah Thomas did a terrific job with the proofreading and editing of the entire manuscript. My kids, Ronja and Ivar, rolled their eyes at countless ill-timed and unrelated apropos and stories which pop up in this book. Their patience and willingness to sit down at the kitchen table and play a boardgame afterwards should receive proper praise. This book is for Kasia, as ever. Stockholm - Olso, May 2022

Acknowledgements

Doing research without money would be impossible. Over the years many grants have supported my exploration of the risks, emotions, and hospital­ ity on the high medieval Baltic Rim and helped to extend my vagrant academic life. In its entirety this book is the result of the project Ambiguities of Hospitality: Intercultural Integration and Conflict in Host-Guest Relations on the European Borderlands, c. 1000–1350, a grant from the Swedish Research Council (Vetenskapsrådet, grant nr 2020–01810) from 2020. Additional funding for publication also came from 2018 grant for the Baltic Hospitality: Receiving Strangers/Providing Security on the Northern European Littoral, ca. 1000–1900 from The Foundation for Baltic and East European Studies (Östersjöstiftelsen, grant nr 9/18). Some of the chapters stem from the project Borderline Missionary: Fear, Risk, Human Security, and Emotional Communities on the Baltic Rim (ca. 1000–1250) based on a 2014 grant from the Swedish Research Council (Vetenskapsrådet, grant nr 2014–673). The manuscript was finished during my research visit at the Institut für Mittelalterforschung (IMAFO) of the Austrian Academy of Sciences in Vienna in 2021. I am much obliged to Walter Pohl, Ingrid Hartl, and Maximillian Diesenberger for their generous hospitality and assistance. The research at IMAFO was made possible thanks to the grants from the Wenner-Gren Foundations (Wenner-Gren Stiftelserna) and Åke Wibergs stiftelse. Smaller grants from Per Lindecrantz fond, Helge Ax:son Johnsons Stiftelse, and Vitterhetsakademien enabled me to repeatedly participate in the IMC Leeds, where almost all of this book’s contents have been presented. The image for the cover has been provided by the Archaeological Research Collection, Tallinn University and is reproduced with its kind permission. The chapters in this book build — entirely or in parts — on the following, previously published articles and chapters. I would like to acknowledge my gratitude to the publishers and journals for their kind permission to reproduce these texts:

16

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

‘Convivium in terra horroris. Helmold of Bosau’s Rituals of Hostipitality’, in Rituals, Performatives, and Political Order in Northern Europe, c. 650–1350, ed. by Wojtek Jezierski, Lars Hermanson, Hans Jacob Orning, and Thomas Småberg (Turnhout: Brepols, 2015), pp. 139–73 ‘Risk Societies on the Frontier: Missionary Emotional Communities in Southern Baltic, 11th–13th c.’, in Imagined Communities on the Baltic Rim, Eleventh– Fifteenth Centuries, ed. by Wojtek Jezierski and Lars Hermanson (Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press, 2016), pp. 155–90 ‘Fears, Sights and Slaughter: Expressions of Fright and Disgust in the Baltic Missionary Historiography (11th–13th centuries)’, in Tears, Sighs and Laughter: Expressions of Emotions in the Middle Ages, ed. by Per Förnegård, Erika Kihlman, Mia Åkestam, and Gunnel Engwall (Stockholm: Vitterhetsakademien, 2017), pp. 109–37 ‘Feelings during Sieges: Fear, Trust, and Emotional Bonding on the Missionary and Crusader Baltic Rim, 12th–13th Centuries’, Frühmittelalterliche Studien, 52 (2018), 253–81 ‘Livonian Hospitality: The “Livonian Rhymed Chronicle” and the Formation of Identities on the Thirteenth-Century Baltic Frontier’, Frühmittelalterliche Studien, 54 (2020), 395–427 ‘Politics of Emotions and Empathy Walls in Thirteenth-Century Livonia’, in Making Livonia: Actors and Networks in the Medieval and Early Modern Baltic Sea Region, ed. by Anu Mänd and Marek Tamm (New York: Routledge, 2020), pp. 113–42 ‘Spaces of Hospitality on the Missionary Baltic Rim, Tenth–Twelfth Centuries’, in Baltic Hospitality from the Middle Ages to the Twentieth Century: Receiving Strangers in Northeastern Europe, ed. by Sari Nauman, Wojtek Jezierski, Christina Reimann, and Leif Runefelt (Cham: Palgrave Macmillan, 2022), pp. 33–62

Figure 1. Map of the Baltic Rim, 1000–1300.

CHAPtER 1

Introduction

Au début de tout morceau free, chaque musicien est au bord du gouffre: il n’a rien derrière lui, sinon le système qu’il renie; ce qui est plus grave, c’est qu’il n’a encore rien devant lui, et qu’il devient de plus en plus urgent de trouver une solution, une issue, de jeter un pont, c’est-à-dire de trouver, à l’intérieur des moyens dont il dispose (comment les trouveraitil ailleurs?) et qui, c’est justement là le drame, sont presqu’entièrement constitués par l’héritage qu’il rejette, un cadre culturel qui lui permettra d’avancer. Georges Perec, La chose

Enemy at the Gates, 1205 In the early spring of 1205 a large Lithuanian expedition, allegedly 2000 men strong, went up against the Estonians intending to plunder their region. On its way north the Lithuanian army passed the city of Riga (Latvian: Rīga), the heart of the newly established, still feeble Christian colony of Livonia (during the thirteenth century roughly corresponding to the area of modern-day Latvia and Estonia). Just outside the city, a rich and powerful man called Svelgate (Lithuanian: Žvelgaitis), accompanied by a small escort, separated from the Lithuanian troops and approached the city gates: The men of the city went out to meet them in peace, and a certain citizen named Martin offered them a honeyed drink. When he finished it, Svelgate followed the army which was going ahead, and spoke as follows to his companions: ‘Did you not see the Germans offering us mead with a trembling hand? They had known of our arrival from rumor and the fear which then struck them still causes them to shake’.1 1 Henry of Livonia, Chronicon Livoniae, ed. by Arbusow and Bauer, ix. 1, pp. 25–26: ‘Cui inter alios viros de civitate cum pace obviam exeuntes unus ex civibus, nomine Martinus, ad bibendum potum mellitum prebet. Quo exhausto exercitum preeuntem insequitur et

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Svelgate also promised his companions that once they were done with the Estonians they would take Riga, hence reciprocating Martin’s generous, hospitable gesture and sweet drink with hostility and bitterness.2 Indeed, after a couple of days the Lithuanians appeared again, but they were now met by strong joint German and Semgallian forces, whose scouts had followed the enemies’ every move expecting the attack. Finally, the two armies clashed in a forest outside the village Rodenpois (Latvian: Ropaži) some thirty-five km east of Riga. The Lithuanian army was slaughtered and Svelgate died, pierced by a javelin. This episode is preserved in the Chronicon Livoniae by Henry of Livo­ nia, written in the mid-1220s, roughly twenty years after these events supposedly took place. What makes this small, close-up scene outside Riga so captivating is that, despite the chronicler’s implicit suggestion that someone heard the remark about Martin’s shaking hands,3 no German could conceivably have overheard what Svelgate actually said. The dialogue with his companions occurs off camera, so to speak. Svelgate talks outside the frame within which Henry — who in 1205 was an adolescent and had just arrived in Livonia, and maybe saw the events first-hand, which would explain why this scene was etched so vividly in his memory — or his local informants could have taken note of it. The Lithuanian dialogue is obviously fictional. As one follows the Chronicon closely, it appears that the preparations to fend off the purported attack were not motivated by this unheard threat. Rather, they were based on previous experience, rumours, some gathered intelligence, speculations, and the premonitions of a certain Semgallian chieftain, Viesthard, allied with the Rigans. In other words, the defence was based on guesswork and no certainty of an attack.4 If it was not now, yet it would come — the readiness was all. The crucial element of the scene outside Riga is thus a phantasm of the chronicler. Yet it reveals an imagination — individual, but plausibly also collective — conditioned by and tuned in on anxiety, fear, and a sense of being surrounded with bloodthirsty pagans (Estonians to the north, Lithuanians to the south, and many more pagan tribes and recent converts

socios suos alloquitur: “Nonne Theuthonicorum nobis medonem prebencium trepidancium manus vidistis? Adventum quidem nostrum fama volante cognoverant et ideo timore concussi adhuc trepidare non cessant”’; Henry of Livonia, The Chronicle, trans. by Brundage, p. 47. 2 Henry of Livonia, Chronicon Livoniae, ed. by Arbusow and Bauer, ix. 1–2, pp. 25–26; Henry of Livonia, The Chronicle, trans. by Brundage, pp. 47–48. 3 Henry of Livonia, Chronicon Livoniae, ed. by Arbusow and Bauer, ix. 4, p. 28: ‘Suellegaten, qui se civitatem Dei subversurum dixerat’; Murray, ‘Henry the Interpreter’, pp. 107–34. 4 Henry of Livonia, Chronicon Livoniae, ed. by Arbusow and Bauer, ix. 2, p. 26: ‘audiens quidam Viesthardus […] cum festinatione Rigam veniens Theuthonicos premonendo alloquitur, eo quod hostes fines ipsorum pacifice transeant, ne forte, postquam situm loci didicerint, in futuro civitatem cum habitatoribus suis destruant’.

INTRODUCTION

closer still) to such a degree that it would fittingly fill in the adversary’s perspective even if he had no information whatsoever. After all, who else if not Martin’s Rigan compatriots was most likely to see his hands tremble? But then, what did it mean to see one’s fears being reflected — thus recognizing oneself — in the gaze of dangerous others?5 Life on the Baltic frontier was hardly monotonous or boring. So, what did it feel like to live in constant preparedness, alertness, and paranoid uncertainty?6

Argument: Risks, Emotions, and Hospitality in the Christianization of the Baltic Rim Studies of missionary activity and crusading during the high Middle Ages tend to open with quotations from Matthew’s Gospel of Jesus’s command and injunction for his disciples to follow Him and to evangelize the gentiles: ‘Whoever wants to be my disciple must deny themselves and take up their cross and follow me’ (Matthew 16. 24), so ‘go therefore and make disciples of all the nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Ghost!’ (Matthew 28. 19).7 What was clear for both Christ and Matthew at the point of writing these words was that evangelization entailed profound dangers and hazards for the agents engaged in it. However, what neither Jesus, nor the evangelist, nor modern scholars have not sufficiently lingered upon was how such risks were perceived and felt by those agents and what they could do about them. My study goes from the late tenth to late thirteenth century, the period during which Christianity expanded into the north-eastern frontiers of Europe, incorporating into its sphere of influence one polity and people after another, a process which was intensified by the arrival of the crusader movement to the Baltic Rim after 1147. By that time the dangers of evangelization had been chronicled for over a millennium by writers who capitalized on accounts of martyrdom and Christian hardships. These stories also became some of the central tenets of Christian identity and constituted the emotional driver for generations of missionaries and cru­ saders. Familiar and well-chronicled as they might have been, however, the occupational hazards and risks missionaries and crusaders faced often had

5 Žižek, The Sublime Object, pp. 47–50, 116–19, 139–44; Žižek, For They Know Not, pp. 89–91; Vigh, ‘Social Invisibility and Political Opacity’, pp. 117–22. 6 Auerbach, Imperial Boredom, pp. 1–11; Koselleck, ‘Transformations of Experience’, pp. 45– 83; Vigh, ‘Social Invisibility and Political Opacity’, pp. 122–24. 7 Wood, The Missionary Life, p. 3; Tyerman, Crusades, p. 13; Tyerman, The World of the Crusades, p. 2; von Padberg, Die Inszenierung religiöser Konfrontationen, pp. 37–39.

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an existential character. The ultimate risk of dying at the hands of those one set out to convert or fight was difficult to efface or adapt to. No matter how much one prepared oneself by hearing or reading about them in advance, such dangers were experienced as acute in the practices of evangelizing, be it those conducted in a peaceful manner or manu militari. The implicit question regularly posed by the agents of evangelization when facing the people on the other side of the creed divide was: is it safe? Initially, starting with Anskar’s mission to the Swedes in the ninth century or St Adalbert’s mission to the Prussians in the late tenth century, missionaries and, later, crusaders considered themselves to be guests in the north-eastern outskirts of Europe. Guests who had to gamble on the hospitality and kindness of their hosts. They were aliens meeting people whom they considered to be alien. Travelling to or inhabiting these frontier regions thus meant consciously exposing oneself to risks and hazards. Understandably, putting oneself in such exposed positions of risk begot questions and worries, many of which missionaries and crusaders articulated explicitly. How are we to approach these aliens? How do we relate to them practically, intellectually, emotionally? Will they meet us hospitably or with hostility and how can we navigate between these two attitudes? Is it safe to trust them or are they dangerous and what can be done about these dangers and our distrust towards the locals? Should we follow the Great Commandment and not show them vengeance or bear grudge against them, but love our new neighbours or subjects as ourselves? Should we be afraid of them and should they be afraid of us? Such intercultural encounters and relations led to further dilemmas and questions, which scholars gather under abstract terms like identityformation, relational subjectivity, and self-cognition.8 Simply put, these were questions of common understanding, mutual perception, and making sense of the other’s worldview. These problems translated further into the ways of deriving missionaries’ and crusaders’ sense of the self from interactions and relations with others and remaking oneself in the process. These agents of Christianization wondered: how can we learn to know those pagan and barbaric gentiles?9 Who are they and, accordingly, how do we present ourselves to them? Should we amplify our alterity or tone it down? Whom do we become when we meet them? How safe can we be in our sense of the self as we gaze across this gap between us and them?10 8 Rancière, ‘Politics, Identification, and Subjectivization’, p. 60: ‘What is a process of subjectivization? It is the formation of a one that is not a self but is the relation of a self to an other’; Foucault, ‘The Subject and Power’, pp. 326–48; Žižek, For They Know Not, pp. 33–36. 9 For the notoriously problematic notion of paganism in this period and region, see Wood, The Missionary Life, pp. 5–6; Janson, ‘What Made Pagans Pagans?’, pp. 13–31. 10 Rancière, ‘Politics, Identification, and Subjectivization’, p. 62: ‘The place for the working out of difference is not the “self ” or the culture of a group. […] And the place for such

INTRODUCTION

Over time, these intercultural encounters were overshadowed by larger societal issues. New threats, questions, and dilemmas appeared. They de­ rived from the ambition driving most missionaries and crusaders to build a lasting Christian community with the people they converted. What does it take to go from being a guest to becoming a host and master in these newly conquered areas? Where to draw the line between us and them? How to eventually erase these divides? How to advance from relations of hostility or hospitality to a safe and stable Christian society? To some extent, missionaries and crusaders are anachronistic scholarly abstractions.11 These notions do not really correspond to medieval appella­ tions and, consequently, did not serve as conduits for self-identification. These cadres of men — as they were almost exclusively men –, the avantgarde of Christianization on the Baltic Rim, called themselves priests, sometimes bishops, and occasionally apostles. Later on, after the crusader movement arrived to the region, many of these new agents who took up the cross considered themselves to be pilgrims, knights, sometimes brothers. Generally speaking, the experiences of the frontier of these two groups and their sense of (un-)safety were often very diverse. Having to enter a pagan village alone and armed with a crucifix felt entirely different to confronting a pagan army with a crusader army, though these stereo­ types hardly exhaust the full scope of evangelization practices. Further, in many contexts missionaries and crusaders were even directly at odds with each other. In thirteenth-century Livonia, for instance, the evangelizing and colonizing efforts of multiple actors (e.g. Danish, Swedish, German, Orthodox Russian) clashed and the bishops of Riga were often in open conflict with the Livonian branch of the Teutonic Knights, which they themselves had originally created. What motivates lumping missionaries and crusaders together as one research object is that in responding to Christ’s injunction and the apostolic calling they shared the implicit and explicit questions and dilemmas listed here. Questions full of worry, second thoughts, and concerns about safety in face of the alterity they confronted. Their questions, concerns, and worries should be ours too. To put it in more general terms. The central argument of this book is that the missionary communities and crusader societies that emerged and partook in the Christianization of the Baltic Rim frontier were under­ pinned by amplified senses of risk and uncertainty. For the purposes of this study, I paraphrase Ulrich Beck, the central theorist of risk society, and define risk as a systemic way of dealing with hazards and insecurities

an argument is an interval. The place of a political subject is an interval or a gap: being together to the extent that we are in between — between names, identities, cultures, and so on’; Giesen, ‘Inbetweenness and Ambivalence’, pp. 788–804. 11 Wood, The Missionary Life, pp. 3–5; Tyerman, Crusades, pp. 12–16.

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induced and introduced by evangelization itself.12 The knowledge, ways of conceptualizing and dealing with risk, uncertainty, and their affective counterpart, safety, reflected back upon the frontier missionary communi­ ties and crusaders societies. This reflection was shaped in terms of the identity and subjectivity of their members and their relations with the pop­ ulations they set to convert.13 Putting it in terms of a sociological paradox: the very possibility of building Christian societies on the north-eastern frontiers of Europe was predicated on these agents of evangelization’s consciousness of their own precarious position. But not just that; it also included their realization that the internal antagonisms and the inability to settle inner differences put such societies under constant threat — a threat which made such societies almost impossible to build.14 It is my contention that the crucial way to reflexively register, respond to, and frame such risks and threats within and between missionary and crusader communities were emotions and emotional patterns.15 Those emotions and sense of uncertainty fed into and emerged from intercultural practices directed at the local populations and relations with them, e.g. violent conflicts, mutual accommodation, creating or ameliorating social and cultural distance, subjection and dominance, mutual (dis-)trust, sense of insecurity, and ways of producing safety, etc.16 In this book, emotions are thus treated as a means of sociopolitical structuration, ways of creating subjectivities within those larger social structures, and frames of their members’ cognition.17

12 Beck, Risk Society, p. 21: ‘The concept of risk is directly bound to the concept of reflexive modernization. Risk may be defined as a systemic way of dealing with hazards and insecurities induced and introduced by modernization itself’. emphasis in the original. 13 Giddens, ‘Risk and Responsibility’, p. 3: ‘A risk society is a society where we increasingly live on a high technological frontier which absolutely no one completely understands and which generates a diversity of possible futures. … it is a society increasingly preoccupied with the future (and also with safety), which generates the notion of risk’; Beck, Risk Society, p. 53: ‘Crucial for this is the type of knowledge, specifically the lack of personal experience and the depth of dependency on knowledge, which surrounds all dimensions of defining hazards’; Lupton, Risk, pp. 143–44, 155–61; Guerreau, ‘L’Europe médiévale’, pp. 11–18. 14 Simmel, On Individuality and Social Forms, pp. 6–22; Laclau, ‘The Impossibility of Society’, pp. 24–27: ‘The social only exists as the vain attempt to institute that impossible object: society’; Žižek, For They Know Not, pp. 68–72; Bateson, ‘Culture Contact and Schismogenesis’, pp. 178–83. 15 Holmes, ‘The Emotionalization of Reflexivity’, pp. 139–54; Lupton, Risk, pp. 161–70. 16 Beck, Risk Society, p. 49: ‘Its normative counterproject, which is its basis and normative force, is safety. The place of the value system of the “unequal” society is taken by the value system of the “unsafe” society’. 17 Rosenwein, Generations of Feeling, p. 3: ‘There is a biological and universal aptitude for feeling and expressing what we now call “emotions”. But what those emotions are, what they are called, how they are evaluated and felt, and how they are expressed (or not)’ — all are dependent on time and place and can vary considerably’.

INTRODUCTION

The second overlooked domain, in which the uncertainties associated with living in a frontier risk society were felt the most and which offered discursive and practical means of responding to and dealing with such predicaments, were host-guest relations. It is my contention that focusing on the highly ambiguous and unpredictable hospitality between mission­ aries, crusaders and pagans or neophytes helps to account for both the amicable and adversarial attitudes and uncertain emotional ties between those groups in a more comprehensive manner. Similarly to emotions, missionary and crusader discourses and practices of hospitality also had both cognitive and transformative impact on sociopolitical relations in frontier societies and identity-formation of their members. Risks, emotions, and hospitality. By considering the hitherto underex­ plored politico-cultural forms of these three phenomena does not just highlight the conditions and means of the Christianization process in a novel way. This also reveals the ways risks and dangers were experienced in premodern societies in general. To state it otherwise, by studying the means of emotional bonding and practices of hospitality in a number of missionary and crusader contexts in north-eastern Europe c. 1000–1300, this book offers a new understanding of the ambiguous social psychology and identity-formation in frontier societies writ large.

Scope: Baltic Experiments, 1000–1300 As indicated by the title, the geographical, cultural, and historical scope of this book addresses the notoriously elusive region known as the Baltic Rim — a sui generis Mediterranean of the North. Researchers studying the cultural contacts and developments as well as the expansion of Chris­ tian Europe in this frontier region during the high Middle Ages tend to circumscribe its reach rather broadly. This frame includes not just the coastal regions and polities which emerged during this period in direct access to the Baltic Sea. It also encompasses the trade connections, travel routes, and cultural contacts extended through the river systems located in the territories of the Rus’, occasionally reaching as far south as the Black Sea.18 However, given the necessarily local ways in which risks, emotions, and hospitality shaped intercultural encounters and missionary as well as crusader societies during this period, the large, elastic frame of

18 Gerner, Karlsson, and Hammarlund, Nordens Medelhav; North, The Baltic; Bertell, Frog, and Willson, eds, Contacts and Networks in the Baltic Sea Region; Jezierski and Hermanson, eds, Imagined Communities on the Baltic Rim; Zilmer, ‘Sailing to the East Sea’, pp. 100–01; Zilmer, ‘The Representation of Waterborne Traffic in Old Norse Narratives’, pp. 239–74; Shepard, ‘Networks’, pp. 116–57.

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the Baltic Rim is a sufficient demarcation in which my consciously local investigations can be positioned. From the end of the tenth century until the end of the thirteenth, this region was dramatically transformed by Christian (mostly Latin) conquest, colonization, and cultural change, as Robert Bartlett puts it. These three large-scale, conjoined transformations — within which evan­ gelization played the decisive role — were instrumental in discovering, inventing, and incorporating the Baltic region as a whole into the Euro­ pean sphere of influence. The Christian authors who depicted the region’s transformation did so from different angles; they ranged from Adam of Bremen in the eleventh century as a proponent of the imperial church to Saxo Grammaticus’s portrayal of a maritime Danish empire in the thirteenth. During these three centuries, the region went from a pirate and monster infested terrae horroris and a mare incognitum located outside the orbit of the Christian world to its known and largely integrated periphery in religious, political, and economic sense.19 Within the larger frame of the high medieval Catholic expansion — a process dubbed by Bartlett as the Europeanization of Europe — the Baltic was one frontier among many. Latin conquest, colonization, and cultural change to equally spectacular degree affected and transformed the Iberian Peninsula, the Holy Land and Asia Minor, Ireland, etc. Each of these regions is a promising research context for exploring and comparing how experiences of risk as well as emotions and hospitality sculpted frontier societies in the evangelization contexts and beyond.20 What distinguishes the Baltic Rim vis-à-vis these other frontiers and motivates my focus is, first, that the period studied here encompasses different phases and types of evangelization. It includes both relatively peaceful forms performed by individual missionaries, with little or no military backing from the secular powers and, after 1147, phases of large-scale military operations ideolog­ ically driven by crusader rhetoric. Second, in contrast to the crusader movement to the Holy Land, whose sheer scale and simultaneity quickly snowballed into a large pool of texts and discourses in dialogue with each other, on the Baltic Rim we mostly find local stories, isolated voices, and dispersed texts, whose authors read each other sequentially at best. On the one hand, a rapidly accumulated sense of Christian commonality and self-understanding vis-à-vis the common enemy likely led to more common way of conceptualizing risks or employing emotional rhetoric

19 Bartlett, The Making of Europe; Blomkvist, The Discovery of the Baltic; Foerster, ‘Imagining the Baltic’, pp. 37–58; Jezierski. ‘Introduction: Imagined Communities on the Baltic Rim’, pp. 11–33; Melnikova, ‘The Baltic on the Mental Map’, pp. 11–21. 20 Comparisons between different frontier experiences, particularly experiences of crusading, have recently proliferated: Jensen, Crusading at the Edges of Europe; Nielsen and FonnesbergSchmidt, eds, Crusading on the Edge.

INTRODUCTION

in crusading. On the other hand, we find an archipelago of small worlds, idiosyncratic emotional communities, and a plurality of storyworlds.21 Third, in contrast to crusades in Palestine or Spain, where representatives of two or three monotheistic cultures confronted each other, missionaries and crusaders on the Baltic regions for the most part (with the exception of Orthodox Russians) confronted small tribes practicing polytheistic beliefs. This entailed different types of cognitive and practical challenges for the agents of evangelization. In addition, in the eyes of these agents the pagan beliefs could not be considered on a par to Islam. These heathen superstitions were rather to be wiped off the face of the earth.22 All these arguments suggest that the many Christianization contexts on Baltic Rim provide opportunities for comparisons and identifying (dis-)continuities and (dis-)similarities in how risks influenced socialization within mission­ ary and crusader communities and how intercultural encounters there were framed by emotions and host-guest relations. In terms of empirical material, this book studies a specific class of Christianization events, processes, and contexts from the period between 1000 and 1300. Though in the north-eastern Europe this period is mainly associated with the establishment of new Christian monarchies, the in­ formation about the initial stages of these types of evangelization, spear­ headed by native political elites and traditionally studied in connection to state-building, is scanty.23 Instead, this book focuses on the evangelization of the European latecomers from north-eastern Germany, Prussia, Pomera­ nia, and Livonia to whom the new faith was introduced in a somewhat colonizing fashion, though occasionally with the cooperation of the local elites. Central to my purposes is that these Christianization contexts gen­ erated more extensive evidence by and about missionary and crusader communities. By interacting with these last north-eastern barbarians, these communities produced not just descriptions of these diverse types of others. They also left behind reflexive and self-reflexive accounts of their own relational dealings with these aliens as well as of their own dilemmas and questions. What they left behind, in other words, was their missionary and crusader autoethnography, which to some extent broke down the dualism between the outsiders and insiders.24

21 Patzold, ‘Kleine Welten’, pp. 14–16; van Rhijn and Patzold, ‘Introduction’, pp. 1–3, 7–9. 22 Christiansen, The Northern Crusades, pp. 22–27; Blomkvist, The Discovery of the Baltic, pp. 3– 5. 23 Berend, ‘Introduction’, pp. 1–46; Wood, The Missionary Life, pp. 3–5; Bartlett, ‘From Paganism to Christianity in Medieval Europe’, pp. 47–72; Berend, ed., The Expansion of Central Europe in the Middle Ages. 24 Reed-Danahay, ‘Introduction’, pp. 2–3; Luhmann, Theory of Society, ii, 335–44; Fabian, Time and the Other, pp. 87–97; Kujawiński, ‘Spotkanie z “innym”’, pp. 7–64; Rosik, Conversio gentis Pomeranorum, pp. 71–80; Foerster, Vergleich und Identität, pp. 10–11.

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Consequently, the problem-oriented approach of this book is local, addressing specific missionary and crusader contexts. It does not aim to be exhaustive by covering all texts or contexts from this region and period. Instead of aiming at a full coverage, this book’s heuristic ambition is to identify new viewpoints on a seemingly familiar research and historical landscape. Vantages created from new questions, concepts, and methods address the role of risks, emotional bonding, and hospitality in the Chris­ tianization of the Baltic Rim, and which hopefully can be extrapolated to other texts and contexts. To put it otherwise. If this book had a subtitle, it would go like this: experiments. It is experimental in a twofold sense: in which its research objects — missionary and crusader communities — represent, and its use of methods and perspectives account for the patterns of emotions and hospitality in such risk societies. In the first sense, the missionary, crusader, frontier societies emerging in Christianization contexts can be treated like petri dishes. These social formations, due to their overall political instability, frequent pagan reactions, deaths and expulsions of missionaries, shifts in allegiance, and occasional collapses which led to restarting and testing of different strategies of evangelization,25 effectively constituted real-life experiments in ways of organizing intercultural relations, social psychology, and political ordering without certainty about their outcomes or success.26 They can thus be studied as critical case-studies of crisisridden, threatened social orders, whose members were cognizant of their own vulnerability and their condition of living in state of emergency.27 This book’s inflection is therefore much more sociological and anthropological than it is customary for studies by medievalists. What we can know about the social psychology of its members or ways of shaping intercultural relations within these petri dishes is, how­ ever, strictly dependent on how we can know it. Thus, in the second sense — in contrast to more holistic approaches — this book employs a

25 Urbańczyk and Rosik, ‘The Kingdom of Poland’, pp. 263–318; Ljungqvist, ‘Hedniskt motstånd i Svealand’, pp. 197–226; Orning and Vigh, ‘Constant Crisis’, pp. 1–33; Vigh, ‘Crisis and Chronicity’, pp. 5–24. 26 I draw inspiration from the ways the notion of (real-life) experiments — with administrative organization, psychology, emotional conditioning, social and political ordering, etc. – has been recently employed by a number of scholars: Pohl, ‘Introduction’, pp. 8–9; Watts, The Making of Polities; Diem, Das monastische Experiment, pp. 2–3; Diem and Rapp, ‘The Monastic Laboratory’, pp. 19–39; Luhmann, Theory of Society, ii, 32: ‘Early societies seem to have experimented with the relationship between societal boundaries and communicatively manipulable contingency, and only modern society has made the two congruent’; Graeber and Wengrow, The Dawn of Everything, pp. 107, 113, 117, 276–77, 500, 502, 516. 27 Flyvbjerg, Making Social Science Matter, pp. 74–75, 77–81: ‘a critical case can be defined as having strategic importance in relation to the general problem’; Flyvbjerg, ‘Five Misunderstandings’, pp. 219–45.

INTRODUCTION

laboratorial and experimental attitude.28 To do so, it takes on a position of methodological pluralism when approaching the problems of sociopo­ litical psychology and ordering of the frontier societies. This pluralism, rather than a single-method approach, is called-for to account for the com­ plex and variable ways in which risks, emotions, and hospitality affected intercultural relations and self-reflexivity on the missionary and crusader Baltic Rim. ‘Better, perhaps, different coats to clothe the children well than a single splendid tent in which they all shiver’, as Erving Goffman put it.29 In terms of methods, this book offers a number of approaches to missionary and crusader emotions and hospitality: spatial, ritual, ap­ proaches of conflict- and dispute-settlement studies, word statistics and co-occurrences, keywords, metaphor analysis, etc. The results of these experiments and the motley wardrobe assembled here can come in handy for studying other crisis- and risk-ridden research contexts. We can simplify and streamline the argument in the rest of the intro­ duction. Risk, the uncertainty of evangelization, and the ambiguity of intercultural encounters on the high medieval Baltic frontier are treated here as the central and chronic conditions of missionary and crusader communities. They are the explanandum. Emotions and hospitality can be seen as responses to these problems and as analytical entry points. They are the explanans. In the remainder of this chapter, I first discuss the his­ torical investigations of premodern, particularly medieval examples of risk societies. The theoretical and methodological ambition of this section is to discuss the general usefulness and conditions of transfer of this concept for use in a medieval context and to identify similarities and differences between modern and premodern risks and risk societies. In the next step, I delineate the basic conceptual parameters of exploring emotions and hospitality, leaving more specific concepts and methods to be worked out in individual chapters and concrete historical settings. The section after that concerns the way these central concepts are operationalized for the study of missionary and crusader risk societies and their forms of reflexivity. The final section provides a roadmap for the rest of the book. The standard elements of historian’s trade — the heritage we reject and the necessary framework which allows us to move forward, to borrow Perec’s words — are expounded in the next chapter, which deals with pre­ vious research on risks, emotions, and hospitality in the Christianization of the Baltic Rim. It also presents the sources used here and my ways of reading them as peripheral visions and emotional palimpsests.

28 Graeber and Wengrow, The Dawn of Everything, pp. 115, 204–05. 29 Goffman, Asylums, p. 11.

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Problem: Risk and Uncertainty Let me start with a general question which I will narrow down later. Were there risks and risk assessment in the Middle Ages? If we were to follow the views of sociologists, risks appear to be strictly modern, particularly late modern phenomena. As Anthony Giddens put it: Life in the Middle Ages was hazardous; but there was no notion of risk and there doesn’t seem in fact to be a notion of risk in any traditional culture. The reason for this is that dangers are experienced as given. Either they come from God, or they come simply from a world which one takes for granted. The idea of risk is bound up with the aspiration to control and particularly with the idea of controlling the future.30 Even Beck, a scholar historically more knowledgeable than Giddens, ties the emergence of the notion of risk to specifically modern social constel­ lations. These societies have become more future-oriented than before, preoccupied with controlling both their environment and fate and as a result focused on the questions of security — or the lack of it.31 Though Niklas Luhmann admits that the impulse to control and respond to dan­ gers is more universal and transhistorical, and thus relevant for premodern societies, the distinguishing feature of the modern risks are the rapidly growing scientific and infrastructural means to anticipate, conceptualize, and manage them to tame the chance. Such prediction-oriented risk man­ agement is further coupled with the growing conviction (and expectation) that this can and should be done.32 In this view, the crucial distinction between premodern hazards and modern risks is that the latter are commonly self-induced and self-inflicted. They emerge from the modernization process itself and have an egalitarian distribution, affecting everyone more or less democratically.33 Think of industrial pollution of the environment and food chains, atomic radiation due to nuclear warfare or energy production, the human costs of techno­ logical rationalization, etc.34 Dangers are also ‘out there’, and considered to be a function of the environment. Risks, on the other hand, are internal

30 Giddens, ‘Risk and Responsibility’, p. 3. 31 Beck, Risk Society; Koselleck, ‘The Eighteenth Century as the Beginning of Modernity’, pp. 154–69; Koselleck, Futures Past. 32 Luhmann, Theory of Society, i, 140–41, 270–71, 312–24; Luhmann, Theory of Society, ii, 141–48, 188–89, 263–65, 312–25; Hacking, The Taming of Chance; Jung, ‘Events Getting Ahead’, pp. 117–33. 33 Beck, Risk Society, p. 36: ‘Reduced to a formula: poverty is hierarchic, smog is democratic. With the expansion of modernization risks — with the endangering of nature, health nutrition, and so on — the social differences and limits are relativized. […] Objectively, however, risks display an equalizing effect within their scope and among those affected by them’. 34 Beck, Risk Society; Lupton, Risk, pp. 88–89.

INTRODUCTION

to the social system and, Luhmann stresses, belong to the second-order observation. Dangers are objective; notions of risks conceptualizing dan­ gers are subjective, and by virtue of this they can be assessed and treated as concepts.35 Briefly put, risks in risk society consist of both material and discursive components, as postulated by Mary Douglas and Aaron B. Wildavsky. Selecting and constructing them are historically and culturally contingent practices. In that sense, risk comprises a cultural disposition.36 Out of this specifically modern risk condition risk societies emerge. As hinted above, according to Beck’s definition, risk society is ‘a systematic way of dealing with hazards and insecurities induced and introduced by modernization itself ’.37 The central tenet of a risk society is that it is reflexive. Not only are the risks produced by modernization reflected back on society, but also the knowledge about them. Such a society is confronted by itself, forced to deal with and reflect on the problems and threats of its own making. It is thus structured by the epistemology and cognition of risk, which means that ‘in risk positions consciousness determines being’.38 Though in late modern societies risk assessment is often off-loaded onto scientific and expert institutions, the awareness of risks comes back to society through a feedback loop. In that way risks deeply shape such society’s structure, political organization, socialization patterns, and its members’ modes of subjectivization. For Beck, the latter primarily concerns individualization and the development of new types and senses of community.39 Without treading further into the sociology mire, I propose to distin­ guish between a broad and narrow notion of risk society for the purposes of medievalists. The broad version appears to be historically bound up in specific societal formations which emerged in the late modernity and is applicable mostly in this context. On this reading, the human manufac­ turing of risks and their conceptualizations have objective implications and a blanket application and on society-wide, if not global, scale.40

35 Luhmann, Risk, pp. 21–22. 36 von Contzen, Huff, and Itzen, ‘Risikogesellschaften’, pp. 7–15; Douglas and Wildavsky, Risk and Culture, pp. 29–48, 186–98; Lupton, Risk, pp. 53–56, 79–82. 37 Beck, Risk Society, p. 21. 38 Beck, Risk Society, p. 23: ‘One can possess wealth, but one can only be afflicted by risks; they are, so to speak, ascribed by civilization. [Bluntly, one might say: in class and stratification positions being determines consciousness, while in risk positions consciousness determines being.]’. 39 Beck, Risk Society, p. 47: ‘In this sense, the risk society produces new antagonisms of interest and a new type of community of the endangered whose political carrying capacity remains, however, an open question’; Lupton, Risk, pp. 86–87. 40 Beck, ‘Cosmopolitanism as Imagined Communities’, pp. 1346–61; Beck and Levy, ‘Cosmopolitanized Nations’, pp. 3–31.

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Predictably, the vast majority of historical investigations of risk societies have addressed cases from the past two centuries.41 There appears to be a space nevertheless for developing a narrow version of the risk society paradigm. A space which would allow the transfer of some aspects and insights of this approach to particular cases of premodern communities informed by amplified senses of danger and risk vis-à-vis their contemporaries. Such transfer and applications, I argue, can only be local in character, not society-wide, which means it makes little sense to speak of medieval risk society on, say, an European scale. During the thirty years that have passed since the term was coined, medievalists have in fact grappled with the notion of risk and risk society in their field. So far, such applications have been mostly limited to a set of prob­ lems in the fields of economy, agriculture, climate challenges, and natural disasters.42 Scholars have also identified the etymological and conceptual origins of the notion of risk, tracing them back to merchant stations and insurance services in the Mediterranean, which emerged during the high Middle Ages and spread during the transition to early modernity.43 These studies only sporadically discuss the impact of such risks in terms of social ordering and subjectivization, however. By applying definitions of risk which eschew its decisive component of reflexivity and by ignoring medieval cultures’ categorizations and manners of prognostication and prediction,44 these studies inadvertently validate Giddens’s claim of preva­ lence of natural hazards and a lack of reflections on the risk conditions during the Middle Ages. In so doing, these studies employ neither broad nor narrow notions of risk society, but a thin one. They isolate one or two aspects of practical dealing with material, non-human dangers in the Middle Ages and beyond. To develop a narrower notion of risk society, which addresses its reflex­ ive and discursive aspects, this book draws inspiration from the approaches of cultural history. One such research strand has emerged from the Bedro­ hte Ordnungen Collaborative Research Centre (Sonderforschungsbereich) at the University of Tübingen, whose research agenda corresponds to Beck’s adage that ‘risk society is a catastrophic society’, acutely conscious of

41 For research overview, see Contzen, Huff, and Itzen, ‘Risikogesellschaften’, pp. 7–32; Itzen and Müller, ‘Risk as a Category of Analysis’, pp. 7–29. 42 Wickham, Framing the Early Middle Ages, pp. 277, 385, 426, 436; Coşgel and Miceli, ‘Risk, Transaction Costs, and Tax Assignment’, pp. 806–21; Carcaud and Arnaud-Fassetta, ‘Fluvial Risk in Rural Areas’, pp. 213–34; Gerrard and Petley, ‘A Risk Society?’, pp. 1051–79; Gonzalez De Lara, ‘Enforceability and Risk-Sharing in Financial Contracts’, pp. 500–04; Bianca and Salvestrini, eds, L’acqua nemica. 43 Luhmann, Risk, pp. 8–14; Scheller, ‘Die Geburt des Risikos’, pp. 305–31. 44 Heiduk, Herbers, and Lehner, eds, Prognostication in the Medieval World; Wiśniewski, Christian Divination in Late Antiquity.

INTRODUCTION

its predicament.45 Though its published volumes do not refer to Beck’s concept explicitly, they address questions such as human security, state col­ lapse, and vulnerability or the resilience of social orders. Accordingly, they study the sociopolitical and cognitive responses to natural or man-made catastrophes.46 Crucially, these applications are made in clearly demarcated geographical, historical circumstances. In a different vein, Will Hasty and Max Liebermann used Beck’s ideas to, respectively, explore courts and courtly literature as the risk-reward motor of cultural action and subject formation, or risk calculation and risk aversion in a ruler’s decision-making in a state of crisis.47 These latter two applications of risk perspective are demarcated socially — the risk condition is pegged on the social ladder. What all those proponents of the narrow risk society have in common is that they discuss risk in soft and fuzzy terms such as potentialities, contingencies, and indeterminacies, rather than clear-cut risk calculations to which sociologists are prone.48 The lessons from the narrow and thin applications of risk society are threefold. First, in contrast to the broad modern risk society, the exam­ ples discussed here almost never consider strict risk prediction, which remains a specifically late modern phenomenon. Second, it seems that democratization of premodern risks and risk societies did not have the same panoramic character as modern ones. Premodern risk experience was much more local in nature, both geographically and socially. In me­ dieval, or generally, in premodern settings this approach appears to work best in clearly delineated sociopolitical contexts, which respond to excep­ tional circumstances and specific crises and agonistic, pushing towards antagonistic, contexts. In heuristic terms, such contexts are best studied through critical or paradigmatic case-studies of societies or communities living at the ‘disaster threshold’, as Luhmann put it, in life-threatening, conflict-ridden conditions.49 The third conclusion from previous research is that premodern risk societies rarely, if ever, explicitly problematized and communicated risks as autonomous, fully articulated second-order observations to be dealt

45 Beck, Risk Society, pp. 24, 78–80. 46 e.g. Frie and Meier, eds, Aufruhr – Katastrophe – Konkurrenz – Zerfall; Frie, Meier, and Schmidt, eds, Bedroht sein; Lignereux, Macé, Patzold, and Ridder, eds, Vulnerabilität / La vulnérabilité; Patzold, ʻHuman Security, fragile Staatlichkeitʼ, pp. 406–22; Zwierlein and Graf, ‘The Production of “Human Security”’, pp. 7–21. 47 Hasty, The Medieval Risk-Reward; Liebermann, ʻRisikowahrnehmung im Mittelalter’, pp. 33– 47. 48 Hasty, The Medieval Risk-Reward, pp. 14–16, 82, 240–43; Scheller, ‘Kontingenzkulturen — Kontingenzgeschichten’, pp. 9–30; Bernhardt, Blösel, Brakensiek, and Scheller, eds, Möglichkeitshorizonte. 49 Flyvbjerg, Making Social Science Matter, pp. 78–79; Flyvbjerg, ‘Five Misunderstandings’, pp. 225–29; Agamben, State of Exception, pp. 1–31; Luhmann, Risk, pp. 2–3.

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with or solved in a technocratic, rational way. The senses of risk rarely seemed solvable and had a more pre-conceptual character. They were present-oriented rather than predictive. They were also caught up in what Deborah Lupton calls ‘emotion–risk assemblages’, bound up in often am­ biguous emotional perceptions. After all, as pointed out by Giddens’s and Beck’s critics, at its core the concept of risk society is construed around emotions, particularly fear and safety. To remain analytically viable this concept needs to incorporate affective evaluations and emotionallybased rationality and reflexivity.50 In my case, this means that the effects, experience, and registration of missionary and crusader risks need to be identified elsewhere — the problem I address below through emotional communities and host-guest relations.51 To these three lessons from the research by medievalists, I add the fourth one. It follows the argument of political anthropologists arguing that uncertainty, ambiguity, and unpredictability are irreducible features of societies on the disaster threshold. These three distinguishing features often tend to be neglected by research on (modern) risks, which privileges their futuristic, managerial, and predictive facets. Instead, as suggested by Limor Samimian-Darash, Paul Rabinow, Nora Stel, and Henrik Vigh, the categories of unpredictability and uncertainty help us to address the epistemically impaired existence in societies at risk and/or ridden with violent conflict.52 In settings, where constant crisis is the context, there is rarely just-enough amount of knowledge to assess any risks. Rather there is often too much conflicting knowledge or not enough of it. Knowledge is also enmeshed in conflicting norms and social loyalties, all of which are underpinned with strong emotions (emotion–risk assemblages) pre­ venting any comprehensive risk assessments in the first place. The future horizon shortens drastically and ignorance and unknown risks are just one element of an endemic unpredictability. In effect, the problems of predic­ tion are overshadowed by a precarious sense of one’s present condition, apprehension, conflicting definitions of social situations, lack of trust and rampant sense of uncertainty, instability of sociopolitical relations, blurred liminality between adversarial and amicable attitudes, etc. All of which lead

50 Lupton, ‘Risk and Emotion’, pp. 634–36; Zinn, ‘Risk, Affect and Emotion’, pp. 1–11; Holmes, ‘The Emotionalization of Reflexivity’, pp. 139–54; Feldman Barrett, How Emotions are Made, pp. 79–82, 221–25. 51 Luhmann, Risk, pp. 8–24, 111–23; Koselleck, ‘The Eighteenth Century as the Beginning of Modernity’, pp. 154–69. 52 Samimian-Darash and Rabinow, ‘Introduction’, pp. 1–9; Samimian-Darash and Rabinow, ‘Afterword’, pp. 201–07; Stel, Hybrid Political Order, pp. 1–15, 186–89; Vigh, ‘Crisis and Chronicity’, pp. 5–24; Vigh, ‘Social Invisibility and Political Opacity’, pp. 111–29; Zaremba, Wielka trwoga, pp. 13–47, 616–43.

INTRODUCTION

to an overall ambiguity of the cultural and political identities of members of such societies.53 In sum, combining the historical perspectives on Beck’s risk society with the political-anthropological viewpoint on uncertainty and sociopo­ litical and cultural ambiguity opens up a new research avenue.54 This con­ ceptual expansion allows not only for the study of the risk perception of missionary and crusader risk societies, whose members were highly aware and conditioned by these exceptional circumstances and the underlying sense of the democratization of risks on the frontiers of Christianity.55 The types of risks, dangers, and fears, one should add, which the contemporary elites in core European regions were inoculated from through their wealth, social hierarchy, and the stable Christian cultural hegemony.56 In a broader, more general sense, this expanded perspective also applies to a general category of threatened orders and conflict-ridden polities of pre-state societies during the Middle Ages.57 That is, before the emerging state structures and the process of Europeanization introduced administrative

53 Koschut, ‘Emotional (Security) Communities’, pp. 533–58; Frie, ‘‘Bedrohte Ordnungen’ zwischen Vormoderne und Moderne’, pp. 106–07; Lupton, Risk, pp. 161–69; Berenskötter and Nymalm, ‘States of Ambivalence’, pp. 19–38. 54 Hoffarth and Scheller, ʻAmbiguität und die Ordnungen des Sozialen im Mittelalter’, pp. 1– 10; Lupton, Risk, pp. 183–89; Bhabha, The Location of Culture, pp. 313–15; Zielyk, ‘On Ambiguity and Ambivalence’, pp. 57–64. 55 Any claims and quantifiers on such a large scale are exceedingly imprecise. However, I propose to consider the members’ of broadly concerned elites’ exposure to violence and likelihood of dying a violent death, especially at the hands of people of lesser social status and different creed, as a proxy for measuring of the democratic vs. hierarchic distribution of risks in those societies. From that point of view, high medieval elites in stable polities of core European regions, or even in peripheral polities such as East-Central Europe or Scandinavia, were largely insulated from such risks by their wealth and social status for centuries. Or, at the very least, they faced very different types of risks of much lower stakes than the frontier elites: Halsall, ‘Violence and Society in the Early Medieval West’, pp. 1–45; Fouracre, ‘Why Were So Many Bishops Killed’, pp. 13–35; Bagge, ‘The Decline of Regicide’, pp. 151–90; Reuter, ‘The Insecurity of Travel’, pp. 38–71. Martin Hansson points to the conspicuous absence of fortifications and security architecture around elite palaces in Denmark and Sweden during the period analysed here, treating it as a sign of elites’ sense of safety, despite this period being dubbed as the era of ‘civil wars’: Hansson, ‘Building Glory’, pp. 129–53. 56 A study and categorization of class-based distribution of risks and their accompanying emotions in the Middle Ages is yet to be written: Bourke, ‘Fear and Anxiety’, pp. 125– 26. For an overview of contemporary fears in the core European regions, see both the classical and newer studies: Fumagalli, Landscapes of Fear; Dinzelbacher, Angst im Mittelalter; Delumeau, La peur en Occident; Fudgé, Medieval Religion and its Anxieties; Moore, The Formation of a Persecuting Society. 57 Patzold, ʻHuman Security, fragile Staatlichkeitʼ, pp. 406–22; Orning, ‘Norsk middelalder i et antropologisk perspektiv’, pp. 249–62; Orning and Østerud, Krig uten stat; Esmark, Hermanson, Orning, and Vogt, eds, Disputing Strategies in Medieval Scandinavia; Orning and Vigh, ‘Constant Crisis’, pp. 1–33.

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legibility, cultural homogeneity, and sociopolitical predictability.58 What is unique about the material from the Baltic frontier is the insight it offers into how in risk positions consciousness determines being. Particularly in terms of cognitive and emotional costs and investments in the context of uncertain dealings with the others and the ambiguous intercultural forms of such transactions like host-guest relations.

Response: Emotions As we saw in the opening scene from Riga and in the list of missionary dilemmas and questions, emotions and practices and discourses of hospi­ tality can be seen as ways of responding to risk and uncertainty emerging from intercultural encounters and the condition of living in frontier soci­ eties. Focusing on them allows also us to circumvent the requirement of looking for abstract conceptualization and semantics of risk as a stand­ alone term. Emotions and host-guest relations were not simply reflections of risk and uncertainty. My contention is rather that they functioned as the fundamental frames through which people experienced uncertainty and risks associated with Christianization and as media for self-reflexivity related to this condition. In that capacity, emotions and hospitality did not just constitute the means of collective and individual subjectivization on the Baltic Rim. They offer us the best possible insight into the complex risk condition of frontier societies. As hinted above, Beck’s concept of risk society is construed around affective states. ‘In the risk society […] handling fear and insecurity be­ comes an essential cultural qualification’.59 Accordingly, Chapter 3 explores the fears and senses of (in-)security as the most salient, socially constitu­ tive and differentiating emotions in missionary and crusader contexts. However, what became obvious in the course of work on this book was that studying perceptions and conditions of risk was too limiting when 58 Scott, Seeing Like a State, pp. 9–83; Scott, Against the Grain, pp. 128–34; Bartlett, The Making of Europe. 59 Beck, Risk Society, p. 47: ‘In this sense, the risk society produces new antagonisms of interest and a new type of community of the endangered whose political carrying capacity remains, however, an open question’, pp. 74–76: ‘New communities and alternative communities arise, whose world views, norms and certainties are grouped around the center of invisible threats. Their center is fear. What type of fear? In what way does fear have a group-forming effect? In what world view does it originate? […] Troubled times and generations can be succeeded by others for which fear, tamed by interpretations, is a basic element of thought and experience. Here the threats are held captive in the cognitive cage of their always unstable “non-existence”, and in that sense one has the right of later generations to make fun at what so upset the “old folks”. […] How do we handle ascribed outcomes of danger and the fears and insecurities residing in them? How can we cope with the fear, if we cannot overcome the causes of the fear?’; Lupton, Risk, pp. 161–69.

INTRODUCTION

reduced to tapping into missionary and crusader fears alone. To fully account for the associative and antagonistic role of emotions played on the frontier and in the Christianization process in general, the focus had to be expanded. It needed to include joy, vengeance, trust, love, grief, or compassion, etc. as well as associative, not merely aversive, forms for fear. For tackling this, the perspective of the history of emotions is required. To address the social aspects of emotions of missionary and crusader societies, I combine Beck’s concept with and operationalize it through Barbara H. Rosenwein’s notion of emotional communities. These are: groups in which people adhere to the same norms of emotional expression and value-or devalue-the same or related emotions. More than one emotional community may exist — indeed normally does exist — contemporaneously, and these communities may change over time. Some come to the fore to dominate our sources, then recede in importance.60 Over the years Rosenwein has offered a number of iterations of this definition, explaining especially how emotional communities relate to and overlap with other forms of socialization as well as how they serve as means of recognition through such collective and institutional frames: Emotional communities are largely the same as social communities — families, neighborhoods, syndicates, academic institutions, monasteries, factories, platoons, princely courts. But the researcher looking at them seeks above all to uncover systems of feeling, to establish what these communities (and the individuals within them) define and assess as valuable or harmful to them (for it is about such things that people express emotions); the emotions that they value, devalue, or ignore; the nature of the affective bonds between people that they recognize; and the modes of emotional expression that they expect, encourage, tolerate, and deplore.61 Rosenwein’s concept is obviously not the only possible way of approaching the social psychology of the Baltic missionary and crusader societies. In recent years, the history of emotions in the Middle Ages has grown into a vast and theoretically as well as methodologically rich research field and the findings and approaches of this wave of research are used through­ out this book.62 Emotional communities, however, do have a number of

60 Rosenwein, Emotional Communities, p. 2; Rosenwein, ‘Worrying about Emotions in History’, pp. 821–45; Rosenwein, Generations of Feeling, pp. 1–15; Plamper, The History of Emotions, pp. 67–74. 61 Rosenwein, ‘Problems and Methods’, p. 11. 62 For useful research overviews, see Schnell, ‘Historische Emotionsforschung’, pp. 173–276; Schnell, ‘Erzähler – Protagonist – Rezipient im Mittelalter’, pp. 1–51; Plamper, The History of

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heuristic advantages for my purposes working as a conceptual umbrella. First, by focusing on the sociable and political aspects of emotions and the way they partake in construing or tearing apart societies and polities this approach helps to explore how missionaries and crusaders related emotionally to pagans or recent converts in an inclusive or exclusive man­ ner. Additionally, as stressed by Gerd Althoff and others, this concept taps into the political dimension of emotions in the public, demonstrative, and ritualistic practices through which crusader and missionary communities constituted themselves.63 Second, as Rosenwein stressed in her study of emotional communities in the early Middle Ages, due to communicative constraints springing from the low circulation of texts, the infrastructural limitations of oral culture, and the absence of administrative structures, such communities tended to remain local and isolated in character. They barely participated in big, society- or civilization-wide emotional discourses or emotional regimes reliant on state structures — a modern infrastructural prerequisite of William M. Reddy’s concept of emotional regimes.64 As I argued above, despite many differences with early medieval contexts, such insular, isolating conditions were still prevalent on the Baltic Rim during the high Middle Ages, especially vis-à-vis other frontiers and central European regions. Third, Rosenwein strongly stresses the cognitive aspects of emotions. In this book this relates particularly to the ways emotions served as vehi­ cles of missionaries’ and crusaders’ self-cognition, cognition of others, categorization of their environment, means of reflexivity, and formulating expectations of the future.65 Fourth, the concept of emotional communi­ ties has a strong methodological and empirical orientation, privileging textual and verbal evidence of emotional terms.66 It is thus particularly helpful for identifying risk societies behind individual works and textual clusters, for comparing to what extent different texts from the same region and period reveal the same or different emotional communities or how rereading of the same texts over time led to reframing of the same events or persons through different emotional discourses.

63 64 65

66

Emotions; Lehmann, ‘Geschichte der Gefühle’, pp. 140–57; Rosenwein and Cristiani, What is the History of Emotions?; Boquet and Nagy, Medieval Sensibilities; Kirkby, ‘Fra følelsernes historie til følelser i historien’, pp. 89–106. Hermanson, Friendship, Love, and Brotherhood, p. 14; Rosenwein, ed., Anger’s Past; Althoff, ‘Aufgeführte Gefühle’, pp. 1–22. Reddy, The Navigation of Feeling; Spencer, Emotions in a Crusading Context, p. 5. Büchsel, ‘Die Grenzen der Historischen Emotionsforschung’, p. 152; Holmes, ‘The Emotionalization of Reflexivity’, pp. 139–54; Sif Ríkharðsdóttir, Emotion in Old Norse Literature; Eriksen, Langsholt Holmqvist, and Bandlien, ‘Approaches to the Self ’, pp. 1–20; Feldman Barrett, How Emotions are Made, pp. 84–111. Rosenwein, ‘Problems and Methods’, pp. 11–14; Stock, The Implications of Literacy, pp. 88– 92, 526; Jezierski, ‘Introduction: Imagined Communities’, pp. 13–15.

INTRODUCTION

Fifth, as both Rosenwein and others have established, there is a strong affinity between emotions, emotional communities, and questions of spa­ tiality. In my case this relates to, for example, the ways in which certain landscapes and spaces on the Baltic Rim had been designated as partic­ ularly frightening, associated with terror or safety.67 This problem goes beyond the ways emotional states were used to depict particular spaces. It concerns also the transformative feedback certain spaces had on the emotions of missionaries or crusaders, problems I explore in Chapters 3 and 6 in particular. Finally, sixth, on a meta level of methodology, it is the emotional communities’ malleability and connective potential — its conceptual valence, so to speak — that I find particularly valuable. As Goffman put it, ‘if sociological concepts are to be treated with affection, each must be traced back to where it best applies, followed from there wherever it seems to lead, and pressed to disclose the rest of its family’.68 In my affectionate treatment of Rosenwein’s concept, I often depart quite far from its original formulation. It is because I am equally interested in the socially, culturally, or politically divisive role of emotions as in their community-building potential. For instance, in Chapter 6, in direct con­ trast to emotional communities, I develop my own notion of emotional bond­ ing to address the rapidly changing and unstable emotional lives of siege communities. In Chapter 7, on the other hand, I press this concept to dis­ close its relatives by combining it with Arlie R. Hochschild’s empathy walls and other concepts to study the politics of emotions in thirteenth-century Livonia. All those departures and methodological twists and stretches are not testimony to the uselessness or rigidity of Rosenwein’s concept. Instead, they testify to its exploratory potential — its very capacity to be followed wherever it seems to lead and traced back to where it best applies.69 Despite the fact that my study of emotions focuses on textual evidence alone, my interpretations and conclusions every now and then go beyond the parchment thresholds and address the social reality shaped by the sensibilities discernible in chronicles or saints’ lives. Just like risks in risk societies consist of socially constructed, discursive as well as mater­ ial components, so do emotions. As stressed by Monique Scheer and others, emotions function as iterative practices. They are dependent on the energy drawn from individual and collective bodies. These bodily and mental practices are recognized, responded to, shaped by, and validated

67 Rosenwein, ‘Emotional Space’, pp. 287–303; Reckwitz, ‘Affective Spaces’, pp. 241–58; Lupton, Risk, pp. 195–201. 68 Goffman, Asylums, p. 11. 69 Collier and Mahon Jr., ‘Conceptual “Stretching” Revisited’, pp. 845–55; Bal, ‘Working with Concepts’, pp. 13–23; Miller and Wheatley, ‘A Road to the History of Emotions’, pp. 1–19; Gammerl, Hutta, and Scheer, ‘Feeling Differently’, pp. 88–90.

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(or rejected) through the ever-evolving emotional vocabularies, rhetoric, memories, emotives (pace Reddy), etc.70 I do not claim that the often highly genre-dependent texts analysed here are straightforward reflections of authorial emotional states, let alone that they can be used as litmus tests of social sentiments.71 Yet denying any connection between emotional patterns found in the sources and emotional scripts informing actions and convictions of individuals and communities behind them is just as naïve.72 What we need is the ability to negotiate between contemporary social theories and medieval texts and senses of subjectivity.73 This, however, can be done only on a case-by-case basis, from the standpoint of specific research questions and in relation to particular texts and contexts.

Response: Hospitality Aside from emotions, the second frame for processing the dilemmas and uncertainties prevalent in missionary and crusader societies on the Baltic Rim, especially when it comes to the intercultural relations with pagans and converts, were host-guest relations. Surprisingly, this remains a largely overlooked problem in the studies on the conversion and colonization of this region. This omission is all the more stunning given how crucial a role the concepts and practices of hospitality played for the reflexivity of these risk societies and their members’ identity-formation and subjectivization. This section discusses the theoretical and methodological principles and the implications of this perspective, while the very few inroads into this topic by medievalists working on the Baltic Rim are discussed in the next chapter, which addresses previous research. Just how important hospitality was on the frontier during this period can be discerned from the fourth book of Adam of Bremen’s Gesta Ham­ maburgensis ecclesiae Pontificum from the 1070s, in which the schoolmaster mapped out the evangelizing prospects on the Baltic Rim. There the author expressed the following opinion not just about individual people like the Wends (‘so far as morals and hospitality are concerned, a more honorable or kindlier folk cannot be found’) or Swedes, but about all dwellers of the North: Although all Hyperboreans are noted for their hospitality, our Swedes are so in particular. To deny wayfarers entertainment is to them the 70 Scheer, ‘Are Emotions a Kind of Practice’, pp. 193–220; Spencer, Emotions in a Crusading Context, pp. 12–13; Rosenwein and Cristiani, What Is the History of Emotions?, pp. 81–131. 71 Spencer, Emotions in a Crusading Context, p. 8. 72 Spencer, Emotions in a Crusading Context, p. 7. 73 Jezierski, ‘Introduction: Nordic Elites in Transformation’, p. 6; Jezierski, ‘Tuotilo and St Gall’s Emotional Community’, pp. 127–49; Patzold, Ich und Karl der Große, pp. 287–304.

INTRODUCTION

basest of all shameful deeds, so much so that there is strife and contention among them over who is worthy to receive a guest. They show him every courtesy for so many days as he wishes to stay, vying with one another to take him to their friends in their several houses. These good traits they have in their customs.74 Hospitality for Adam was demonstrably more than just a question of local customs and courtesy. Host-guest relations were framed with strong emotions like shame and constituted a point of violent contention in the host community. In that capacity, hospitality served as an open door, a window of opportunity in target communities for their prospective missionary guests and his readers to enter through in order to evangelize these societies. Throughout this book, I follow up on Adam’s idealizing claim and eval­ uate its validity in different contexts. In doing this, I relate Baltic hospitality to the recent developments in studies on hospitality in the early and high Middle Ages. These studies roughly fall into two categories of host-guest relations: representative and transformative. The first limits its focus to the top echelons of medieval societies and treats etiquette of hospitality and largesse expressed through gift-giving and feasting as broadly conceived forms of governance and the elites’ language of power in pre-state polities. This type of studies concerns particularly the invention and spread of codes of courtliness and chivalry in Europe — a problem I touch upon in Chapter 8. This line of research, however, often pays little attention to how such social occasions formed the identities of their participants in terms other than reflecting and representing honour and knightly, lordly, or royal status. Due to these limitations, such studies rarely address hospitality as a platform for intercultural meetings. Instead, they focus on intracultural host-guest relations and their function for social cohesion.75 The second group of studies takes a more comprehensive and transfor­ mative approach to hospitality. This group stands thus closer to Adam of Bremen’s idea and can be well summarized by Jacques Derrida’s adage that ‘hospitality is culture itself and not simply one ethic among others’.76 Here 74 Adam of Bremen, Gesta, ed. by Schmeidler, ii. 22, p. 79: ‘ceterum moribus et hospitalitate nulla gens honestior aut benignior poterit inveniri’, iv. 21, p. 252: ‘Hospitalitate quamvis omnes Yperborei sint insignes, precipui sunt nostri Sueones; quibus est omni probro gravius hospicium negare transeuntibus, ita ut studium vel certamen habeant inter illos, quis dignus sit recipere hospitem. Cui exhibens omnia iura humanitatis, quot diebus illic commorari voluerit, ad amicos eum suos certatim per singulas dirigit mansiones. Haec illi bona in moribus habent’; Adam of Bremen, History of the Archbishops, trans. by Tschan, pp. 67, 203. 75 Roach, ‘Hosting the King’, pp. 34–46; Viðar Pálsson, Language of Power; See also contributions in the following volumes: Kjær and Watson, eds, Feasts and Gifts of Food in Medieval Europe; Jezierski, Hermanson, Orning, and Småberg, eds, Rituals, Performatives, and Political Order; Crouch, The Chivalric Turn. 76 Derrida, On Cosmopolitanism and Forgiveness, p. 16.

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host-guest relations are seen as a more socially pervasive set of implicit and explicit codes of conduct in the Middle Ages as well as forms of intracultural and intercultural contact. Hospitality is treated as a threshold phenomenon and as a cultural process occurring in the liminal zone between social orders and cultures at odds with each other, such as those on the Baltic Rim. In such contexts, the roles and identities of medieval hosts and guests on all levels of society became not only ambiguous and tightly intertwined. They very often verged on hostility. Hospitality expressed both the limits and the permeability of political, ethnic, and religious communities.77 In this book, host-guest relations taking place on the Baltic frontier are thus explored on the material and discursive levels: as sociocultural practices as well as literary motifs and concepts utilized to frame the meetings and relations with pagans or any type of cultural strangers. This approach has four heuristic consequences for my analysis which enables us to focus on the cognitive, relational, emotional, spatial, and power aspects of hospitality. First, it helps to uncover the conceptual and cognitive manner in which medieval authors as well as the communities in which they operated practically and discursively defined the limits of their communities and relations with others. As I show throughout this book, the positions of hosts and guests readily lend themselves to translation into us vs. them, friends vs. enemies, and other types of binary oppositions — with all the customary caveats about the mutual contamination and interrelatedness of such positions, which forced missionaries and crusaders to constantly negotiate between them. The second consequence concerns the problem of emotions. As announced earlier, more often than not emotions were the fuel for creating those binary distinctions involved in host-guest relations and ameliorating them. To follow Dan Bulley, hospitality is ‘a spatial relational practice with affective dimensions’ and ‘it is this combination of the spatial and affective which makes hospitality a complex interplay of ethics and power relations’.78 The third aspect, spatiality of hospitality, follows directly from this definition and relates to some of the central dilemmas of evangelization listed initially. Throughout Chapter 4 and intermittently in Chapters 5 and 8, I explore the practical and conceptual ways in which missionaries and crusaders created, defined, and appropriated spaces of hospitality on the Baltic Rim vis-à-vis the local 77 Claviez, ed., The Conditions of Hospitality; Wodziński, Odys gość; Liebsch, Staudigl, and Stoellger, eds, Perspektiven europäischer Gastlichkeit; Heffernan, Hospitality and Treachery; Nauman, Jezierski, Reimann, and Runefelt, eds, Baltic Hospitality from the Middle Ages to the Twentieth Century; Skaff, Sui-Tang China and Its Turko-Mongol Neighbors, pp. 136–37, 154; Pohl, ‘Per hospites divisi’, pp. 179–226; Lot, ‘Du régime de l’hospitalité’, pp. 975–1011; Goffart, Barbarians and Romans, pp. 162–205; Sahlins, Stone Age Economics, pp. 153–75, 197–204; Marsden, ‘Fatal Embrace’, pp. 117–30. 78 Bulley, Migration, Ethics & Power, p. 7, emphasis in the original.

INTRODUCTION

populations and their conflicting senses of ownership. Finally, the fourth aspect concerns the power play. As Bulley and other scholars referred to throughout this book have stressed, hospitality is often a camouflaged way of negotiating different statuses and power relationships between hosts and guests; it habitually serves as a proxy for open hostility between the engaging parties. At any rate, it definitely was and did just that in the theatres of Christianization on the Baltic Rim. To sum up. The focus on the discursive and practical aspects of emo­ tions and hospitality does not just open up new venues for studying the liminal character of societies and borderline identities that materialized on the Baltic Rim in the age of Christianization. It also offers new tools for understanding the highly ambiguous frames of (self-)reflexivity through which uncertainty and risk were lived and understood in premodern contexts.

Operationalization: Frames and Framing A question can be asked: how do abstract problems of reflexivity in risk societies channelled through frameworks of emotions and hospitality con­ nect with medieval sources and, further, to the social reality behind them. In other words, how can those research perspectives be operationalized, where ‘operationalizing means building a bridge from concepts to mea­ surement, and then to the world’.79 But what exactly do we have access to? And how do such concepts connect with the world? How does reflexivity occur in practice? What our sources give us access to, I argue, are ‘ways of organizing experience’. According to Goffman, such frames and ways of framing are ‘schemata of interpretation’, be them social, cultural, political, or other, delivered by and enmeshed in textual, conceptual, practical, ritualistic, emotional, metaphorical, spatial forms, etc. Frames connect with the world by enabling historical actors and authors ‘to locate, perceive, identify, and label’ occurrences as a certain kind of phenomenon or problem rather than another.80 Like all forms of cognition, ways of framing are intersubjec­ tive: they can be culturally inherited, shared, and communicated.81 Such schemata of interpretation play crucial role in community-formation too. Frames provide a means of selecting as well as discursively and practically expressing relations of antagonism and alliance, articulating identities e.g. as selves and others, us vs. them, guests or hosts, Christians vs. pagans as

79 Moretti, ‘Operationalizing’, p. 104. 80 Goffman, Frame Analysis, p. 21; Goodman, Ways of Worldmaking. 81 Busse, Frame-Semantik, pp. 327–31; Bloch, How We Think They Think, pp. 3–21, 24–26, 43–47.

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well as blurring or bridging such distinctions. They help to transform per­ ceived asymmetries and (dis-)similarities between people into concepts.82 It is within frames of reference — such as emotional communities — that ascription of intentionality, agency, and motivations to oneself and to others occurs, e.g. through emotional and affective attribution.83 Like all communicative practices, frames have to be continuously maintained, reiterated, and reproduced to remain in force.84 They can thus be reconstituted, contested, and altered by bridging, clashing, or aligning with other frames. In that sense not only are frames transformed, but they also possess a transformative potential by changing the ways experience is organized.85 Framing works both as a means of and reasons for selecting what does and what does not make it into the frame and why. What counts as fact or fiction, real or unreal, and what distorts the boundary between the two.86 Finally, frames are not just ways of organizing one’s own experience. They also help framing and imagining — simulating, if you will — frames of the minds of others and suspending one’s own, like we saw in the opening example from 1205. By virtue of this, frames and schemata can thus become vehicles of (self-)reflexivity.87

Outline of the Book Each empirical chapter in this book emerged in a specific publishing context and to some degree can be read independently from the others. However, there is an organizing principle and a narrative arc here, which fuse the chapters into a whole and aggregate their results and viewpoints. These chapters roughly fall into two thematic foci: the first on emotions and the second on host-guest relations, even if those perspectives intersect throughout. Chapters 3 and 4 adopt longitudinal perspectives, roughly covering the entire period this book addresses and aggregate evidence from many contexts: the first goes from the tenth to thirteenth centuries,

82 Postoutenko, ‘From Asymmetries to Concepts’, pp. 197–252; Kozlowski, Taddy, and Evans, ‘The Geometry of Culture’, pp. 905–49. 83 Feldman Barrett, How Emotions are Made, pp. 134–38; Leys, ‘The Turn to Affect’, pp. 434– 72; Reddy, ‘The Unavoidable Intentionality of Affect’, pp. 168–78; Ereira and others, ‘Social Training Reconfigures Prediction Errors’; Busse, Frame-Semantik, pp. 592–95. 84 Luhmann, Theory of Society, i, 64–65, 80–82, 128–30, 159–67. 85 Busse, Frame-Semantik, pp. 604–11. 86 Schapiro, ‘On Some Problems’, pp. 223–42; Lee, Think Tank Aesthetics, pp. 78–81; Derrida, The Truth in Painting, pp. 37–82. 87 Berger, ‘Foreword’, p. xiv; Benford and Snow, ‘Framing Processes and Social Movements’, pp. 611–39; Luhmann, Theory of Society, i, 49–73; Goodman, Languages of Art, pp. 68–80; Conrad, What is Global History?, pp. 187–95; Bloch, In and Out, pp. 1–21, 119–25; Bloch, ‘The Blob’.

INTRODUCTION

and the second from the late tenth to mid-twelfth century. They can be seen as the book’s genetic double helix of its two thematic foci on frontier risks and uncertainties. These two themes, emotional and hospitable, alternate in specific cultural, geographical, and textual contexts in the remainder of the book which follows a chronological order. The results of those experiments are summarized in the epilogue and briefly discussed in relation to the question of what the Baltic missionary and crusader evidence tells us about what and how we can know about medieval risks. Chapter 2 is an extension of this introduction. It discusses previous studies on risk, emotions, and hospitality on the Baltic Rim and outlines the central strands of research from which this book draws inspiration and to which it contributes. In it I also sketch the main principles of source criticism for approaching missionary and crusader historiography and hagiography as emotional palimpsests and peripheral visions on risk, emotions, and host-guest relations characterized by intercultural blur and uncertainty. Chapter 3, the first empirical chapter, investigates the validity of Beck’s postulation regarding the overall way in which fear, horror, and sense of danger as well as their counterpart, notions of safety, determined mission­ ary and crusader consciousness and self-imagination of risk communities on the Baltic frontier. Pooling together and mapping out the experiences conveyed by authors such as Rimbert, Adam of Bremen, Helmold of Bosau, Henry of Livonia, and other complementary evidence, the chapter shows that fear could be both an inhibitor and a motivating force in missionaries’ zealous endeavour. Fear and fearlessness were vital mecha­ nisms of social and religious integration and identity-formation within missionary communities. They also served as ways of relating towards converts and as vital ingredients in representing one’s enemies. Through an exploration of emotional spaces, the chapter shows also how a sense of horror guided missionary mappings of danger and their own positions in regions they set to convert. Chapter 4 puts Adam of Bremen’s opinion about the inhabitants of the north’s innate hospitality to the test by studying confrontations between missionaries and pagan communities on the coasts of the Baltic Sea. In terms of method, it takes a spatial approach to hospitality and focuses on how spaces were produced and shaped by emotions, power, and identityformation between the assembled parties. By exploring hagiographies and clusters of writings by missionary authors such as St Adalbert, St Bruno of Querfurt, St Otto of Bamberg with their complimentary materials, this chapter charts several types of highly ambiguous spaces of hospitality and traces their physical and symbolical means of production. Chapter 5 investigates the thin, virtually indistinguishable line between hospitality and hostility in a single text, Helmold of Bosau’s Chronica Slavorum. By studying the ritual practices, keywords, and metaphors of

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hospitality, it argues that for this author the blurred distinction between kindness and enmity and the general condition of uncertainty of hostguest relations to some extent reflected the everyday missionary experi­ ence. It is claimed that in Helmold’s text this experience and underlying risk sensation spilt over and was extrapolated to descriptions of rituals and relations both in pagan-Christian relations in other contexts and in his contemporary polities: the German Empire and neighbouring Denmark. Chapter 6 focuses on extreme social occasions constituted by sieges. By drawing on studies of the history of emotions, trust- and communityformation, and on medieval as well as modern religious violence, it reevaluates the predominantly military view of medieval sieges. Instead, this chapter examines sieges as extreme, often purposefully histrionic, and emotionally ambivalent social events, based on the descriptions of sieges in two Baltic missionary chronicles: Helmold’s Chronica Slavorum and Henry of Livonia’s Chronicon Livoniae. By proposing a new concept of emo­ tional bonding, which modifies Rosenwein’s emotional communities, and by focusing on siege situations as real-life experiments in trust-formation, this chapter argues that emotions articulated the social, political, and religious predicaments of missionary activity and crusading. Emotions in siege contexts, often employed as a motivational force, as a means of war­ fare or as the performative fuel of the theatre of war, etc., could sometimes serve as a paradoxical method of socialization within faith groups and across religious divides. Chapter 7 studies the representations and attributions of feelings to different social groups in two thirteenth-century crusader chronicles from Livonia, the Chronicon Livoniae and the anonymous Livonian Rhymed Chronicle. By proposing a novel methodological approach of asymmetrical emotion ascription conducted through quantitative (word statistics and co-occurrence analysis) and qualitative analysis, this chapter explores to what extent the different groups of colonizers emotionally set themselves apart from the native population and what types of feelings they deemed could bridge the divide between them? Which emotions enabled and which impeded the making of the Livonian society and community be­ tween the Christians, neophytes, and pagans in the thirteenth century? In other words, it asks what did the different politics of love and friendship, grief and consolation, joy and fear look like to clerical authors vis-à-vis members of the Teutonic Knights? The penultimate Chapter 8 explores the codes and practices of hos­ pitality in the Livonian Rhymed Chronicle, which are seen here as ways of conceptualizing the relationship and conflicts between the Teutonic Knights and the pagans or apostates in Livonia. It asks what conse­ quences the framing of the host-guest relations might have had for the self-comprehension of the chronicle’s author and his audience. The analy­ sis of the chronicle is pursued along three lines: the first focuses on the

INTRODUCTION

questions and rituals of chivalry, courtesy, and conversion; the second explores different renditions of a miracle story of inhospitality from the 1220s; and the third studies the conceptual metaphors of hospitality as the cognitive means by which the Teutonic Knights accommodated their adversaries’ viewpoints.

47

CHAPtER 2

Baltic Frontier Societies, Peripheral Visions, and Emotional Palimpsests

La fonction des riffs est presque identique dans le free de celle qu’ils ont dans le reste du jazz: c’est la figure élémentaire de la cohésion, celle qui soude momentanément l’ensemble des musiciens, une figure d’attente, en somme, dans laquelle se résout l’improvisation […]. En tout cas, elle constitue la figure privilégiée de la connivence; la citation provient d’une réserve commune à tous les musiciens; c’est là et là seul, qu’en l’absence de tout cadre harmonique, les musiciens peuvent puiser; la citation est donc le lieu (au sens plus rhétorique que spatial) élémentaire de l’improvisation, le chemin ou, au moins, le relais nécessaire de toute invention. Georges Perec, La chose

State of the Art: Frontier Societies on the Baltic Rim The central problems of this book — risk and uncertainty, unpredictability of one’s environment as well as cultural ambiguity, hybridity, and liminal­ ity — have been largely recognized and investigated as distinguishing features of societal formations in European border regions known as the medieval frontier societies field. Perhaps most clearly formulated by Angus MacKay, Bartlett, and others, this research paradigm coalesced in the late 1980s in an edited volume with the same title, even if individual studies by other scholars had predated it.1 The paradigm’s general focus rests on ‘regions whose medieval history was characterized by the movement of peoples, contact and often confrontation between cultures, violence which was sometimes endemic, and the social consequences which flowed

1 Bartlett and MacKay, eds, Medieval Frontier Societies; Berend, ‘Frontiers’, pp. 148–71; Armstrong, ‘Frontier’, pp. 89–92.

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from this’.2 When it comes to frontiers’ forms and implications ‘there are many categories of frontier, and […] significance itself may be economic, political, cultural-creative, religious or ecclesiastical or ideological, techno­ logical […], or psychological’, as Robert I. Burns writes.3 Through Bartlett’s seminal The Making of Europe from 1993, which launched his diffusionist model of the Europeanization of Europe from its centre to peripheries, this paradigm has come to dominate more or less explicitly the vast majority of studies on Christianization, conquest, colonization, and cultural change on the Baltic Rim for the past three decades.4 This wave of research roughly covers all the different dimensions of frontiers enumerated by Burns in singular regions, such as Pomerania or Livonia, and on the Baltic periphery as a whole, epitomized by Nils Blomkvist’s monumental The Discovery of the Baltic.5 In order to clearly position my contribution, it is worth drawing some broad distinctions in the previous research’s approaches and results. In this way, we will be able to point out how the experiments conducted in this book can qualify some of this research’s tenets, what new ideas they propose — what constitutes a citation, a riff, an improvisation, or a free invention. In the broad sense this book contributes to the classic research field of the Christianization of the high medieval Baltic Rim. The scope of this scholarship is truly impressive, with a multitude of topics explored e.g. performance and ritualization of missionary confrontations, strategies of crusading and missionary activity, Christian interpretations of pagan beliefs, perceptions of and comparisons with otherness, religious violence, crusader ideology, military and political aspects, etc.6 This scholarship, however, has largely overlooked the role of emotions and hospitality in these and adjoining phenomena.

2 Bartlett and MacKay, ‘Preface’, pp. 1–2; Burns, ‘The Significance of the Frontier’, pp. 307–30. 3 Burns, ‘The Significance of the Frontier’, pp. 328–29. 4 Bartlett, The Making of Europe; Hudson, ‘The Making of Europe’, pp. 5–10. For critical re-assessments, see Tolan, ‘Constructing Christendom’, pp. 277–98; Bombi, ‘The Debate on the Baltic Crusades’, pp. 751–64; Jensen, ‘Conclusion: Is it Good to be Peripheral?’, pp. 483–94. 5 The amount of this literature has grown beyond any comprehensive overview. However, useful overviews are provided in Blomkvist, The Discovery of the Baltic; Staecker, ed., The Reception of Medieval Europe; Berend, ‘Introduction’, pp. 1–46; Scholz, Johansson, and Bohn, eds, The Image of the Baltic; Rosik, ed, Europe Reaches the Baltic. For recent research overviews, see Jezierski, ‘Introduction: Imagined Communities’, pp. 11–33; Tamm and Mänd, ‘Introduction: Actors and Networks’, pp. 1–13. 6 Fundamental overview works: Wood, The Missionary Life; Scior, Das Eigene und das Fremde; von Padberg, Die Inszenierung religiöser Konfrontationen; Berend, ed, Christianization and the Rise of Christian Monarchy; Kahl, ‘Heidnisches Wendentum’, pp. 181–231; Rosik, The Slavic Religion; Markus, Visual Culture and Politics; Goetz, Die Wahrnehmung anderer Religionen, vols 1–2.

BALTIC FRONTIER SOCIETIES, VISIONS, AND PALIMPSESTS

To start with emotions. In his recent comprehensive overview of the scholarship on early and high medieval Eastern Europe (including the Baltic Rim), Florin Curta pointed out that the history of emotions in this region still lags behind the rest of Europe. ‘Love, trust, and grief are themes that still await their historian’.7 When one looks at the research on emotions’ role in the evangelization of the Baltic Rim this lag and dearth of studies is perhaps not as dire. So far, however, the focus has been limited to emotions’ motivational or justifying function — zeal, anger, and vengeance — in crusader rhetoric and ethics in different theatres of religious wars on the Baltic Rim after 1147.8 More useful for my purposes, particularly for Chapters 6 and 7, have been Linda Kaljundi’s and Stephen J. Spencer’s research, which explored the political aspects of grief, joy, fear, or love in thirteenth-century Livonia and in multiple crusader contexts, respectively. The crucial result from the latter studies is that emotions served both as a means of cultural polarization in frontier societies and as ways of bridging such divides leading to social integration, particularly the inclusion of converts.9 The uses of emotions in missionary contexts is more under-researched still. Apart from few in-passing men­ tions to feelings of danger or self-doubt of individual missionaries, such as St Adalbert or Bruno of Querfurt, or emotions as a marginal tool of evangelization, such as for Otto of Bamberg,10 the majority of works on those topics concern missionary and monastic communities in Western and Southern Europe during the early Middle Ages.11 When it comes to the studies of host-guest relations in Baltic mission­ ary and crusader societies what dominates the field are wholesale mapping and reconstructions of ‘barbarian’ or tribal notions of pagan (e.g. Ger­ manic, Scandinavian, Slavic, etc.) hospitality. There is a considerable merit in the latter type of studies, with Karol Modzelewski’s Barbarian Europe constituting a bright beacon here. They provide important background about the general standards, customs, and means of hospitality as well as 7 Curta, Eastern Europe in the Middle Ages, i, 462. 8 Dragnea, ‘Divine Vengeance and Human Justice’, pp. 49–82; Dragnea, Wendish Crusade, 1147; Ordman, ‘Crusading without Affect or Effect’, pp. 77–103; Tamm, ‘How to Justify a Crusade?’, pp. 431–55; Jensen, ‘Crying Crusaders’, pp. 98–108; Throop, Crusading as an Act of Vengeance. See also Althoff, ‘Selig sind, die Verfolgung ausüben’; Lehtonen and Jensen, eds, Medieval History Writing. 9 Kaljundi, ‘Expanding Communities’, pp. 191–221; Kaljundi, ‘Neophytes as Actors in the Livonian Crusades’, pp. 93–112. See also Undusk, ‘Sacred History, Profane History’, pp. 45– 75; Spencer, Emotions in a Crusading Context. 10 Wood, The Missionary Life; Wood, ‘Shoes and a Fish Dinner’, pp. 249–58; Nagy, Le don des larmes au Moyen Âge, pp. 230–31; Bartlett, ‘The Conversion of a Pagan Society’, pp. 185– 201; Rosik, ‘Gdy radosne widowisko przeradza się w horror’, pp. 369–76; see, however, Bührer-Thierry, ‘Des communautés de païens menacées’, pp. 43–55. 11 McLuhan, ‘Evangelico mucrone’, pp. 107–24; Wood, ‘Differing Emotions’, pp. 31–46; Rosenwein, Emotional Communities, pp. 130–62.

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pagan mindsets behind them and their stereotypical descriptions by Chris­ tian authors. Such studies often rely on information extracted from mis­ sionary accounts, but do not investigate them within those frames — the barbarians constituting the only research object instead.12 When it comes to host-guest relations in crusader contexts, so far the research interest has been limited to ceremonial and representative aspects of hospitality. These were studied particularly through the ideals and practices of chivalry such as those featured among the Teutonic Knights and extended to their cru­ sader guests, but did not focus on the hospitality regulating relations with the local populations.13 Both the barbaric and chivalric studies, however, tend to be written in an ethnographic, culturally-homogenizing tone. Such an approach not only privileges the normative and socioculturally cohesive aspects of host-guest relations in typical situations. It also sharply separates charitable hospitality from open hostility — a position which this study shows is difficult to sustain. The ambition of this book goes beyond addressing the evident research lacunae outlined here, however. The proposed focus on missionary and crusader emotions and host-guest relations offers a novel and broader understanding of two central and related phenomena captured through a pair of research strands on the hazards of evangelization and the riskridden nature of missionary and crusader societies: first, the intercultural encounters and relations in the Baltic evangelization contexts; second, the issues of individual and collective identity-formation and subjectivization in frontier societies.

Intercultural Encounters: Clashes of Cultures or Meetings of Minds? Scholars have long viewed missionary activity and crusading as forms of intercultural encounters.14 In relation to the Baltic frontier contexts, this research can be generally broken into two contrasting approaches. The first focuses on the adversarial attitudes in intercultural meetings, while the second explores their more amicable sides and forms. This first type can be gathered under the self-professedly Huntingtonian clash of cultures,15 epitomized particularly by a series of volumes edited by Alan V. Murray 12 Hellmuth, Gastfreundschaft und Gastrecht; Modzelewski, Barbarian Europe. 13 Urban, ‘The Teutonic Knights and Baltic Chivalry’, pp. 519–30; Demel, ‘Hospitality and Chivalry’, pp. 278–79; Demel, ‘Hospitalität und Rittertum’, pp. 33–56; Janiec, ‘Livonian Hospitality and Neighborhood’, pp. 248–59; Youmans, ‘Rituals of Mobility and Hospitality’, pp. 39–66. 14 Blomkvist, The Discovery of the Baltic, pp. 97–201; Jensen, Salonen, and Vogt, ‘Introduction’, pp. 7–14. 15 Jensen, ‘Cultural Encounters and Clash of Civilisations’, pp. 15–26.

BALTIC FRONTIER SOCIETIES, VISIONS, AND PALIMPSESTS

throughout the 2000s and 2010s.16 These and similar studies focus on the conflict-ridden, violent, and asymmetric character of relations between Christian communities and populations inhabiting the Baltic frontier as general efforts to bring the latter into the fold of the Roman Church. These aspects are associated particularly with the arrival of the crusader movement to this region after 1147, though not exclusively.17 On this view, the frontier encounters and intercultural relations were predominantly underwritten with Christians’ and colonial elites’ senses of danger, exis­ tential threats, and widespread mistrust vis-à-vis the local populations, including the native converts.18 Accordingly, this predicament enhanced the confrontational, friend-vs.-enemy manner of creating self-vs.-other relations in collective, corporative, and individual senses with little or no room for rapprochement. The second strand of research on intercultural encounters on the Baltic frontier is the flip side of the first one. It can be gathered under the category of ‘meetings of minds’, as Rasa Mažeika called it.19 Studies of the high medieval Baltic hagiography and historiography have shown that some occasional forms of mutual accommodation of worldviews, peaceful meetings, and respect for codes of conduct between Christians and pagans or members of other creeds did actually occur. This particularly concerned the formation of strategic friendships, political alliances, trade treaties, and bargaining for baptism between missionaries and pagans as well as cherishing similar notions of honour between members of military orders and local pagan tribes.20 These two foci on intercultural encounters can be developed further by the perspectives on emotions and host-guest relationships, which substan­ tially redraw the relationship between them.21 By studying emotions and

16 Murray, ed., Crusade and Conversion; Abulafia and Berend, eds, Medieval Frontiers; Staecker, ed., The European Frontier; Blomkvist, The Discovery of the Baltic; Scior, ‘Kulturkonflikte?’, pp. 8–27; Murray, ed., The Clash of Cultures; Cox, ‘Asymmetric Warfare and Military Conduct’, pp. 100–25; Murray, ed., The North-Eastern Frontiers of Medieval Europe. 17 Fonnesberg-Schmidt, The Popes and the Baltic Crusades; Nielsen and Fonnesberg-Schmidt, eds, Crusading on the Edge; Jensen, Crusading at the Edges of Europe; Bysted, Jensen, Jensen, and Lind, Jerusalem in the North; Feistner, Neecke, and Vollmann-Profe, Krieg im Visier; Kotecki, Jensen, and Bennett, eds, Christianity and War; Lotter, ‘The Crusading Idea and the Conquest’, pp. 267–306; Christiansen, The Northern Crusades. 18 Tamm, Kaljundi, and Jensen, eds, Crusading and Chronicle Writing. 19 Mažeika, ‘Granting Power to Enemy Gods’, pp. 153–71; Scales, The Shaping of German Identity, p. 434. 20 Kujawiński, ‘Spotkanie z “innym”’, pp. 7–64; Mažeika, ‘Bargaining for Baptism’, pp. 131–45; Rowell, ‘A Pagan’s Word’, pp. 145–60; Mažeika, ‘Of Cabbages and Knights’, pp. 63–76; Ghosh, ‘Conquest, Conversion, and Heathen Customs’, pp. 102–03 and references there; Neecke, Literarische Strategien, pp. 60–70. 21 Already Blomkvist has shown how these two views can be mediated on the level of practices of cultural exchange: Blomkvist, The Discovery of the Baltic, pp. 97–201.

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hospitality as practical and discursive means of intercultural encounters, I argue, we can fruitfully mediate between these research paradigms and investigate the entire spectrum of confrontational and consensual attitudes in missionary and crusader contexts as well as the mechanics of oscilla­ tion between them. The focus on host-guest relationships, on the one hand, reveals the strategic, conflictual, and habitually ambiguous aspects of intercultural encounters qua host-guest relationships, their equally trustbuilding and trust-undermining potential. It shows also their negotiated character, particularly visible in how often situations of hospitality verged on hostility and violence. On the other hand, as shown by Spencer, the focus on emotions reveals how those dangers or the lack of trust and their conceptualizations as risks shaped and were dealt with in such encounters, be they confrontational or peaceful. Emotions get us closer to how both types of encounters were experienced by missionary and crusader actors and authors and how they viewed the parties and adversaries they met or ascribed agency to them.22 From the point of view of emotions and hospitality, the meeting-of-minds and clash-of-cultures approaches are thus much closer to each other than their proponents would like to think. In fact, they are regularly the same thing.

Identity-Formation and Subjectivization in Frontier Societies The interrelated issues of individual and collective identity-formation and subjectivization in the frontier societies concern the far horizon of Bartlett’s research agenda: the cultural and societal change effected by Europeanization, which ‘made’ those frontier societies and polities.23 How­ ever, as stressed by Blomkvist, Kurt Villads Jensen, and others, medieval­ ists were quick to recognize the Europeanization paradigm’s original sin in this regard. Bartlett’s diffusionist model paints a vision of pre-packaged cultural solutions coupled with large, static, and essentialist notions of Christian identity, which were exported from the centre and passively adopted or imitated on the peripheries — a vision which is contradicted by the nuance and complexity of the evidence from the peripheries. Cir­ cumventing this central flaw, scholars suggested a more reciprocal and negotiated nature of cultural transmissions instead and explored manifold

22 Spencer, Emotions in a Crusading Context. 23 Nielsen, ‘Mission and Submission’, pp. 216–31; Tamm and Mänd, ‘Introduction: Actors and Networks’, pp. 1–13.

BALTIC FRONTIER SOCIETIES, VISIONS, AND PALIMPSESTS

cultural entanglements as well as hybrid forms of acculturation and iden­ tity on different European peripheries and frontier societies.24 In the Baltic context, this perspective has focused on confrontations with danger, often heathen danger, and Christians’ means of dealing with neighbouring populations prone to apostasy and cultural aliens. What has been stressed was the relational nature of Christian and pagan identi­ ties and emergent, processual properties of subjectivization. Subjectivities were not pre-given, but emerged from discursive and practical dealings with the intercultural in-between and difference. This led to investigations of the perceptions of otherness, self/other, us/them oppositions and in­ tercultural comparisons and categorizations, which reciprocally moulded missionary and crusader self-perceptions and community-formation.25 The frame of emotions and emotional communities can thus add another level and an area of deployment for exploring the blurred, mutualistic, and relational character of missionary and crusader identity-formation and subjectivization. This relates mainly to the contingent and ambiguous na­ ture of these processes and undermines the simple us/them dichotomies as well as emotions’ ability to enhance and bridge social divides. The advantages of focusing on risks, emotions, and hospitality can be best exemplified by discussing books by Volker Scior and David Freasdorff, whose historiography-centred approach come close to mine. Scior and Freasdorff explored the manifold senses of authorial self-identification visà-vis differently defined categories of otherness as professed by chroniclers living on and describing the Baltic frontier: e.g. Thietmar of Merseburg, Adam of Bremen, Helmold of Bosau, or Arnold of Lübeck. They demon­ strated that each chronicler’s authorial self/other identifications and rela­ tional perceptions of actual and imagined hazards strongly correlated with and determined by their varying physical and cultural distance from such otherness.26 Even though the authors’ mindsets did occasionally overlap with each other in terms of some broader cultural categories. This indicates that in the high medieval Baltic context — and in contrast to its modern counterparts — a missionary or crusader risk society was a local society. It was a small world with a limited background of a shared sense of dangers. Scior’s and Freasdorff’s results offer also a corrective for the Europeaniza­ tion paradigm’s vision of a mental import. They show, as I do here, that we 24 Blomkvist, The Discovery of the Baltic; Jensen, ‘Conclusion: Is It Good to Be Peripheral’, pp. 485–86; Dygo, ‘Europäisierung des Ostseeraums im Hochmittelalter’, pp. 17–36; Dalewski, ed., Granica wschodnia cywilizacji zachodniej; Michałowski and Pac, eds, Oryginalność czy wtórność?; Górecki, ‘‘Tworzenie Europy’’, pp. 513–15; Bynum, Metamorphosis and Identity, pp. 28–32; Armstrong, ‘Frontier’, pp. 91–92. 25 Goetz, Vorstellungsgeschichte; Rix, The Barbarian North in Medieval Imagination; Foerster, Vergleich und Identität; Kaljundi, ‘The Baltic Crusades and the Culture of Memory’; Kaljundi, ‘Waiting for the Barbarians’. 26 Scior, Das Eigene und das Fremde; Fraesdorff, Der barbarische Norden.

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are better off focusing on a historically contingent and evolving pluralism of risk positions and on many types of situated, local knowledge through which risks were conceptualized and which shaped each social grouping or individual text.27 However, Scior’s, Fraesdorff’s, and other studies based on the analysis of individual works contain a methodological limitation and a potential pitfall. Due to their strong focus on individual texts, they create an impres­ sion of a monadic character of risk position of each chronicler as well as a strongly intentional, authorial manner of (self-)identification equating it with conscious self-positioning.28 The focus on emotional communities offers a way out of this conundrum by highlighting the irreducibly social character of affective conceptualizations and identity-formations. On this view, an individual chronicler was often but a mouthpiece for his local community and society, its aggregated native voice.29 Heuristically, the perspective of emotions opens up an opportunity to interrogate the rela­ tionship between the social and the text, if only by means of conjecture. Further, the added value of the perspective of hospitality is more than just a means of intercultural encounters. For certain authors, hospitality also worked as a mental scaffolding, a cognitive frame, and a textual logic which structured their texts. It was likely a preconscious frame and logic, which regulated the categorization and depiction of both peaceful and adversarial relations between Christians and pagans as well as authorial risk positions on the frontier. To sum up. The foci on risks, emotions, and host-guest relations add new aspects and types of evidence — both discursive and practice-centred — to the studies on Christianization on the Baltic Rim. They do not just complement and build on the previous research on evangelization in this region. These foci advance and re-arrange the perspectives on intercultural encounters and communication as well as identity-formation and subjec­ tivization in medieval frontier societies. They also help to bridge the gap between the hitherto separately investigated patterns of commonality and conflict in frontier contexts. In this regard, the foci on risk, emotions, and hospitality address the uncertain and chronically ambiguous distinction between such patterns on the level of society or community as a whole, on the levels of intentions of actors or authors, and on the level of structures of discourse and cultural categories. With the help of these three foci, we can develop a more integrated and a wider vantage point on many types

27 Geertz, ‘Local Knowledge’, pp. 167–234; Lupton, Risk, pp. 144–55; Jezierski, ‘Fears, Sights and Slaughter’, pp. 109–37. 28 Scior, Das Eigene und das Fremde, pp. 9–28; Honemann, ‘Zu Selbstverständnis und Identitätsvorstellungen’, pp. 256–59; Goetz, Die Wahrnehmung anderer Religionen, i, 1–26. 29 Geertz, ‘“From the Native’s Point of View”’, pp. 55–70.

BALTIC FRONTIER SOCIETIES, VISIONS, AND PALIMPSESTS

of frontiers and senses of liminality listed by Burns, such as their political, cultural-creative, religious or ecclesiastical, ideological, and psychological dimensions.

Sources: Peripheral Visions As stated in the introduction, this book does not postulate a unified method or a single, holistic approach to the sources. Instead, it offers differ­ ent approaches to different constellations of texts in each chapter, which means it is impossible to posit one type of source criticism which would be valid for all the texts used here. This is because, apart from asserting certain rudimentary characteristics such as the biographical details of the authors or their intended audiences, source criticism does not spring from some inherent quality of any text. It is rather a pragmatically determined function of the questions asked in each experiment and thus needs to be constantly performed anew.30 This explains why in the course of this book I repeatedly reconsider and reframe — from the viewpoint of the ques­ tions and problems under scrutiny — the usefulness of certain sources, the angles taken by their authors, the role played or not played by their biographies and first-hand experiences, the importance or irrelevance of authorial intentions, etc. What can be presented here are only the general points for the way many of the sources used in this book correspond to the sociocultural contexts in which they emerged. For this source criticism, the style of frame analysis outlined in the introduction — exploring the missionary and crusader ways of organizing collective experiences — is consequential. My primary sources are narrative accounts, historiographical and ha­ giographical, which convey (information about) the emotions and the de­ pictions of host-guest relations embedded in and spawned by the intercul­ tural encounters or frontier coexistence. Such elite positions of elaborate enunciation are the closest we get to the highest levels of (self-)reflexivity and second-order observations on the societal level.31 When it comes to the corpus selected here, it is a recognizable group of authors and texts explored by previous research. It includes texts by Adam of Bremen, Helmold of Bosau, Henry of Livonia, the anonymous Livonian Rhymed Chronicle as well as the saints’ lives of St Ansgar, St Adalbert, St Bruno of Querfurt, St Otto of Bamberg, etc. Blomkvist’s Discovery of the Baltic is a

30 Edelberg and Simonsen, ‘Changing the Subject’, pp. 215–38; Orning, Unpredictability and Presence, pp. 36–40; Jezierski, Total St Gall, pp. 43–47. 31 Bourdieu, Science of Science and Reflexivity, pp. 32–84; Kenway and McLeod, ‘Bourdieu’s Reflexive Sociology’, pp. 528–34; Luhmann, Theory of Society, ii, 102–08; Jezierski, ‘Taking Sides’, pp. 99–111.

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case in point for the assembly and approach to this corpus, as his source basis and questions largely overlap with mine. His approach can thus serve as a starting point for reflection on the qualities and viewpoints of these and similar texts. Blomkvist’s main gesture of criticism towards the sources from the long twelfth century is the self-professedly uncomfortable — heavily glossed and interspersed with caveats — treatment of them as ‘discovery reports’ of peoples and spaces on the Baltic Rim. Nevertheless, Blomkvist remains optimistic and constructive: ‘source criticism should not be used to “kill” sources but to reveal what is distorted in order to rescue what useful information remains’. What he proposes as a plan for his rescue mission is a double reading. In the first, classic step, one pays attention to the manifest story, the programmatic and structural layout of those works, their rhetoric, ideological bent, tendencies to use sterotypes, the degree of authorial autopsy, and intention as determinants of the text’s relationship to their context. The second, hermeneutic step, is a decolonizing reading against the grain. By this he means searching for textual traces of the Other: their reactions and responses to the processes of Europeanization, information about their customs, conduct, (self-)identifications, etc.32 For all his decolonizing ambition, Blomkvist’s concern is the traditional goal of source criticism: to establish the trustworthiness of sources. The procedure for arriving at such reliability is for him a form of reconstructive eye surgery: rectifying distortions, fixing light sources, assuring the visibil­ ity of the sources qua windows, depictions, and pictures, identifying their blind spots, prismatic refractions, and wisdoms of hindsight.33 This fixation on transparency is inevitable given Blomkvist’s objectives, which are far more ambitious than mine. He uses these discovery reports, as windows to look through at the cultural encounters on the Baltic Rim. Insofar as Blomkvist engages with the knowledge of the authors of these sources, it is primarily the information about the reality they saw or knew. I am in a much more convenient position. Most of the time, I treat hagiographies and historiographies as framed perceptions of risk and thus the very sites of reflexivity of the frontier societies in which they were written. In contrast to Blomkvist, these sources for me are not just reflections of the explored processes. They are part and parcel.34 In this way, missionary and crusader self-descriptions bear witness to how risk consciousness deter­ mined being of the purported discoverers. They are their autoethnography,

32 Blomkvist, The Discovery of the Baltic, pp. 103–18. 33 Blomkvist, The Discovery of the Baltic, pp. 103–18; Bhabha, The Location of Culture, pp. 151– 54. 34 Banaszkiewicz, Podanie o Piaście i Popielu, p. 21: ‘Dyskusja o tym, czy było tak, czy nie było, jest o tyle chybiona, że zawsze było inaczej, gdyż każdy przekaz upraszcza, strukturyzuje rzeczywistość wedle własnego widzimisię’.

BALTIC FRONTIER SOCIETIES, VISIONS, AND PALIMPSESTS

their reports of self-discovery.35 Consequently, I treat these sources as good texts to think with about the larger problems this book explores. In keeping with the perspective of frame analysis outlined above, looking through these sources is as important and informative as looking at the frame through which one looks; seeing their ways of seeing and not seeing.36 By observing these peripheral visions, the movements of objects in and out of the frame, and the blur they generate, we can arrive at the ways material risks were conceptualized and converted into discourse. We can study what sociopolitical and cognitive implications these transfers through and around such frames had.37

Emotional Palimpsests and Imaginary Resolutions Let me flesh out the reasoning how the Baltic texts organized emo­ tional experiences and how such knowledge of risk conditions of mis­ sionary activity was inherited, shared, and circulated in frontier societies through frame dynamics. Consider the following gory scene from late tenth-century Oldenburg in Adam of Bremen’s Gesta, who in the 1070s recounted the existential dangers and cruel fate the Baltic apostles suffered at the hands of the pagans: ‘There’, he said, ‘sixty priests — the rest was slaughtered like cattle — were kept for mockery. The oldest of these, the provost of the palace, and our kinsman [noster consanguineus] was named Oddar. Now, he and others were martyred in this manner: after the skin of their heads had been cut with an iron in the form of a cross, the brain of each was laid bare; with hands tied behind their backs, the confessors of God were then dragged through one Slavic town after another, harried either with blows or in some other manner, until they died. After having been thus made “a spectacle… to angels and men”, they breathed forth their victorious spirits in the middle of the course’.38

35 Luhmann, Theory of Society, ii, 169–83, 323–49; Fabian, Time and the Other, pp. 90–93. 36 Goffman, Frame Analysis, p. 82; Bhabha, The Location of Culture, pp. 156–57; Maine, ‘Erich Auerbach’s “Mimesis”’, pp. 41–52; Barthes, Mythologies, pp. 121–22; Jonsson, Där historien tar slut, p. 38; Lukes, ‘Political Ritual and Social Integration’, p. 301; Duro, ‘What Is a Parergon?’, pp. 23–33; Luhmann, Theory of Society, ii, 323–34. 37 Jay, ‘Introduction: Genres of Blur’, pp. 220–28. 38 Adam of Bremen, Gesta, ed. by Schmeidler, ii. 43 (41), pp. 103–04: ‘“Sexaginta”, inquit, “presbyteri ceteris more pecudum obtruncatis ibi ad ludibrium servati sunt. Quorum maior loci prepositus nomen habuit, noster consanguineus. Ille igitur cum ceteris tali martyrio consummatus est, ut cute capitis in modum crucis incisa ferro cerebrum singulis aperiretur. Deinde ligatis post terga manibus confessores Dei per singulas civitates Sclavorum tracti sunt [aut verbere aut alio modo vexati], usque dum deficerent. Ita illi ‘spectaculum facti

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A hundred years after Adam, in Helmold of Bosau’s Chronica Slavorum, written in the late 1160s and early 1170s, the scene from Oldenbourg and the brains laid bare were still a ‘spectacle to angels and men’, playing with I Corinthians 4. 9. But writing for his clerical public in Lübeck, Helmold introduced important changes to the way this story was framed.39 In Adam’s Gesta, the story was narrated in the form of a dialogue between the schoolmaster and the Danish ruler, King Svein Estridsen (r. 1047–1076). Priest Oddar was Svein’s relative (‘noster consanguineus’) and though there was over twenty years between the priest’s martyrdom and the birth of the king, the memory of the incident must have been stored through the king’s family remembrance and must have been communicated orally through at least two generations. One way or another, Adam was faced with a story enveloped in a personal and emotional charge. In Helmold’s rendition, despite the fact that its wording is almost exactly the same, the dialogue with King Svein has disappeared. The markers of the direct speech are gone too, as is the designation of Oddar as Svein’s relative. The whole episode is attributed to some imagined nameless Slavic elders instead.40 Helmold’s reframing of Adam’s story and the erasure of Svein’s testimony as its source shows the mechanism through which somebody’s personal fear, disgust, or grief were detached from their experience and were written over and gradually worked into the emotional frame and the generalized sense or risk of the missionary and crusader communities. The ever-growing distance produced an emotional palimpsest of sorts; a layered yet at least partially collapsed stack of frames. This stacking and collapsing, erasing and replacing — these laminations of frames, as Goffman puts it — mark the moment an individual experi­ ence entered the sphere of tradition and a onetime actual horror of a sensing subject turned into a residual, background emotion in the general, literarily reproducible anxiety and sense of danger.41 What the example shows, in a broader sense, is that these sources effectively give us access to ‘second-hand non-experiences’, as Beck would say, quite typical of risk

et angelis et hominibus’ in stadio medii cursus exhalarunt victorem spiritum”’; Adam of Bremen, History of the Archbishops, trans. by Tschan, p. 84. 39 Helmold of Bosau, Chronica Slavorum, ed. by Stoob, 14, pp. 88–89; ‘Sexaginta igitur presbiteri, ceteris more pecudum obtruncatis, ibi ad ludibrium servati sunt. Quorum maior loci prepositus Oddar nomen habuit. Ille igitur cum ceteris tali martirio consummatus est, ut, cute captis in modum crucis incisa, ferro cerebrum singulis aperiretur. Deinde ligatis post terga manibus confessores Dei per singulas civitates Slavorum tracti sunt, usque dum deficerent. Taliter illi spectaculum facti et angelis et hominibus in stadio medii cursus exhalarunt victorem spiritum’. 40 Helmold of Bosau, Chronica Slavorum, ed. by Stoob, 14, pp. 88–89: ‘Narrant seniores Slavorum, qui omnes barbarorum gestas res in memoria tenant’; Žižek, How to Read Lacan, p. 6; Jezierski, ‘Speculum monasterii’, pp. 270–75. 41 Goffman, Frame Analysis, pp. 156–57, 249.

BALTIC FRONTIER SOCIETIES, VISIONS, AND PALIMPSESTS

societies.42 Since the questions of which and whose non-experiences were selected, how their second-, third-, or fourth-hand mediation occurred, and what risk positions and conceptualizations they reflected was strictly context-dependent, this source-critical problem will be addressed through­ out this book. For sure, there are good reasons to be cautious when it comes to the sheer degree to which hagiography and, particularly crusader, historiogra­ phy featured descriptions of dangers, scenes of violence and cruelty, and the manifold afflictions suffered by Christians engaged in the evangeliza­ tion of frontier regions. Such as the case of the British Empire’s frontiers depicted by Jeffrey A. Auerbach, on the Baltic frontier there must also have been enough boredom and monotony. But these texts and authors traded in dramatization and cultural difference enhanced through biblical topoi and rhetoric of violence to realize their short-term political interests and overarching ideological goals as motivational fuel for missionaries and crusaders. It is thus reasonable to assume that they amplified senses of otherness and cultural polarization. Yet as pointed out by several scholars, first, these texts did not do so universally or uniformly. Exploring the variety of their forms and authorial purposes is likely to tell us more about the individual experiences of differences in senses of risk than focusing on superficial formal similarities and the regurgitation of common motifs, which always had to be adapted to local circumstances. Second, the pur­ poseful amplification of alterity in those texts is a heuristic advantage for our understanding (of their understanding) of other cultures.43 Finally, the very literary quality of those palimpsests channelling such second-hand non-experiences adds yet another frame that enables us to treat them as aesthetically contrived reflections on the risk conditions in frontier societies. In that sense, these texts are more than symptoms or probes stuck into the body social or politic which we can now read for diagnostic purposes. Every now and then these chronicles, vitae, miracle stories, and works of literature (as in the case of the Livonian Rhymed Chronicle) functioned as part factual, part fictional thought experiments — suspended frames — in how the Christian communities behind them

42 Beck, Risk Society, p. 53: ‘Crucial for this is the type of knowledge, specifically the lack of personal experience, and the depth of dependency on knowledge, which surrounds all dimensions of defining hazards’, p. 72: ‘that means that the invisible [and the potential-WJ] — even more, that which is by nature beyond perception, that which is only connected or calculated theoretically — becomes the unproblematic element of personal thought, perception and experience. […] In this sense, we are dealing not with “second-hand experience”, in risk consciousness, but with “second-hand non-experience”. Furthermore, ultimately no one can know about risks, so long as to know means to have consciously experienced’. 43 Wood, The Missionary Life, pp. 18–20; Wood, ‘The Use and Abuse of Latin Hagiography’, pp. 93–109; Taylor, ‘Hagiography and Early Medieval History’, pp. 1–14; Baraz, Medieval Cruelty, pp. 75–121; Althoff, ‘Selig sind, die Verfolgung ausüben’.

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were to relate to the pagan communities they faced. As Svelgate’s example from the introduction shows, these texts occasionally turned into dark mirrors. They created a feedback loop of reflecting back on and shaping their authors’ and audiences’ means of sociability and identity-formation, conceptualizations of enmity, and subjectivization.44 Sometimes — and often unbeknownst to their authors or even contrary to their intentions — these parchment products inadvertently lend themselves to become ‘imag­ inary resolutions to objective contradictions’ — contradictions embedded in the uncertain existence and risk positions in frontier societies.45 For this reason, it makes little sense to insist on hard distinctions between fact and fiction or strict, often anachronistic, genre divisions with regard to the sources used here.46 This collapsing and blurring of genre boundaries and blending of the factual and the imagined is exactly the true potential of this source material when it comes to arriving at the forms and frames of missionary and crusader reflexivity.47 Where applicable, I therefore focus on how the content, rhetoric, poetic forms, and genre inflections of these different media brought about those imaginary resolutions for their public and authors.48

44 von Contzen, Huff, and Itzen, ‘Risikogesellschaften’, pp. 16–17: ‘Literatur ist der gesellschaftliche Ort, an dem relativ frei, fiktional und — teilweise mit seismographischem Gespür für Entwicklungen — früh Risikodiskurse geführt werden können. […] Literarische Texte können als Seismographen für gesellschaftliche Debatten und Ängste und den Umgang mit Risiken gelesen werden, tragen aber zugleich selbst zur Auseinandersetzung mit Risiken bei: Literatur ist immer auch Teil des Risikodiskurses und kommentiert diesen durch ihre Inhalte’; Czapliński, Poruszona mapa, pp. 5–10; Olsen, Conceptualizing the Enemy, pp. 3–4; Hunt, Bignotto, and Minchillo, ‘Empathy Has Biological Foundations’, pp. 134–39. 45 Althusser, ‘Ideology and State Apparatuses’, pp. 256–58; Jameson, ‘On Goffman’s Frame Analysis’, pp. 119–33; Cavell, Must We Mean What We Say?, pp. 1–44; Bunn, ‘Reimagining Repression’, pp. 35–42. 46 Lifshitz, ‘Beyond Positivism and Genre’, pp. 95–114; Taylor, ‘Hagiography and Early Medieval History’, pp. 1–14; Jameson, The Political Unconscious, p. 92; Phelpstead, An Introduction to the Sagas of Icelanders, pp. 6–11; Bampi, ‘Genre’, pp. 15–30; Reimitz, ‘Genre and Identity’, pp. 163–66, 196–97. 47 Geertz, ‘Blurred Genres’, pp. 19–35; Jay, ‘Introduction: Genres of Blur’, pp. 220–28; Bloch, ‘The Blob’. 48 Goffman, Frame Analysis, pp. 112–15, 149–55; Goodman, Ways of Worldmaking, pp. 23–40, 102–08; Jameson, The Political Unconscious, pp. 60–80, 101–06; Moretti, The Bourgeois, pp. 124–25; Moretti, ‘The Soul and the Harpy’, pp. 7–9; Žižek, The Sublime Object, pp. 42– 50; Panofsky, ‘The Concept of Artistic Volition’, p. 33: ‘art is not a subjective expression of feelings or the confirmation of the existence of certain individuals; it is a discussion, aimed at the achievement of valid results, that objectifies and realizes a formative force, using material which has to be mastered’.

CHAPtER 3

Fear in Missionary and Crusader Risk Societies, Tenth–Thirteenth Centuries

I’m living like there’s no tomorrow, because there isn’t one. Don Draper, Mad Men dir. Alan Taylor

A Hostage’s Anguish, a Schoolmaster’s Worry, 994 On 23 June 994, a Viking raid went up the Elbe to plunder the province around the city of Stade north-west of Hamburg. According to Adam of Bremen, who described this attack in the 1070s, only a small Saxon troop took a stand to protect the area. The defenders were soon outmanned, outnumbered, and outplanned by the Vikings. The rank-and-file warriors were killed on the spot and the leading nobles were captured and kept for days to be exchanged for ransom. One of the Saxon leaders, Margrave Siegfried II of Stade (c. 956–1037), nevertheless ‘stealthily slipped away by night with the aid of a fisherman’.1 When the Viking pirates discovered this, they were enraged and did not just mock, but also maimed the cap­ tured nobles by severing their hands and feet and cutting off their noses. Adding insult to injury, the Vikings finally left them half-dead on the shore. ‘Among them were some noble men who lived a long time afterwards, a reproach to the Empire and a pitiful spectacle for all the people’, summed up Adam of Bremen from the perspective of the 1070s.2

1 Adam of Bremen, Gesta, ed. by Schmeidler, ii. 31 (29), pp. 92–93: ‘Sigafridus cuiusdam piscatoris auxilio furtim noctu sublatus evaderet’; Adam of Bremen, History of the Archbishops, trans. by Tschan, p. 76. 2 Adam of Bremen, Gesta, ed. by Schmeidler, ii.  31 (29), p. 93: ‘omnes, quos in vinculis tenuerunt, meliores ad ludibrium habentes, manus eis pedesque truncarunt ac nare precisa deformantes ad terram semianimes proiciebant. Ex quibus erant aliqui nobiles viri, qui postea supervixerunt longo tempore, obprobrium imperio et miserabile spectaculum omni populo’; Adam of Bremen, History of the Archbishops, trans. by Tschan, p. 76.

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Remarkably, Adam’s rendition of these events is not the only one we have at our disposal. A more colourful and detailed version was persevered in the chronicle by Bishop Thietmar of Merseburg (975–1018). In June 994 Thietmar was a relatively young man, barely nineteen years old. He did not just observe the events from up-close, however — he was directly involved in them. According to his chronicle, ‘the news of this misfortune quickly spread among Christ’s faithful’, because the pirates were quick to send messengers asking for ransom and to exchange the captives for other hostages. Still, ‘my mother’s pain’, Thietmar recounted, ‘was so great [“tanto dolore”] that she was willing to give whatever she had or could acquire in any way to secure her brother’s [Margrave Siegfried’s] freedom’.3 Soon enough all the nobles had found appropriate replacements — their sons and other relatives — to be given to the pirates. Only the childless Siegfried remained without an appropriate equivalent. Five days after the initial attack, on 28 June, it became clear Thietmar himself was to be traded as a hostage to which he had to make all the necessary preparations. In the meantime, Siegfried escaped. ‘The enemy, in hot pursuit, forced their way into a burg called Stade [and] when they could not find him […] aroused by a common anger, they cut off the noses, ears, and hands of the priest, my cousin, and all other hostages’ who were thrown into water. ‘Though it caused us unspeakable sadness [“merore inaudito insurgente”], we rescued each of them after the pirates left’. After this Thietmar returned home safely and ‘I […] was received with affection [“caritative”] by my close friends’.4 Two versions of the same dramatic events from where the northeastern frontier of Christianity was roughly lay in the late tenth century produce two very different emotional frames. On the one hand, Thietmar’s chronicle provides a personal account of a piece of dramatic family history and elite identity, which was written in the 1110s. This account conveys not only the despair of Thietmar’s mother, but also his own relief at stepping in for his brother as an exchange for his uncle, Siegfried. It also reveals Thietmar’s own dread and anxiety as he was tucking in his clerical 3 Thietmar of Merseburg, Chronicon, ed. by Trillmich, iv. 23 (16), pp. 138–41: ‘Hoc infortunium inter Christi fideles fama volante mox dilatatur. […] Mater autem mea tanto dolore intrinsecus commota omne, quod habuit vel acquirere ullo modo potuit, pro fratrum ereptione attribuit’; Thietmar of Merseburg, Ottonian Germany, trans. by Warner, pp. 168– 69; Olsson, The Hostages of the Northmen, pp. 196–200. 4 Thietmar of Merseburg, Chronicon, ed. by Trillmich, iv. 25 (16), pp. 142–43: ‘Hunc hostes pone sequuti urbem, quae littori vicina stabat, Stethu nomine incurrunt, eum curiose in abditissimis querentes locis; et non invenientes feminis inaures vi rapiunt tristesque recedunt. Tali furore omnes succensi crastino clericum et nepotem meum cum caeteris obsidibus universis naribus ac auribus et manibus obtruncant, foris eos proicientes in portum. Tunc fugientibus his unusquisque a suis rapitur, merore inaudito insurgente. Ego autem visitatis meimet avunculis remeavi Christo largiente incolumis, caritative a familiaribus meis susceptus’; Thietmar of Merseburg, Ottonian Germany, trans. by Warner, pp. 168–69.

FEAR IN MISSIONARY AND CRUSADER RISK SOCIETIES

habit under the secular clothes just before he was to be traded in, hiding his true identity from the eyes of the ‘ravenous dogs’.5 On the other hand, Adam’s emotionally sanitized account, written from the perspective of over seven decades later, foregrounds the general Christian suffering to motivate his readers in their missionary zeal.6 Indeed, the most striking contrast between the two accounts are the ways each of them depicts the maimed noblemen and their later fate. For Thietmar, this group of Saxons, which included his close relatives, was above all an object of immediate empathy and care to whose deliverance the chronicler linked his own sense of affective safety. His own fears mirrored theirs and hence pulled his readers into an empathetic relationship. What Adam cared for regarding these noblemen instead was first and foremost their token victimhood. His interest in their long-gone misery and pain was limited to how in the long run the horrors inscribed on their bodies in a spectacular fashion could be displayed as a piece of the grand Christian drama staged on the pagan periphery. His, for the lack of a better word, was a frame of exploitation.7 This chapter explores how the sense of danger and risk connected to the life on the north-eastern frontier was experienced and emotion­ ally conceptualized by missionary and crusader authors during the high Middle Ages. As the 994 example shows, missionaries’ and missionary authors’ exposure to the attacks of the pagans created a deeply rooted sense of insecurity about one’s position. This exposure also bred dread and suspicion vis-à-vis non-Christian others, the very objects of the evangelizing efforts in this region.8 By linking Beck’s idea of risk society and Rosenwein’s emotional communities, this chapter offers a vantage point on the missionary and crusader communities as characterized by a heightened preoccupation with the questions of unpredictability, safety, and uncertainty about the future explored through such communities’ ‘socially significant passions’.9 That is, on the one hand, passions which

5 Thietmar of Merseburg, Chronicon, ed. by Trillmich, iv. 24–25, pp. 140–41: ‘Veni et cum laicali habitu, quo apud piratas debui obses conversari, prioribus adhuc indutus vestimentis, V. feria profectus sum […] canes avari saturabantur’; Thietmar of Merseburg, Ottonian Germany, trans. by Warner, pp. 168–69; Goetz, ‘Die Chronik Thietmars von Merseburg’, pp. 259–70. 6 Jezierski, ‘Fears, Sights and Slaughter’, pp. 117–18; Moretti, ‘Dialectic of Fear’, pp. 106–08. 7 Similarly, in his Vita quinque fratrum Bruno of Querfurt also occasionally presented the destitution that the five brothers suffered in their mission to Poland in the same sense of exemplariness and spectacle: Bruno of Querfurt, Vita quinque fratrum, ed. by Klaniczay, trans. by Gaşpar and Miladinov, 13, pp. 262–63; 32, pp. 306–07; Garipzanov, ‘Christianity and Paganism’, pp. 13–29; Bourke, ‘Fear and Anxiety’, pp. 125–26. 8 Wood, The Missionary Life, pp. 247–71; von Padberg, Mission und Christianisierung, pp. 28– 31; Geelhaar, Christianitas, pp. 275–304. 9 Beck, Risk Society, pp. 19–50; Giddens, ‘Risk and Responsibility’, p. 3; Douglas and Wildavsky, Risk and Culture, pp. 6–9; Samimian-Darash and Rabinow, ‘Introduction’, pp. 1–9; Patzold, ‘Human Security, fragile Staatlichkeit’, pp. 406–22; Jonsson, Crowds and

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mediated individual missionaries’ and their communities’ relationship with pagans and the outside world by marking their own and the general Christian community’s limits as well as, on the other hand, passions which practically and textually regulated the inner group relationships. Two such groups of passions were the sense of risk and danger and the accompany­ ing emotions such as angst, fear, and sporadic horror. This chapter thus maps out the variable experiences, types, and uses of these emotions in different communities or for individual missionaries and their implications for missionary community- and identity-formation.10 These problems are addressed on two levels. First, I explore the gen­ eral and variable senses of missionary fear and risks, showing how their importance was stretched between normative expectations created by the institutional and literary contexts in which the authors under scrutiny worked and the concrete, personal, and collective experiences channelled by their texts. Second, I show how emotions functioned as both vehicles of sociability and as cognitive categories through which these communi­ ties categorized their social and natural environments.11 Local frontier knowledge and judgement, too, were social phenomena with an affective charge motivating response and action.12 These collective emotional values pertained among others to the perception of landscape and physical sur­ roundings of the missionary outposts. Hence, in the penultimate section, I study expressions of both actual and imagined spaces informed by risk and fear.13

Sources of Fear, Eleventh–Thirteenth Centuries The main source basis for this chapter are three texts which range from the eleventh to the thirteenth centuries: Adam of Bremen’s Gesta Hammabur­ gensis ecclesie pontificum (mid-1070s), Helmold of Bosau’s Chronica Slavo­ rum (c. 1168–1172), and Henry of Livonia’s Chronicon Livoniae (c. 1224– 1227). From the point of view of missionary experience, this corpus offers opportunely diversified vantage points on the process of Christianization

10 11 12 13

Democracy, p. 26: ‘By socially significant passions, I mean the affective aspects of human labor and the libidinal need for social recognition that form the binding medium of society and hold collectivities together’; Anderson, Imagined Communities, pp. 141–42. Bourke, ‘Fear and Anxiety’, pp. 124–26; Schnell, ‘Erzähler – Protagonist – Rezipient im Mittelalter’, pp. 8–19, 24–35; Gerok-Reiter, ‘Die Angst des Helden’, pp. 127–43; BührerThierry, ‘Des communautés de païens menacées’, pp. 43–55. Nussbaum, Upheavals of Thought, pp. 19–88; Rosenwein, ‘Problems and Methods’, pp. 19– 20. Mannheim, Ideology & Utopia, pp. 21–22, 31, 128–34; Öhman, ‘The Biology of Fear’, pp. 38– 39; Holmes, ‘The Emotionalization of Reflexivity’, pp. 139–54. Büchsel, ‘Die Grenzen der Historischen Emotionsforschung’, p. 152.

FEAR IN MISSIONARY AND CRUSADER RISK SOCIETIES

both from the period preceding the crusade movement and afterwards. Crucially, within the genre of missionary and crusader historiography these three texts were composed in radically dissimilar circumstances and widely varying distances from the main course of events. Adam’s Gesta, to start with, was written in a politically volatile situation in Northern Saxony during the 1060s and 1070s, a period when the Hamburg-Bremen’s archiepiscopal supremacy in the North had been seriously questioned. When it comes to Adam’s own experiences of missionary activity, how­ ever, he only had second-hand information and wrote his work in fairly comfortable circumstances in Bremen, rather distant from the missionary frontier. Helmold, on the other hand, wrote his Chronica in Bosau (he had served as a priest there since 1156), a small parish and missionary outpost in Wagria. At the same time, such an isolated, exposed position allowed Helmold to be deeply involved in the daily practice of evangelization. His points of institutional reference were the episcopal chapters of Lübeck and Oldenburg,14 but his point of view, unlike Adam’s, whose Gesta he used extensively, was much more individual, grounded in his personal experience of missionary activity. As suggested by Scior, Helmold was guided by a desire to provide an accurate description of the Slavs as the objects of his evangelical concern. Helmold was also writing in a transition period in which the mission was still driven by individual missionaries like himself, but large-scale military support in the Christianization process was becoming its main tenet, especially after the 1147 crusade against the Wends.15 Finally, Henry of Livonia composed his Chronicon in an era when the crusader military action had become synonymous with Christianization. Even though he mostly wrote and operated from his peripheral parish in Papendorf (Latvian: Rubene) and not from central Riga, he actively partook in and saw large-scale armed operations, hence witnessing the unprecedented mobilization potential in the era of the military orders.16 Before Henry arrived in Riga in 1205, to spend the next two years in the episcopal milieu, he was educated in the Augustinian monastery of Segeberg. The monastery had been founded in 1134 by Bishop Vicelin of Oldenburg (r. 1149–1154) and Helmold himself was amongst the first generation of its students from 1134 to 1138.17 Just as the opening example showed, the physical distance from the frontier and the uneven level of 14 Helmold of Bosau, Chronica Slavorum, ed. by Stoob, ‘Praefatio’, pp. 26–29: ‘dominis ac patribus sanctae Lubecensis ecclesiae canonicis Helmoldus, […] quo matri meae, sanctae Lubecensi ecclesiae’. 15 Scior, Das Eigene und das Fremde, pp. 138–46, 186–91; see also Kaljundi, ‘Medieval Conceptualizations’, pp. 25–40. 16 Brundage, ‘Introduction: Henry of Livonia’, pp. 1–20; Johansen, ‘Die Chronik als Biographie’, pp. 1–24; Vahtre, ‘Kroniki bałtyckie’, pp. 73–89. 17 Bünz, Zwischen Kanonikerreform, pp. 8–40.

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engagement in the practice of evangelization and the different political agendas represented by these three authors offer an opportunity to use these circumstances and distances in an explanatory fashion. Although this chapter focuses on the period from the mid-eleventh to mid-thirteenth centuries, it opens with a reading from a ninth-century text, Vita Anskarii. As we shall see, the Vita was deeply formative for how authors such as Adam or Helmold thought about the desirable qualities of missionaries. For centuries, the Vita Anskarii constituted a crucial text in the episcopal palaces of Hamburg-Bremen, Lübeck, Oldenburg, and, pos­ sibly, at Segeberg.18 The Vita Anskarii and the remembrance of HamburgBremen’s first bishop can be considered as the initial text in what was to become a missionary discursive formation, which linked the episcopal institutions and dioceses of northern Germany considered in this chapter. As mentioned above, Adam used Rimbert’s text extensively and after him, Helmold perused both the Vita and Adam’s Gesta. These connections were concomitantly actual and imagined, bound up in a long-lasting tradition whose adherents were not connected through face-to-face relationships.19 Like beads on a string, individual but sequentially connected, these texts’ manner of articulation was further limited by the fact that their authors were writing in a chain gang in which they explicitly referred to each other. As we shall see, these emotional palimpsests emerged within a constricted frame of enunciation, which also regulated what could be said, forgotten, or erased about missionary fears and risks vis-à-vis different others.20

Ansgar: Early Forms of Missionary Fearlessness In his comprehensive mapping of emotions in high medieval crusader texts, which mostly concerned the Holy Land, Stephen J. Spencer ob­ served that one of the most prevailing features of this discourse is not so much a dominance of a singular or several emotion terms, but an absence of one: fear. The ideals of crusader fearlessness were obviously

18 Not only did Rimbert write the Vita in Bremen leaving a copy there (a version of it was used by Adam in the 1070s). Also a hexameter version of Ansgar’s life — composed by a monk in Corbie, Waldo in the early 1060s — returned to Bremen with a dedication to Archbishop Adalbert in 1069 (at the latest). Furthermore, a B version was included in the Codex Vicelini by a Bremen canon Vicelin — subsequently Helmold’s teacher and bishop of Oldenburg — who sent it to Abdinghof monastery in Paderborn before 1123. Helmold also had a version of the Vita at his disposal in the 1160s–1170s and did not have to depend on Adam in this regard. He was thus able to develop his own, independent opinion about Ansgar: Trillmich, ‘Einleitung’, pp. 9–12; Hallencreutz and Odelman, ‘Rimbert som ärkebiskop’, pp. 130–32. 19 Jezierski, ‘Speculum monasterii’, pp. 267–302. 20 Dreyfus and Rabinow, Michel Foucault, pp. 44–78; Fish, ‘Working on the Chain Gang’, pp. 87–102; Stock, The Implications of Literacy, pp. 88–92, 526.

FEAR IN MISSIONARY AND CRUSADER RISK SOCIETIES

linked to ideas of virility and military courage and honour as well as to the nascent ideas of chivalry, quite unsurprisingly given the character of the mission in this region. Crusader authors dug deeper than that, however. They also sourced the idea of fearless warriors from the scripture, particularly the Maccabees, classical literature, and, importantly, pointed to the tradition of early Christian martyrs ostentatiously rejecting, or at the very least, triumphantly overcoming fear.21 The question appears to be whether a similar ideal of fearlessness could be found concerning the early and high medieval missionaries and martyrs on the Baltic Rim? Was the missionaries’ fear detestable, or maybe even unmentionable? Or was it expected, even desirable perhaps? One thing that several missionary priests educated in the cathedral schools such as Hamburg-Bremen and Lübeck could learn from the Vita Anskarii was that Ansgar was not a man of many fears. In his final words and the ultimate praise of the greatest missionary to Scandinavia, Ans­ gar’s closest companion and biographer, Rimbert, claims that the bishop was always fearless (‘semper imperterritus’) and just as steadfast in the Christi confession.22 No matter what perils he faced in his mission — and they were legion: everything from sudden attacks of robbers and pagans, through hazards of the sea voyage, to hunger, cold, and nudity, as Rimbert enumerated after St Paul23 – Ansgar seemed unmoved, sometimes almost jaded. On the other hand, fear did constitute an important element in the emotional arsenal of an early missionary as one of the emotions his activity was to induce in others.24 In Rimbert’s text, this related particularly to the fear of authority (‘metus auctoritatis’), with which Ansgar’s commanding manner of preaching — a perfect mixture of mildness and fright (‘miscens terroribus blandimenta’) — targeted his audience.25 Ansgar’s preaching was a tool and a sign of the authority invested in him by the Holy Ghost, so that: ‘the powerful and the rich, but above all proud and impudent people looked at him in fright’.26 In one of his many visions, the Apostle to the North saw himself ‘cheerful and joyful’ (‘letus et adgaudens’) walking next to Christ as well as his own believers across the ideal landscape his mission

21 Spencer, Emotions in a Crusading Context, pp. 27–70; Bennett, ‘Fear and Its Representation’, pp. 29–54; Plamper, ‘Fear: Soldiers and Emotion’; Bähr, Furcht und Furchtlosigkeit. 22 Rimbert, Vita Anskarii, ed. by Buchner, 42, pp. 132–33: ‘Martyr fuit, quia inter diaboli temptamenta, inter carnis illecebras, inter persequentes paganos, inter obsistentes christianos semper imperterritus, semper immobilis, semper invictus in Christi confessione usque ad exitum vitae permansit’ emphasis mine. 23 Rimbert, Vita Anskarii, ed. by Buchner, 42, pp. 130–31; with a quotation from the II Corinthians 11. 26–29. 24 McLuhan, ‘Evangelico mucrone’, pp. 107–24. 25 Rimbert, Vita Anskarii, ed. by Buchner, 38, pp. 120–21. 26 Rimbert, Vita Anskarii, ed. by Buchner, 37, pp. 118–19: ‘ita ut eum potentes et divites maxime tamen contumaces et protervi terribilem attenderent’.

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would bring about, where ‘the defiant were struck by godly terror [“terror divinitus”]’.27 Interestingly, from the contexts in which fear is mentioned in the Vita Anskarii it appears that this emotion most often comes to the fore when Ansgar explicitly acts as God’s intermediary. Yet fear is more than just a symptom of the divine intervention. It is also a direct way of persuading or punishing the infidels and those Christians who opposed the evange­ lization. For instance, in 845, after the people of Birka (on the island of Björkö on Lake Mälaren, c. thirty km west of Stockholm) persecuted and expelled Ansgar’s follower, priest Gauzbert from the town, one of the persecutors, a son of a local nobleman, was suddenly stricken with God’s anger. The true addressee of this divine intervention was the nobleman himself, whose family and cattle began to perish. His blasphemous son died first, then his wife, and then the rest of his children. Soon this heathen Job was instructed by a local sorcerer that this calamity was Christ’s wrath on him because of the book his son had stolen from Gauzbert and stashed in his house. The nobleman was ‘anxious’ (‘mente pertractans sollicita’) about what to do. With the only priest gone there was no one around to whom he could return this unsolicited, yet extremely imposing gift; a poisoned remainder and a powerful reminder of the thirteen years of Gauzbert’s mission at Björkö. The gift itself and the entire situation filled the nobleman with the utmost fear and horror (‘qua de re horrore nimio et terrore perculsus’). Had it not been for one local Christian, Rimbert’s supposed source of the story, who eventually took this burden from him, this Swedish nobleman — and a soon-to-be convert — would perish too.28 The second occasion for displaying the impact of this weaponized, ac­ tive version of ‘terror divinitus’ was one of many dreams Ansgar had which targeted Reginar, to whom Ansgar’s monastery, Torhout, was enfeoffed.29 Instead of educating the newly converted Northmen and Slavs whom Ansgar sent to the monastery, Reginar used them as his personal slaves disregarding their spiritual formation. In his vision, Ansgar saw himself complaining to Reginar and Emperor Charles the Bald (r. 843/875–877) when suddenly the Christ himself appeared and started to admonish and threaten both powerful men with consequences. ‘After hearing that, both

27 Rimbert, Vita Anskarii, ed. by Buchner, 38, pp. 120–21: ‘Visumque est ei, quod isset cum multitudine fidelium, et quod ipse, videlicet domnus episcopus, cum eo [the Christ] in eodem esset itinere letus et adgaudens, quia nulla erat contradictio, ut ipsi videbatur, sed erat in omnibus contumacibus terror divinitus illatus’. 28 Rimbert, Vita Anskarii, ed. by Buchner, 18, pp. 54–55; Wood, ‘Christians and Pagans’, pp. 36–67. 29 On Ansgar’s dreams, see Mehnert, ‘Ansgar als Visionär’, pp. 44–67; Dutton, The Politics of Dreaming, pp. 51–53; Haendler, Kirchliche Verbindungen, pp. 82–92.

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were terrified and confused’.30 As usual, Ansgar’s vision was confirmed shortly in reality and Reginar lost the imperial favour. If not having God’s assistance or, worse yet, being in conflict with His representatives usually set one in deep horror and confusion, the opposite was true as well. Being on or converting to the Christian side immediately freed one from fear. One such visible proof could be recognized right after the conversion of the Swedes, c. 854, when the legendary King Olaf sent a large expedition to Courland (Latvian: Kurzeme), the episode I explore more closely in Chapter 5. Despite moments of hesitation, the conviction of God’s assistance released the newly converted troops from ‘anxiety and fear’ and helped them conquer the local strongholds.31 Rimbert’s dichotomist approach to fear feeds into two scenes of mis­ sionary anxieties and fears conveyed in the Vita Anskarii. The first occasion came early in Ansgar’s career, in 826 when Wala of Corbie (c. 755–836) elected him from among his monks and recommended him to Louis the Pious (r. 814–840) as a suitable candidate to introduce Christianity to Denmark. Ansgar was to accompany King Harald Klak Halfdansson (c. 785–c. 852) in his conversion of the country. The future bishop, when presented with the offer, eagerly accepted the task despite the obvious sense of unsafety.32 The moment his decision became known within the confines of the monastery, his brothers reacted in two ways. ‘Many loathed him and attacked with reproofs; others attempted to convince him to take back this decision’.33 Rimbert does not make it clear what reasons or feelings motivated these reactions. To offer a generous reading, it seems that Ansgar’s decision might have been perceived as undermining the monastic stabilitas loci and episcopal vagrancy fiercely implemented and debated at the time; a bomb Rimbert himself was at pains to disarm.34 Still, a more empathetic reading detects both some degree of affectionate fear for Ansgar’s life on the monks’ part and some envy and anxiety, which resulted in this harassment of the holy man (narratively, yet one hurdle 30 Rimbert, Vita Anskarii, ed. by Buchner, 21, pp. 68–69; 36, pp. 116–17: ‘Quo dicto, ipsi exterriti facti, conturbati sunt’. 31 Rimbert, Vita Anskarii, ed. by Buchner, 30, pp. 98–99: ‘“Quid”, inquiunt, “nunc nobis formidandum quidve pavendum est? Christus est nobiscum; pugnemus et viriliter agamus, nihil nobis obstare poterit”’. 32 Wood, ‘Christians and Pagans’, pp. 63–65. 33 Rimbert, Vita Anskarii, ed. by Buchner, 7, pp. 32–33: ‘Multi quoque eum super hoc detestari et improperiis lacessire, quidam a proposito revocare conabantur’. 34 Rimbert, Vita Anskarii, ed. by Buchner, 7, pp. 32–33: ‘quod scilicet, relicta patria et propinquis suis, fratrum quoque, cum quibus educatus fuerat, dulcissima affectione, alienas expetere vellet nationes et cum ignotis ac barbaris conversari’; Härdelin, ‘Ansgar som munk’, pp. 147–61; Odelman, ‘Ansgar’s Life’, pp. 292–93; Palmer, ‘Rimbert’s Vita Anskarii’, pp. 245– 47. A hundred years later, the exact same concerns were expressed and targeted at another vagrant monk and missionary bishop, St Adalbert (c. 956–997): Sosnowski, Studia nad wczesnymi żywotami, pp. 125–29; Jezierski, ‘St Adalbertus domesticus’, p. 215.

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for him to overcome and a story device to motivate his leave).35 Such an interpretation surely occurred to Adam of Bremen. He knew well that too much eagerness and apostolic zeal might be deemed arrogant by both Ansgar’s and his own contemporaries: Although he [Ansgar] was not unaware of the canonical decrees which provide that a bishop who, as a result of persecution, is expelled from his city, may be received in another where the see is vacant, Ansgar nevertheless did not for a long time yield to Caesar in respect of this proposal in order that others might not through envy be scandalized. Finally he consented, but only on condition that it could be done without complaint on the part of the brethren.36 To be sure, both Adam and Rimbert used the leitmotif of humilitas seen as a necessary cure for superbia when accepting new tasks and honours. However, considering the general tone of the Vita Anskarii and the Gesta in which missionary ambition either came in short supply or in the form of a misguided vainglory, such a more socially realistic apperception of missionary anxiety should be considered too.37 The second scene from the Vita Anskarii is more revealing when it comes to attitudes towards missionary fear. As mentioned above, back in 845, Bishop Gauzbert (after 851, papal legate to Sweden) had been expelled from Birka after a short popular revolt against Christianity. For several years, Sweden was without a bishop or priest and this negligence immensely worried Ansgar. He approached Gauzbert to send a new priest there, but the bishop hesitated because of his angst. Due to the danger and the hostile attitude of the locals he did not dare to return himself, but he surely deemed Ansgar to be an appropriate replacement. This episode was intended to prove the legitimacy of Ansgar’s legation to Scandinavia, but what is crucial for my purposes is Rimbert’s attitude towards Gauzbert’s anxiety.38 In the author’s eyes, Gauzbert’s fear or even trauma seemed justified. His expulsion and the collapse of the missionary efforts in Swe­ den were particularly turbulent, with bloodthirsty heathens breaking into

35 von Padberg, Heilige und Familie, pp. 86–91. 36 Adam of Bremen, Gesta, ed. by Schmeidler, i. 24 (26), pp. 30–31: ‘At ille, quamvis canonum decreta non ignoraret, quibus cautum est, ut episcopus, qui a sua civitate persecutionem passus expellitur, in alia vacante recipiatur, tamen, ne pro invidia ceteri scandalizarentur, cesari super hac re diu restitit’; Adam of Bremen, History of the Archbishops, trans. by Tschan, p. 29. 37 Wood, The Missionary Life, pp. 133–34, 217–19. 38 Rimbert, Vita Anskarii, ed. by Buchner, 25, pp. 82–83: ‘Praedictus vero pontifex Gauzbertus, qui et Symon, se inde expulsum rursus locum illum repetere non ausum respondit, nec id valde proficuum fore posse, immo magis periculosum, si denuo priorum reminiscentes aliquid perturbationis circa eum excitarent’; Fraesdorff, Der barbarische Norden, p. 221.

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his house and killing his cousin, Nithard, in front of Gauzbert.39 In fact, the Vita does not convey any explicit critique against the positively presented Gauzbert or derision of his cowardice. Still, the whole scene is effectively there to prove Ansgar’s extraordinary courage and valour in the face of, as Adam put it, the ‘praiseworthy hazard’ (laudabile periculum).40 Even if such asymmetrical comparison between Ansgar and Gauzbert was not Rimbert’s intention, it was the conclusion his readers would inevitably draw.41 It may well be that missionary fearlessness and quasi-emotional immo­ bilitas (which gave in exclusively to timor Dei), during this period and in such black-and-white fashion was genre-dependent, specific to hagiogra­ phy.42 It is difficult to deny that the situations which the audience of vitae would associate with danger and horror narratively constituted the trials and hardships through which the holy man or martyr proved his spiritual stamina and prowess.43 For instance, on one occasion Rimbert did admit to Ansgar’s great anxiety (‘angustiam maximam mentis’) regarding his preparations for the sea voyage to Scandinavia.44 But the worries regarding sea voyages and ‘periculis maris’ was also a staple motif in missionary and crusader historiography. Tempestuous seawaters, often populated with pirates, constituted a dangerous liminal zone. It was also a space where God sometimes manifested himself protecting his followers from such hazards. Missionaries were supposed to brave such dangers either fearlessly or by overcoming their fears.45 As we move to the corpus of texts for which the Vita became an inspiration, we will see that high medieval missionary and crusader histo­ riography inherited some of these early ideals of missionary fearlessness. However, some of their authors occasionally took a more tolerant or even accepting view of timor clericalis.

39 Rimbert, Vita Anskarii, ed. by Buchner, 17, pp. 52–53. 40 Adam of Bremen, Gesta, ed. by Schmeidler, i. 26 (28), pp. 31–32; Adam of Bremen, History of the Archbishops, trans. by Tschan, p. 30. 41 Postoutenko, ‘Preliminary Typology of Comparative Utterances’, pp. 63–64. 42 Rosenwein, Emotional Communities, pp. 41–42, 145–47, 157–61; von Padberg, Mission und Christianisierung, pp. 23–28. 43 Dinzelbacher, Angst im Mittelater, pp. 73–80. 44 Rimbert, Vita Anskarii, ed. by Buchner, 29, pp. 94–95: ‘Porro angustiam maximam mentis, quam in ipso perpessus est itinere, dum illud iter pararetur, Domino revelante pater noster sanctissimus ante praescivit’. 45 Kaljundi, ‘(Re)performing the Past’, pp. 308–10; Korpijärvi, ‘Water Acting as a Border’, pp. 76–105; Jensen, ‘The Blue Baltic Border’, pp. 173–93.

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Timor clericalis in High Medieval Missionary Contexts For Adam of Bremen, the avid reader of the Vita Anskarii, the missionary fearlessness was an ideal still worth emulating. At least this was what the Bremen schoolmaster praised Ansgar for. For instance, ‘Ansgar did not fear to go’ to Horik II (r. 854–c. 860s) in Denmark despite the king’s harsh persecution of Christians in his territory. Together with his first companion Autbert, Ansgar was always ready for martyrdom and did not avoid even the most dangerous tasks.46 Adam used the examples of Ansgar and Rimbert to reprimand his risk-averse contemporaries, who did not show enough zeal and courage in performing their missionary obligation: Lo, ye bishops who, sitting at home, make the shortlived pleasures of honor, of lucre, of the belly, and of sleeping the first considerations of episcopal office! Look back, I say, upon this man […] who […] gave posterity such an example that your indolence cannot be excused by any harsh condition of time and place. Undergoing such perils by sea and by land, he went among the fierce people of the north […].47 For Adam, Ansgar’s courage exceeded the human condition. He insisted on holding it up as a standard to the episcopal palace he belonged to, the ‘lazy crew that delights in shelter and shade’, and the Baltic missionaries in general.48 This hard to attain, early medieval ascetic-monastic ideal nevertheless had to be negotiated and integrated into the eleventh-century episcopal palace’s politics.49 A similar point of critique against lazy and anxious clerics is found in Helmold’s Chronica Slavorum. It is folded into the description of Vicelin’s career, the man Helmold admired the most. Vicelin, who excelled both as a pupil and later as a teacher (also Helmold’s), had bad luck when he moved to schools where other teachers, pupils, and co-brothers quickly

46 Adam of Bremen, Gesta, ed. by Schmeidler, i. 29 (31), p. 35: ‘Ad quem sanctus Dei confessor Ansgarius venire non trepidans’; Adam of Bremen, History of the Archbishops, trans. by Tschan, p. 32; Adam of Bremen, Gesta, ed. by Schmeidler, i. 15 (17), pp. 20–22. 47 Adam of Bremen, Gesta, ed. by Schmeidler, i. 63 (65), p. 60: ‘Eia vos episcopi, qui domi sedentes gloriae, lucri, ventris et somni breves delicias in primo episcopalis officii loco ponitis! Respicite, inquam, istum pauperem […] Qui nuper tam nobili fine coronatus exemplum dedit posteris, nulla temporum vel locorum asperitate vestram pigriciam excusari posse, cum per tanta pericula maris et terrae feroces aquilonis populos ipse pertransiens ministerium legationis suae tanto impleret studio’; Adam of Bremen, History of the Archbishops, trans. by Tschan, p. 53. 48 Adam of Bremen, Gesta, ed. by Schmeidler, i. 42 (44), p. 45: ‘Nunc autem, “quoniam defecit sanctus, quoniam diminutae sunt veritates a filiis hominum”, vix possibile credimus nos genus ignavum, quod tecto gaudet et umbra, ut in tam aspero persecutionis tempore, in tam feroci, quae vix hominem vivit, natione, in tam remotissima, inquam, ab nostro mundo regione’; Adam of Bremen, History of the Archbishops, trans. by Tschan, p. 41. 49 Jaeger, The Origins of Courtliness, pp. 25–28.

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became envious of him. It was particularly true of Bremen where he came to teach in the late 1110s and early 1120s. Vicelin’s authority, so respected by Archbishop Fredrick I of Bremen (r. 1104–1123), arosed bad blood and envy among his other housemates. They were ‘used to avoiding duty in the church as well as clerical discipline, drinking in taverns, dawdling around in houses and alleys, indulging in vanities’ and they feared (‘pertimesce­ bant’) that Vicelin’s example would lay bare their own faults. Soon they also began to backchat and ridicule the priest.50 Lazy, sleepy, anxious, and envious bishops and clerics must have been a common problem given how often such criticism were made of them in the sources. These admonishments and concerns about anxious mission­ aries wasting their time are, especially in Adam’s case, something much more than just a topos. One has to remember in what context Adam himself lived and worked in the late 1060s. Bremen under Adalbert’s rule had practically become a hornets’ nest ruled by a famously whimsical archbishop, whose vainglory and narcissism transformed his community into a band of competitive flatterers and hypocrites.51 This exacerbated the deep crisis of the archbishopric and its deteriorating political position. Hamburg-Bremen’s legatio and Adalbert’s personal authority at that time were put into question by Pope Gregory VII (r. 1073–1085), by the Saxonian House of Billungs, at Emperor Henry IV’s court, and in Scandi­ navia. This endangered the very prospect of Christianization of the North under the auspices of Hamburg-Bremen.52 That crisis was the obvious counterpoint in the mid-1070s, shortly after Adalbert’s death, for both Adam and his intended readership, that is, the newly installed Archbishop Liemar (r. 1073–1101) and the priests in Hamburg-Bremen. By dedicating his Gesta to Liemar, Adam wanted to motivate the archbishop to put more efforts into reestablishing the bishopric’s standing. His wish was that Liemar would personally — not through his suffragans — undertake the ‘legatio gentium’ to the North. As observed by Scior, in the Gesta Adam promoted examples of proactive bishops who set aside the comforts of life, travelled extensively, and fearlessly confronted the dangers associated with evangelization.53 More generally speaking, the words of critique and the examples men­ tioned above exceed their local contexts and show a deeper emotional 50 Helmold of Bosau, Chronica Slavorum, ed. by Stoob, 44, pp. 176–77: ‘Illis solum onerosus videbatur, quibus consuetudini fuerat deserto cultu ecclesiae et disciplina clericali bibere in tabernis, spaciari per domos et plateas, vanitatibus obsecundare, qui insolentias suas argui ab ipso pertimescebant. Unde etiam probris et derogationum spiculis sepius eum appetere solebant’; Jaeger, The Envy of Angels. 51 Jaeger, The Origins of Courtliness, pp. 67–81. 52 Althoff, ‘Causa scribendi und Darstellungsabsicht’, pp. 117–33; Scior, Das Eigene und das Fremde, pp. 47–49; Janson, Templum nobilissimum, pp. 43–47. 53 Scior, Das Eigene und das Fremde, pp. 64–71.

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management problem pertaining to cathedral communities of that time. On the one side stood (also in absentia, like in Ansgar’s case) an intrepid, larger-than-life holy man speaking and acting from high moral ground. On the other side, the community of co-brothers ‘sitting at home’ (qui domi sedentes), and for whom such eagerness must have seemed almost deviant because it put their own merits into question.54 The tension seems to have been located between the ideals of fearlessness presented by missionary authors and a missionary community’s burdening everyday ‘earthly business’ (terrenis gravatus negotiis), as Adam put it. They were concerned with the care for the poor, reception of guests, matters of the cathedral school, but also with competition for access to the bishop’s ear, politics of the court both imperial and episcopal, etc.55 Adam preferred bishops and clerics more similar to Ansgar who, like Bishop Adalvard of Bremen (r. 1035–1043), were ‘the splendor of the clergy […], the dread of powerful evildoers (“terror male potentium”) an exemplar for the benevolent’.56 Despite all his criticism of anxious missionaries and admiration for strong, intimidating figures, Adam was much more a man of the cathedralcourtly milieu than he realized, let alone wanted to be. Adam’s only per­ sonal sensation of fear we know of, expressed in the prologue to the Gesta, is tellingly the angst of a writer, schoolmaster, and a courtier, not that of a missionary priest. Clothed in erudite borrowings, copious use of captatio benevolentiae, and motifs of humility, it is worry about intellectual recogni­ tion, not fear of pagan danger.57 The prologue, addressed to Archbishop Liemar, is speckled with Adam’s anxieties — rhetorical and yet significant all the same58 – about the reception the Gesta would meet and how this would influence his own position: I entreat the more indulgence because, since scarcely any predecessor has left a tread to follow, I did not fear, as if in the dark, to grope along an unknown way.

54 Jaeger, The Origins of Courtliness, p. 7. 55 Adam of Bremen, Gesta, ed. by Schmeidler, iii. 24 (23), pp. 166–67. 56 Adam of Bremen, Gesta, ed. by Schmeidler, ii. 69 (67), p. 130: ‘Ut enim brevi quodam indiculo complectamur ymaginem virtutis eius, pater patriae fuit, decus cleri et salus populi, terror male potentium exemplarque benivolentium, egregius pietate vel qui omnia vellet ad profectum ducere’; Adam of Bremen, History of the Archbishops, trans. by Tschan, pp. 103– 04. 57 Althoff‚ ‘Causa scribendi und Darstellungsabsicht’, pp. 117–33. 58 Jaeger, The Origins of Courtliness, pp. 68–69; Rosenwein, Emotional Communities, pp. 27–29; Garrison, ‘The Study of Emotions’, pp. 245–46, Schnell, ‘Erzähler – Protagonist – Rezipient’, pp. 1–51. To see how supposedly empty topoi and literary borrowings can be indicative of a courtier’s emotions compare: Patzold, Ich und Karl der Grosse, pp. 193–205, 236–39; Patzold, ‘Einhards erste Leser’, pp. 33–55.

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It was my purpose to please not everybody but you, father, and your Church. To please the envious is very difficult. But because of the ill will of my rivals […] Let all know that for this work and for such a bold venture I neither desire to be praised as an historian nor fear to be condemned as a falsifier […]59 From this perspective, it seems that if Adam took over some of Rimbert’s imperative of missionary fearlessness it was because it was an imperative he could easily afford as an armchair missionary writing from a safe posi­ tion in Bremen. As the opening example of this chapter demonstrates and as I have argued elsewhere, the way Adam represented the scenes of the slaughter of Christians and how he attached the feelings of disgust to them, the Bremen schoolmaster had very little to say about the fear and suffer­ ing experienced by victims of pagan cruelty.60 It is not just because his knowledge of them was second-hand at best. More importantly, as pointed out by Ildar Garipzanov, the Gesta are construed around a dramaturgical idea of history, that is, the course of events in northern Europe for Adam unfolded as a struggle and a series of histrionic confrontations between Christianity and very broadly considered paganism.61 This dramatic frame produced certain constraints for an empathetic reading of such confrontations, however. On many occasions, Adam’s descriptions of the horrors of martyrdom or disgusting examples of pagan worship, such as that supposedly carried out in the Uppsala temple in Sweden, featured imaginary spectators of the horrible inserted into his text.62 These intratextual audiences — frames within a frame — effectively 59 Adam of Bremen, Gesta, ed. by Schmeidler, ‘Praefatio’, pp. 2–4: ‘[…] eo maiorem flagito veniam, quoniam fere nullius, qui me precesserit, vestigia sequens ignotum iter quasi palpans in tenebris carpere non timui …; Nobis propositum est non omnibus placere, sed tibi, pater, et ecclesiae tuae. Difficillimum est enim invidis placere. Et quoniam sic aemulorum cogit improbitas fateor tibi, …; In quo opere talibusque ausis sciant omnes, quod nec laudari cupio ut historicus nec improbari metuo ut falsidicus’; Adam of Bremen, History of the Archbishops, trans. by Tschan, pp. 1–5, emphasis mine. 60 Jezierski, ‘Fears, Sights and Slaughter’, pp. 115–21. 61 Garipzanov, ‘Christianity and Paganism’, pp. 13–29; Janson, Templum nobilissimum; Booker, Past Convictions, pp. 104–26. 62 Adam of Bremen, Gesta, ed. by Schmeidler, iv. 27, pp. 259–60: ‘Sacrificium itaque tale est: ex omni animante, quod masculinum est, novem capita offeruntur, quorum sanguine deos [tales] placari mos est. Corpora autem suspenduntur in lucum, qui proximus est templo. Is enim lucus tam sacer est gentilibus, ut singulae arbores eius ex morte vel tabo immolatorum divinae credantur. Ibi etiam canes et equi pendent cum hominibus, quorum corpora mixtim suspensa narravit mihi aliquis christianorum LXXII vidisse’; Adam of Bremen, History of the Archbishops, trans. by Tschan, p. 208: ‘The sacrifice is of this nature: of every living that is male they offer nine heads, with the blood of which it is customary to placate gods of this sort. The bodies they hang in the sacred grove that adjoins the temple. Now this grove is so sacred in the eyes of the heathen that each and every tree in it is believed divine

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served as intermediaries interposed between him and his actual readers distancing them from the gore.63 Adam’s aesthetic and theatrical attitude towards the suffering of others could be called fear of a safe place, to employ an expression proposed by Jan Mieszkowski. It was a dissociative sensation that the pain of others and the emotions attached to it — visible in the example of Oddar’s martyrdom in Chapter 2 — were a mere spectacle, a piece of drama staged elsewhere. This sensation confirmed Adam’s readers’ feeling safety and security.64 In fact, an all too horrific, arduous vision of evangelization was incompatible with Adam’s goal to present the annexation of the North by Hamburg-Bremen as a still feasible enterprise. The complicated sense of fear emerging from Adam’s Gesta consisted thus of 1. hagiographical ideals of fearlessness, 2. the more general, some­ times aestheticizing and almost always imagined fears and anxieties con­ nected to the risk inherent in missionary endeavour, 3. his own actual worries and fears connected to cathedral and courtly life, and 4. his fear of and from a safe place. All these stood in stark contrast to Helmold’s much more direct experiences of heathen danger and their emotional consequences. For him, the dread implied by missionary tasks definitely belonged to the sphere of the mentionable. For instance, in January 1156 Helmold himself was a member of the missionary expedition in Wagria led by Bishop Gerold of Oldenburg. Deep in the woods, the expedition found the heathen temple of Prove, the local deity: As we approached this grove, the refuge of unholiness, the bishop encouraged us to approach and to start vigorously destroying this place. He himself jumped off the horse and with his staff crushed the richly decorated front of the door. We entered the court of the temple, cut down the branches of the holy trees, put up fire on this stack of wood and made it into a bonfire, not without fear of being overwhelmed by the crowd of the [local] inhabitants. But God protected us.65

because of the death and putrefaction of the victims. Even dogs and horses hang there with men. A certain Christian told me that there had been seventy-two bodies suspended all mixed together’ emphasis mine. The last sentence of the translation has been amended, cf. Garipzanov, ‘Christianity and Paganism’, p. 27 n. 56. 63 Goffman, Frame Analysis, pp. 53–56, 82. 64 Jezierski, ‘Fears, Sights and Slaughter’, pp. 115–21; Mieszkowski, ‘Fear of a Safe Place’, pp. 99–117. 65 Helmold of Bosau, Chronica Slavorum, ed. by Stoob, 84, pp. 288–91: ‘Venientibus autem nobis ad nemus illud et profanacionis locum adhortatus est nos episcopus, ut valenter accederemus ad destruendum lucum. Ipse quoque desiliens equo contrivit de conto insignes portarum frontes, et ingressi atrium omnia septa atrii congessimus circum sacras illas arbores et de strue lignorum iniecto igne fecimus pyram, non tamen sine metu, ne forte tumultu incolarum [lapidibus] obrueremur. Sed divinitus protecti sumus’ emphasis mine.

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What interests me here is not the religious or ritual frame, but the practical management of risks and emotions of those who set out to destruct the pagan deities. Clearly, fear and danger were unavoidable for Helmold. The question was what one could do about them? A similar and perhaps an even fuller picture of clerical management of missionary risks appears when one compares the episode from Wagria with Saxo Grammaticus’s depiction of the destruction of the Svantevit temple in Arkona in 1168 during the endgame of the Danish subjection of Rügen. The two main protagonists here were Esbern Snare (1127– 1204) and Sune Ebbesen (c. 1120–1186), the brother and the nephew of the leader of the missionary campaign against the Rugians, Bishop/Arch­ bishop Absalon of Roskilde and Lund (r. 1158–1192/1178–1201). Sune and Esbern went to great lengths to ensure that their warriors and servants did not take any unnecessary risks when cutting down the mighty figure of Svantevit, which emerged from the torn-down building. Time and again they warned their subjects ‘they were careful to warn their men to exercise caution in dismantling such a huge bulk, lest they should be crushed by its weight and be thought to have suffered punishment from the malevolent deity’. They instructed their servants ‘to be wary, since in their appetite for its destruction he did not want them to be too imperceptive of their own danger, exposing themselves negligently to the risk of being flattened by the falling statue’.66 In contrast to Helmold, who seemed to care more about the safety of the expeditions, Esbern’s and Sune’s primary worry was the impression this sacrilegious spectacle would have on the heathen audience as Saxo duly reported the reactions of the crowd. After all, the superstitious Rugian spectators might have jumped to the undesirable conclusion that the god by resisting being taken down or falling on and crushing the Danes was taking out his wrath on the Christians.67 Even if Absalon’s army standing outside Arkona’s ramparts did not run the same risk of being outnumbered like the small troop of Bishop Gerold in the winter of 1156, the sense of peril and the emotional response seem similar. Yet if one carefully observes the frame of this account and what made it into the Gesta Danorum and what did not, it becomes clear that it is different from Helmold’s example in certain small but important details. What Saxo showcases are in fact emotionally unaffected scions of the Danish elite able to calmly oversee 66 Saxo, Gesta Danorum, ii, xiv. 39.31, pp. 1298–99: ‘Esbernus ac Suno… abstractis famulos succidendi officium arripere iussos attentius monere coeperunt, ut aduersum tante molis ruinam cautius se gererent, ne eius pondere oppressi infesto numini poenas luere putarnetur’; ii, xiv. 39. 32, pp. 1298–99: ‘Suno ministros ad eiusdem parietis deiectionem hortatus cauere iussit, ne succidendi auiditate pericula sua parum dispicerent neu se labenti statue per incuriam proterendos obiicerent’. 67 Banaszkiewicz, ‘Zabić Boga!’, pp. 330, 338–40; Rosik, ‘Pomerania in the Zone of Polish expansion’, pp. 374–75.

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the material dangers of forced evangelization, preemptively assuage the emotions of the pagans, and micromanage the eagerness and anxiety of simple soldiers responsible for the dirty work of wiping out heathen beliefs. Esbern and Sune may or may not have been fearless. Still, their dealing with risks and others’ fears and anger constituted heroic emotional comportment and memorable valiant deeds performed by the Christian aristocrats on the frontier. Sune, Esbern, and Archbishop Absalon used such stories and spoils from this campaign as symbolic and material capital and heirlooms for creating their own elite identity and as means of political self-legitimation even decades afterwards. Their ability to keep cool heads in times of danger and to strategically empathize and put themselves in their enemies’ minds were more than just mentionable. They were praise­ worthy.68 To return to the Chronica Slavorum. If Helmold’s own fear in a situation like this was admissible and not particularly shameful, so too was the fear of other clerics saving their lives in the face of the imminent danger involved in living on the frontier. For instance, during the destruction of Old Lübeck in 1128/1129 by the Rugians: ‘The illustrious priests [Ludolf and Volkward, whom Vicelin installed shortly before this attack — WJ] fled through one door of the church as the barbarians stormed the other and safely hiding themselves in the nearby forest escaped to the security of Faldera’.69 Helmold promoted strong, energetic figures and his description of Vicelin’s arrival to Wagria is proof of the bishop’s piety, power of persua­ sion, vigour, and the excellent evangelical work. But in his small biography of Vicelin, the author mentions next to nothing about his fearlessness.70 Interestingly, Helmold did not praise Ansgar for his fearlessness either, despite having read both Rimbert’s text and its laudatory rendition by Adam. Instead, Helmold appreciated Ansgar’s great desire (‘desiderium magnum’) to convert the pagan Swedes.71 The watershed between Adam and Helmold seems to concern the immediate contexts of their activity, that is, the safe cathedral school in Bremen vis-à-vis the exposed risk position of a priest in Bosau. The senses of fear generated in these very different contexts and mindsets, and by extension, in the communities these authors belonged to, were very dissimilar too. Fear in the Chronica Slavorum did not constitute any privileged way for making distinctions between Christian and pagans, or for drawing lines 68 Kjær, ‘Glory and Legitimation in the Aristocratic Hall’, pp. 157–59; Esmark, ‘Social Power and Conversion’, p. 292. 69 Helmold of Bosau, Chronica Slavorum, ed. by Stoob, 48, pp. 186–87: ‘Sacerdotes incliti, barbaris unam ecclesiae ianuam irrumpentibus, per aliam elapsi beneficio vicini nemoris salvati sunt et ad Falderensem portum refugerunt’; Gerok-Reiter, ‘Die Angst des Helden’, pp. 127–43. 70 Helmold of Bosau, Chronica Slavorum, ed. by Stoob, 46–48, pp. 180–87. 71 Helmold of Bosau, Chronica Slavorum, ed. by Stoob, 5, pp. 52–53.

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within the imagined missionary community on the Baltic Rim between the just and unjust, cowards and the brave. Seen from the perspective of the Vita Anskarii or Adam’s Gesta, the emotion of fear in the Helmold’s frame have been de-ideologized and turned into a more ordinary motiva­ tional force similar to other emotions, like hatred or love. It seemed to be as true of missionaries, primates imperii, and of heathen leaders.72 As a matter of fact, if there was any distinct socially significant passion clearly describing a particular group in the Chronica Slavorum, it was rather the furor Slavicus and pagan cruelty resulting from it,73 or zeal and vengeance constituting the emotional fuel of crusaders in the region, which I address in Chapter 5.74

Timor clericalis in High Medieval Crusader Contexts If fright in Helmold’s Chronica was not privileged in any special regard to other emotions connecting missionaries to each other, fear in all its shades (from worry and anxiety, through angst, distress, up to horror and panic) was one of the dominant emotions in Henry of Livonia’s Chronicon Livoniae. As indicated in Figure 3.1, the sheer count of words like timor,is; timeo,-ere and their derivatives (pertimesco,-ere; pertimefactus, etc.) in Henry’s text reveals the relative significance of this emotion over all other emotional terms.75 We find sixty hits over 221 full pages in Leonid Arbu­ sow’s and Albert Bauer’s 1955 edition. Terror,-is and its larger family (per-, ex-, con-, territus; terribilis, etc.) account for another twenty instances. Only one other emotional term, joy, rejoicing (gau(v)dium,-i(i); con-, gau(v)deo,ere), is used more frequently, 117 times in total. Without paying attention to the concrete contexts in which the terms depicting fear appear in the Chronicon Livoniae, their distribution over the work’s chronological span is significant in itself. The Chronicon covers the period between 1181 to 1227, but slightly over 50 per cent of the occurrences of timor come very early in the work, until about 1208. This

72 For the confusion of the electors in the wake of Pope Hadrian IV’s death (1159), unsure of whom to support to please Frederick Barbarossa: Helmold of Bosau, Chronica Slavorum, ed. by Stoob, 91, pp. 314–17; for the fear of the columpnae regni in the troublesome negotiations between Frederick Barbarossa and Pope Hadrian IV regarding the Stratordienst: 81, pp. 278–79; for the fear of military leaders before and during a siege of Plön in 1075: 25, pp. 110–19, for Vicelin’s fears and worries: 45, pp. 178–79. 73 Scior, Das Eigene und das Fremde, pp. 208–15 and references there. 74 Dragnea, ‘Divine Vengeance and Human Justice’, pp. 49–82; Dragnea, Wendish Crusade, 1147; Ordman, ‘Crusading without Affect or Effect’, pp. 77–103; Cassidy-Welch, War and Memory, pp. 54–56. 75 Rosenwein, ‘Problems and Methods’, pp. 15–16; Rosenwein, Emotional Communities, pp. 57–78.

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accounts for just one-third of the entire volume’s length as the span of the year entries expands in the later part of the Chronicon, which is due to Henry having more knowledge about this period. We know Henry came to Livonia from Segeberg as an adolescent in 1205 and immediately became a member of Bishop Albert of Buxhövden’s (r. 1199–1229) circle and wellconnected network in Riga.76 Incidentally, there he met Archbishop An­ ders Sunesen, Absalon’s successor in Lund, who spent the winter of 1206– 1207 in Riga delivering theological lectures.77 In 1208, Henry was ordained as a priest and left Riga for his newly established parish in Papendorf. Al­ though Henry did not start composing his Chronicon before 1224 (finish­ ing it about 1227 when he probably handed it over to the papal legate William, Bishop of Modena (r. 1222–1251) en tour in Livonia), it is strik­ ing that the majority of the fear terms come from the period for which he himself was not a witness.78 To put it differently, Henry’s knowledge and the emotions connected to the stories from this earlier period seem to be inherited and instilled during the formative period and within the frame of the episcopal commu­ nity. These second-hand non-experiences came to him from ‘my lords and companions’ in Riga, as he describes his sources of knowledge, rather than from the period of his solitary activity on the outskirts of the colony.79 Obviously, all of Henry’s historical emotions are anachronistic and vicari­ ous to some extent in the sense of being attributed and retrofitted to past figures and events from his perspective in the mid-1220s. Yet given that the very memorability of the events and people hinges on the emotional charge and the social frames in which memories are created, this particular concentration of fear and trauma to the period preceding Henry’s own activity (though forged in Riga as the particularly lively missionary centre) are significant to say the least.80

76 Brundage, ‘Introduction: Henry of Livonia’, pp. 2–5; Bünz, Zwischen Kanonikerreform, pp. 35–40; Tamm, ‘Mission and Mobility’, pp. 17–47. 77 Bysted, Jensen, Jensen, and Lind, Jerusalem in the North, pp. 195–98; Nielsen, ‘The Missionary Man’, pp. 95–117. 78 Brundage, ‘Introduction to the 2003 Edition’, pp. xxv–xxviii; Brundage, ‘Introduction: Henry of Livonia’, pp. 1–20; Johansen, ‘Die Chronik als Biographie’, pp. 1–24; Jezierski, ‘Angels in Scandinavia’, pp. 169–71. 79 Henry of Livonia, Chronicon Livoniae, ed. by Arbusow and Bauer, xxix. 9, p. 215. 80 Misztal, Theories of Social Remembering, pp. 15–19, 80–81; Nussbaum, Upheavals of Thought, p. 177; Lutter, ‘Affektives Lernen’, pp. 121–44.

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Figure 3.1. Gaudium, timor, terror in Henry’s Chronicon Livoniae.81

As Figure 3.1 shows, the frequency of the occurrence of the word gau(v)dium,- i(i), con-, gau(v)deo, -ere — emotion experienced almost exclusively by the Christians and their allies82 – follows a reverse pattern. The majority of occurrences, about 60 per cent, are reserved for the latter 45 per cent of the Chronicon. Further, the occurrences grow exponentially the closer Henry gets to his finish, the problem I explore to the full in Chapter 6. The last twenty-five pages (c. 11 per cent of the total length), covering the period between 1224 and 1227, stand for one-third of all expressions of joy in the entire work. This sudden surge of rejoicing over the three years when Henry was composing his chronicle requires a few words of explanation. It appears to be connected to a series of joyful receptions and welcoming rituals with which the Papal Legate William of Modena was received all round Livonia by the newly baptized peoples (see the particularly joyful chapters xxix. 3 and xxix. 7) and the joy the

81 The data series is visualized as a line rather than separate points in order to better illustrate the patterns in Henry’s use of emotion words, summed for every ten pages in the 1955 edition. The data series for the aggregated fears includes both results for timor as well as all its different flexions e.g. verbal, adverbial and word occurrences such as ex-, per-, con-, territi as well as terribilis, and terror (seventy-nine occurrences in total). Linear trend lines have not been included in the figure in order not to obscure the data. However, the trend line for gaudium shows a raising trend of word occurrences, whereas trend lines for timor, -is as well as the aggregated fears series both show diminishing trends, the former falling more steeply than the latter. 82 Undusk, ‘Sacred History, Profane History’, pp. 72–73.

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papal legate expressed himself upon witnessing the evangelizing successes of the Rigan Church.83 If intended, Henry’s ingratiation and self-serving rhetorical manoeuvre to report on the glory conferred on the legate is perhaps not so surprising considering that William was the addressee of the chronicle in the first place.84 The second cause for this explosion of rejoicing in those final parts of the work is the final subjugation of the last base of paganism, the island of Ösel (chapter xxx). From a point of view of crude statistics of emotions, the vision of history presented by the Chronicon Livoniae seems like an optimistic, gradual transition from the age of horror to the age of joy in just over fortyfive years.85 This emotional shift corroborates other analyses of Henry’s metaphorical imagery of plantation, growth, and watering of the Livonian Church with the blood of the Christians and this bearing the fruit of faith in his days, a process underpinned with similar optimism and feelings of progress.86 Further, the correlation between timor and gaudium is far from arbitrary. These two emotion terms reveal a high rate of co-occurrences, suggesting a more causal relationship. The co-occurrences relate to the episodes of warfare, preceded by and lived through with great anxiety and immediate horror, but often leading to joy and happiness from victorious battles of the Livonian Sword Brethren87 or the German crusaders. Given the large number of occurrences of these words, rather than exploring all the senses of the emotion of fear in Henry of Livonia’s text — a problem I address in more depth in Chapters 6 and 7 — here I focus specifically on the examples of fearing missionaries and crusaders.

83 Henry of Livonia, Chronicon Livoniae, ed. by Arbusow and Bauer, xxix. 2, p. 208: ‘Et occurrerunt ei Rigenses, excipientes eum et cum gaudio magno deducentes eum in civitatem. Congaudebat simul et ipse et collaudabat Iesum Christum, eo quod vineam Dei tam gloriose plantatam et ecclesiam fidelium sanguine multorum irrigatam et tantam et in tantum dilatatam invenit’. 84 Jezierski, ‘Angels in Scandinavia’, pp. 169–91. 85 Three disclaimers should be made. First, this figure disregards the question of whose joys or fears intensify or diminish over time. Second, the very repetitiveness of emotion words, which makes them statistically relevant in the first place, depends on Henry’s limited vocabulary and the unembellished, ‘fast’ character of his prose, representative of a wider contemporary trend (Mortensen, ‘Comparing and Connecting’, pp. 29–30, 32–35). It is also a result of his heavy debt to and recycling of the language of the Bible and the Breviary (see the references in the next note). Three, the simple count of emotion words rests on an assumption that these words designate the same sentiments every time. All these problems can be disregarded here, however, as they are dealt with more closely in Chapter 6. What is crucial here is the fusion of the communal, chronological, and emotional dimensions of the knowledge of the past. For methodological approach, which inspired this study, see Geeraerts, Gevaert, and Speelman, ‘How anger Rose’, pp. 109–31. 86 Kaljundi, ‘Young Church’; more on Henry’s literary borrowings, see Arbusow, ‘Das entlehnte Sprachgut’, pp. 100–53; see however Undusk, ‘Sacred History, Profane History’, pp. 45–75; Nielsen, ‘Providential History’, pp. 368–79. 87 Formally Fratres militiae Christi de Livonia, Teutonic order founded in 1201/1202.

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The news of clerics fearing or running from pagan danger, sometimes even returning to Saxony, especially in the early days of the mission in Livonia, was not uncommon. Henry was not judgemental about such emotional reactions either.88 Some missionaries, like the second Bishop of Livonia, Berthold (r. 1197–1198), were not eager to travel to and convert the region after its first bishop, St Meinhard (r. 1186–1196). In fact, the difficulties with filling episcopal positions and parishes in the newly converted remote and dangerous regions of the Baltic Rim were endemic. The candidates, like in Berthold’s case in 1197, had to be repeatedly coaxed by their superi­ ors to leave the safety of the Cistercian monastery of Loccum in Saxony, whose abbot he previously was. Even if the sanctity of Berthold, whom Henry considered the first Livonian martyr, remained unquestionable.89 By way of comparison, in the case of the priestly positions in the newly founded bishopric Turku/Åbo, also positioned on the hazardous periph­ ery of the Finland Proper, the archbishops of Lund and later Uppsala were forced to consider canonically substandard candidates for the service roughly at the same time. These included priests who still enjoyed wives, concubines, or had children, and whom the precepts of the Gregorian reform ruled were no longer eligible for such positions in safer central regions.90 Celibate or not, these bishops and clerics may not have been as lazy, fattened on lucre, or interested in short-lived pleasures, as Adam suggested. Their anxieties in view of the prospects of a short-lived existence on the frontier, whom clerics in core European areas were immunized from, were well-founded. Many missionaries and priests felt insecure among the parishioners they themselves had newly converted, as did Peter Kakuwalde and Otto, two priests and Sword Brethren who in 1215 converted the Saccalians and Ungannians. ‘When this was done they returned to Livonia, for they were not yet able to live in those parts because of the hostility of the other Estonians’.91 Priestly courage and ability to overcome one’s fears was thus highly valued in Livonia nonetheless, which fits into Henry’s militant crusading ideology.92 For instance, in 1207 a Lithuanian troop attacked a church in Kipsal (Latvian: Krimulda) as two priests, John ( Johannes) Stric and

88 Henry of Livonia, Chronicon Livoniae, ed. by Arbusow and Bauer, ii. 10, p. 11; xi. 5, pp. 50– 51; Schlegl, ‘Männlichkeitskonstrukte’, pp. 79–98. 89 Henry of Livonia, Chronicon Livoniae, ed. by Arbusow and Bauer, ii. 1, pp. 1–2. 90 Lind, ‘Denmark and Early Christianity in Finland’, pp. 39–54; Nielsen, ‘Vicarius Christi, Plenitudo Potestatis og Causae Maiores’, pp. 17–23; Perron, ‘Metropolitan Might and Papal Power’, p. 198; Jezierski, ‘Angels in Scandinavia’, pp. 177–81. 91 Henry of Livonia, Chronicon Livoniae, ed. by Arbusow and Bauer, xix. 4, p. 127: ‘Quo facto reversi sunt in Lyvoniam, nondum valentes cohabitare cum eis propter aliorum Estonum ferocitatem’; Henry of Livonia, The Chronicle, trans. by Brundage, p. 147. 92 Tyerman, ‘Henry of Livonia’, pp. 23–44.

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Theodoric, were performing the mass. Despite the ensuing panic with parishioners fleeing the church, the priests continued with the celebration. In the meantime, their house was plundered which went on long enough so that John: finished […] the most holy mysteries of the body and blood of the Lord, and not hesitating to offer himself as a sacrifice to God, commended himself to God. Theoderic the priest, as a minster, and his servant, by watching the door, faithfully stood by him, encouraging him not to neglect the divine service for fear of the pagans.93 The moment the mass was finished the priests hid in a dark corner of the church and the three Lithuanian intruders who broke into the temple one after another miraculously did not discover the courageous men. After the Lithuanians departed, John and Theodoric ‘gave thanks to God for keeping them safe and unharmed in the face of the enemy’.94 Indeed, as convincingly demonstrated by Spencer, Henry was often keen to counter the fears felt by clerics and crusaders with the trust they put in God in times of adversity, which generated the sense of dread and doubt in their mission in Livonia. These emotions did not cancel each other out — they provided a necessary emotional equilibrium.95 Marek Tamm, who analysed scenes of miraculous death and martyr­ dom in the Chronicon Livoniae, has suggested that episodes in which Christians consciously exposed themselves to the risk of death were nego­ tiated in a very narrow zone of the acceptable missionary and crusader conduct. This zone was defined by the prescriptions of Canon Law, which denied self-inflicted martyrs entry into the community of the saints, and by popular opinion among the crusaders, which endorsed ideals of purity and selfless courage.96 The way the Sword Brethren and priests were or were not afraid in Livonia relates to this zone too. Inside of it, there were also discernible traces of older patterns of seeking martyrdom similar to Ansgar’s, where the martyrdom could be seen as an extreme, beneficial form of risk assessment salvation-wise. In Livonia, however, these patterns appeared in a much more militant fashion and blended with pragmatic

93 Henry of Livonia, Chronicon Livoniae, ed. by Arbusow and Bauer, xi. 5, p. 51: ‘Et cum spoliantes in curia tantam facerent moram, sacerdos interim in ecclesia Dominici corporis et sanguinis sacrosancta conficiens mysteria et se ipsum sacrificium Deo offerre iam non dubitans Domino se commendabat. Cui Theodericus sacerdos ministrando, servus hostium servando fideliter astabant, confortantes eum, ne propter paganorum timorem divinum negligeret officium’; Henry of Livonia, The Chronicle, trans. by Brundage, p. 71. 94 Henry of Livonia, Chronicon Livoniae, ed. by Arbusow and Bauer, xi. 5, p. 51: ‘Illi autem gratias Deo referentes, eo quod ipsos sanos et incolumes ante faciem paganorum conservaverat’; Henry of Livonia, The Chronicle, trans. by Brundage, p. 72. 95 Spencer, Emotions in a Crusading Context, pp. 53–54. 96 Tamm, ‘Martyrs and Miracles’, pp. 149–52; Brundage, ‘Voluntary Martyrs’, pp. 145–46.

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approaches to fear as a necessary element of missionary and crusading activity. Further, if what implicitly mattered for Helmold was simply how fear and risks were managed when a perilous situation demanded it, for Henry words like terror, timor, and horror had also a surplus potential of expressing both associative and dissociative relationships, also across cultural and religious boundaries, a problem which I discuss in greater depth in Chapter 6. What remains to be seen is how the missionary and crusader collec­ tives channelled these feelings spatially and temporally, through their collective past and imagined future fate, as both bygone hardships and forthcoming challenges to confront.

Emotional Space: terra horroris Over thirty years ago, Vito Fumagalli used a telling metaphor — land­ scapes of fear — to describe the uneasy interaction of people of the early Middle Ages with the nature surrounding them.97 The metaphor was intended to capture the everyday hazards of the lives of common people, such as omnipresent violence, murky city life, or dark temptations of the body. Fumagalli’s method, however, failed to address how those material dangers were experienced and converted into discursive fears and risks. Instead of studying the expressions of emotion, however, he imputed dis­ tress to the medieval people by focusing on what he considered dangerous or risky around them and then extrapolated from this what he believed they must have been afraid of.98 Fumagalli’s spatio-affective metaphor can, nonetheless, be salvaged if we explore it through more precise analytical tools and narrow it down from the feelings of the general population to the missionary environment on the Baltic extremities of the earth.99 A set of ample tools has been recently proposed in a study mapping the attributions and attachments of emotions to specific spaces in London in nineteenth-century novels. Crucial for this approach is the suddenness of emotions, which gives an indication about their spatiality. As Ryan Heuser, Franco Moretti, and Erik Steiner claim, ‘what is sudden occurs at a specific moment in time, and hence also at a specific point in space: it is definitely

97 Fumagalli, Landscapes of Fear. 98 For a similar critique against too naïve extrapolations of fears from natural or cultural threats, see Rosenwein, ‘Worrying about Emotions’, p. 833 n. 54. 99 Rimbert, Vita Anskarii, ed. by Buchner, 25, pp. 86–87: ‘ad extremum terrae’.

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ortgebunden, […]. And if this is so, then a geography of emotions — their actual distribution over a map — becomes imaginable’.100 Pagan danger in the missionary imagination had exactly such unique ability to suddenly and deeply scare entire cities and landscapes located on the Baltic frontier. Adam of Bremen, drawing on memories of the old citi­ zens of Bremen (‘sicut antiqui meminerunt’), recounted how during the 990s, a period particularly speckled with Viking pirate attacks as we saw in Thietmar’s example in the introduction to this chapter, ‘[a]ll the Saxon cities were terrified, and the people began to fortify Bremen itself with an exceedingly strong wall’. Archbishop Liawizo I (r. 988–1013), alarmed by the news, moved the cathedral treasury to the canonry at Bücken, because ‘so great was the fear in all parts of this diocese’.101 Usually, it was Christian communities and cities that feared for their lives and safety. Sometimes fear on such a mass scale did affect pagans too, as the fear of other heathen marauders. In the early 1090s, for instance, the Danish and Slavic troops of Henry of Lübeck attacked Oldenburg and large portions of the Wagrian coast controlled by the pagan Obodritian Duke Kruto. After they did so for the second and third time, ‘a great fear spread among the people of Slavs populating the islands and shores of the sea’.102 Now and then, the pagan threat was so profound that, by way of a synecdoche, it made entire landscapes shiver. Back in 919/920 the Danes came into alliance with the Slavs and it ‘made Saxony tremble in great terror’.103 This emotion was as widespread as it was impersonal — it affected faceless populations or urban communities. For instance, Adam reports that in 882 ‘the people of Mainz began to erect fortifications for fear of the barbarians’. This particular piece of information Adam took from the Annales Fuldenses (s.a. 882). The Bremen schoolmaster retrofitted the emotion term into this account by way of an emotional palimpsest, as the original mentioned only the hasty fortification of Mainz in the face of the imminent attack from the Northmen but revealed nothing about 100 Heuser, Moretti, and Steiner, ‘The Emotions of London’; Fisher, The Vehement Passions, pp. 117–18; Lupton, Risk, pp. 195–201; Tarlow, ‘The Archaeology of Emotion’, pp. 173–75, 180–81. 101 Adam of Bremen, Gesta, ed. by Schmeidler, ii. 33 (31), pp. 93–94: ‘In metu erant omnes Saxoniae civitates; et ipsa Brema vallo muniri [cepit] firmissimo. Tunc quoque, sicut antiqui meminerunt, Libentius archiepiscopus tesaurum ecclesiae omniaque ecclesiastica deportari fecit ad Bugginensem preposituram; tantus erat timor in omnibus finibus huius parrochiae’; Adam of Bremen, History of the Archbishops, trans. by Tschan, p. 77. 102 Helmold of Bosau, Chronica Slavorum, ed. by Stoob, 34, pp. 141–43: ‘Et cum hoc secundo et tercio fecisset, factus est timor magnus omnibus Slavorum populis insulas et litus maris habitantibus’. 103 Adam of Bremen, Gesta, ed. by Schmeidler, i. 55 (57), pp. 55–56: ‘magno Saxoniam terrore quassabant’; Adam of Bremen, History of the Archbishops, trans. by Tschan, p. 49; compare: Helmold of Bosau, Chronica Slavorum, ed. by Stoob, 5, pp. 50–51: ‘Saxonia magno terrore concussa est’.

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the citizens’ states of minds or unmanaged hearts.104 Adam thus created a retroactive catastrophe.105 Attributing emotions and landscapes or cities in a metonymical fashion was hardly exceptional for Baltic missionary texts and to some extent de­ pended on medieval topoi. But the use of tropes does not necessarily mean these were empty expressions. Rather, topoi constituted one of the frames through which emotional experiences could be expressed and processed which also includes spatial articulations.106 Sometimes the emotion of fear on the Baltic Rim had a tendency to attach itself to spaces, or even entire landscapes like a particularly viscous, adhesive substance. Neither fear nor danger were homogenously distributed, but they were concentrated and stuck to specific areas. An example of such space was the location to which Emperor Louis the Pious in November of 831 sent the newly appointed Bishop Ansgar. The entire diocese of Hamburg, according to Rimbert, ‘was located in dangerous [“periculosis”] regions’.107 The structural anamnesis that made this assertion thinkable was the fact that the diocese was merely an institutional overlay established by Ansgar over a physical space. It was the arrival of the missionaries and their lasting presence there, which made — produced, as it were — such spaces vulnerable to the threat of barbaric attacks.108 In this sense, Rimbert’s periculum, just like risk, is a relational concept which immediately begs the question: dangerous for whom? And danger of what? The reflexive manner in which this dangerous periphery was emotionally conceptualized relates directly to the paraphrase of Beck’s definition of risk as ‘a systemic way of dealing with hazards and insecurities induced and introduced by the Christianization itself ’. It was a self-manufactured risk.109 A useful way to understand how spaces were invested with an emo­ tional charge or acted as catalysts of emotional transformation for their current occupiers is Rosenwein’s notion of emotional space.110 To compar­ atively illustrate such geography of fear consider Adam’s and Helmold’s uses of the quotation from Deuteronomy 32. 10: ‘in terra deserta in loco horroris et vastae solitudinis’. This expression is often translated as ‘a desert

104 Annales Fuldenses, ed. by Kurze, a. 882, p. 97; Rosenwein, Generations of Feeling, p. 177; Hochschild, The Managed Heart. 105 Czapliński, ‘Retroactive Catastrophe’, pp. 568–92. 106 Rosenwein, Emotional Communities, pp. 27–30. 107 Rimbert, Vita Anskarii, ed. by Buchner, 12, pp. 46–47: ‘Et quia diocesis illa in periculosis locis fuerat constituta, ne propter barbarorum imminentem saevitiam aliquo modo deperiret, et quia omnimodis parva erat’. See also Fraesdorff, Der barbarische Norden, p. 221. 108 Cassidy-Welch, ‘Space and Place’, pp. 1–12. 109 Beck, Risk Society, p. 21; Giddens, ‘Risk and Responsibility’, p. 4. 110 Rosenwein, ‘Emotional Space’, pp. 287–303; Reckwitz, ‘Affective Spaces’, pp. 241–58.

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land and the waste howling wilderness’,111 and during the high Middle Ages it was used, for instance, in the context of Cistercian monastic foun­ dations actually or allegedly appropriating and colonizing empty lands on the outskirts of civilization.112 In the context of the Baltic frontier and mis­ sionary awareness of risk-taking, however, this quote is suggestive not just of an empty but also of an emotional space: the lands of horror. As pointed out by William Ian Miller, horror as a subcategory of fear and disgust is a particularly sudden emotion, associated with freezing in one place, the inability to move or escape the threatening situation. ‘Horror is horror because it is perceived as denying all strategy, all option’.113 Metaphorically speaking, horror seems like an exceptionally static and situated emotion, and as such it can be mapped, as Figure 3.2 illustrates. Adam, to begin with, conflates the quotation from Deuteronomy with a similar expression from Jeremiah 17. 6,114 to frame the image of Danish Jutland as ‘a salt land and a vast wilderness’.115 As he insists, the land is even more horrible (‘horridior’) than the already frightful whole of Germany: ‘Jutland is a sterile, inhabitable land infested with pirates’.116 It is the fourth book of his Gesta that comprises this description, the book Scior persuasively argued was intended as a practical plan for Archbishop Liemar’s future journey to Scandinavia. The book was also a programme for how Hamburg-Bremen’s legatio to the north should be put into action after the attempts of Liemar’s predecessor failed.117 This horrifying land was thus a goal-oriented space located outside Adam’s current community. Its contours were blurred and its transformation constituted a task for the future; important, for sure, but not imminent.118 This space was fairly

111 See English translations of Deuteronomy 32. 10 in King James Version: ‘He found him in a desert land, and in the waste howling wilderness’; The 1599 Geneva Bible: ‘He found him in the land of the wilderness, in a waste and roaring wilderness’; however, in Wycliffe Bible: ‘The Lord found him in a desert land, in the place of horror, either hideousness, and of waste wilderness’. 112 Lutter, ‘Locus horroris’, pp. 163–64; Jamroziak, Survival and Success, pp. 47–55, 198. 113 Miller, The Anatomy of Disgust, pp. 26–27: ‘We have a name for fear-imbued disgust: horror. What makes horror so horrifying is that unlike fear, which presents a viable strategy (run!), horror denies flight as an option. And it seems to deny fight as an option too. […] Horrifying things stick, like glue, like slime’; Kordela, ‘Horror’. 114 Jeremiah 17. 6: ‘sed habitabit in siccitate in deserto in terra salsuginis et inhabitabili’. 115 Adam of Bremen, Gesta, ed. by Schmeidler, iv. 1, p. 227: ‘terra salsuginis et vastae solitudinis’; Adam of Bremen, History of the Archbishops, trans. by Tschan, p. 187. 116 Adam of Bremen, Gesta, ed. by Schmeidler, iv. 1, p. 228: ‘Porro cum omnis tractus Germaniae profundis horreat saltibus, sola est Iudland ceteris horridior, quae in terra fugitur propter inopiam fructuum, in mari vero propter infestationem pyratarum’; Adam of Bremen, History of the Archbishops, trans. by Tschan, p. 187. 117 Scior, Das Eigene und das Fremde, pp. 68–72, 137. 118 Feldman Barrett, How Emotions are Made, pp. 89–94.

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Figure 3.2. Map of Adam of Bremen’s and Helmold of Bosau’s terrae horroris.

close, just over the horizon, but it was not on ‘Adam’s doorstep’, as Wood claims, but at a safe distance as Figure 3.2 shows.119 By contrast, Helmold uses the same expression from Deuteronomy twice. On the first occasion, he describes the situation in the second half of the eleventh century, when all of Germany became a ‘terra horroris et vastae solitudinis’.120 At that time, the Slavic leader Kruto succeeded in a brutal subjugation of the entire land of Nordalbingians and ousted the Saxonians from their position of power in the north pushing back the

119 Wood, ‘Where the Wild Things Are’, pp. 540–42. 120 Helmold of Bosau, Chronica Slavorum, ed. by Stoob, 27, pp. 120–21: ‘Nil autem mirum, si in nacione prava atque perversa, in terra horroris et vastae solitudinis sinistri casus emerserunt, siquidem per omne regnum illis in diebus bellorum tempestates consurgebant’.

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frontier of Christianity. In this period, the troubles of Emperor Henry IV’s juvenile government became apparent too, which added to the general sense of political uncertainty. The second occasion strictly regards the peripheral missionary context and it relates to the beginnings of Vicelin’s activity in Wagria. In 1127, the inhabitants of Faldera (Neumünster) asked Archbishop Adalbero to provide them with a priest, who would convert the Holsteinian frontier, a ‘very inhospitable place with its wide, barren moors’.121 Vicelin agreed and ‘began to live in the middle of a raw and perverse people, in this land of horror and a waste and howling wilderness; the more eagerly he commended himself to God’s protection, the more he was deprived of human solace’.122 As we can see on the map (Figure 3.2), Faldera, exactly like Helmold’s own Bosau, lay inside or at the very entrance to Wagria. For Helmold, the terra horroris as an emotional space was the very place in which both Vicelin and he acted and lived. Contrary to Adam’s blurry prospects, the land of horror was not some future project intended for someone else to tackle. It was a vivid recent experience and Helmold’s own alarming, concrete present, which no safe place could insulate him from.123 He was literally a man in its middle.124 Carsten Selch Jensen, who has studied the ways in which the Livonian Church and the crusaders converted the pagan landscapes in the East Baltic, suggested that in the process of Christianization two types of sacred geography — two symbolical orders anchored in physical space — clashed and that only one of them could succeed in the long run.125 The Livonian examples also show an advanced and sophisticated system of beliefs pre­ ceding the arrival of Christianity, which constituted an intellectual and evangelical challenge. But long before the Baltic spaces and territories could be explored and converted, they had to be mentally mapped out first.126 The initial manner of making such anticipatory, future geographies, even before acknowledging the pre-existing pagan classifications, was

121 Helmold of Bosau, Chronica Slavorum, ed. by Stoob, 47, pp. 182–83: ‘Cumque pervenissent ad locum destinatum, perspexit habitudinem loci campumque vasta et sterili mirica perorridum’. 122 Helmold of Bosau, Chronica Slavorum, ed. by Stoob, 47, pp. 182–83: ‘Incipiens igitur habitare in medio nacionis pravae et perversae, in loco horroris et vastae solitudinis eo artius divino se commendabat presidio, quo [magis] humano desitututus est solacio’, 51, pp. 194–95: ‘in terram hostilem’. 123 Fraesdorff, Der barbarische Norden, pp. 329–33; Douglas and Wildavsky, Risk and Culture, pp. 121–24, 191. 124 van Rhijn and Patzold, ‘Introduction’, pp. 7–9. 125 Jensen, ‘How to Convert a Landscape’, pp. 151–68; Nielsen, ‘The Making’, pp. 121– 53; Modzelewski, ‘Laicyzacja przez chrzest’, pp. 99–114; Banaszkiewicz, ‘Fabularyzacja przestrzeni’, pp. 987–99; for a useful recent overview, see Szczepanik and Wadyl, ‘A Comparative Analysis’, pp. 1–19; Leighton, ‘Did the Teutonic Order’, pp. 457–83. 126 Foerster, ‘Imagining the Baltic’, pp. 37–58; Nielsen, ‘The Making’; Melnikova, ‘The Baltic on the Mental Map’, pp. 11–21; Anderson, Imagined Communities, pp. 170–78.

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through missionary self-centred emotional reactions: as close or remote lands of horror and dangerous places, respectively.127 From the point of view of agents of evangelization, the terra horroris as an emotional space was only partially a place of affective transformation for its visitors. In Adam’s case, this terra itself constituted a sphere that needed to undergo an emotional conversion and, ideally, was supposed to cease to exist as such an emotional frame. In Helmold’s case, along his own gradual transformation of this emotional space through efforts of evangelization, the space itself was always already transforming him. What Figure 3.2 visu­ alizes is essentially a cluster of frames of contingency made up of tightly interwoven emotions, space, and time. In this sense, Adam’s and Helmold’s terrae horroris functioned as Bakhtinian chronotopes, as time-spaces whose different emotional charge equipped them with very different senses of urgency regarding their present and their future.128

Concluding Remarks This chapter addressed the social, communal, and cognitive experience, the conceptualizations, and the consequences of risk and the emotion of fear among missionaries and crusaders on the Baltic Rim. There is little doubt that often collectively experienced fear of similar threats or risks and the same enemy usually produces a sense of commonality or, as Beck put it, solidarity motivated by anxiety. What was considered a threat, risk, or enemy differed locally and changed over time, however, as did the ideo­ logical uses of these senses and categorizations. Contrary to the common, intuitive convictions that fear is always a particularly aversive emotion or that it historically constituted an inevitable component of military action and experience,129 the Baltic material concurs with Spencer’s conclusions about the uniquely multifaceted nature of fear and its strong dissociative and associative potential in frontier contexts.130 The examples of Ansgar and Rimbert, Adam and Helmold, Saxo, and finally Henry of Livonia reveal a wide range of experiences and normative standpoints towards risks and fears associated with evangelization. They stretched between distancing and secure fears of a safe place, fretful perceptions of the landscape, and material life-threatening dangers as 127 Anderson, ‘Preemption, Precaution, Preparedness’, pp. 777–98; Lupton, Risk, pp. 137–38; Kolnai, On Disgust, pp. 98–99. 128 Bakhtin, ‘Forms of Time’, pp. 84–85; Anderson, ‘Preemption, Precaution, Preparedness’, pp. 777–98; Nielsen, ‘The Making’, pp. 148–49; Bernhardt, Blösel, Brakensiek, and Scheller, eds, Möglichkeitshorizonte. 129 Verbruggen, The Art of Warfare, pp. 38–42. For a critique of these traditional views, see McNally, ‘Fear, Anxiety’, pp. 15–34; Spencer, Emotions in a Crusading Context, pp. 107–09. 130 Spencer, Emotions in a Crusading Context, pp. 71–109.

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inescapable challenges in need of practical response and emotional man­ agement. Some risks and intense fears were sudden and fleeting, attached to specific encounters and confrontation like the physical eradication of holy places and figures of the pagans. Other risks and anxieties developed into a chronic condition of the frontier existence, which clerics from the core European regions often actively tried to dodge. In general, these fears and threats usually achieved greater social integration of missionary and crusader communities and served as manifold conduits of their collec­ tive identity-formation. They went into the making of aristocratic elites and families inhabiting or transforming a frightening pagan frontier, into monastic communities or episcopal chapters sending their best to the unknown ends of the Earth, into building a sense of the newly converted Christian region like that of Livonia. Finally, these emotions helped to shape the sense of a large, imagined Christian society facing paganism in a series of dramatic, spectacular confrontations, as Adam envisioned it. Against this background, the admittedly rare missionary fearlessness had a very strong individualizing impact on the person revealing such a trait. Such courage in the face of imminent death, propagated mainly in hagiography, elevated a given athleta Christi, as Rimbert called Ansgar, over his close community. It stirred up emotions, envy and shame in particular, and led to the development of internal distinctions and more or less honourable subject positions within such communities.131 In the secular elite contexts, like in the case of the Danish frontier elites, the ability to manage one’s fears and models fearlessness connected to and sprung from martial values. In a transgenerational and discursive perspective, however, the way such ideals of fearlessness were treated seemed more complex. On the one hand, the remembrance of figures embodying it constituted an emotional scaffolding and normative coordinate to which members of frontier societies attached their identities in social, institutional, and textual sense, as we saw in Adam’s and Henry’s or Thietmar examples.132 On the other hand, the ideal of fearlessness, such as this represented by Ansgar, was not simply taken at face value. It was qualified by local frontier contexts, squared with and negotiated from the standpoint of the individ­ ual experiences and the emotions of people involved in evangelization, as demonstrated in its contrasting receptions by Helmold and Adam. Not all fearlessness was achievable nor commendable. Finally, a striking feature of the fear and sense of danger as socially significant passions in the Baltic context is in how many directions they influenced and helped in the conceptualization of the sphere of actual and imagined risks. Emotions and senses of (un-)safety affected — and sometimes led to rewriting — missionaries’ and crusaders’ perception 131 Bührer-Thierry, ‘Qui sont les athlètes de Dieu?’, pp. 293–309. 132 Schnell, ‘Erzähler – Protagonist – Rezipient’, pp. 35–51.

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of the past, also of the past long gone. These feelings similarly affected the agents of evangelization’s assessment of the present and their anticipa­ tions or calculations of the future — in both temporal and spatial sense. Importantly, this interplay of emotional remembrance, imaginings, and expectations created an animated literary traffic of particular texts being widely read, reframed, and commented upon both in the context of local textual communities and in larger, transgenerational discursive formations. This circulation of ideas and memories between the authors and their close and remote — both in space and time — public and emotional communities fuelled the missionary and crusader reflexivity on the Baltic Rim.133

133 Öhman, ‘The Biology of Fear’, pp. 35–50; Kolnai, On Disgust, pp. 38–47; Warner, Publics and Counterpublics, pp. 90, 105–06; see also: Anderson, Imagined Communities, pp. 32–36; Douglas and Wildavsky, Risk and Culture, pp. 192–94; Wood, The Missionary Life, pp. 18–20, 247–50; Rosenwein, ‘Afterword: Imagined Emotions’, pp. 379–86.

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CHAPtER 4

Pagan Hosts, Missionary Guests, Spaces of Hospitality, Tenth–Twelfth Centuries

I would like there to exist spaces that are stable, unmoving, intangible, untouched and almost untouchable, unchanging, deep rooted; places that might be points of reference, of departure, of origin […] Such places don’t exist, and it’s because they don’t exist that spaces becomes a question, ceases to be self-evident, ceases to be incorporated, ceases to be appropriated. Space is a doubt: I have to constantly mark it, to designate it. It’s never mine, never given to me, I have to conquer it. Georges Perec, Species of Spaces

Burning Down the House, 1124 In the middle of the account of Bishop Otto of Bamberg’s (r. 1102–1139) first mission to Pomerania (1124–1125), its author, Ebo of Michelsberg (d. 1163), interjected a brief description of the fire which broke out in the bishop’s diocesan city in late August 1124. This fire was apparently not a natural phenomenon. Ebo explained that the combustion was the devil’s revenge for the missionary bishop’s eradication of the cult of Triglav, a pagan god, and the conversion of the city of Wolin where the estuary of the Odra River met the Baltic Sea. The ‘strong man armed’, i.e. Satan, who ‘hitherto possessed Pomerania as his atrium’ was overpowered by Otto. He was now being superseded by Christ and ‘like a roaring lion’ the devil vengefully ignited the city because he ‘could not endure his forcible exclusion from his own dwelling places [“sedibus” i.e. seats]’. Though Ebo knew the successes of this first mission proved to be short-lived and that Otto had to return to the region in 1128 to finish its conversion, from his perspective in 1150s the diabolic attack on Bamberg was a mere convulsion of the defeated ‘crafty enemy’. Under the newly introduced

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rule of Christ, administered through his pious apostle Otto, the devil ‘was unable to hold any longer the atrium which he had possessed in security’.1 Regardless of Ebo’s Romanizing, purposefully anachronisitic language and imagery (e.g. Wolin, known as Iulin, was believed to be founded by Julius Caesar) and the curious case of telekinetic pyromania, at its core the story simply conveyed the fact that the devil had been ousted from Pomerania. Hitherto, the region was his house or temple — the double sense of the word atrium Ebo likely played with on purpose — which he inhabited and whose master he was. Putting it in the language of hospitality, into the safe domestic sphere suddenly emptied by its angered host (‘roaring lion’) the arriving Christian guests introduced a new God and this religiopolitical order was replaced by a new one.2 Though highly stylized and written from over a twenty-year distance, this small fragment, like a prism, disperses the constitutive elements this chapter focuses on: the power relationship between host and guests, their emotions and no­ tion of safety, the change of ownership of the place, and the spatiality of hospitality in general.3 Exactly due to this complex interplay of so many dimensions the practices and spaces of hospitality involving pagan host communities and missionary guests on the Baltic Rim tended to have a very uncertain and unpredictable character. This chapter studies several tableaux of confrontations between arriv­ ing missionaries and pagan communities stretching from the late tenth to mid-twelfth centuries. It investigates the host-guest relations on the coasts of the Baltic Sea through four categories: space, power, emotions, and identity. How were the spaces of hospitality produced, used, and negotiated through such meetings? How was the arrival of this special type of Christian strangers and guests contained in terms of power relations and safety measures? How did these interactions oscillate between hospitable and hostile attitudes and what role did emotions play in this? And finally, what impact did the different features and functions of spaces of hospital­ ity have on the emergent (self-)identifications of the hosts and guests? As noted in the second chapter, studies of traditional pagan hospitality from the Baltic Sea region discovered by the Christian authors during

1 Ebo, Vita S. Ottonis, ed. by Wikarjak and Liman, ii. 14, p. 78: ‘Sed dum fortem armatum, qui eatenus atrium suum, Pomeraniam scilicet, possederat, fortior Christus superveniens superasset, […] non ferens ille violentam de sedibus suis exclusionem, tanquam leo rugiens, […] Ad nichilum itaque fraus et malitia versuti hostis est redacta, […] quod diu securus possederat, ultra tenere non potuit; Christo enim in Pomerania per apostolatum pii Ottonis regnante, inimici defecerunt framee in finem et civitates eorum destructe sunt’; The English translations of lives of Otto of Bamberg adapt and amend the sometimes very imprecise translation by Robinson, The Life of Otto Apostle of Pomerania, pp. 91–92; Cf. Psalm 9. 7; Heffernan, Hospitality and Treachery, p. 41. 2 Proverbs 28. 1, 30. 30; Spencer, ‘Like a Raging Lion’, pp. 495–532. 3 Bulley, Migration, Ethics & Power, p. 7.

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the high Middle Ages tend to be written in an ethnographic tone which privileges the normative and socioculturally cohesive aspects of host-guest relations. Such analysis is frequently made at the expense of hospitality’s strategic, and conflictual aspects which came to the surface during rather exceptional intercultural confrontations and which are brought to the fore here. The approach in this chapter comes close to Jakub Kujawiński’s anthropologically inspired study, which maps out the meetings with the Other during the conversions of pagan societies that took place on the north-eastern peripheries of Europe and the conflicts of sacrum involved in those confrontations.4 Kujawiński’s study focuses on the pagan commu­ nities’ perspective, in this case, the broad views on the Christian sacrum. Although the author sporadically zooms in on hospitality as an institu­ tion regulating such intercultural meetings, he too sharply separates such benevolent means of interaction from open hostility. The four dimensions of hospitality targeted here — space, power, emotions, and identity — are separated only for heuristic purposes. In reality, they constantly overlapped with each other, which added to the generally relational and ambiguous character of host-guest relations and (self-)identification processes they engendered. Hospitality was a thresh­ old intercultural phenomenon and a spatially situated practice, which both hosts and guests exploited and responded to the uncertainties and perceptions of risk or threat by providing protection and safety.5 As far as the method is concerned, out of the four dimensions of host-guest relations focused on here, spatiality is the most central even if it remains the most understudied aspect. In this chapter I offer a tentative taxonomy of the species of spaces of missionary-pagan hospitality and highlight the dialectics of their production and use. The spatial-affective aspect of the production of such spaces comes to the fore in the opening Pomeranian example, which features not just the possession but the inti­ mate notion and ownership of home (atrium), the master’s power over this domain and its safety, and its politically transformative intrusion by his guests.6 Hospitality, to follow Bulley again, ‘is the means by which particu­ lar spaces are brought into being as “homes”, as embodying an ethos, a way of being: an ethics. Practices of hospitality carve out spaces as mine rather than yours, as places of belonging and non-belonging, and then manage and enforce their internal and external boundaries and behaviours’.7

4 Kujawiński, ‘Spotkanie z “innym”’, pp. 20–23, 40; Goetz, Die Wahrnehmung anderer Religionen, vols 1 & 2; Perron, ‘The Face of the “Pagan”’, pp. 467–92. 5 Derrida, ‘Hostipitality’, pp. 3–18; Derrida and Dufourmantelle, Of Hospitality; Bourdieu, Outline of a Theory of Practice, pp. 191–92. 6 Gosden, ‘Possession, Property, or Ownership?’, pp. 215–21. 7 Bulley, Migration, Ethics & Power, p. 4, emphasis in the original; Bourdieu, Logic of Practice, pp. 271–83; Appadurai, The Future as Cultural Fact, pp. 121–23.

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These spatial dichotomies come with at least two important qualifiers regarding their blurred nature and circular mode of emergence. As Hei­ drun Friese adds, spaces of hospitality and the ties linking them to their producers and users, hosts and guests, are riddled with the same type of ambivalence, in-betweenness, and deep-seated relationality as hospitality itself.8 The efforts to strictly compartmentalize actions and practices of hospitality and to internalize or externalize certain people or identities have a tendency to collapse. In this, little clear-cut distinction between the interiority and the exteriority of such spaces is revealed. The method proposed for this experiment focuses therefore on the structuring mech­ anisms, the multiplicity of overlapping features, symbolic and affective geography, and the functional concatenations of the collectively produced spaces of hospitality which in the form of a feedback loop consisting of power relations and emotions produced the identities of their producers.9 This chapter thus differs from the traditional approaches to spaces of evangelization which have focused primarily on reconstructing the actual itineraries of missionaries and pinpointing the physical space of those encounters and often neglected their symbolic aspects.10 This analytical perspective is applied to a selection of hagiographical and historiographical accounts of direct meetings and exchanges between missionary guests and their pagan hosts mostly between the late tenth and mid-twelfth centuries. These accounts often concern the fates of famous missionaries such as St Adalbert of Prague or St Otto of Bamberg as well as less well-known figures who evangelized the southern Baltic Rim.11 It is admittedly a punctuated, anecdotal, and heuristically problematic type of evidence. Yet its punctuational character, which relates to the serendipity of such meetings and the chance survival of their record, corresponds well to the generally pointillist and porous character of borders during

8 Friese, ‘Spaces of Hospitality’, pp. 67–79; Giesen, ‘Inbetweenness and Ambivalence’, pp. 788–804. 9 Lefebvre, The Production of Space, p. 71: ‘All productive activity is defined by […] the incessant to-and-fro between temporality (succession, concatenation) and spatiality (simultaneity, synchronicity)’; Bachelard, The Poetics of Space, pp. 211–31; Rosenwein, ‘Emotional Space’, pp. 287–303; Scheer, ‘Are Emotions a Kind of Practice’, pp. 193–220; Glasze and Mattissek, eds, Handbuch Diskurs und Raum; Reckwitz, ‘Affective Spaces’, pp. 241–58. 10 Mielczarski, ‘Wokół miejsca śmierci św. Wojciecha’, pp. 381–92; Kowalczyk-Heyman, ‘Misje biskupa praskiego Wojciecha i biskupa Brunona z Kwerfurtu’, pp. 305–19; Słupecki, ‘Where did St Adalbert (Wojciech) go to Preach’, pp. 343–56; Baronas, ‘The Year 1009’, pp. 1–22; Rębkowski, ‘Św. Otton a archeologia’, pp. 93–120. 11 These men hardly fall under the category of the Simmelian, ideal-typical ‘objective strangers’ without any cultural antecedents of habit or history (Simmel, On Individuality and Social Forms, pp. 145–46), given that the regions and host communities they travelled to had been previously visited by Christian merchants, other missionaries, and sometimes partially inhabited by Christians. Kujawiński, ‘Spotkanie z “innym”’, p. 19.

PAGAN HOSTS, MISSIONARY GUESTS, SPACES OF HOSPITALITY

this period.12 The cultural and religopolitical thresholds and frontiers emerging on the Baltic Rim very seldom had a physical and permanent form. Instead, they were articulated through cultural or religious customs and performed, acted out in concrete confrontations and thus remained open to situational reiterations and modifications.13 The issue of heuristics of these sources is more complex still. These texts convey primarily the views of the often powerful and imposing guests who considered themselves as representatives of a culture superior to that of their hosts, people whose worldview these guests intended to funda­ mentally transform. If the pagan hosts speak in those often purposefully dramatized exchanges, it is because the missionary authors ventriloquize them, not seldom from a considerable historical and physical distance. Their actions and voices are heavily edited and likely invented. Faced with the absence of the voices of the host communities, however, we need to read these culturally external accounts against the grain and around the authorial intention, trying to reverse their frames where possible by means of conjecture. On a certain level, it is not as problematic as it seems that many of the situations and confrontations discussed here were not witnessed by their authors, that their knowledge was based on hearsay, or the fact that the authors attributed motivations, mindsets, or feelings to their protagonists, pagans in particular, whom these would not necessarily subscribe to. As outlined in Chapter 2, in reconstructing the senses of hospitality informing these accounts, such cultural frames and biases are precisely of interest. It is because these frames, symbolic biases, and topoi to some extent emerged and ossified as an effect of the ongoing intercultural encounters. After all, these texts, the oral accounts on which they were based and the cultural facts they communicated shaped the expectations of other clergymen engaged in missionary activity who followed in the steps of these holy men. Put otherwise, this hagiographic and historiographic tra­ dition worked as an experiential input into the predictive coding of their missionary audiences. Such missionary imagining of the mind frames of the pagan adversaries constituted the reflective way of taking the uncertain ethics, risks, and power dimension of host-guest relations into account when preparing for and reflecting on how to engage with the locals and to

12 Berend, ‘Medievalists and the Notion of the Frontier’, pp. 55–72; Berend, ‘Preface’, pp. x– xv; Abulafia, ‘Introduction: Seven Types of Ambiguity’, pp. 1–34; Jaspert, ‘Grenzen und Grenzräume im Mittelalter’, pp. 45–49. 13 Kaljundi, ‘Medieval Conceptualizations’, pp. 25–40; Jaspert, ‘Grenzen und Grenzräume im Mittelalter’, pp. 56–65.

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change their attitudes.14 True or not, these accounts were likely read as true and were thus consequential.15 This experiment in the spatiality of hospitality unfolds in the following manner. Each of the six cases of spaces of hospitality studied here — as­ sembly, kitchen, harbourage, antechamber, asylum, and neighbourhood — highlights and expands upon one or several spatio-thematic dimensions. The investigation of each thematic space is built around one central case of a missionary guest confronting a pagan host community on the coasts of the Baltic Sea, with some aspects filled with evidence from other examples. The ambition is not to present an exhaustive mapping of all possible types and permutations of spaces of hospitality. Rather, the goal is to focus on critical, sometimes extreme, cases which provide maximum information about the complex ways in which these spaces and host-guest relations in general structured and were structured by power relations, emotions, and means of identification. To look at the ways which highlight missionary-pagan hospitality on the Baltic Rim as a particularly uncertain enterprise and ambiguous intercultural process.

Assembly: St Adalbert, 997 The sacred ban and peace of the pagan assemblies and councils, which protected newly arrived guests and was grounded in the public and strongly political character of these religions, constituted the crucial and most extensively explored institution of pagan hospitality in Slavic and Germanic contexts.16 At the same time, exactly because of this strong public sanction, if the missionaries openly performed Christian worship it was commonly viewed by their hosts as a religiopolitical competition, or worse, as a downright provocation, which every so often led to the killing of strangers.17 It is from the contradiction between these two imperatives — hosts’ protection of guests and protection of their own public space — that hospitality’s conditional character in high medieval Baltic contexts as well as its inherent ambiguity seem to emerge. Adam of Bremen, for instance, briefly mentions a rumour (‘fama est’) about two Bohemian monks who reached Rethra, a cult centre of the Redars (Redarians) on the Baltic coast, and who were tried by the local assembly, tortured, and 14 Vigh, ‘Social Invisibility and Political Opacity’, pp. 124–26. 15 Modzelewski, Barbarian Europe, pp. 26–27, 41; Kujawiński, ‘Spotkanie z “innym”’, pp. 10– 12; Rosik, Conversio gentis Pomeranorum, pp. 68–79. 16 Modzelewski, Barbarian Europe, pp. 94, 293–330; Kujawiński, ‘Spotkanie z “innym”’, pp. 31– 33; Bartlett, ‘From Paganism to Christianity in Medieval Europe’, pp. 60–61; Gelting, ‘The Kingdom of Denmark’, pp. 73–79; Berend, Urbańczyk, and Wiszewski, Central Europe in the High Middle Ages, pp. 112–37. 17 Adam of Bremen, Gesta, ed. by Schmeidler, ii. 22 (19), p. 79.

PAGAN HOSTS, MISSIONARY GUESTS, SPACES OF HOSPITALITY

beheaded ‘because they publicly proclaimed the word of God’.18 The cruel irony of their fate was likely lost on Adam however. Rethra was presum­ ably synonymous with the pagan centre of Riedegost, whose onomastic etymology is commonly interpreted as ‘happy/glad to receive guests’.19 For the two missionary guests this par excellence space of hospitality turned out to be a killing ground. The same is true for the example of the two missionaries’ more fa­ mous fellow countryman, St Adalbert of Prague’s attempt to convert the Prussians (or Pomesanians, inhabiting the region between the Nogat and Vistula Rivers) in the spring of 997, on which this section focuses. To summarize this missionary’s final fate: having secured his apostolic licence to preach to the pagans and having received backing from the Polish Duke Bolesław I the Brave/Chrobry (r. 992–1025), the self-exiled bishop of Prague, accompanied by two followers, travelled from Gniezno to the port city of Gdańsk on the Baltic coast. There they preached and performed baptisms with some success after which they continued (eastward?) along the coast to some more remote Prussian tribes. At first, they were beaten up on the peripheries of some unknown community. Then they were briefly confronted by the locals with whom they debated at the assembly, only to be expelled to the peripheries again. After five days the missionar­ ies were attacked by a group of Prussians for the last time: the bishop was killed, while his companions were set free to tell the story.20 This failed mission has been studied previously from the point of view of host-guest relations. Yet there is still merit in revisiting this case to focus on the spatial aspects of the protective hospitality of pagan assemblies and the way it did or did not radiate to the outer layers of the Prussian ecumene which the missionary visited at the beginning and towards the end of his journey. Importantly, in contrast to Adam’s hearsay, St Adalbert’s first hagiographies (Vita prior by Johannes Canaparius, written c. 999, and Vita secunda by Bruno of Querfurt, written in two redactions in 1004 and 1008) 18 Adam of Bremen, Gesta, ed. by Schmeidler, iii. 19 (18), scholion 71, p. 163: ‘Fama est eo tempore duos monachos a Boemiae saltibus in civitatem Rethre venisse. Ubi dum verbum Die publice annunciarent, concilio paganorum, sicut ipsi desideraverunt, diversis primo suppliciis examinati ad ultimum pro Christo decollati sunt’, Adam of Bremen, History of the Archbishops, trans. by Tschan, p. 131. 19 Also spelled as Radigast, Radogost, Radogoszcz, or Radogošč derived from a solar deity Redigast: Thietmar of Merseburg, Chronicon, ed. by Trillmich, vi. 23 (17)–25 (18), pp. 266– 71; Rosik, The Slavic Religion, pp. 212–26; Gieysztor, Mitologia Słowian, pp. 127–34; Urbańczyk, ‘Radogost’, p. 450. It is important to note that the alternative explanations interpret this place name as ‘hosting the council/assembly’. Heffernan, Hospitality and Treachery, p. 49. 20 Wood, The Missionary Life, pp. 210–11. Where exactly St Adalbert suffered his martyrdom and what his itinerary along the coast looked like is still a matter of speculation: Słupecki, ‘Where did St Adalbert (Wojciech) go to Preach’, pp. 343–56; Słupecki, ‘Święty Wojciech i miejsce jego męczeństwa’, pp. 339–56.

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— though stylized and constantly seeking to demonstrate the sanctity of the missionary — were based on eyewitness accounts of his two surviving companions, Benedict and Gaudentius (c. 970–c. 1020).21 The sources have a great deal to say about the spatiality of the mission. To reiterate their movements: the three men arrived in the region from Gdańsk having crossed the sea by boat, which they left on the shore and continued on foot, eventually reaching a little island on a river. ‘But there came the owners of that place [“loci possessores”] and kicked them out with blows’.22 They fled to the other side of the river where they remained for some time. ‘When evening came, the owner of that property [“domi­ nus uillę”] brought Adalbert over to the village. The […] crowd gathered from all sides and stood by watching […] what would happen to him’.23 In this central and public setting Adalbert was forced to identify himself, to give his name in an act of hostipitable exchange.24 He did this by claiming to be as the apostle and bishop of the Prussians and divulging the reasons of his journey — the conversion of his hosts and their abandonment of their idols. Yet ‘they, by now quite outraged, raised a terrible row shouting blasphemous words at him, and threatened to kill him’.25 At this point the author puts a longer diatribe into the mouths of the Prussians which is worth quoting at length: ‘Only a quick departure may give you some hope to stay alive; if you stay here even a little longer, you will not escape a certain death! This entire realm, to which we stand as gateway, and we ourselves obey one common law and have one single way of life [“communis lex imperat et unus uiuendi”]! But you, who have a different law, unknown to us, will lose your heads tomorrow if you do not go away tonight!’ That very

21 Banaszkiewicz, ‘Dwie sceny z żywotów i z życia św. Wojciecha’, pp. 292–314; Sosnowski, Studia nad wczesnymi żywotami św. Wojciecha, pp. 20–83; Labuda, Święty Wojciech, pp. 220– 26. 22 Johannes Canaparius, Passio Sancti Adalberti, ed. and trans. by Gaşpar, 28, pp. 170–71: ‘Venientes uero loci possessores, cum pugnis expulerunt eos’; Johannes Canaparius’s authorship of the ‘Passio Sancti Adalberti Martiris Christi’, more commonly known as Vita prior, has been put into doubt by Miłosz Sosnowski (Studia nad wczesnymi żywotami św. Wojciecha), but for the purposes of this chapter this issue is irrelevant. 23 Johannes Canaparius, Passio Sancti Adalberti, ed. and trans. by Gaşpar, 28, pp. 170–71: ‘Vespere autem facto dominus uillę diuinum heroa Adalbertum transduxit in uillam. Congregat se undique iners uulgus et quid de illo foret acturus, furibundo et canino rictu exspectant’; Kujawiński, ‘Spotkanie z “innym”’, pp. 21–22. 24 Heffernan, Hospitality and Treachery, pp. 18–19. 25 Johannes Canaparius, Passio Sancti Adalberti, ed. and trans. by Gaşpar, 28, pp. 172–73: ‘Tunc sanctus Adalbertus, quis et unde esset uel ob quam causam illuc ueniret, interrogatus, talia econtra miti uoce respondit: “Sum natiuitate Sclauus, nomine Adalbertus, professione monachus, ordine quondam episcopus, officio nunc uester apostolus”’.

PAGAN HOSTS, MISSIONARY GUESTS, SPACES OF HOSPITALITY

night they were put in a small vessel [‘nauiculam’] and, going back, they stayed for five days in some village.26 To pause for a moment: while Canaparius does not present the identity and status of the three men throughout this episode other than as ‘sanctus Adalbertus’ and ‘fratres’, as they address each other, Bruno consistently presents them as guests (‘hospites’) in the region.27 From the perspective of hospitality as a phenomenon which stretched from hostile rejection to the charitable reception of strangers, the reaction of the Prussians evidently lands on the former end of that spectrum. This speech, regard­ less of its translated or invented wording, articulates the core values and dilemmas of hospitality as a spatial-affective practice. It is an aggressive statement (outrage, gnashing of teeth, rows, shouts, Prussians are said to behave like rabid dogs) declaring the Prussian territory as ‘our’ circum­ scribed region (given this community is its gateway), which is tantamount to the Prussian law and way of life. Though the aggression of pagans is a staple motif in the texts which depict the efforts of evangelization, such emotion is not exactly improbable.28 Quite the contrary; it seems that this topos simply registers and rhetorically exploits what presumably was a common reaction among pagan tribes who were confronted in this manner. The arrival of St Adalbert and his companions produces — or rather transforms — the space of hospitality, or hostipitality, around which behaviours, responses, and emotions organize. Here this takes place at the local assembly, which in Bruno’s version is specified as the local market [‘veniunt in mercatum’].29 The confrontation triggers a self-securitizing re­ sponse of the local community and assigns specific roles to the participants as hosts and guest. Between them, though only for a moment, stands the person interpreted as the local ally of the missionary, the anonymous ‘dominus uille’ and potentially the interpreter of the missionaries, which

26 Johannes Canaparius, Passio Sancti Adalberti, ed. and trans. by Gaşpar, 28, pp. 172–73: ‘Illi autem iam dudum indignantes et cum clamore blasphema uerba aduersus eum proclamantes, mortem sibi minantur’. 27 Bruno of Querfurt, Passio sancti Adalberti, ed. by Weinrich and Strzelczyk, 24, pp. 102–03: ‘Ibi aliquos dies steterunt et fama volans paganorum auribus adduxit habere se hospites ex alio orbe ignoto habitu et inaudito cultu’, c. 25, pp. 106–07: ‘ad aures hospitum […] bonos hospites’; 30, pp. 110–11: ‘requiem hospitum turbant’. 28 Sosnowski, ‘‘Prussians as Bees, Prussians as Dogs’’, pp. 25–48; Rosik, ‘Obraz poganina’, pp. 151–59; Wood, ‘The Pagans and the Other’, pp. 10–15; Bührer-Thierry, ‘Des communautés de païens menacées’, pp. 47–49. 29 Bruno of Querfurt, Passio sancti Adalberti, ed. by Weinrich and Strzelczyk, 25, p. 104; Banaszkiewicz, ‘Pons mercati, gradus lignei, stepan’, pp. 13–27; Priddat, ‘Gäste – ökonomisch’, pp. 257–60, 267–68.

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would perhaps suggest that their arrival was not as unanticipated as it is sometimes claimed.30 By staging the confrontation at the assembly, the author frames it as a clash of two legal orders and incompatible ways of life (‘regnum’, ‘commu­ nis lex’, ‘unus ordo uiuendi’). The host community sought to resolve this dilemma by ousting the guests. This larger spatial context of the political confrontation includes St Adalbert’s allusion to him having the military backing of the Polish Duke Bolesław I, whose absent presence looms large over this meeting.31 Though this scene is clearly a Christian interpretation of the pagan attitudes, from a comparative perspective it does fit not only into ritualistic and performative readings of similar conversion narratives,32 but also into general theories about the power dimensions of hospitality. As pointed out by Émile Benveniste, in etymological terms hospitality is a compound concept that stems from the morphological structure hosti-pets, meaning master of the house. In that sense, hospitality is a procedure for establishing the host as ‘the one precisely, the very one’ i.e. the master and the dominant part in the host-guest relation. Put differently, what is at stake on the threshold of hospitality are the identities of the parties and, by extension, the legal orders and entire cosmologies they represent.33 These cosmic ramifications come to the fore especially in Bruno’s rendition of the Prussian’s speech directed at Adalbert and his companions: ‘Because of people like you […] the earth will no longer yield its crops [Genesis 4. 12], the trees will not bear fruit, new animals will not be born, the old will die. Get outside our borders immediately!’34 In the pagans’ eyes, as they are rendered by the two authors, the guests clearly overstepped their subjugated position. In this attributed mind frame, the missionaries were not just intruders but invaders whose very presence threatened the hosts’ existential safety and against whom their community had to be protected. From that point on, the fate of the missionaries seems to be sealed, though this is only due to the hindsight of the authors who pave way to St Adalbert’s martyrdom using other peoples’ visions as well as his spiritual preparations and his Christomimesis.35 The sequence of events suggests that the hosts initially sought to de-escalate the situation by

30 Banaszkiewicz, ‘Dwie sceny’, pp. 297–99; von Padberg, Mission und Christianisierung, pp. 107–13. 31 Banaszkiewicz, ‘Dwie sceny’, pp. 298–302. 32 von Padberg, Die Inszenierung religiöser Konfrontationen, pp. 105–13. 33 Benveniste, Dictionary of Indo-European Concepts, pp. 73–74; Derrida, ‘Hostipitality’, pp. 4– 5; Bourdieu, Logic of Practice, pp. 228–33; Pac, ‘Chrystianizacja i prawo’, pp. 817–23. 34 Bruno of Querfurt, Passio sancti Adalberti, ed. by Weinrich and Strzelczyk, 25, pp. 106–07: ‘“Propter tales”, inquiunt, “homines terra nostra non dabit fructum, arbores non parturiunt, nova non nascuntur animalia, vetera moriuntur. Exeuntes exite procul de finibus nostris! Si citius non retro ponitis pedes, crudelibus pęnis afflicti mala morte peribitisa”’. 35 Johannes Canaparius, Passio Sancti Adalberti, ed. and trans. by Gaşpar, 28–30, pp. 170–81.

PAGAN HOSTS, MISSIONARY GUESTS, SPACES OF HOSPITALITY

simply expelling the Christian guests by putting them on a boat headed for home.36 The second, and for St Adalbert lethal, attack of the Prussians occurred outside the gravitational centre of their ecumene and outside any violence-inhibiting functions of the assembly.37 This wave of attack was purportedly led by sicco — a term sometimes interpreted as designating a pagan priest —, who according to Bruno intended to avenge his brother killed by the Poles. Bruno’s account thus creates an impression that the murder was an act of personal vengeance rather than a communal decision. Either way, in that second stage a short-lasting, turbulent, and affectively polarized38 space of hostility emerged between the hospes and the hostes.39 Like before, this space could not be shared, nor could the invaders’ pres­ ence be tolerated. The solution, however, was no longer an expulsion, but the murder of the leader of the strangers.

Kitchen: Bruno of Querfurt, 1009 The ambiguity of hospitality and of the space in which the confrontations between missionaries and pagans took place also comes to the fore in the Historia de predicacione episcopi Brunonis. This laconic report of Bruno of Querfurt’s (c. 974–1009) martyrdom and mission to the Prussians is an

36 Elliot, ‘Trickster Hospitality’, pp. 135–37. 37 Modzelewski, ‘Wiec i banicja’, pp. 41–49; Boroń, Słowiańskie wiece plemienne; Sanmark, ‘At the Assembly’, pp. 86–88. 38 Emotions in the space of hospitality in Johannes Canaparius, Passio Sancti Adalberti, ed. and trans. by Gaşpar, 30, pp. 176–81. Emotions of the Christian guests: encouragement not to lose heart (‘Fratres, nolite contristari!’), love and sweetness of the Christ whom Adalbert had in his heart (‘dulcem pro dulcissimo Ihesu […] semper carissimo tandem perfruitur Christo […] in corde semper Christus erat’). Emotions of the pagan hosts: pagan frenzy (‘paganicus furor’), hatred and anger (‘iram exsaturant’), savage barbarians (‘dira barbaries’), unabated frenzy (‘nondum expleto furore’), boasting of their crime with joyful shouts (‘leto clamore sua scelerea laudantes’). Emotions in the space of hospitality in Bruno of Querfurt, Passio sancti Adalberti, ed. by Weinrich and Strzelczyk, 30–33, pp. 110–15. Emotions of the Christian guests: joy (‘gaudium’), surprise (‘stupent’), St Adalbert’s fear (‘nunc magnus Adelbertus timet […] Si Deus trepidat, turpe est, si homo paveat, cum carnis mors prope accedit? […] Vir bone, quid times?’), sureness of joy (‘quanta securitas letitie’), whiteness of St Adalbert’s face (‘pallidus episcopus’), [Adalbert’s soul] admired God’s laughter and the joy of the heavens ‘(admirans risum Dei et gaudia canentis celi’). Emotions of the pagan hosts: anger (‘zelo ductus barbarus venit’), wild face (‘torvo aspectu’), agitation (‘ignitu’), spouting malice (‘saliente malitia’). 39 Bruno of Querfurt, Passio sancti Adalberti, ed. by Weinrich and Strzelczyk, 30, pp. 110–12: ‘requiem hospitum turbant […] hostes agnoscunt’. Bührer-Thierry, ‘Des communautés de païens menacées’, pp. 51–52.

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eyewitness account by Wipert (Wibert), one of Bruno’s companions and chaplains, who was blinded and set free by the pagans.40 Right after the missionaries entered the country of the pagans (‘pa­ tria’), they were seized and dragged in front of the king where Bishop Bruno celebrated the mass and evangelized the gathered people. To this, the otherwise historically unknown King Nethimer answered: ‘We have the gods whom we venerate and in whom we believe. We do not want to follow your words’. As he heard this, Bruno ordered someone to bring the figures of the pagan gods (‘simulacra’) which he threw into the fire; they were immediately devoured by the flames (‘Ignis uero accepit et deuorauit’). In response, ‘the agitated [“turbatus”] king said with great rage [“indignatione maxima”]’ to make a great fire and throw the bishop into it. ‘If the fire consumes and devours him you all will know that his teaching is in vain, but if something else happens we will start believing in this God all the speedier’. What followed was essentially an ordeal: the bishop — in the episcopal vestment (‘indutus uestimento episcopali’) — set his throne in the middle of the fire and while his companions sang seven psalms, he sat amongst the flames. Bruno came out unscathed and the king instantly converted together with 300 of his men.41 Interestingly, this was not the first time Bruno and Wipert were con­ fronted with an enraged crowd like this. A year earlier, in the winter or summer of 1008, after he first spent a month in the company of Vladimir the Great in Kyivan Rus’, Bruno and his companions attempted to convert the Pechenegs on the northern shores of the Black Sea (between the Ural Mountains and the Volga River).42 Initially, as they entered the enemy territory (‘terra inimicorum’), they travelled unhindered. But on the third day of their journey the missionaries were nearly executed only to be eventually left unharmed. After another two days (on a Sunday), as they reached a more populous but hostile region (‘occurrentibus nobis hostibus’), Bruno and his followers were taken in front of the assembly

40 Wood, ‘Martyrdom in early Christian Rus’, pp. 11–26; Baronas, ‘The Year 1009’, pp. 1–22; Sosnowski, ‘Kilka uwag o chronologii życia i twórczości’, pp. 63–79. 41 Wipert, Hystoria de predicacione episcopi Brunonis, ed. by Sosnowski, pp. 70–73: ‘Nos deos habemus in quibus adoramus et confidimus. Uerbis autem tuis obedire nolumus. Episcopus hoc audiens illius [regis] adportare iussit simulacra, et illo presente in igne proiecit cum uirtute maxima. Ignis uero accepit et deuorauit illa denique simulacra. Rex autem turbatus dixit indignatione maxima: Accipite episcopum citissime et in ignem coram me proicite. Si illum ignis comburit et deuorat, cognoscite quia illius est predicatio uanissima, denique si est aliter, in illum deum credam[us] uelociter’ emphasis mine; Kujawiński, ‘Spotkanie z “innym”’, pp. 35–36. 42 Sosnowski, ‘Kilka uwag o chronologii życia i twórczości’, pp. 67–69; Paroń, The Pechenegs, pp. 149–50, 221–24, 228–29, 302–03, 306–10; Paroń, ‘Brunona z Kwerfurtu wyprawa do Pieczyngów’, pp. 97–116.

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and we and our horses were whipped. An innumerable crowd came together, with cruel eyes, and they raised a horrible noise: a thousand threatened to cut us to pieces with axes and with drawn swords held over our necks. We were tormented until nightfall, and dragged this way and that, until the leading men of the region, who seized us by force from their hands [i.e. those of our tormentors], having heard our ideas, since they were judicious, knew that we had entered their land to do good.43 As we learn from the letter he sent to Emperor Henry II (r. 1002–1024), after those initial setbacks and clearly thanks to the assistance of the local political leaders, Bruno and his companions were allowed to evangelize among the Pechenegs for five months and only then, via the Kyivan Rus’ and with a longer stopover in Poland, they headed to the Prussians on the Baltic coast.44 Like the five martyr brothers, for whom he set up a monastery in Międzyrzecz (in Greater Poland) and whose lives he penned after their violent death in 1003, and like St Adalbert, whose life he also wrote, Bruno also performed his mission ‘under the power of divine terror [“terror divinitus”]’.45 In contrast to Ansgar, however, Bruno was not the conduit or dispenser of this emotion. He had to live in its long shadow instead. Leaving aside that Bruno’s success in Prussia turned sour right away, as the brother of the king, Nethimer, who had suddenly arrived, ordered that the missionaries be killed on the spot and had Wipert maimed, a question arises: what does this confrontation between Nethimer and the missionary bishop mean? As mentioned above, the whole scene clearly functions like some sort of an ordeal which tests the efficacy of the two competing religious orders — a staple motif found in many Christianiza­ tion narratives — which works as a catalyst for conversion.46 The scene

43 Bruno of Querfurt, Epistola Brunonis ad Henricum regem, ed. by Karwasińska, pp. 99–100: ‘uocamur ad concilium, flagellamur nos et equi; occurrunt uulgus innumerum cruentis oculis, et leuauerunt clamorem horribilem; mille securibus, mille gladiis super nostram ceruicem euaginatis, in frusta nos concidere minantur. Vexati sumus usque ad noctem, tracti in diuersam partem, donec qui nos de manibus eorum bello rapuerunt, maiores terrę audita nostra sententia cognouerunt ut sunt sapientes, quia propter bonum intrauimus terram eorum’; The Letter of Bruno of Querfurt to King Henry II, trans. by North; Wood, ‘Shoes and a Fish Dinner’, pp. 252–53. 44 Wood, The Missionary Life, 236–39; Fałkowski, ‘List Brunona do króla Henryka II’, pp. 179– 207. 45 Bruno of Querfurt, Epistola Brunonis ad Henricum regem, ed. by Karwasińska, p. 103: ‘Si adiuare nollent, nunquam sancti qui sanguinem fuderunt, et sub diuino terrore multa miracula faciunt, quinque martyres occisi sua requiescerent’; The Letter of Bruno of Querfurt to King Henry II, trans. by North. 46 Foerster, ‘Poppo’s Ordeal’, pp. 28–45; von Padberg, Die Inszenierung religiöser Konfrontationen, pp. 126–29, 263–94; Kujawiński, ‘Spotkanie z “innym”’, pp. 44–46.

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thus bears a strong resemblance to the prototypical ordeal by fire story of three boys, Shadrach, Meschach, and Abednego, from the Book of Daniel 3. 16–28. There, too, the three boys refused to bow to and worship the golden image of King Nebuchadnezzar (II). They were thrown into the blazing furnace, in which they were seen accompanied by a fourth man, the God’s angel, and left the furnace unscathed. This prompted the king to reverse the persecution against the Jews. In contrast to the biblical story, however, the fire in Wipert’s version put not one, but two objects through an ordeal. Its workings were thus much more ambiguous; the ordeal yielded differential test results, so to speak, depending on which religious order was examined. While the pagan figurines were burnt, Bruno remained intact. This ambiguity of fire is structurally echoed in the use of this biblical story made in the mid-twelfth-century Passio et miracula beati Olavi, which was most likely penned by Archbishop Eysteinn Erlendsson (r. 1161–1188) of Nidaros (Trondheim). In one of his first miracles, the missionary King and future Saint Olaf Haraldsson (r. 1015–1028) was unwittingly shaving a piece of wood on the Sabbath. Warned by a servant boy that he was commiting a sin, Olaf burnt the shavings in his palms yet his skin remained unharmed: ‘Thus was repeated the miracle of the three boys that was once acclaimed in Babylon. The fire had its natural power to consume the bits of stick, yet it was not at all able to harm the hand of the blameless king’.47 These differential effects of the fire as well as the liturgical frame of this whole scene (Bruno’s catechesis, episcopal clothes, and throne, the psalms sung during the time spent in the fire)48 suggest we should read Wipert’s scene as something else than a simple ordeal. It is my contention that the scene should rather be interpreted as an act of ritual consumption and, essentially, a cook-off. Though the author of the account does not explicitly use host-guest relations’ terminology, the perspective of the ambiguity of hospitality proposed here does advance the interpretation a step or two further. According to the Lewis and Short Dictionary, the root of the Latin word hostis, stranger — which evolved into meaning enemy, later building also the abstract notion of hospitalitas — was Sanskrit ghas-, ghásati: to eat, consume, and destroy. This connection to food can be explained by the relationship to the root of hospes, host, which is pa- (cf. pater) and pasco: to feed. The host, in this sense, is the person responsible (the master) for feeding and entertaining the stranger/guest — with an irreducible risk that

47 Passio et miracula beati Olavi, ed. by Jiroušková, Recensio I, m. x, p. 43: ‘Quibus combustis manus eius apparuit illesa. Innouatum est ergo illud miraculum, quod olim apud Babilonem in tribus pueris celebratum est. Ad consumendas uirgule particulas ignis uim naturalem habuit, nec omnino ledere ualuit innocentis regis manum’ emphasis mine; The Passion and Miracles of the Blessed Óláfr, trans. by Kunin, p. 40. 48 Michałowski, ‘Pasja z Tegernsee’, pp. 18–19.

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the latter turns out to be an inimical, destructive force. The same ambiguity and link to food is preserved in the German notion of Gast.49 Though etymology is rarely a satisfactory explanation in itself, the connection spelled out here is a good starting point from which to eluci­ date the scene from Wipert’s testimony. The newly arrived strangers in 1009 clearly sought to transform the local masters, i.e. the hosts of the meeting, by converting them and destroying their deities which were to be devoured, consumed by the flames. We know from other theatres of Christianization that sometimes missionaries conspicuously used pagan figurines as fuel for the preparation of food. For instance, as an element of the symbolic conquest of Arkona on Rügen in 1168, the Danish troops cut down the wooden figure of Svantevit in its temple in Arkona and dragged it to their camp to be chopped up and used by the cooks to feed the Christ­ ian army — to the disgust and despair of the god’s former worshippers.50 Similarly in Szczecin in 1124, where Otto of Bamberg sought to eradicate the cult of Triglav, he gave orders that the wood from the destroyed temple was to be distributed to the newly converted locals so that they could use it as fuel.51 These two examples demonstrate well that the dominant position of the pagan hosts on their home territory was being undercut in a twofold manner. The invading guests not only subverted the local religiopolitical order, which they sought to replace with their own. They also literally consumed the pagan gods and urged the converts to follow suit.52 Again, Wipert’s account does not make any explicit connection to food, theophagy, and hospitality. Sometimes flames are flames are flames. But it what happens next, something that is not featured in the twelfthcentury examples from Rügen or Pomerania, suggests that this ritualisticculinary line of interpretation is correct. Just like the pagan gods were to be devoured by the fire, so could Bruno himself, ordered the enraged Nethimer. In this confrontation a different type of space of hospitality emerged, however. It was a sui generis sacrificial kitchen, or a reversed potlatch, whose participants rather than conspicuously squandering their 49 ‘Hostis’, ‘hospes’, in Lewis and Short, eds, A Latin Dictionary, pp. 866–67; ‘Hospes’, in Thesaurus Linguae Latinae, cols 3019–31; ‘Gast’, in Kluge, Etymologisches Wörterbuch, p. 334; Banaszkiewicz, Podanie o Piaście i Popielu, pp. 100–03; Minkinnen, ‘Hostility and Hospitality’, pp. 53–60. 50 Saxo, Gesta Danorum, ed. by Friis-Jensen, trans. by Fisher, ii, xiv. 39. 34, pp. 1300– 01: ‘Vespera appetente omnes, qui culinis preerant, simulacrum attentatum securibus in exigua frusta aptosque foculo stipites redegerunt. Crediderim tunc Rugianos pristine piguisse culture, cum patrium auitumque numen, quod maxima religione celebrare solebant, igni deformiter applicatum concoquendis hostium alimentis famulari conspicerent’; Modzelewski, Barbarian Europe, pp. 373–74. 51 Vita Prieflingensis, ed. by Weinrich and Strzelczyk, ii. 12, pp. 158–61; Herbord, Dialogus de vita s. Ottonis, ed. by Wikarjak and Liman, ii. 31, pp. 121–22; Rosik, Conversio gentis Pomeranorum, p. 287; Jensen, ‘Burning of Idols’, pp. 99–111. 52 Buc, Holy War, Martyrdom, and Terror, pp. 101–02, 262–64.

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possessions throw each other into the flames.53 Like in St Olaf ’s case, the fire symbolically does two contradictory things at once. It devours, de­ stroys the representatives (idols) of the old religion and cooks, pre-digests, and thus transforms the representative (Bruno) of the new one. It becomes an act of apotropaic hospitality, a ritual calculated to tame or neutralize the threat posed by the stranger.54 Through his time spent in the fire, Bruno’s teachings are thus made more palatable for the new worshippers, their spiritual consumption is accelerated (‘credam[us] uelociter’).55 As a result, the ambiguous fire, around which the hosts and guests gather, establishes a compensatory equivalence between the old gods and the priest of the new one. The one can be sacrificed and substituted for the other. As stressed by Benveniste, this type of compensatory equivalence is ex­ pressed by the concept of hostia, which etymologically belongs to the same family as hospes, hostis, and hospitalitas, and which is strongly suggested here by the liturgical setting. Hostia’s ‘real sense is “the victim which serves to appease the anger of the gods”’.56 This logic of compensatory offering was underpinned with strong emotions such as anger — either allegedly felt by the pagan gods or by their worshippers on their behalf. Despite the vast chronological, cultural, and conceptual gap between the senses of hostia reconstructed by Benveniste and these prevalent in the missionary reports from the brink of the first and the second millennium this notion has some explanatory value when it comes to the meeting of 1009. It is worth keeping in mind that Wipert followed Bruno for at least a couple of years and that the latter developed a whole set of ideas about the missionary sacrifice and the likeness of martyrs to hostiae, which can be found in his texts and which he likely communicated to his companions.57 Particularly in his Vita secunda of St Adalbert, which he composed in two redactions in 1004 and 1008, Bruno polemicized, with the idea expressed in the earlier vitae, that the killing of the Prague bishop was a pagan sacrificial murder committed by the Prussians. What was at stake in this 53 Detienne and Vernant, La cuisine du sacrifice en pays grec; Mauss, The Gift, pp. 6–7, 13, 81; Heffernan, Hospitality and Treachery, pp. 25–28. It is worth noting that Johannes of Canaparius (27, pp. 168–69), too, characterizes the Prussians as people ‘who worship as god their stomach [Philippians 3. 19] and avarice paired with death’. These qualities made them unreceptive for spiritual gifts, but he also attributed cannibalistic tastes to them. Rosik, ‘Obraz poganina’, pp. 148–49. 54 Heffernan, Hospitality and Treachery, p. 60. 55 Rosik, Conversio gentis Pomeranorum, pp. 397–98; Kujawiński, ‘Spotkanie z “innym”’, pp. 44– 45; Levi-Strauss, The Raw and the Cooked, pp. 81–108; Bynum, Metamorphosis and Identity, pp. 137, 139–41, 144–47; Sahlins, ‘Raw Women, Cooked Men’, pp. 74–77, 82–93. 56 Benveniste, Dictionary of Indo-European Concepts, p. 66; Modzelewski, ‘Laicyzacja przez chrzest’, pp. 99–114; Staudigl, ‘Gastlichkeit und die “neue Logik” der Gewalt’, pp. 698–705. 57 Figurski, ‘Mactata hostia’, pp. 67–84; Wood, ‘Shoes and a Fish Dinner’, pp. 249–58; Bruno of Querfurt, Vita quinque fratrum, ed. by Gaşpar, 7, 13, 26, 31; Michałowski, ‘Król czy misjonarz?’, pp. 142–43.

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debate was St Adalbert’s posthumous identity and the identification of martyrs in general. On Bruno’s reading, through his death St Adalbert became a mactata hostia, a venerated Communion, sacrificed for the sins of the Christians in order to intercede on their behalf with merciful God. It was a radically transformative ending that Bruno was apparently hoping to achieve through his own missionary activity.58 It is clear from Wipert’s version that Bruno did meet his death as a hostia viva, not as a burnt sacrifice (holocaustum), the latter being a form of sacrificial offering he and his Baltic contempories worried much about.59 A couple of years after the bishop’s death, Bruno’s relative and school companion from Magdeburg, Bishop Thietmar of Merseburg, employed a Christomimetic frame and confirmed that Bishop Bruno died ‘meek as a lamb’.60 As alluded to above, Bruno was not the sole writer from the Baltic Sea region to entertain this type of ideas in the context of limits of pagan hospitality towards missionaries and the latters’ potential or actual martyr­ dom. Basing on references to Numbers 5. 8 and Leviticus 1. 4, Thietmar similarly conceptualized the sacrifices made by heathen Luticians.61 In a wholly different Baltic context, in the late thirteenth-century vita of the half-legendary Bishop St Henry of Finland Proper (d. c. 1156), its main protagonist too was presented as an ‘acceptabilis hostia’, which he became through his murder. The author or authors of his Legenda, attached to the cathedral of Turku/Åbo, used this expression to stress St Henry’s entrance to heavenly Jerusalem and the radical metamorphosis of his identity which was crucial for him to start performing miracles.62 The same sense of hospitality as a process and a space for the transformation, incubation, and sanctification of martyrs and their relics is also visible in the apocryphal 58 Bruno of Querfurt, Passio sancti Adalberti, ed. by Weinrich and Strzelczyk, 34, pp. 116– 17: ‘Ipsa die dicunt, cum quidam presbiter missas faceret, revelans Spiritus ad aurem dixit, ut beati martyris Adalberti suffragia laboranti mundo imploret. Libens paret ille monitis divinis, et intra memoriam sanctorum martyrum Adelbertum vocat, ut pro nostris erroribus divinę misericordię mactata hostia intercedat’; Figurski, ‘Mactata hostia’, pp. 76– 78; Empson, Seven Types of Ambiguity, pp. 262–70. 59 de Jong, In Samuel’s Image, pp. 157–58; Caciola, ‘Revenants, Resurrection, and Burnt Sacrifice’, pp. 311–38. 60 Thietmar of Merseburg, Chronicon, ed. by Trillmich, vi. 95, pp. 344–45: ‘mitis ut agnus’; Thietmar of Merseburg, Ottonian Germany, trans. by Warner, p. 300; Michałowski, ‘Pasja z Tegernsee’, pp. 18–19; Kantorowicz, The King’s Two Bodies, p. 49 n. 13; Bynum, Metamorphosis and Identity, pp. 163–66. 61 Numbers 5. 8: ‘Sin autem non fuerit qui recipiat, dabunt Domino, et erit sacerdotis, excepto ariete, qui offertur pro expiatione, ut sit placabilis hostia’; Thietmar of Merseburg, Chronicon, ed. by Trillmich, vi. 25, pp. 268–69; Rosik, The Slavic Religion, pp. 138–39, 367–68. 62 Legenda sancti Henrici, ed. by Heikkilä, 4, pp. 264–65: ‘Sic sacerdos domini, acceptabilis hostia divinis oblata conspectibus, occumbens pro iusticia, templum superne Iherusalem cum gloriosi palma triumphi feliciter introivit’; Heikkilä, ‘An Imaginary Saint for an Imagined Community’, pp. 223–52; Line, ‘Sweden’s Conquest of Finland’, pp. 57–99; Olesen, ‘The Swedish Expeditions (“Crusades”)’, pp. 255–59.

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Tempore illo (also known as De sancto Adalberto episcopo), a rather fantastic vita of St Adalbert composed in the twelfth or thirteenth century in the milieu of Gniezno cathedral. According to this invented version of the posthumous fate of St Adalbert’s remains, after his decapitation the Prussians chopped St Adalbert’s body into pieces and angrily scattered them around. A local Prussian convert gathered the bodily parts, but he noticed that one finger was missing and the body of the saint remained incomplete. ‘Soon some fishermen who were fishing near the shores of the sea — which was the refuge [“hospicio”] of the saint [near to] where he suffered his martyrdom — saw a small fish swimming among the sea waves. In her belly they noticed something glowing like a candle’.63 After extracting the finger from the fish’s belly and returning it to the rest of the corpse, the body started to emanate a glow of sanctity. It might be tempting to dismiss all such similes as mere interpretatio Christiana of the polytheistic religions performed by missionary authors who framed and filtered all information through Christian understand­ ing of sacrifice, literary topoi, and Biblical motifs, which in no way cor­ responded to the actual mindsets of their pagan adversaries.64 Such a dismissal misses the crucial point, however. Namely that because of their grounding in the shared metaphors of sacrifice the frames, codes, and ritu­ als of hospitality were the mechanism of and channels for intercultural ac­ commodation and adjustment as well as a way of thinking. This inevitably ambiguous translation machine was built around the engine of metaphor of sacrifice and host-guest equivalence. In the most literal sense this ma­ chine carried across (μετά (meta) ‘across’ + φέρω (pherō), ‘to carry’) and thus enabled its users on both ends to construe their relationally bound identities as well as to mutually conceptualize their lifeworlds and values, which they nonetheless overlaid with distinct religious veneers.65 On such a reading the seemingly straightforward account of Bruno’s ordeal and the confrontation between the pagans and the missionaries appears likewise to be structured by this compensatory logic of hospitality. Something which Wipert partially might have construed based on his experiences and partially picked up from his teacher. Here, too, the identities, lifeworlds, and social orders of the participants were being questioned, produced, and

63 De sancto Adalberto episcopo, ed. by Perlbach, 17, p. 1183: ‘Post aliquantulum vero temporis, dum quidam naute piscarentur in ripa maris, que hospicio sancti, ubi martirizatus est, erat contigua, repente vident inter fluctus quendam natantem pisciculum, cuius in visceribus miri fulgoris candela videbatur ardere’ emphasis mine; Jezierski, ‘St Adalbertus domesticus’, pp. 225–26, 246. 64 Rosik, Conversio gentis Pomeranorum, pp. 92–95, 99–101; Hageneier, ‘Jenseits der Topik’, pp. 5–31; Jaeger, ‘Ernst Robert Curtius’, p. 376. 65 Schlesinger, ‘Sacrifice, Metaphor, and Evolution’, pp. 1–14; Sawyer, ‘Sacrifice’; Kłosiński, ‘Metafora’, pp. 310–14; Lakoff and Johnson, Metaphors We Live By, pp. 229–35; Bloch, In and Out, pp. 6–31; Gullbekk and Jürgensen, ‘The Economy of Sacrifice’, forthcoming.

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devoured in this kitchen of hospitality. The initially troubled, challenging, but fortuitous reception of the Christian strangers nevertheless quickly turned into their ultimate rejection and martyrdom. Significantly, the missionary guests died from the hands of this part of the pagan hosts who interrupted the feast and did not participate in the original cook-off.66

Harbourage: Bernhard the Spaniard, 1122 Let us fast-forward over a century and a couple of hundred kilometres to the west. Most likely in 1122,67 a Spanish bishop and anchorite by the name Bernhard came to the port city of Wolin in Pomerania intending to convert the entire region. It is worth putting this visit in its religiopolitical context first. Since at least the early eleventh century Pomerania was under the intermittent cultural and political influence of Christianity transmitted by the Polish and German rulers. By the time the full-fledged conversion of Pomerania by Otto of Bamberg commenced in the mid-1120s, of which Bernhard’s mission was a harbinger, there were some small Christian com­ munities or individual Christians living in what was broadly considered a pagan region with a strong set of polytheistic beliefs intermittently dominated by the Polish rulers.68 Having secured a permission to preach from Duke Bolesław III the Wrymouth (r. 1102–1138), who warned him of the murderous ferocity of the Pomeranians, Bernhard arrived in Wolin together with a guide and an interpreter.69 As soon as he came into the city the inhabitants interrogated him about his identity and intentions. Overcoming his terror, ‘he declared that he was the servant of the true God, the Maker of heaven and earth, and had been sent by Him in order that he might lead them from the error of idolatry into the way of truth’. The Wolinians reacted with predictable resentment (‘vero indignati’): ‘We will not receive you nor listen to you. […] If then you have any regard for your life, return as quickly as possible to the place from which you came!’70 Growing more frantic, Bernhard decided to prove his point with an ordeal:

66 Reed, ‘Interrupted Feasts’, pp. 1–11. 67 Rosik, Conversio gentis Pomeranorum, p. 160. 68 Rębkowski, ‘Pomorze w czasach misji Ottonowych’, pp. 189–209; Rosik, ‘Orbis Romanus – Christianitas – Pomerania’, pp. 13–51; Rębkowski, ‘The Beginnings of Christianity in Pomerania’, pp. 91–110; Rosik, ‘Along the Gniezno–Kołobrzeg Vector’, pp. 242–80. 69 Ebo, Vita S. Ottonis, ed. by Wikarjak and Liman, ii. 1, p. 50: ‘sed tantam gentis illius esse ferocitatem, ut magis necem ei inferre quam iugum fidei subire parata sit’; The Life of Otto Apostle of Pomerania, trans. by Robinson, pp. 20–21. 70 Ebo, Vita S. Ottonis, ed. by Wikarjak and Liman, ii. 1, p. 51: ‘At ille servum se veri Dei, factoris celi et terre, profitetur et ab eo se missum, ut illos ab errore idolatrie ad viam veritatis reducat. Illi vero indignati: […] Non recipiemus te, nec audiemus. […] Tu vero, si vite tue

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Set fire to some house that has collapsed through old age and is not of use to anyone, and throw me into the midst: if, when the house has been consumed by the flames, I shall come out from the fire uninjured, then know that I have been sent by Him to whose rule fire and every created thing is subject, and whom all the elements serve.71 The leaders of the inhabitants (‘sacerdotes et seniores plebis’) reasoned among themselves in terms of protecting and securing their community from the immediate threat posed by Bernhard and about the wider impli­ cations of his arrival: This is a foolish and desperate person who […] seeks death and goes of his own accord to meet it. We are beset by his villainy, which seeks to exact vengeance because he has been rejected by us, and to involve us in his own destruction. For if one house is set on fire, the destruction of the whole city must follow.72 The decision was not to listen to or receive Bernhard nor to do him any harm. Again, the space of the assembly had a role in mitigating violence and in this case the caution of the hosts was, according to the hagiographi­ cal account, motivated by the memory of St Adalbert’s murder. The perpe­ trators, the Prussians, had suffered severe retaliation from the Poles over a century earlier. Though it seems rather unlikely that the Pomeranians remembered the Prague bishop, this self-limiting, de-escalating exchange can be interpreted as a signal that the Wolinians were making decisions in the light of the recent military expeditions by Bolesław III and under the threat of retaliation.73 Rather than killing Bernhard, their instinct was to put him in a boat and send him back to sea. Briefly left to his own devices yet becoming ever more desperate, Bernhard suddenly grabbed an axe and attacked the holy of the holies of the Wolinians, a column raised in commemoration of the mythical founder of the city, Julius Caesar. ‘The pagans would not permit this, and rushing

consultum esse volueris, quantocius ad locum, unde digressus es, revertere’; The Life of Otto Apostle of Pomerania, trans. by Robinson, p. 21. 71 Ebo, Vita S. Ottonis, ed. by Wikarjak and Liman, ii. 1, p. 51: ‘Domum quamlibet vetustate conlapsam et nulli usui aptam igne inmisso succendite meque in medium iactate, et si domo flammis absumpta, ego illesus ab igne apparuero, scitote me ab illo missum, cuius imperio et ignis et omnis simul creatura subiecta est et omnia simul elementa famulantur’; The Life of Otto Apostle of Pomerania, trans. by Robinson, p. 21. 72 Ebo, Vita S. Ottonis, ed. by Wikarjak and Liman, ii. 1, p. 52: ‘“Iste insanus et desperatus est; nimia cogente inopia mortem appetit, morti se ultro ingerit, sed et argumentosa nos circumveniens nequicia, repulsionis sue a nobis vindictam exigit, ut sine nostro non moriatur exicio, quia scilicet, una domo succensa, totius urbis interitum subsequi necesse est”’; The Life of Otto Apostle of Pomerania, trans. by Robinson, p. 21. 73 Rosik, Conversio gentis Pomeranorum, p. 163; Rosik, ‘Pomerania in the Zone of Polish Expansion’, pp. 346–57; Elliot, ‘Trickster Hospitality’, pp. 133–35.

PAGAN HOSTS, MISSIONARY GUESTS, SPACES OF HOSPITALITY

upon him with great anger struck him in cruel fashion and left him half dead’.74 But even severely beaten Bernhard still would not budge. He raised himself from the dust and took up his preaching again. Finally, a pagan priest grew fed up with the whole situation and dragged him from the crowds, they placed him with his monk and interpreter on his own boat, saying, ‘If you have so great a desire to preach, preach to the fishes of the sea and the fowls of the air, and beware that you presume not to cross the boundary of our land, for there is not a single person who will receive you’.75 After this Bernhard finally returned to Poland. Judging from Ebo’s account, the main problem the inhabitants of Wolin had with Bernhard in their role as hosts was the shape in which the missionary guest came to them and the radical discrepancy between his deprived outward condition and the glorious message he preached. True to his eremitic calling, he approached the city ‘barefoot and in a despicable garment’.76 Accordingly, the primary frame in which his pagan hosts saw him was materialist. They confronted him directly on this: ‘“How can we believe that you are the messenger of the supreme God? Whereas He is full of glory and endowed with all wealth, you are despicable and are so poor that you cannot even provide shoes for your feet”’.77 They also attributed ulterior reasons to him: ‘“for it is only to relieve your poverty that you have come hither”’.78 Even among themselves the pagan leaders explained Bernhard’s insanity and desperation to him being ‘“constrained by exces­ sive poverty”’.79 These behind-the-scenes deliberations of the Pomeranian 74 Ebo, Vita S. Ottonis, ed. by Wikarjak and Liman, ii. 1, p. 52: ‘Quod pagani non ferentes, accensis animis irruunt super eum, crudeliterque cesum seminecem reliquerunt’; The Life of Otto Apostle of Pomerania, trans. by Robinson, p. 21. 75 Ebo, Vita S. Ottonis, ed. by Wikarjak and Liman, ii. 1, p. 52: ‘Sacerdotes vero de medio plebis eum violenter abstrahentes, cum capellano et interprete suo navicule imposuerunt dicentes: “Quando quidem tanta tibi predicationis inest aviditas, predica piscibus maris et volatilibus celi, et cave ne ultra fines nostros attingere presumas, quia non est qui recipiat te, non est usque ad unum”’; The Life of Otto Apostle of Pomerania, trans. by Robinson, p. 22. 76 Ebo, Vita S. Ottonis, ed. by Wikarjak and Liman, ii. 1, p. 51: ‘Ille autem humilitatis ac paupertatis sue etiam in episcopatu custos […] despecto habitu et nudis pedibus urbem Iulin ingreditur, ibique constanter fidei katholice semina spargere cepit’. 77 Ebo, Vita S. Ottonis, ed. by Wikarjak and Liman, ii. 1, p. 51: ‘Cives autem ex ipso eum habitu despicientes, […] “Quomodo”, inquiunt, “credere possumus te nuntium summi Dei esse, cum ille gloriosus sit et omnibus divitiis plenus, tu vero despicabilis et tante paupertatis, ut nec calciamenta habere possis? […] Summus enim Deus nunquam tam abiectum nobis legatum dirigeret”’; The Life of Otto Apostle of Pomerania, trans. by Robinson, pp. 20–21. 78 Ebo, Vita S. Ottonis, ed. by Wikarjak and Liman, ii. 1, p. 51: ‘“quia pro sola tue mendicitatis inopia relevanda huc migrasti”’. 79 Ebo, Vita S. Ottonis, ed. by Wikarjak and Liman, ii. 1, p. 52: ‘“nimia cogente inopia mortem appetit, morti se ultro ingerit”’.

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homines economici are matched by the report from his mission which Bernhard delivered to Duke Bolesław III after his return to Gniezno: They are animals and are altogether ignorant of spiritual gifts [‘spiritualium donorum’], and so they judge a man only by his outward appearance. Me they rejected on the ground of my poverty, but if some influential preacher, whose honour and wealth they would respect, were to go to them, I expect that they would of their own accord submit to the yoke of Christ.80 It has been observed that in the logic of Ebo’s text, Bernhard’s figure functions as a narrative device whose primary purpose is to constitute an ineffective counterpoint, which readies the way for Otto of Bamberg, the hagiographer’s main protagonist, and his model of mission. Bernhard’s mendicant mission strategy is here contrasted with what he later himself advised to Otto: to astonish the Pomeranians with ostentatious wealth and large entourage and in no way make oneself dependent on the pagan’s gifts, but rather remunerate them ever more generously. Such an approach was better suited to the negatively valued, animal-like nature of the people they were dealing with.81 At the same time — regardless both of Ebo’s narrative purposes and the polemical aspect of his vita vis-à-vis the other narratives in this cluster — Bernhard’s example is representative of a larger tradition of missionary strategies. Both in his Vita quinque fratrum and in his life of St Adalbert, Bruno of Querfurt also proposed a radically different approach, which he recommended to his followers. The missionaries should learn the local languages, and they should stop shaving their heads and beards. They should change clerical vestments — which their pagan recipients found horrifying — for rugged clothing, like the Apostles, to live off the work of their hands. ‘Having become like them, we could live with them with greater familiarity, talk to them and live with them’.82 It was 80 Ebo, Vita S. Ottonis, ed. by Wikarjak and Liman, ii. 1, p. 53: ‘At episcopus: “Animales”, inquit, “sunt et spiritualium penitus ignari donorum, ideoque hominem non nisi exteriori habitu metiuntur. Me quidem pro paupertatis mee tenuitate abiecerunt; sed si potens quisquam predicator, cuius gloriam et divicias revereantur, ad eos accesserit, spero illos iugum Christi spontanee subituros”’; The Life of Otto Apostle of Pomerania, trans. by Robinson, p. 22. 81 Ebo, Vita S. Ottonis, ed. by Wikarjak and Liman, ii. 1, p. 53; Rosik, Conversio gentis Pomeranorum, pp. 163–67; Boroń, ‘Nieudane próby chrystianizacji’, pp. 33–35; Kujawiński, ‘Spotkanie z “innym”’, pp. 40–43. 82 Bruno of Querfurt, Vita quinque fratrum, ed. by Klaniczay, trans. by Gaşpar, Miladinov, 10, pp. 246–49: ‘iamque Sclauonicam linguam intelligere et satis bene loqui paratum habebat; et in quo consilio ambo errant, decreuit sibi tondere totum caput, uestem sumere uirilem, qualem seculares gerunt, ut paganorum oculos aspectu mulceret, ne dum nouitate uestium primo cursu exhorrerent, nec ad se uenire aliquibus locum dedissent, et quod ita esse potuit, habitu corporis nec ueste diuersus, eo facilus locum predicationis inueniret’; Bruno of Querfurt, Passio sancti Adalberti, ed. by Weinrich and Strzelczyk, 26, pp. 106–07: ‘Quo

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the lasting cohabitation-cum-conversion practised through assimilation and the assumption of a hybrid identity that he recommended, not just a fleeting encounter. By downplaying the markers of their alterity and employing mimicry, the missionary guests would effectively infiltrate the host communities with the hope of either evangelizing them from within or, at the very least, finding their martyrdom in the midst of the pagans.83 In other words, Bruno, but also Bernhard in his discussion with the Polish duke, was manifestly advocating practices of self-alienation by taking the other’s perspective on oneself (‘ut paganorum oculos aspectu mulceret’). Self-alienation was thus a crucial means of missionary labour, not just its undesired side-effect.84 As Wipert’s account shows, however, not even Bruno practised what he preached in the last moments of his life. He met his death in full episcopal attire.85 Bruno’s contradictions exemplify a well-explored issue of conflicting strategies for approaching pagans which cannot be discussed here to the full, as it falls outside the thematic scope of this book. Briefly put, in the eyes of the pagan hosts, at least the way they were construed by the missionaries, the efficacy of the sacrum in general and the competition between their domestic gods and the new Christian God could be directly measured by the wealth and prosperity they brought to their adherents and advocates. For instance, Otto of Bamberg, mindful of Bernhard’s mishaps, every Saturday (or biweekly, depending on whose account we follow) pa­ raded through the streets of Szczecin in his snow-white pontifical clothes. By frequenting the city’s most crowded spaces, e.g. the market, accompa­ nied by his similarly outlandishily vested followers performatively made sure that the inhabitants took good notice of their ostentation — a wholly different mode of self-estrangement.86 In other words, the evangelical

83 84 85 86

vertamur, nescio! Habitus corporum et horror vestium, ut video paganis animis non parum nocet. Unde si placet, vestimenta mutemus clericalia, pendentibus capillis surgere sinamus, tonsę barbę truncas comas prodire permittamus; forsan non agniti melius habemus salutem operari, similes eorum effecti familiarius eo habitamus, alloquimur et convivimus’. Bhabha, The Location of Culture, pp. 121–31; Bührer-Thierry, ‘Des communautés de païens menacées’, pp. 49–51. Jonsson, Subject Without Nation, pp. 64–78, 166–68; Bhabha, The Location of Culture, p. 63; Marx, Capital: Volume 1, pp. 716, 757, 799; Bloch, In and Out, pp. 119–25. Wood, The Missionary Life, pp. 235, 239–40; Wood, ‘Shoes and a Fish Dinner’, pp. 253–57; Kujawiński, ‘Spotkanie z “innym”’, pp. 23–24, 37–38; von Padberg, Die Inszenierung religiöser Konfrontationen, pp. 113–18. Vita Prieflingensis, ed. by Weinrich and Strzelczyk, ii. 8, pp. 154–55: ‘Porro ille per omne sabbatum prędicandi gratia in publicum procedebat, sacerdotalibus vestimentis indutus, tum ut maior sermoni inesset auctoritas, tum ut effera corda gentilium niveo demulceret aspectu’; Herbord, Dialogus de vita s. Ottonis, ed. by Wikarjak and Liman, ii. 26, p. 113: ‘nos interim bis in ebdomada, in diebus scilicet mercatus, per medium fori populo ex omni provincia conveniente, sacerdotalibus induti crucem portavimus et de fide atque agnicione Dei populum incredulum oportune et inportune alloquendo iugulum neci

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ideals of humility and poverty, such as represented by the Spanish bishop, were often at loggerheads with the local attitudes and were thus seen as ineffective tools of conversion.87 These contradictions can be translated into a conflict of perspectives on Bernhard and his ambiguous identity. By offering himself as a sui generis negative gift, effectively a burden, to the Wolinians he was putting them in debt. For his hosts he was a pauper and his behaviour and condition ac­ cordingly turned Wolin into a harbourage. Its inhabitants were thus turned into unwilling almoners. In his own eyes, he was just a humble guest and it was his hosts who were poor in spiritual gifts. In their eyes, he wanted to overwhelm and control them with those voided, dangerous, forcibly given gifts, whose effects were very similar to the stolen, self-vindicating Bible from Birka.88 In this most elementary materialistic frame, the newly arrived stranger was seen as an unprovoked and hence undeserved burden on the hosts. The host communities’ perspective and the type of relationship which emerges from such a confrontation is well captured by the concept of intolerable dependency proposed by Judith Butler. What is also noticeable in Bernhard’s episode is that the very arrival of strangers almost automat­ ically obligated the host community towards them. The relationship of hospitality was thus an ethico-political bind which rendered a stranger’s position ambivalent and (un-)desirable in the eyes of the host.89 The implications of this unsolicited, anger-provoking bind and dependency could likely become intolerable and lead to a refusal to shelter guests. In Bernhard’s case, his perceived economic reliance on the Wolinians was further enhanced by him physically threatening their central sacred object, politically imperilling their religious order and way of life, and finally symbolically and physically endangering their livelihood and homes. He essentially posed a threat to all the objects and spaces from which they derive their master-identity as hosts. On all those levels the Spaniard’s presence and demanding behaviour appeared intolerable and undesirable to such a degree that he had to be expelled.

quodammodo cottidie aptavimus’; Bartlett, ‘The Conversion of a Pagan Society’, pp. 185– 201; Banaszkiewicz, ‘Otto z Bambergu i pontifex idolorum’, pp. 28–41; von Padberg, Die Inszenierung religiöser Konfrontationen, pp. 117–20. 87 Kujawiński, ‘Spotkanie z “innym”’, pp. 35–43. 88 Graeber, ‘On the Moral Grounds of Economic Relations’, pp. 65–74; Mauss, The Gift; Simmel, On Individuality and Social Forms, pp. 170–72, 175–76; Gosden, ‘What Do Objects Want?’, pp. 193–211; Priddat, ‘Gäste – ökonomisch’, pp. 251–53, 260–64; Derrida, Given Time: I. Counterfeit Money, pp. 34–70. 89 Butler, The Force of Nonviolence, pp. 96–98; Simmel, On Individuality and Social Forms, pp. 164–66; Maciejewski, ‘Nudo pede intrat urbem’, pp. 89–100.

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Antechamber: St Otto of Bamberg, 1124–1125, 1128 So far, all the examples featured missionaries reaching directly into the cen­ tres of their pagan hosts’ communal life and addressing their assemblies. This illustrates the dominant model of initial evangelization in the Baltic Sea region as well as elsewhere, which was often conducted in a top-down fashion and by utilizing the pre-existing political structures, starting with the pagan leaders and elites in front of their community at the assembly.90 Though the three lives of St Otto of Bamberg, too, show that the bishop employed the same attitude in his conversion of the Pomeranians, they simultaneously indicate that the approach to the centre of the pagan communal life could occur in an indirect, non-linear, and rather protracted fashion. Just like in the case of St Adalbert’s vitae, the pitting of the different perspectives of the three accounts of Otto’s mission — the Vita Prieflingensis (sometimes attributed to Wolfger, composed c. 1140–1146), the Vita by Ebo of Michelsberg (composed c. 1151–1159), and the Dialo­ gus by Herbord of Michelsberg (c. 1159) — against each other will be instrumental in arriving at the competing spatial practices and ambiguous mechanisms of hospitality in this and the following section.91 Otto of Bamberg was a man who knew how and where to wait. For instance, according to Herbord’s Dialogus, as Otto’s expedition approached Pyrzyce/Pyritz (in north-western Poland) late at night, probably in the spring of 1124, they noticed a great and loud pagan feast taking place in the city. Rather than entering the city, the bishop and his advisers considered it would not be ‘advantageous or wise as unexpected guests to approach that night a crowd of excited people’ and spent the night hidden and silent in the vicinity.92 On the next morning Otto cautiously approached the elders of the city through go-betweens and negotiated his reception and the conditions of the conversion of the inhabitants. Mindful of Bernhard’s example, he repeatedly assured them that he neither needed nor expected anything from them in form of personal gains. Eventually, the pagans ‘conducted them […] to the place reserved for visitors [“ad hospicii locum”], which was a large space at the entrance to the camp […]

90 Kahl, ‘Heidnisches Wendentum’, pp. 181–231; Kujawiński, ‘Spotkanie z “innym”’, pp. 31–33, 52–55, von Padberg, Mission und Christianisierung, pp. 95–102. For Pomerania specifically Bartlett, ‘The Conversion of a Pagan Society’, pp. 185–201; von Padberg, Die Inszenierung religiöser Konfrontationen, pp. 219–26. 91 Rosik, Conversio gentis Pomeranorum, pp. 47–56. 92 Herbord, Dialogus de vita s. Ottonis, ed. by Wikarjak and Liman, ii. 14, p. 84: ‘Non igitur utile vel cautum nobis visum est illa nocte in turbam potu leticiaque ferventem nos tam insolitos hospites advenire, sed manentes, ubi fuimus, noctem illam insompnem duximus nec ignem in castris habere ausi nec verbis apercioribus ad invicem loqui presumentes’ emphasis mine; The Life of Otto Apostle of Pomerania, trans. by Robinson, p. 42; Rosik, Conversio gentis Pomeranorum, pp. 211–21.

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and here they fixed their tents while the barbarians kindly and gently assisted and made themselves in every way useful’.93 The bishop and his entourage stayed there for three weeks in order to evangelize and prepare the mass baptisms.94 This initially distancing approach was repeated on other occasions, both under welcoming and hostile circumstances. In Wolin in the Odra estuary, whose inhabitants were just as unfriendly to Otto as they had previously been to Bernhard, the missionaries ‘spread their tents in front of the town and remained there for seven days’. They daily inquired the inhabitants whether they would convert, only to learn that the Wolinians based their decision on that made by the Szczecinians.95 Similarly in his second Pomeranian mission in 1128, during which Otto and his compan­ ions entered the region from the west (via Germany) rather than from the south (via Poland), one of their missionary targets was Demmin (in Mecklenburg). Otto was already familiar with the prefect of the town who ‘received us in a friendly manner and said that he would treat the others as his guests, and at the same time he pointed out an open space for us to occupy in an old castle near the town’, where the expedition put up its tents.96 It was becoming abuntantly clear these missionary guests would not to leave on the next day, but sought to fundamentally transform their hosts, one might add.97 Such initial distancing and the gradual preparation of the unaccus­ tomed hosts for the unexpected guests (‘insolitos hospites’) from a nearby location is a spatial leitmotif in Otto’s missionary strategy. By producing and occupying these antechambers of pagan communities, Otto’s strategy relates to Simmel’s observations about the ambiguity of the notion of the 93 Herbord, Dialogus de vita s. Ottonis, ed. by Wikarjak and Liman, ii. 14, p. 87: ‘Re autem sicut erat recte agnita, pavore abiecto in modum torrentis omnis populus in occursum nostrum effunditur, ambiens et circumdans, ammirans et contemplans et nos et omnia nostra, usque ad hospicii locum nos conducendo. Fuit autem ante introitum castri area spaciosa, quam occupantes fiximus tentoria in eodem loco ipsis barbaris mansuete ac familiariter nos adiuvantibus et in omnibus se nobis oportunos exhibentibus’; The Life of Otto Apostle of Pomerania, trans. by Robinson, p. 44. 94 Herbord, Dialogus de vita s. Ottonis, ed. by Wikarjak and Liman, ii. 15–17, pp. 87–91; according to Ebo, Otto remained in Pyrzyce only for two weeks: Ebo, Vita S. Ottonis, ed. by Wikarjak and Liman, ii. 5, pp. 64–65. 95 Ebo, Vita S. Ottonis, ed. by Wikarjak and Liman, ii. 7, p. 67: ‘Vix ergo interventu ac suffragio ducis post multimodas iniurias vivi evaserunt, et extensis ante castrum tentoriis septem diebus illic morabantur, cottidie per internuncios utriusque ducis, id est Polizlai et Wortizlai, requirentes a Iulinensibus, si fidei christiane iugum subire deliberassent’. 96 Herbord, Dialogus de vita s. Ottonis, ed. by Wikarjak and Liman, iii. 1, p. 149: ‘Solum tamen urbis prefectum in priori peregrinacione cognitum habentes ipsum de hospicio convenimus, sed ille amice nos suscipiens et alios quoque se hospites habiturum dicens aream iuxta civitatem in veteri castello nostre mansioni designavit’; Rosik, Conversio gentis Pomeranorum, pp. 400–04. 97 Simmel, On Individuality and Social Forms, p. 143.

PAGAN HOSTS, MISSIONARY GUESTS, SPACES OF HOSPITALITY

stranger (der Fremde), in which the host’s interaction with an unfamiliar guest designates a contradictory spatial relationship. By his definition, for the host the relation with a stranger/guest is not one of ‘distance and disinterest’, but rather ‘a distinct structure composed of remoteness and nearness, indifference and involvement’.98 The type of stranger (Gast) Otto and his entourage represented was culturally and religiously distant, but physically and threateningly near. Looking out, from the insider perspec­ tive of Demmin, Wolin, Pyrzyce, or Szczecin, the missionaries occupied an ambiguous space of hospitality, literally right outside the door, just beyond the threshold, where the other’s ‘proximity is remote’ and his ‘distance is close’, anthropologically as well as etymologically speaking.99 Also in a reverse perspective, looking from the outside in, the ambigu­ ity and the treachery of these antechambers occupied by the missionary guests was palpable. This danger was not merely physical — the threat of hosts’ attitude taking a turn to the hostile overnight. It was spiritual as well. This is particularly visible in an episode from Havelberg (in Sachsen-Anhalt) which Otto’s expedition visited just before Demmin. As Ebo narrates, on the day of the arrival the apostate inhabitants placed flags around the city to celebrate the pagan god Gerovit. ‘When the man of God perceived this, he […] refused to enter the walls of the town, but waited in front of the gate and, having summoned Widikind [Witikindus], the ruler of the place demanded of him why he permitted this idolatry to be practiced’.100 The episode was meant, among others, to demonstrate the bishop of Bamberg’s munificence and superiority vis-à-vis the cruel Norbert of Xanten, Archbishop of Magdeburg (r. 1126–1134). The latter’s burdensome tax policies allegedly led to the local population’s relapse into idolatry, but Otto did not want to undermine Norbert’s prerogatives by estranging his diocesans. The example shows also that from the perspective of the missionary guests, the pagan sacrum inhabiting the city represented a spiritual danger and a symbolic pollution which made the space inhos­ pitable to them. The antechambers outside pagan centres provided relative spiritual safety and isolation for the guests.101 The last point relates to the power aspect implied in these antecham­ bers. As seen, for instance, in the Wolin case, for the pagan hosts the places of hospice to which they assigned their Christian guests, which barely 98 Simmel, On Individuality and Social Forms, pp. 143–49. 99 Friese, ‘Spaces of Hospitality’, p. 68; Simmel, On Individuality and Social Forms, pp. 143–44; Benveniste, Dictionary of the Indo-European, pp. 254–55. 100 Ebo, Vita S. Ottonis, ed. by Wikarjak and Liman, iii. 3, p. 100: ‘Quod vir Domini ut advertit, cordetenus pro tali errore compunctus, urbis menia ingredi recusavit, sed ante portam consistens, Witikindum, eiusdem loci dominum, accersivit, et cur hanc idolatriam exerceri pateretur, obiurgavit’; The Life of Otto Apostle of Pomerania, trans. by Robinson, pp. 116–17. 101 Rosik, Conversio gentis Pomeranorum, pp. 393–96; Kujawiński, ‘Spotkanie z “innym”’, pp. 46– 51.

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allowed for holding them at arms-length, were a source of distress. For the missionaries, on the other hand, these spaces served as bases from which they tried to reach to the political elites in the centre with their evangelical message. The relationship between these spaces of hospitality and the centre was by no means stable, however. Rather, it was highly dynamic which is visible when the movement of missionaries in and around Wolin in 1124 in Herbord’s version is studied in closer detail. According to this account, Otto and his companions came over from Kamień Pomorski/Kammin by boats. They were led by local guides who persuaded the missionaries not to enter the city during the day, but rather furtively after the sundown. Otto’s rationale was that if he approached the Wolinians incrementally he would have greater chance of persuading them. They secretly made their way into the city, going directly into the duke’s stronghold, which served as an asylum for guests, a very unique type of space of hospitality which we will return to below. With their discovery at dawn, Otto’s plan imploded immediately. The inhabitants, ‘seized with a senseless rage’, angrily expelled the — imposing — guests from the city by denying them asylum despite Duke Wartislaw’s wishes. On the missionaries’ way out through the muddy streets and across the bridges of Wolin things got out of hand and Otto was attacked by one of the pagans, only to be saved by the intervention of one of his companions. Finally, the guests escaped the city through one of the major bridges: ‘we went then across the lake and broke down the bridge behind us, for fear lest the people should attack us again’. There, on the opposite bank of Dziwna/Dievenow River, they stayed for fifteen days waiting for their hosts to change their minds.102 In Herbord’s version, those two weeks were a witness to a slow burn­ ing, phoney siege. A siege conducted by means of indirect influence (‘per ambages’) so characteristic for antechambers and more akin to Otto’s original plan. As noted by Carl Schmitt, the antechamber and the heart of power remain in a dialectical relationship, which develop specific avenues of communication here expressed as gift-giving, negotiations, building and tearing down of physical and symbolic bridges as well as threats and violence. The guides and interpreters of the missionaries went back and forth communicating with the more amicable and reasonable portion of the Wolinian leaders vis-à-vis the stubborn pagan priests. The negotiating 102 Herbord, Dialogus de vita s. Ottonis, ed. by Wikarjak and Liman, ii. 24, p. 109: ‘Tandem multo discrimine ponte arrepto rursum ire et abire cepimus extra civitatem illique a prudencioribus [civitatis] sedati cessaverunt a nobis. Abeuntes ergo trans lacum disiecto ponte a tergo nostro, ne iterum impetum super nos facerent, in campo inter areas et loca horreorum decumbendo respiravimus videntes et dinumerantes socios et quia nullus defuit, Deum benedicentes’; The Life of Otto Apostle of Pomerania, trans. by Robinson, p. 64. According to Ebo (Vita S. Ottonis, ed. by Wikarjak and Liman, ii. 7, pp. 66–67), this antechamber lasted only for seven days.

PAGAN HOSTS, MISSIONARY GUESTS, SPACES OF HOSPITALITY

elders came out too. They shifted the blame onto the ‘stupid and worth­ less section of the people’, thus offering a further opportunity for the guests to slowly drive a wedge between the hosts. Putting it differently, the emergence of this space, or, better, timescape of hospitality created uncertainty about the political structure of Wolin, temporarily establishing an alternative power centre outside the city.103 These two weeks thus not only eroded the relative isolation of the host community, but from the guests’ viewpoint also worked as a sui generis political thresher, sorting the host community into friends and enemies. Moreover, as we shall see in Chapter 6 in greater detail, a careful manage­ ment of information and intimidating suggestions of possible scenarios to the besieged were crucial for this erosion and a slow surrender. The bishop attempted to persuade and exhort the elders. He also explicitly threatened them he would call upon Duke Bolesław to avenge his insults, painting an image of a violent intervention which could be averted only by their speedy conversion, that is, by trading protection for submission in the changing context of brutal holy wars arriving on the shores of the Baltic.104 The hosts had to hurry up, the guests could wait, which marked the status differential between them.105 Here, too, the Polish duke — absent but near, outlined through a negative space — hovered over this space of hospitality constituting its outermost orbit, which suggests that a strong draught passing through the Wolin antechamber which now was simultaneously open to two political contexts: Pomeranian and Polish. Ultimately, as men­ tioned above, the Wolinians ceded their decision regarding conversion to Szczecin, the mater civitatum of Pomerania.106 This guest was too powerful, too big a contingency for them to handle and to master so they hoped that the more dominant hosts would give Otto a proper reception and kill him.

Asylum: St Otto of Bamberg, 1124 As stated above, the high medieval depictions of the theatres of missionary activity on the Baltic Rim featured some explicit spaces of hospitality surrounded with a sacred ban and a strict prohibition of violence, which have traditionally captured the attention of scholars studying pre-Christian 103 Schmitt, Gespräch über die Macht, pp. 17–20; Puff, ‘Waiting in the Antechamber’, pp. 17–34; Bissell, ‘Animating Suspension’, pp. 281–85, 289–92; Rosik, Conversio gentis Pomeranorum, pp. 250–51. 104 Herbord, Dialogus de vita s. Ottonis, ed. by Wikarjak and Liman, ii. 25, pp. 110–11; Graeber, ‘On the Moral Grounds of Economic Relations’, pp. 73–74; von Güttner-Sporzyński, Poland, Holy War, pp. 77–106. 105 Puff, ‘Waiting in the Antechamber’, pp. 27–30; Bourdieu, Pascalian Meditations, pp. 221–31. 106 Herbord, Dialogus de vita s. Ottonis, ed. by Wikarjak and Liman, ii. 25, pp. 110–11; Rosik, Conversio gentis Pomeranorum, pp. 250–53.

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religions and barbarian notions of hospitality as well as their Christian interpretations.107 The point here is not restate these findings, but to inquire what concrete meetings can reveal about the ambiguous spatiality, emotions, (self-)identification, and power dynamics of host-guest relations against this broader background. For this, Otto of Bamberg’s fate in Wolin comes in handy again. Otto’s expedition was escorted to Wolin by the Pomeranian Duke Wartislaw’s entourage.108 As all three authors largely agree, all the cities in Pomerania recognized an ancient custom that as long as anyone, including even a persecuted criminal, was granted free refuge (‘hospicium’) in the duke’s house, that person was protected from any hostility, be it by the general population or specific enemies (‘ab inimicis’).109 Otto’s hagiogra­ phers differed, however, on how the limits of such protection and safety were specifically delineated for the Bishop of Bamberg. According to the Vita Prüfeningensis, Otto was exposed to danger (‘periculum’) as soon he started to preach publicly.110 In Ebo’s version, the Wolinians did not even get to see the bishop out in the open. As the inhabitants noticed the missionaries’ presence in the city, they immediately second-guessed the motives of the guests, correctly suspecting that the Christians aimed to subvert their patria and their ancient, divinely instituted laws — the sources of the Wolinians’ identity as masters — by abusing the privilege of asylum. This sufficed to spark off a violent ejection of the unwelcome strangers from the duke’s mansion.111 Finally, in Herbord’s version, when the presence of the guests was revealed, they were explicitly pressed to disperse any doubts about their identities and intentions.112 They were forcibly subjected to an act of interpellation, that is, recognized and pressed to give their name, actively

107 Modzelewski, Barbarian Europe, pp. 305–06, 309–10. 108 Wartislaw I was the founder of the House of Griffin, a family which dominated the Baltic politics in the centuries to come, with Eric of Pomerania (1380/1381–1459) being its most prominent member as the ruler of the Kalmar Union. 109 Vita Prieflingensis, ed. by Weinrich and Strzelczyk, ii. 5, pp. 150–51: ‘Mos enim iste antiquitus a gentibus servabatur, ut quamdiu quis libere in domo principis habitaret, nisi primum consulto principe, de gravi crimine coargutus, nichil a quoquam molestię sustineret’; Ebo, Vita S. Ottonis, ed. by Wikarjak and Liman, ii. 7, p. 67: ‘Mos autem est regionis illius, ut princeps terre in singulis castris propriam sedem et mansionem habeat, in quam quicumque fugerit, tutum ab inimicis asylum possidet’; Herbord, Dialogus de vita s. Ottonis, ed. by Wikarjak and Liman, ii. 24, pp. 105–06: ‘In singulis autem civitatibus dux palacium habebat et curtim cum edibus, ad quam si quis confugisset, lex talis erat, ut quolibet hoste persequente securus ibi consisteret et illesus’. 110 Vita Prieflingensis, ed. by Weinrich and Strzelczyk, ii. 5, pp. 150–51: ‘episcopo […] publicis vero se inferre conspectibus sine gravi sui suorumque periculo non audebat’. 111 Ebo, Vita S. Ottonis, ed. by Wikarjak and Liman, ii. 7, p. 67: ‘ab hac pacis condicione deorum suorum edicto censerentur’; Rosik, Conversio gentis Pomeranorum, pp. 246–47. 112 Herbord, Dialogus de vita s. Ottonis, ed. by Wikarjak and Liman, ii. 24, pp. 106–07.

PAGAN HOSTS, MISSIONARY GUESTS, SPACES OF HOSPITALITY

construe their identities on site which emerged in tension to those of their hosts, the power of the duke, and against the background of the legal framework of the asylum space.113 Because of this interpellation the missionaries’ identity was suddenly stretched to the full extent of the polysemy of the notion of hostis: at the same time they were the duke’s guests and his subjects’ enemies.114 Because of this obvious clash and the rising agitation of the crowd, the missionaries fled the duke’s court offering brief resistance on the way in some solid building (known as stupa or pyrale, usually interpreted as a bathhouse), but whose walls the Wolinians tore down, eventually letting the missionaries escape the city.115 It is clear from this fragment that the barbarian institutions, customs, and norms of hospitality — so widely depicted by Christian authors as central to the communal life of many pagan societies and particularly praised by Adam — seldom really operated in automatic or absolute fashion.116 Rather, they were conditional and circumstantial and depended strictly on specific power relations. It is striking how little it took for the enraged hosts in Wolin to roll back these obligations and set aside the sacred provisions of ban and asylum vis-à-vis these specific guests whom they viewed as enemies. To put this in spatial terms, the supposedly wide, impassable chasm between the innermost, protective space of hospitality of the asylum and the potential of hostility looming without it was if not illusory, then at least continuously on the verge of contraction. Otto and his companions learned this lesson the hard way as soon as the Wolinians started to storm the court and later tear down the wall which physically and figuratively showed how little distance between the spaces of hostility and hospitality there actually was. From the point of view of the missionary guests, the outside poured into the inside.117 The second point addresses, again, the power differential with the host community in Wolin. As Modzelewski stresses, it seems that the initially manifold obligations of hospitality and the protection of strangers were a communal responsibility of entire pagan tribes in many European con­ texts. Over time, however, differently for different peoples, periods, and re­ gions, these requirements and prerogatives moved to or were assumed by rulers and political leaders.118 Such an arrangement is clearly discernable from the Pomeranian example at least. Yet sometimes a duke’s free wish to 113 Althusser, ‘Ideology and Ideological State Apparatuses’, pp. 261–66; Butler, ‘‘Conscience Doth Make Subjects of Us All’’, pp. 106–09, 114–15; Jezierski, ‘Paranoia sangallensis’, pp. 153–54; Heffernan, Hospitality and Treachery, pp. 18–19. 114 Benveniste, Dictionary of Indo-European Concepts, pp. 61–73. 115 Herbord, Dialogus de vita s. Ottonis, ed. by Wikarjak and Liman, ii. 24, pp. 107–09; Rosik, Conversio gentis Pomeranorum, pp. 246–47. 116 Modzelewski, Barbarian Europe, pp. 26–41. 117 Agamben, Homo sacer, p. 111. 118 Modzelewski, Barbarian Europe, pp. 26–41, 356.

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give protection to someone did not coincide with the popular sentiment. It definitely did not in Wartislaw’s case, who did not dare to practice Christianity publicly among his pagan subjects.119 As far as the ethos and responsibility to offer hospitality and protection to strangers or declare them as enemies are concerned, it seems that little was decided once and for all. Rather there always existed an irreducible tension between a ruler’s power and potestas vis-à-vis the communal authority embodied in popular action.120 This sacred ancient custom turned out to be not so sacred after all, which shows the limits of ethnographic readings of missionary sources. The practice was in fact based on a tacit and brittle arrangement, which was open for renegotiation when it came to specific conflicts about who was to take care of ensuring the security of the host community. These two types of ambiguity — concerning the spatial limits between hostility and hospitality and the underdetermined locus of authority to offer/withhold a welcome in Wolin — correspond to Giorgio Agamben’s remarks about the linguistic and institutional ambiguity of the ban and the resulting undecided status, spatiality, and identity of people subjected to it: the semantic ambiguity […] in which ‘banned’ in Romance languages originally meant both ‘at the mercy of ’ and ‘out of free will, freely’, both ‘excluded, banned’ and ‘open to all, free’. The ban is the force of simultaneous attraction and repulsion that ties together the two poles of sovereign exception: bare life and power, homo sacer and the sovereign.121 The same semantic ambiguity of ban and hospitality applied to the linguis­ tic, Germanic and Slavic, crossroads in Pomerania.122 In this sense, for Otto of Bamberg the sphere of the asylum in Wolin also created a brief opportunity for him to assume the identity he hoped for so much — that of a martyr and prospectively a saint, this Christian variant of homo sacer’s paradoxical figure. It seems that on his way out of the city the bishop was at the same time formally protected by the duke’s ban and actually banished by the people, excepted and open for anyone to kill.123 As Herbord notes, already when they were besieged in the stupa/pyrale, the bishop expressed

Rosik, Conversio gentis Pomeranorum, pp. 198–204; Compare Paroń, The Pechenegs, p. 150. Agamben, State of Exception, pp. 74–88; Smith, ‘Introduction’, pp. 17–26. Agamben, Homo sacer, p. 110. Modzelewski, Barbarian Europe, pp. 297–98; Rossignol, ‘Bilingualism in Medieval Europe’, pp. 523–43; Curta, Slavs in the Making, pp. 170–72. 123 Agamben, Homo sacer, pp. 71, 111: ‘We must learn to recognize this structure of the ban in the political relation and public spaces in which we still live. In the city, the banishment of sacred life is more internal than every interiority and more external than every extraneousness’ [emphasis in the original]; Jezierski, ‘Paranoia sangallensis’, pp. 163–64; Santner, ‘Miracles Happen’, pp. 101–04; Behrman, Law and Asylum, pp. 1–67; Giannacopoulos, ‘Offshore Hospitality’, pp. 163–83.

119 120 121 122

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his desire to receive a blow or a wound in the name of Christ despite the general tumult and the panic of his companions. Accordingly, after leaving the building and before the missionaries destroyed the bridge behind them, Otto received three near-lethal blows from some furious Wolinians, but was shielded by the bodies of his companions who too ‘suffered blows in Christ’s name’. At last, when they safely recovered their breath on the other side of the river, Otto complained that their defence had prevented him from gaining the crown and palm of martyrdom. To this Paulicius [the comes or castellanus of Santok and Otto’s right-hand man during this mission] answered: ‘Let it suffice, master, that to us you appeared to receive it’, though this was not enough for the bishop and he regretted this blessing was snatched from him.124 Irrespectively of the fact that this entire episode is a literary construct written with hindsight and that Herbord’s text contributed to a larger de­ bate about Otto’s claim to sanctity (the bishop was canonized in 1189),125 this scene still points to one of the crucial problems explored in this book: that is, the bewildering way the questions of identity were articulated by spaces of hospitality. In this case, the ambiguity was conveyed by the pseudo-martyrdom and quasi-martyr status of Otto — an in-betweenness and mimesis so typical of Otto’s lives, his title as the Apostle of Pomerani­ ans, and of regional missionary hagiographies in general.126 In contrast to Bruno of Querfurt or St Adalbert, however, for the bishop of Bamberg this vision of a sacrificial death in Pomerania and to a possibly radical transformation of his identity flickered for a brief moment and was closed immediately. Nevertheless, in the world of the text and in the minds of his readers for a split second Otto enjoyed two incompatible identities. One actual and one potential or anticipatory, whom he was and whom he could or would be, which his canonization eventually fused together and recognized formally.127 Finally, the simultaneous force of attraction and repulsion of the banned space of hospitality highlighted by Agamben was in Wolin ex­ pressed through the emotions gravitating towards it. What kind of an affective space was this asylum then? Quite evidently, as Otto’s guides expressed it — feeling fear about the space outside of it and hoping for protection on the inside — its emotional baseline was dominated by safety 124 Herbord, Dialogus de vita s. Ottonis, ed. by Wikarjak and Liman, ii. 24–25, pp. 104–11: ‘Cui Paulicius: “Satis”, inquit, “domine, nobis visus es accepisse”’; The Life of Otto Apostle of Pomerania, trans. by Robinson, p. 64. 125 Rosik, Conversio gentis Pomeranorum, pp. 81–94. 126 Rosik, Conversio gentis Pomeranorum, pp. 47–57, 535–38; Petersohn, ‘Apostolus Pomeranorum’, pp. 257–94; Jezierski, ‘St Adalbertus domesticus’, pp. 254–59. 127 Hacking, ‘Making Up People’, p. 107: ‘Who we are is not only what we did, do, and will do, but also what we might have done and may do. Making up people changes the space of possibilities for personhood’; Bynum, Metamorphosis and Identity, pp. 163–66.

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and insulation from danger, if securitas or feeling safe can be counted as emotional states.128 But in more situational terms the emotional charge of this space was quite volatile. According to Ebo, the ever-pious Otto approached this refuge with tears and prayers for the conversion of the Pomeranians. He was humble and spiritually prepared for the task of evangelization, hoping for success but, like St Adalbert, factoring in the possibility he would die a martyr’s death.129 For the pagan hosts outside, the emotional charge was radically different, though their feelings are known to us solely through the testimonies of their Christian adversaries and authors with quite predictable results. According to Prüfeninger Vita, the heavily armed barbarians threw ashes and stones around while scream­ ing and gnashing their teeth.130 Ebo, in turn, claims that the armed pagans were ‘intoxicated with the chalice of God’s anger’ when they attacked the missionaries.131 Against these two, emotionally quite reticent accounts, Herbord’s offers a very broad range of hostile emotions on the hosts’ part. His version is based on the personal testimony and recollections of one of the interlocutors of his dialogue, Sefridus, though this does not mean that the author did not use certain clichés. The ‘evil-disposed persons’ outside the duke’s mansion were perturbed, ran frantically hither and thither and around ‘seized with a senseless rage’, and armed themselves and ‘raising a great uproar’. As the guests exited the court and made their way to the stupa, the hosts, shouting and screaming, threatened them with death and prepared a ‘furious attack’. Standing outside the building their ‘madness’ and ‘fury’ did not lessen, as the missionaries hoped, but blazed even more fiercely. Sefridus recollected how he, stricken with fever, heard the rattling arms and the mob’s ‘bacchantic shouts’ from the outside. On the inside, the emotional reactions of the besieged arranged according to a predictable pattern known from other missionary theatres such as these

128 Herbord, Dialogus de vita s. Ottonis, ed. by Wikarjak and Liman, ii. 24, pp. 105–06: ‘conductores nostri herere, pavere atque inter se musitare ceperunt. […] “Timemus […] pater, tibi ac tuis […] intramus freti securitate”’; Rosik, Conversio gentis Pomeranorum, pp. 246–47; Jezierski, ‘Tuotilo and St Gall’s Emotional Community’, pp. 131–35; Ljunggren, Den uppskjutna vreden, pp. 164–66. 129 Ebo, Vita S. Ottonis, ed. by Wikarjak and Liman, ii. 7, p. 67: ‘pius Otto ingressus, orationibus et lacrimis pro conversione gentis Pomeranice instabat’. Similarly, St Adalbert made spiritual preparations for his own death through tears and crying: Nagy, Le don des larmes au Moyen Âge, pp. 218, 230–31; Swift, ‘A Penitent Prepares’, pp. 79–101. 130 Vita Prieflingensis, ed. by Weinrich and Strzelczyk, 5, pp. 150–51: ‘videres barbaros cum gladiis ac fustibus, veluti unumquemque casus armaverat, certatim erumpere, pulverem alios spargere, alios lapides crebro iactare, fremere dentibus, vocibus strepere, ut, nullo nocendi genere prętermisso, cuncti pariter in unius necem hominis conspirasse viderentur’. 131 Ebo, Vita S. Ottonis, ed. by Wikarjak and Liman, ii. 7, p. 67: ‘Nam urbani calice furoris Dei misere debriati’; The Life of Otto Apostle of Pomerania, trans. by Robinson, p. 60.

PAGAN HOSTS, MISSIONARY GUESTS, SPACES OF HOSPITALITY

discussed in the previous chapter.132 While some of the bishop’s entourage started to tremble and others ‘cried out of fear’, in contrast, Otto, the main protagonist ‘stood undaunted’ and fearless and readied himself for the much-expected martyrdom with ‘joyful spirit and cheerful countenance’. In the end, it was brave Paulicius who directly confronted the inhabitants about their rage and reasoned with them, dampening and navigating their emotions. The comes saved the day and allowed the guests to escape to the other side of the river.133 The conflicting, undecided character of emotions linked to this space of hospitality evidently matched the aporia of its legal and religiopolitical status, turning the institution and the sphere of asylum into an emotional arena of two radically opposed affective styles.134

Neighbourhood: St Otto of Bamberg, 1128 Despite the tendency of Baltic hagiographers to present the arrival of mis­ sionaries as first contacts with culturally pristine pagan communities (e.g. due to institutional conflicts of legatine or episcopal authority, or issues concerning licentia predicandi), commonly there had been Christians living next to pagan neighbours for decades or centuries in the regions which were subject to wholesale conversions as a result of these arrivals. As we saw in St Adalbert’s example, these Christians often served as liaisons and mediators between the missionary guests and pagan host communities.135 This was all the more true for Pomerania during Otto of Bamberg’s sec­ ond and successful expedition in 1128. The example from Wolgast (in Mecklenburg-Vorpommern) well shows how the spatially framed category

132 Kotecki and Maciejewski, ‘Writing Episcopal Courage’, pp. 35–61. 133 Herbord, Dialogus de vita s. Ottonis, ed. by Wikarjak and Liman, ii. 24, pp. 106–08, ‘maligni homines scrutati sunt. Primo quidem moveri ac sensim turbari, currere ac discurrere, videre nos iterumque videre et alii aliis nunciare. […] insano furore correpti magno tumultu […] propter impetum furentis populi […] Ego autem eo tempore magna febri tenebar, in alia domo iacens et egrotans, ultra vires tamen, audito strepitu et clamore bachancium de stratu erectus ad oscium domus constiti. […] Vociferabantur autem et clamabant […] quasi a furore illi essent cessaturi, magis eorum exarsit insania […] Tunc vero episcopus ad coronam passionis se invitari sperans, nobis aliis trepidantibus, quibusdam eciam pre pavore lacrimantibus, ille spiritu iocundo et hilari vultu stabat intrepidus optans et gliscens, […] in medium populi exilientes validissimo clamore […] “Quid furitis in nos?”’; The Life of Otto Apostle of Pomerania, trans. by Robinson, p. 62. 134 Rosik, ‘Gdy radosne widowisko przeradza się w horror’, pp. 369–76; Seymour, ‘Emotional Arenas’, pp. 177–97. 135 It is worth noting the in the later, apocryphal hagiography of St Adalbert the enigmatic figure of the ‘dominus ville’, who introduced the missionary to the Prussian assembly, developed into a larger episode about Prussian and Christian (in-)hospitality: Jezierski, ‘St Adalbertus domesticus’, pp. 245–49.

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of the neighbour qualified host-guest relations on the Baltic Rim and how it added to their ambiguity. Otto’s second Pomeranian mission focused on the western part of the region. Particularly on the Island of Usedom, where the decisive summit between Wartislaw’s powerful pagan followers and the bishop occurred during Pentecost in mid-June 1128 and where the final decision to subject the region to Christianity was reached.136 After this watershed, Otto, emu­ lating Christ, sent out his disciples in twos to convert individual villages and cities and implement the decision, though they still met a great deal of local resistance.137 One such pair, Ulrich and Albuin, were sent to Wolgast (in Mecklenburg-Vorpommern). There they were kindly and hospitably received (‘hospicio suscepti atque satis humane tractati sunt’) by a certain unnamed powerful matron who, according to Herbord, was a wife to a powerful local magnate. ‘Yet despite the fact that she was pagan she offered much hospitality, as she was very pious and full of fear of God, which was to a great amazement of the two’.138 After the meal, the visitors revealed the evangelizing motivation of their visit to their hostess. To this she reacted with dread about the safety of her house but also with friendly fear for the lives of her guests and her own. She clarified that through a divine judgement the pagan priests and the elders of the village had already decided to protect Wolgast by killing any missionaries and people housing them. Prompted by Christian divine inspiration, however, she hid the terrified apostles in the attic and had their horses led away. Shortly afterwards, a part of the enraged local community appeared in front of her house and asked the ‘mater familias’ to surrender the strangers; the woman admitted that she had hosted and feed some ‘unknown travelling people’ (‘homines ignoti ac peregrini’), but that they had already gone their way. The villagers searched her house, but left empty-handed. The two apostles spent three days — or just one, if we follow Ebo’s account — concealed in the attic until the leader of the Usedom and Bishop Otto arrived and the conversion of Wolgast commenced.139

136 Rosik, Conversio gentis Pomeranorum, pp. 408–15. 137 Matthew 10; Rosik, Conversio gentis Pomeranorum, pp. 415–16. 138 Herbord, Dialogus de vita s. Ottonis, ed. by Wikarjak and Liman, iii. 5, p. 158: ‘Nam hec quamvis pagana multum hospitalitati dedita fuit ac divino timori ac religiosa valde, adeo ut esset eis ammirationi’. 139 Ebo, Vita S. Ottonis, ed. by Wikarjak and Liman, iii. 7, pp. 106–08: ‘[…] ubi a matre familias, uxore scilicet prefecti urbis, honorifice suscepti sunt, ita ut pedes eorum summa humilitatis devocione lavaret, statimque mensa apposita copiosissimis eos dapibus reficeret, mirantibus eis et admodum stupentibus, quod talem in regno diaboli humilitatis et hospitalitatis gratiam invenissent. […] “Et hec domus mea, semper quieta et pacifica, omnibus peregrinis supervenientibus hospitalis fuit, nunc vero sanguine vestro contaminanda erit”’; The Life of Otto Apostle of Pomerania, trans. by Robinson, pp. 129–31.

PAGAN HOSTS, MISSIONARY GUESTS, SPACES OF HOSPITALITY

Though their accounts differ in certain details and emphasis, Ebo and Herbord both praise the bravery and exceptional hospitality of the pagan woman, notwithstanding that the latter author stereotypically applauded the naturally hospitable inclination of the Pomeranians elsewhere.140 As stressed by Rosik, in their presentation of the Wolgast hostess, both hagiographers included her into the Christian order of salvation avant la lettre. They ascribed to her the temporally ambiguous, proleptic identity of an almost already Christian, based on her treatment of the missionary guests. This was achieved by emphasizing the hostess’s Christian faculties: fear of God, friendly fear for her guests, piety, and kindness. Above all, this was textually performed through Biblical parallels and frames, in this case by comparing the matron to the figure of Rahab from Book of Joshua. Ra­ hab’s story, too, is an example of a woman’s extraordinary hospitality and protection offered to Joshua’s two spies sent to Jericho, likewise misleading the local hosts about her guests’ whereabouts and keeping them hidden in the attic for three days.141 Despite the fact that the Biblical templates and references as well as the allegorical drive and stereotypes are stylistically so consequential for how both authors frame the Wolgast episode, this example still reveals a lot about the uncertain character and spatiality of host-guest relations in Pomerania. One aspect, pointed out by Rosik and Kujawiński, is the tension between the sacred peace of the woman’s house, which she wanted to shield from bloodshed, and her role as its mighty hostess (an extension of her husband’s authority) vis-à-vis the local community’s bloodthirsty calls for killing and its authority to deny hospitality in Wolgast as a whole. It has been argued that the lives of Otto provide an insight into a pagan culture and region where the traditional and sacred senses of host-guest relations, as far as the elite practices are concerned at least, were already corroding. They were gradually permeated and subverted by the Christian senses of hospitalitas and humanitas.142 From this perspective, the mission­ ary guests such as Ulrich and Albuin could be simultaneously viewed,

140 Herbord, Dialogus de vita s. Ottonis, ed. by Wikarjak and Liman, ii. 41, pp. 143–44: ‘Et quod mirum dictu, mensa illorum nunquam disarmatur, nunquam deferculatur, sed quilibet pater familias domum habet seorsum mundam et honestam, tantum refeccioni vacantem. Illic mensa cum omnibus, que bibi ac mandi possunt, nunquam vacuatur, sed aliis absumptis alia subrogantur’. 141 Ebo, Vita S. Ottonis, ed. by Wikarjak and Liman, iii. 7, p. 108: ‘matrone illius, velut alterius Raab, absconditi latuerunt’; Herbord, Dialogus de vita s. Ottonis, ed. by Wikarjak and Liman, iii. 5, p. 158: ‘eos abscondit et quasi Raab Ierichontina, ne proderentur, effecit’; Joshua 2. 1–21; Rosik, Conversio gentis Pomeranorum, pp. 423–27; Morschauser, ‘Hospitality, Hostiles and Hostages’, pp. 470–71, 480, 484; Appel, ‘Biblische Spuren des Gastes’, pp. 450–61; Heffernan, Hospitality and Treachery, pp. 51–52, 73–76. 142 Rosik, Conversio gentis Pomeranorum, pp. 426–27; Kujawiński, ‘Spotkanie z “innym”’, p. 22; Heffernan, Hospitality and Treachery, pp. 43–51, 146–47.

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and view themselves, in very different, if not outright contradictory ways: clandestinely as friends and commensuals by individual hosts, even though formally non-Christian; publicly as enemies of the entire pagan host com­ munity. The lives of St Otto of Bamberg, like most sources on the Christaniza­ tion of the Baltic Rim, represent the optics of the missionary guests alone. Yet this example also offers an occasion to reverse the perspective and to take a look — if only by means of conjecture — at the illicit space of hospitality produced on this occasion by the matron and the two missionaries from the pagan hosts’ point of view. The anthropological category that enables such reversal is that of a neighbour, which was one of the most socio-politically and conceptually central frames — in terms of sustenance, worldview, norms, and sense of belonging — which privileged the collective interests over the individual both in pre-conversion Pomera­ nia and in other, both pagan and Christian, communities throughout the Middle Ages.143 This category did not operate free from any emotional am­ biguity resulting from its connection to the sphere of the sacred, however. This emotional ambiguity is well expressed by Thietmar in his eulogy for Archbishop Walthard of Magdeburg (d. 1012): ‘He regarded God and his neighbor with constant fear and righteous love’.144 For sure, Thietmar’s words were not just uttered in a very different context and were intended as praise, which referred to the Christian ethics and Christ’s second commandment,145 but, following Max Weber and others, it could be said that the category of neighbour and the relationship towards the proximus designates not only emotionally, but also spatially uncertain relationship which it shares with the divine. It is a relationship which emphasizes the imprecise distance a neighbour occupies within the community and vis-à-vis oneself. As St Augustine noted with unmis­ takable circularity, the category of neighbour was not just relative but also dangerously open: ‘for the word “neighbour” implies a relationship: one can only be a neighbour to a neighbour’.146 Also in an etymological sense in Latin, German, and the Slavic languages, as well as in an Indo-European perspective in general, the notions of neighbour and neighbourhood have

143 Modzelewski, Barbarian Europe, pp. 215–84; Modzelewski, ‘Człowiek istnieje w kolektywie’, pp. 405–20; von Padberg, Die Inszenierung religiöser Konfrontationen, pp. 400–12; Escalona, Orri Vésteinsson, Brookes, ‘Polities, Neighbourhoods and Things In-Between’, pp. 11–38; Zeller and others, Neighbours and Strangers, pp. 209–25. 144 Thietmar of Merseburg, Chronicon, ed. by Trillmich, vi. 75, pp. 322–23: ‘In timore continuo et amore iusto Deum agnovit et proximum’; Thietmar of Merseburg, Ottonian Germany, trans. by Warner, p. 287. 145 Thietmar of Merseburg, Chronicon, ed. by Trillmich, vi. 41, p. 288; cf. Leviticus 19. 18; Matthew 22. 39. 146 St Augustine, De Doctrina Christiana, ed. by Green, i. 68, pp. 42–43: ‘Proximi enim nomen ad aliquid est, nec quisquam esse proximus nisi proximo potest’.

PAGAN HOSTS, MISSIONARY GUESTS, SPACES OF HOSPITALITY

historically marked the zone of undecided proximity inhabited by ‘near dwellers’.147 In this view, a neighbour could occasionally turn into a poten­ tially frightening, dangerous transfiguration of the permanent stranger, the one who stayed physically and politically too close and too far away at the same time. Such near dweller was potentially as much helpful or even de­ sirable as hostile and intrusive. The latter quality became particularly acute when the norms keeping the community together started to corrode and were superimposed with other ethical considerations and other external and partisan loyalties.148 Suddenly, all that had been holy was profaned, all that had been solid melted into the air. In this sense, for the inhabitants of Wolgast, both when they stood out­ side the nameless matron’s house and later, when they saw the two priests emerge from their hiding and when they were confronted by Otto and their newly converted leader who announced the fundamental religiopolit­ ical change on Usedom, the woman and her house feeding the enemy must have appeared exactly as this kind of dreadful, unreliable neighbour who turned the rules of hospitality against the community of her compatriots. Their rage and resentment on these occasions thus added to the affec­ tive dimension of this non-public, underground, and therefore subversive space of hospitality leading to alienation of the supposed hosts.149 We can translate this precarious underside of this host-guest relation into a spatio-biological metaphor. The matron’s house (but also this of Wartislaw, of the dominus uille visited by St Adalbert, and of many other houses which served as missionaries’ entry points into pagan communities) became a space to which the parasite (from παρά (para), ‘beside, by’ + σῖτος (sitos)

147 Benveniste, Dictionary of Indo-European Concepts, pp. 273–88, 295–304; ‘Nachbar’, in Kluge: Etymologisches Wörterbuch, ed. by Seebold, p. 642; ‘prope’, ‘vicinus’, ‘vicus’, in Lateinisches etymologisches Wörterbuch, ed. by Walde and Hofmann, pp. 371–72, 781, 782–83; ‘blizki, bliźni’, in Słownik etymologiczny języka polskiego, ed. by Brückner, p. 29. 148 Weber, Economy and Society, i, 360–63, 580–83; Freud, ‘Civilization and Its Discontents’, pp. 108–16; Simmel, On Individuality and Social Forms, p. 144; Reinhard, ‘Towards a Political Theology of the Neighbor’, pp. 36–39, 46–47; Kippenberg, Violence as Worship, pp. 35–37. 149 Ebo, Vita S. Ottonis, ed. by Wikarjak and Liman, iii. 7–8, pp. 107–08: ‘plebs furibunda irrupit […] peregrinos illic ingressos violenter ad mortem expetebant’, ‘quod cernentes aliqui de civibus […], et congregati horrisono armorum strepitu eis occurrere gestiebant’; Herbord, Dialogus de vita s. Ottonis, ed. by Wikarjak and Liman, iii. 5–6, pp. 157–61: ‘irrumpunt cum tumultu et clamore valido’, ‘Et congregantes se in platea etiam arma portare ac fustes et, qua transituri videbamur, nobis obviam stare’; Schmitt, Theorie des Partisanen, pp. 72–73; Bührer-Thierry, ‘Des communautés de païens menacées’, pp. 43–44, 51–52, 54.

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wheat i.e. food) latches on the host’s body to feed on it, only to eventually infect the organism as a whole.150 The centre could not hold and, from the point of view of the pagan hosts, the outside literally invaded the inside.

Concluding Remarks It is worth repeating that such dramatic confrontations between mission­ aries and pagan communities and host-guest relations between them as discussed here were rare and atypical. When Adam of Bremen praised the natural hospitality of the inhabitants of the North, what he had in mind were most likely the baseline precepts and protections as well as usual conduct towards guests as long as they showed proper deference towards their hosts. If the lives of all guests to pagan communities in those regions had ended as quickly and in such gory a manner as those of the two Bohemian monks in Rethra or St Adalbert in Prussia, such praise would make no sense. Adam did this also because for him hospitality did not overlap with or stretch to hostility in any shape or form. Rather, in his mind this naturally hospitable and charitable inclination was the channel through which the Christian message could be communicated to the pagans and received with affection by them.151 This chapter focused on exceptional cases of host-guest relations, often taking place in the initial stages of conversion. In such crises the traditional norms and values held in these societies tended to be questioned and thus became over-articulated and put on display. Exactly because of their extraordinary character — which made them so memorable that they qualified to be recorded in the hagiography and historiography152 — these encounters reveal a lot about the overall ambiguity and violent dimensions of host-guest relations, which most likely remained dormant and latent in normal circumstances, but which could be activated when called for. This mapping of the spaces of hospitality emerging and produced on the occasions is by no means exhaustive. It still enables us to draw some tentative conclusions about the

150 Gullestad, ‘Parasite’; Simon, ‘Parasit/Gast’, pp. 681–97. It is important to emphasize that I employ this figure of thought and for heuristic purposes only. It is not a metaphor used in the contemporary sources as this would be an obvious anachronism: Musolff, ‘Immigrants and Parasites’, pp. 249–58. 151 Adam of Bremen, Gesta, ed. by Schmeidler, iv. 21, p. 252: ‘Predicatores autem veritatis, si casti prudentesque ac ydonei sunt, ingenti amore fovent, adeo ut concilio populorum communi, quod ab ipsis warh vocatur, episcopos interesse non renuant. Ubi de Christo et christiana religione crebro audiunt non inviti. Et fortasse facili sermone ad nostram fidem illi persuaderentur, nisi quod mali doctores, dum sua quaerunt, non quae Iesu Christi, scandalizant eos, qui possent salvari’; Barnwell, ‘Missionaries and Changing Views of the Other’, pp. 106–07, 130–31. 152 Heffernan, Hospitality and Treachery, p. 2.

PAGAN HOSTS, MISSIONARY GUESTS, SPACES OF HOSPITALITY

irreducible ambiguity and affective character of the spaces of hospitality on the Baltic Rim during the period studied here. First, extreme hospitality — potentially or actually regime-changing — called for extraordinary means of security. The codes of hospitality between the pagan hosts and missionary guests very often came down to conflicts and power balance between the parties. But such hospitality also produced roles, identities, and positions of authority from which their in­ cumbents on the pagan hosts’ side — individual and previously sanctioned or multiple and emerging spontaneously — took the responsibility to assure the community’s safety vis-à-vis recently arrived guests.153 These subject positions were not stable, however. Usually the lines between hosts/guests and friends/enemies were drawn quite distinctly as the initial examples have shown. But sometimes they seemed thin, phantasmagoric, non-existent even. Depending on the specific circumstances, some groups or individuals in host communities moved closer or farther away from their compatriots and guests. Others served as in-betweens, switched sides, went back and forth. What enabled this movement could perhaps be attributed to two components. To the intersubjective ethos of hospitality, forcing the parties to accommodate each other, as well as to hospitality’s generally processual and uncertain character, which enabled articulation of situationally bound identities of the participants. Second, the gravitational pull of the spaces of hospitality discussed here and the clearly discernible motor of people’s movements across them was constituted by the affects and emotions of the involved parties, at least to the extent the authors of these accounts depicted them. There is little doubt that those depictions — due to the geographical and temporal distance from these events and due to bias of their authors’ — fell prey to topoi, emotional typology, and theological teachings. All of which rendered certain emotions and affective schemes as virtues, vices, or cardinal sins (especially considering hate and anger). Dismissing these renditions of affective motives as parchment products tout court is too simplistic, how­ ever. It does not matter that much that the participants did not actually feel these or other feelings, or that these affective states were retroactively attributed to them. What counts is the probabilistic parameters, habits, and conditions of such attributions and the very fact that emotions were expected to be the primary means of attachment and relating to asylums, assemblies, and domestic spheres; to insides, outsides, and thresholds; to ‘our’ or ‘their’ spaces.154 Emotions also worked as a means of communicat­ ing and navigating attitudes and of recognising intentions between the parties as well as procedures and fuel for construing their spatio-relational identifications. Similarly, the emotional bonding showing such significant 153 Foucault, ‘The Subject and Power’, pp. 326–48. 154 Rosenwein, Emotional Communities, pp. 28–29.

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affective differentials featured between missionary guests and pagan hosts give us some indication about the certainly imagined, but nonetheless ex­ perientially grounded degree of intensity of association and disassociation between those parties and the way these emotions translated into political relationships between them.155 Third, the spatiality of hospitality seems indeed to have been built around an uncertainty principle. For sure, a great deal of these host-guest relations relied on pre-existing and customary and therefore predictable and controllable spatial and institutional infrastructures: mediators and gateways, protecting ban of the assemblies, marketplaces, ports, asylums, places allocated to missionary guests just outside cities, or even hospitality being anchored in the very toponyms of such places, etc. Yet on top of these a great deal of less structured spaces of hospitality can be identified which emerged ad hoc, were improvised, claimed, and denied, genereously granted or unilaterally usurped, directly fought over by both sides of those encounters. These more provisional spaces were often moveable, as if bolted under the users’ feet, changing their welcoming or rejecting nature depending on the shifts in location or in tone of rapprochement between the participants. In terms of size, they seemed very stretchable too: from being limited to brief face-to-face here-and-now of the involved participants, clearly delimited (an island, a marketplace, a duke’s court, a temple, or an entire village with its peripheries) to spaces which vastly expanded their outer layers and which sometimes almost telepathically reached distant rulers or faraway domestic spheres of arriving missionaries. Spaces of hospitality were often fixed, but they could also pulsate, expand, and contract. Finally, it is difficult to ascertain to what extent the historical actors studied here were fully aware of the ambiguity of spaces of hospitality and, consequently, of the uncertainty of hospitality itself. They nevertheless actively produced such ambiguity and uncertainty by constantly testing and pushing the limits of host-guest relations through their own practices and to-and-fros during the conversion events on the Baltic Rim. In a way, these two properties seemed to have an emergent situational character which stemmed from the fact that the symbolic overlays and multiple dimensions, functions, and aspects of spaces of hospitality interfered to a degree which often exceeded any prearranged regulations, customs, or any one part’s ability to control them. On the missionary Baltic Rim the threshold and spaces of hospitality functioned both as unavoidable traps and as necessary passages.

155 Bissell, ‘Animating Suspension’, pp. 277–98; Schmitt, Political Theology II, p. 45; Derrida, Politics of Friendship, p. 139; Jonsson, ‘A Society Which Is Not’, pp. 204–22.

CHAPtER 5

Hospitality and Its Discontents in Helmold of Bosau’s Chronica Slavorum, Twelfth Century

The man who stands at a strange threshold, Should be cautious before he cross it, Glance this way and that: Who knows beforehand what foes may sit Awaiting him in the hall? Hávamál. The Sayings of Hár

A Slavic Potlatch, 1156 So describes Helmold of Bosau one of the first occasions during which he and Bishop Gerold of Oldenburg/Lübeck (r. 1154–1163) encountered the pagan Slavs during their missionary expedition into Wagria in the cold January of 1156: As the mystery of the mass was finished, Pribislaw asked us to join him in his house, which lay in a remote location. He received us with great eagerness, preparing an imposing meal [‘convivium lautum’]. Twenty dishes heaped on the table set for us [‘mensam nobis appositam’]. It was there I experienced what I had previously only learned from popular hearsay, that there are no other people more honourable in hospitality than the Slavs. They accept all guests with such common readiness, that nobody needs to ask for lodging.1

1 Helmold of Bosau, Chronica Slavorum, ed. by Stoob, 83, pp. 286–87: ‘Expletis misteriis sacris rogavit Pribizlavus, ut diverteremus in domum suam, quae erat in opido remotiori. Et suscepit nos cum multa alacritate fecitque nobis convivium lautum. Mensam nobis appositam viginti fercula cumularunt. Illic experimento didici, quod ante fama vulgante cognovi, quia nulla gens honestior Slavis in hospitalitatis gratia. In colligendis enim hospitibus omnes quasi ex sententia alacres sunt, ut nec hospicium quenquam postulare necesse sit’.

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Helmold’s description gives the scene a misleading air of missionary ethnography reporting the innate qualities of the Slavs. It is worth filling in the details to nuance this image a little. First, the scale of the feast — twenty dishes — is indicative that it was an exceptional occasion organized to demonstrate elite lavishness, rather than a commonplace among all Slavs. Second, the feast took place on the evening of Epiphany (6 January), which Gerold and Helmold celebrated in Oldenburg, before they travelled to the Obotrite leader Pribislaw’s (r. 1167–1178 as Duke of Mecklenburg) residence. It occurred just days before the missionary expedition destroyed heathen temple of Prove discussed in Chapter 3. In that sense, thirdly, the feast was a stepping-stone towards a wholesale evangelization of the region performed with the help of the local political elites, thus fulfilling the sense of Epiphany. Pribislaw himself supposedly converted a week later, on 15 January. This means that at the feast he hosted the duke already occupied an in-between position, similar to that of Duke Wartislaw of Pomerania or the semi-pagan, semi-Christian matron from Wolgast discussed in the previous chapter.2 Helmold’s praise for the Slavic hospitality adds more immediate sources of information about this type of practices that comes from out­ side the frame of the literary tradition in which the author was writing, established in particular by his forerunner Adam of Bremen. Helmold points namely to the popular opinion circulating in contemporary north­ ern Germany and his own direct experiences and impressions, not just to wisdoms and proverbs he inherited or learned via others like Adam did. In the above excerpt, Helmold also hints at the risks and pitfalls of Slavic hospitality. Much like the Swedes in Adam’s fragment quoted in the introduction, the Slavs’ readiness to accept guests and throw an expensive feast in their honour seemed not voluntary but mandatory, even enforced. According to Helmold, each and everyone was obliged to accept strangers under the threat of severe consequences, including the burning down of the offender’s house ordered and executed by the community of neighbours. The Slavs were supposedly so trapped in this potlatch-logic of conspicuous consumption and obligatory redistribution that ‘it pushed many of them to stealing and robbing’.3 As shown in the previous chapter, missionary authors were particularly sensitive to the issues and problems of host-gest relations and these con­ stituted an important motif in the Baltic missionary tradition. By the second half of the twelfth century, with both episcopal organization and evangelizing activity well established, the likes of Adam’s patron Bishop

2 Helmold of Bosau, Chronica Slavorum, ed. by Stoob, 84, pp. 288–99. 3 Helmold of Bosau, Chronica Slavorum, ed. by Stoob, 83, pp. 286–87: ‘Cuius ostentacionis affectacio multos eorum ad furta vel latrocinia propellit’; Modzelewski, Barbarian Europe, pp. 26–41; Benveniste, Dictionary of Indo-European Concepts, p. 69.

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Liemar, and Bishops of Oldenburg Vicelin (r. 1149–1154) and Gerold had in many ways become experts on hospitality. For instance, both Adam and Helmold frequently hinted at their bishops’ responsibility for care and praised those who excelled in receiving not only noble guests, but also strangers or the poor arriving to their xenodochia and hospices.4 Whether they liked it or not, missionaries, including Helmold himself, had to become experts both in terms of what they offered to others and in situations when they were recipients of such charity. Still, the Chronica Slavorum (c. 1167/1168–1172) stands out against this general background of missionary concerns. This text features a large number of disquieting visions and outright abuses of host-guest rituals and their associated rituals, which can be considered to be more than just intercultural encounters on the frontier. Judging from the omnipresence of remarks and episodes of risky hospitality in the chronicle, one might claim that Helmold made it a major theme in his work. The author’s testimony and ideas about host-guest relations in the frontier zone also carry a special weight, because they stand out against the examples discussed above. These featured either missionaries describing the frontier from a certain distance (like Adam), or those coming from central regions and intervening in the frontier regions but leaving quickly after brief intercul­ tural encounters (like Bernhard the Spaniard or St Otto of Bamberg). The third category concerned men dying soon after they moved in (like St Adalbert or St Bruno of Querfurt), who may have cherished certain ideas and designs about what life on the frontier would or should be like but never had a chance to fully implement them. Helmold, in contrast, wrote his Chronica after more than a decade of habitation inside Wagria’s terra horroris in close proximity to his Slavic neighbours, who engaged in such extreme hospitality. This chapter explores host-guest relations, particularly meals and fes­ tivities, in Helmold’s Chronica in order to understand how these were performed, what rules and obligations regulated them, and how and for what purpose they were manipulated. In this chapter, I take a panoramic view on hospitality. I study not only Helmold’s descriptions of frontier intercultural encounters with the pagans, but also episodes concerning his own Christian political background such as northern Germany, Denmark, and contacts with the papacy. My contention is that Helmold’s missionary

4 Adam of Bremen, Gesta, ed. by Schmeidler, i. 44 (46), pp. 45–46, ii. 14 (12), p. 71; ii. 63 (61), p. 123; iii. 2 (2), pp. 144–45; iii. 24 (23), p. 167; iii. 39 (38), pp. 182–83; iii. 56 (55), p. 203; iii. 73, p. 220; Helmold of Bosau, Chronica Slavorum, ed. by Stoob, 18, pp. 94– 95: ‘Ille, ut erat vir mitissimus, collegit hospitem, prebuit lasso humanitatis officia et de facultatibus ecclesiae suae supputavit ei vitae stipendia, quatinus ad legacionis suae opus exiens atque revertens inveniret stacionem tutam, in qua pausare posset’; 66, pp. 230–31; 78, pp. 266–67; 83, pp. 282–83; 92, pp. 320–21.

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experiences and prolonged exposure and dependence on hospitality in a hostile territory conditioned in him a particular intellectual sensitivity or a particular habitus informed by a reflexivity of risk, which coloured his descriptions of host-guest relations everywhere.5 By analysing these often bizarre and critical examples, I highlight the fundamental mechanisms of hospitality, in particular its close affinity with hostility. Thus, towards the end of this chapter, I reverse the perspective and ask what these seem­ ingly exceptional visions of host-guest relations tell us about Helmold’s own reflexivity and his ‘frontier experience and poetics of in-between’, as Kaljundi put it. 6 The Chronica Slavorum, I argue, testifies to Helmold’s own subjectivization in his frontier society through ambiguous categories and host-guest relations. In order to highlight Helmold’s idiosyncratic position and sensitivity, in the very last section I contrast his Chronica with Adam’s Gesta and evaluate the political and cultural reasons underlying the two authors’ very different takes on hospitality.

Festen: Senses of Medieval Conviviality The previous chapters have clearly shown that missionaries confronting pagan societies on the Baltic frontier typically anticipated they would be met with open hostility.7 Despite that, the agents of evangelization had some effective ritualistic practices for bridging this lack of trust, which they shared with the people on the other side of the frontier. The most concilia­ tory and thus the most central of these rituals of hospitality was what Karl Hauck dubbed the community of the table (Tischgemeinschaft), such as this between Gerold, Helmold, and Pribislaw in 1156.8 The basic function of the rites connected to the community of the table, Althoff argues, was to rule out initial hostility, to appease or solve conflicts between the participants. Such practices were supposed to establish and assure future peace among the parties and to seal and publicly project any possible

5 Lupton, Risk, pp. 161–70; Kenway and McLeod, ‘Bourdieu’s Reflexive Sociology’, pp. 528– 34; Dodds, ‘Artistic Ambivalence’, pp. 299–331. 6 Kaljundi, ‘Medieval Conceptualizations’, pp. 29–30. 7 Fraesdorff, Der barbarische Norden, pp. 169–75, 279; Foerster, Vergleich und Identität, pp. 22– 43; Althoff, Family, Friends and Followers, p. 7; Hellmuth, Gastfreundschaft und Gastrecht, pp. 15–24. 8 Hauck, ‘Rituelle Speisegemeinschaft’, pp. 611–21; Hiltbrunner, Gorce, and Wehr, ‘Gastfreundschaft’, cols 1061–123; Peyer, Von der Gastfreundschaft zum Gasthaus; Banaszkiewicz, ‘Trzy razy uczta’, pp. 95–108; Qviller, Bottles and Battles; Dumézil, ‘Les jeux de société’, pp. 45–58; Kjær and Watson, eds, Feasts and Gifts of Food in Medieval Europe; Jezierski, Hermanson, Orning, and Småberg, eds, Rituals, Performatives, and Political Order; Dietler and Hayden, eds, Feasts.

HOSPITALITY IN HELMOLD OF BOSAU’S CHRONICA SLAVORUM

pacts and agreements they had entered into.9 Even in the eleventh- and twelfth-century frontier contexts, the basic ritual sense of the community of the table was quite similar for both pagan Germans and Slavs inhabiting the Baltic Rim as well as for missionaries encountering them, despite the very different social conditions and historical circumstances from those reconstructed by Hauck and Althoff.10 Such a functionalist view of feasting and conviviality as warrants for peace is not just a scholarly reconstruction, one should add. This conviction was also shared by the medieval authors, who often showed their readers that purposefully organizing such rituals ensured concord and a sense of community. This implies a question, however: if a ritual was so well-suited for strategic consensus-building, was not the possibility of its abuse already hardwired into it? To consider this, the analysis conducted in this chapter uses two approaches to host-guest relations and their abuse in Helmold’s text: one practically and one discursively oriented. The first postulates that in order to offer a complete picture of the (in-)hospitable conduct we need to study all ritualistic practices of table conviviality and host-guest practices in the Chronica Slavorum. Not just those addressing intercultural encounters between missionaries and pagans, but also those featured within Christian communities and polities. As stated in the introduction, as a cultural category hospitality does not refer to a single set of practices or an isolated social sphere, but saturates many types of relationships. To address this, I treat such rituals both as ritualized action, searching for the Althoffian rules of the game of hospitality, and as craftily penned and politically framed rituals-in-texts, as Phillippe Buc insists.11 To balance between these two perspectives I confront Helmold’s descriptions with evidence from other contemporary texts. By combining these two approaches to rituals, we can isolate Helmold’s own sensitivity and missionary frame of mind pre-eminently honed in on hospitality vis-à-vis the general political and cultural logic of such practices during this period. The second discursive approach treats the terms associated with hos­ pitality in the Chronica Slavorum as keywords in a mode similar to that proposed by Moretti. His approach builds on Reinhart Koselleck’s and Benveniste’s contentions that ‘a concept is not simply indicative of the relations which it covers; it is also a factor within them’ — it has an

9 Althoff, ‘Der frieden-, bündnis-, und gemeinschaftstiftende Charakter’, pp. 13–25; Althoff, Spielregeln der Politik, pp. 157–84; Althoff, Family, Friends, and Followers, p. 136; Jostkleigrewe, ‘Ritual – Kultur – Grenze’, pp. 109–24. 10 Hellmuth, Gastfreundschaft und Gastrecht, pp. 11–14; Modzelewski, Barbarian Europe, pp. 26–45. 11 Buc, The Dangers of Ritual; Pössel, ‘The Magic of Early Medieval Ritual’, pp. 111–25; Hermanson, ‘Introduction: Rituals, Performatives, and Political Order’, pp. 1–40; Kjær, The Medieval Gift and the Classical Tradition, pp. 160–61.

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experiential and theoretical capacity.12 In that sense, concepts serve as ‘the instrument by which the world and society are adjusted’.13 Combining these two perspectives allows Moretti to treat concepts and keywords as ‘a factor that institutes a “tension” between language and reality’.14 In Helmold’s case, the central keyword capturing the manifold senses of the community of the table is the term used for a meal — convivium — with its connotations of conviviality. Convivium further connects to concepts mediating and framing Helmold’s reality in his text such as mensa, hospital­ itas, hospes, hostilitas, hostis, and other related terms to be added along the way. These keywords, importantly, do not serve merely as a way of identifying relevant passages or situations in the text. They are more than our heuristic device. As I demonstrate, these keywords allowed Helmold to render comprehensible and adjust the political and cultural mechanics and tensions between the historical actors he observed. They are a part of his and his contemporaries’ heuristics and reflexivity. In the following, I divide the examples of hospitality in the Chronica Slavorum into three categories: ethnic, strategic, and metaphorical. The first sphere addresses the culturally most distanced encounters with pagans and patterns of hospitality on a group level. Secondly, strategic hospitality considers the host-guest relations on the level of elites, like the customs of the pagan leaders or the neighbouring Christian Danish elites engaged in civil wars at the time, about whom Helmold had a lot of information. It also includes the Christian polity of which the author himself was a part, and particularly concerns local animosities within northern Saxony at that time.15 Finally, thirdly, metaphorical hospitality cuts across all three cultural-political spheres. It should be observed that Helmold appears to be most reflective and critical about hospitality when discussing customs of the pagans, but this reflexivity diminishes somewhat when his descrip­ tions approach the spheres that are culturally closer to him. By qualifying and combining these three types of host-guest relations with Helmold’s cultural and physical distance from them, we can address the question: how much and what kind of difference was there between the proverbial barbarian hospitality and its seemingly civilized Christian counterpart?

12 Koselleck, ‘Begriffsgeschichte and Social History’, p. 86. 13 Benveniste, ‘Remarks on the Function of Language’, p. 71. 14 Moretti, The Bourgeois, pp. 18–19; Kozlowski, Taddy, and Evans, ‘The Geometry of Culture’, pp. 905–49. 15 Scior, Das Eigene und das Fremde, pp. 219–22; Fraesdorff, Der barbarische Norden, pp. 348– 55; Pajung and Liljefalk, ‘Helmolds Slaverkrønike som kilde’, pp. 1–37.

HOSPITALITY IN HELMOLD OF BOSAU’S CHRONICA SLAVORUM

Naked Lunch: Ethnic Hospitality In Helmold’s imagination, the Slavs occupied a deeply ambiguous po­ sition.16 Considered as a group, they represented an assortment of contradictory qualities. Slavs were an honest, bloodthirsty, affable, shorttempered (‘barbaricus furor’; ‘Slavicus furor’),17 but sometimes caring people, known both for their innate insatiable cruelty and honourable hospitality.18 Of course, many of these opinions Helmold took over from Adam. He also added many himself, though it is difficult to decide which views he simply inherited, which represented contemporary convictions circulating in Northern Saxony, and which stemmed from the author’s own local experience. Helmold did not attempt to resolve such contradictions either, on the contrary. In his mind, the tangible expression of this paradox­ ical nature of the Slavs (‘est autem Slavorum mirabilis error’) were their feasts, such as these during which the Obotrites venerated and celebrated their most powerful deity, Radigast, in his temple: During their feasts and carousals, they let a bowl go around over which they utter the words — not reverential but sacrilegious, as I would like to say — and names of both good and evil gods. For they believe that all good fortune comes from a benevolent god and all adversity from an evil one. This evil god they call either Diabol or Zcerneboch, that is, the black God.19 Despite his obvious revulsion towards these superstitious customs, Hel­ mold does not deny that they brought the pagan community together: men, women, and children flocked to meet their priests and gods. But the reasons for this conviviality and the offertory drink in form of the circulating bowl that unified the revellers were atrocious and cannibalistic. The Obotrites supposedly consumed and feasted on the blood of the Christians whom they sacrificed, thus reversing the logic seen in the

16 For the different, often mutually exclusive interpretations of Helmold’s view of the Slavs, see Scior, Das Eigene und das Fremde, pp. 204–08. 17 Helmold of Bosau, Chronica Slavorum, ed. by Stoob, 56, pp. 208–09; 66, pp. 230–31; 69, pp. 240–41; Scior, Das Eigene und das Fremde, pp. 208–15. 18 Helmold of Bosau, Chronica Slavorum, ed. by Stoob, 2, pp. 40–41; 52, pp. 198–99; 83, pp. 286–87; 108, pp. 374–75. 19 Helmold of Bosau, Chronica Slavorum, ed. by Stoob, 52, pp. 196–99: ‘nam in conviviis et compotacionibus suis pateram circumferunt, in quam conferunt, non dicam consecracionis, sed execracionis verba sub nomine deorum, boni scilicet atque mali, omnem prosperam fortunam a bono deo, adversam a malo dirigi profitentes. Unde etiam malum deum lingua sua Diabol sive Zcerneboch, id est nigrum deum, appellant’; Fraesdorff, Der barbarische Norden, pp. 351–54; Rosik, The Slavic Religion, pp. 311–22.

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example of Bruno of Querfurt and Wipert from 1009.20 To Helmold, this type of extreme integration of the Slavic feasting community was thus a form of extreme exclusion caused by religious antagonism and achieved through disgusting violence. Just like in the views of other missionary authors, for Helmold the religious cult determined the pagans’ limits of hospitality and made them draw a line between friend and foe. Their gods and priests were envious and could not stand competition on the same territory, much as we saw in the examples of attributed pagan cosmology in the previous chapter.21 In a historical passage taken almost verbatim from Adam, Helmold notes that the Saxons who arrived in Vineta, the affluent seaport city of the Slavs located on the island of Wolin in Pomerania, were allowed (‘licentiam acceperunt’) to freely settle and cohabitate as long as they did not publicly practise Christianity.22 The chronicler from Bosau follows the Gesta quite closely here, but modifies his source slightly. Adam speaks of lex (‘legem acceperunt’), not licentia — a strict law rather than mere permission — of free settlement under the condition of refraining from preaching (i.e. licen­ tia docendi).23 Though Helmold’s version goes in the exact same direction, Adam’s description in a way is closer to one of the paradoxes of hospitality noted by Derrida. This particularly relates to the fact that hospitality constitutes a kind of threshold that guests are simultaneously encouraged and forbidden from crossing. The seemingly open and generous gesture of invitation is at the same time self-affirming. It institutes the inviting person as a sovereign in his own domain.24 It is his law and right as a master which dictate the conditions of hospitality thus confirming and forming the identity of the host as ‘the one precisely, the very one’.25 The limits

20 Helmold of Bosau, Chronica Slavorum, ed. by Stoob, 52, pp. 196–97: ‘Post cesam hostiam sacerdos de cruore libat, ut sit efficacior oraculis capescendis. Nam demonia sanguine facilius invitari multorum opinio est’. 21 Helmold of Bosau, Chronica Slavorum, ed. by Stoob, 52, pp. 198–99: ‘Mira autem reverentia circa fani diligentiam affecti sunt; nam neque iuramentis facile indulgent neque ambitum fani vel in hostibus temerari paciuntur’. See also the similar example of Bishop Johannes’s martyrdom in 1066: 23, pp. 108–09. For an opposite contemporary Christian perspective on the connections between cult, identity, and enmity, see Janson, ‘What Made Pagans Pagans?’, pp. 13–31; Janson, ‘Making Enemies’, pp. 141–54. 22 Helmold of Bosau, Chronica Slavorum, ed. by Stoob, 2, pp. 40–41: ‘Nam et advenae Saxones parem cohabitandi licentiam acceperunt, si tantum Christianitatis titulum ibi commorantes non publicassent’. 23 Adam of Bremen, Gesta, ed. by Schmeidler, ii. 22 (19), p. 79: ‘nam et advenae Saxones parem cohabitandi legem acceperunt, si tamen christianitatis titulum ibi morantes non publicaverint’. 24 Derrida, ‘Hostipitality’, p. 14; Derrida and Dufourmantelle, Of Hospitality, pp. 55–57. 25 Benveniste, Dictionary of Indo-European Concepts, pp. 73–74; Derrida, ‘Hostipitality’, pp. 4– 5; Jezierski, Nauman, Reimann, and Runefelt, ‘Introduction: Baltic Hospitality, 1000–1900’, pp. 1–29.

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that the hospitable Slavs at Vineta set for the incoming Saxons were also the limits to the latter group’s public expression of identity. In their eyes, such sacral competition, if pursued ad libitum, would tread on the identity of their hosts — something Bernhard and Otto of Bamberg experienced personally on Wolin in the 1120s.26 Helmold’s own contemporary example, the persecution of the priest Gottschalk from Bardowick during the November draught of herring on the coast of Rügen in 1168, confirms this impression. The man of God came there to hold a mass while many merchants and fishermen were gathered in the area to take care of the floundering fish. Just before he began his task, however, Gottschalk was identified by the local pagan priest. The sorcerer convinced the locals and their king that the gods were offended because someone else had attempted to perform liturgy in this area. He claimed that that the only way to appease the enraged deities was to make an expiatory sacrifice (‘placabilem hostiam’) of the Christian priest. The Rugians were so bent on avenging the transgression against their exclusive right to determine the public sphere of the cult that they ignored the merchants’ attempts to buy Gottschalk out of trouble. Instead, the pagans declared war on the people from whose presence the affronted gods profited in the first place, given that Svantevit’s temple in Arkona received payments as part of the customary precepts of commercial hospi­ tality which was typical and quite widespread on the Baltic coasts at that time.27 Thanks to the approaching darkness, which allowed the merchants to sail away and take Gottschalk with them, this particular conflict did not end in slaughter.28 Yet the lesson, again, was that in the Slavic frontier context, the performance of a rival sacrifice — that is, the expression of a rival public identity — revealed a threshold and the limit of hospitality. Beyond this threshold an offended host demanded a hostia in exchange — the obligation of reciprocity implicit in hospitality suddenly turned into retaliation.29 Speaking in Simmelian terms, the status of the Christians visiting this terra horroris could shift all too easily. It shifted between their perception as useful strangers qua merchants and fishermen, that is, protected trade guests (i.e. elements associated with the local group), on

26 Rosik, ‘Quae conventio Christi ad Belial?’, pp. 115–25; Derrida and Dufourmantelle, Of Hospitality, p. 145. 27 Boestad, ‘Merchants as Guests’, pp. 85–115. 28 Helmold of Bosau, Chronica Slavorum, ed. by Stoob, 108, pp. 374–75: ‘Nec hoc latuit diu sacerdotem illum barbarum et accersitis rege et populo nuntiat irata vehementius numina nec aliter posse placari, nisi cruore sacerdotis, qui peregrinum inter eos sacrificium offerre presumpsisset. Tunc barbara gens attonita convocat institorum cohortem rogatque sibi dari sacerdotem, ut offerat deo suo placabilem hostiam’; see also: 52, pp. 196–97: ‘Post cesam hostiam sacerdos de cruore libat, ut sit efficacior oraculis capescendis’. 29 Heffernan, Hospitality and Treachery, pp. 9, 14–22.

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the one hand, to framing them as antagonistic strangers qua non-believers, against whom the locals could declare a level of enmity that led to murder, on the other hand.30 These shifts in perception and hence in identity occurred through similar transubstantiating functions of cult and rituals and were expressed through the same metaphor of hostia as in other missionary contexts. The liturgical frame and the logic of sacrificial equivalence on which this metaphor is based, implicit in the case of Bruno in 1009, is made explicitly here through the relation to communion. In the course of the mass whose performance was interrupted, Gottschalk would have prepared a hostia. But like Christ during the Last Supper, the priest himself was now being turned into a sacrificial victim, himself becoming the integral part of the meal, who was almost consumed by his hosts.31 It should be noted that Helmold has a tendency to counter almost each case of Slavic atrocities and extreme host-guest relations, with a general opinion, that in spite of such incidents the Slavs were the world’s most hospitable and generous people.32 How should we treat these two contra­ dictory convictions? Was this Helmold’s idea of a civilization process implying that despite their relapses, Slavs were a people in possession of good primordial qualities and natural hospitality — a mechanism of intercultural adjustment with a reverse potential making the Slavs particu­ larly receptive for evangelization?33 Perhaps these contradictions related to host-guest relations, similar to Pomerania half a century earlier, reflect the situation in which intercultural encounters with the Christians already began to transform the older, communal patterns and in-group obligations of hospitality in the local context. I return to these questions when consid­ ering the parallels and differences between Helmold’s Chronica and Adam’s Gesta at the end of this chapter.

30 Simmel, On Individuality and Social Forms, pp. 80–83, 143–50. 31 Numbers 5. 8; Heffernan, Hospitality and Treachery, pp. 9, 47, 71–73; Rosik, The Slavic Religion, pp. 138–39, 367–68; Schlesinger, ‘Sacrifice, Metaphor, and Evolution’, pp. 1–14; Michałowski, ‘Pasja z Tegernsee’, pp. 18–19. 32 Helmold of Bosau, Chronica Slavorum, ed. by Stoob, 108, pp. 374–75: ‘Quamvis autem odium Christiani nominis et supersticionum fomes plus omnibus Slavis apud Ranos invaluerit, pollebant tamen multis naturalibus bonis. Erat enim apud eos hospitalitatis plenitudo, et parentibus debitum exhibent honorem’; 83, pp. 286–87; 2, pp. 40–41: ‘Omnes enim usque ad excidium eiusdem urbis paganicis ritibus oberrarunt, ceterum moribus et hospitalitate nulla gens honestior aut benignior potuit inveniri’. 33 Fraesdorff, Der barbarische Norden, pp. 351–53; Ordman, ‘Crusading without Affect or Effect’, pp. 77–103.

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Another Round: Strategic Hospitality As mentioned above, the Danish elites occupy an in-between, semiperipheral position in the visions of host-guest relations of the Chronica Slavorum. In order to set Helmold’s view of the Danish hospitality in proper context, however, we need to turn our attention away from Wagria and his chronicle for a moment to take a look at two snapshots from the sources which preceded and followed the account of the priest from Bosau. From the point of view of its immediate and more remote southern neighbours, twelfth-century Denmark — torn by the violent civil wars and dynastic conflicts — occupied what seemed to be halfway between a volatile frontier region and a stable Christian polity. Denmark was no longer and not yet, so to speak. On the one hand, the kingdom was definitely no longer Adam’s terrify­ ing terra horroris. It was not even this crude, half-wild, and unimpressive corner of the Baltic Rim, which St Otto of Bamberg’s hagiographer, Her­ bord, depicted in the late 1150s, basing on an account from the 1120s. During Otto’s second mission in 1128, the Apostle of Pomerania hesitated as to whether he should get on with the conversion of the Rugians, who lay in the domain of the Lund archbishops. He thus sent a messenger, Iwanus, loaded with gifts to Archbishop Asser of Lund (r. 1089/1104– 1137) to convince him to let a more successful colleague from Bamberg to finish the missionary work on the island. Judging by Herbord’s account, Iwanus’s overall impression of the archbishop and his country after his six-weeks-long visit was less than breath-taking: He [Asser] was a good and honest man and loved to hear of things that were good: he was also learned and devout, though externally he possessed the rustic manners of the Slavonians. For it was the case with all the men of that country that, whilst living in prosperity and wealth, they seemed harsh, uncultivated and rustic. Their towns and camps had no walls or towers and were defended with woodwork and ditches. The churches too and the houses of the chief men were humble and poorly designed. […] In regard to food and dress they were by no means luxurious of elegant. Even our mediocre people looked more glorious when compared with them, and the priest Iwanus appeared to be a more important person than the archbishop himself.34

34 Herbord, Dialogus de vita s. Ottonis, ed. by Wikarjak and Liman, iii. 30, p. 193: ‘Erat autem vir bonus et simplex, bonarum rerum cupidus auditor, non mediocris sciencie ac religionis, in exterioribus tamen Sclavice rusticitatis. Nam et homines terre illius tales sunt, ut in maxima ubertate atque divitiis generali quadam duritia omnes inculti videantur et agrestes. Urbes ibi et castra sine muro et turribus ligno tantum et fossatis muniuntur ecclesie ac domus nobilium humiles et vili scemate. […] Porro in victu vel in habitu vestium parum lauti habent aut pulchritudinis. Nostri ergo mediocres in conparacione illorum gloriosi

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On the other hand, Denmark had not yet become this northern beacon of ecclesiastical learning and a power player in Scandinavian politics, as praised by Abbot Arnold of the monastery of St John in Lübeck, whose chronicle continued Helmold’s text in the early 1200s. By that time the stellar international careers of archbishops of Lund, such as Absalon and his successor Anders Sunesen (r. 1202–1224), elevated Denmark in the landscape of the universal Church and contributed to the stabilization of its domestic political arena. It was particularly the conquest of Rügen in 1168/1169, mentioned in Chapters 3 and 4, which put these churchmen and the Danish elites in general on the path to becoming the most power­ ful players in the Christianization of the Baltic Rim. This development must have been hard to imagine in the 1170s, but thirty or so years later Arnold was almost lost for words:35 The Danes indeed imitate the customs of the Germans, which they have learned from them through living together for a long time. They adopt the clothing and arms of other nations. Once they only had as their clothing the garb of sailors, […] but now they wear not only scarlet, multi-coloured clothes and grey, but also purple, and white linen. […] They are also proficient in the science of letters since the nobles of their lands not only advance their sons into the clergy but send them to be instructed in secular matters at Paris. Hence those of that land are imbued not only with letters but in the art of [public] speaking, and they are expert not only in arts but even in theology. Indeed because of their ready facility in speech, they are found to be subtle not only in dialectical argument but also, in dealing with ecclesiastical matters, they are proven good decretists and lawyers.36

erant. Iwanus vero presbiter archiepiscopo se ipso maior esse videbatur’; The Life of Otto Apostle of Pomerania, trans. by Robinson, p. 179; Rosik, Conversio gentis Pomeranorum, pp. 490–92. On glory as a positional good see: Jezierski, ‘Introduction: Nordic Elites in Transformation’, pp. 1–35. 35 Jezierski, ‘Angels in Scandinavia’, pp. 172–78. 36 Arnold of Lübeck, Chronica Slavorum, ed. by Lappenberg, iii. 5, p. 77: ‘Siquidem Dani usum Teutonicorum imitantes, quem ex longa cohabitatione eorum didicerunt, et vestitura et armatura se ceteris nationibus coaptant; et cum olim formam nautarum in vestitu habuissent propter navium consuetudinem, quia maritima inhabitant, nunc non solum scarlatto, vario, grisio, sed etiam purpura et bisso induuntur. […] Scientia quoque litterali non parum profecerunt, quia nobiliores terre filios suos non solum ad clerum promovendum, verum etiam secularibus rebus instituendos Parisius mittunt. Ubi litteratura simul et idiomate lingue terre illius imbuti, non solum in artibus, sed etiam in theologia multum invaluerunt. Siquidem propter naturalem lingue celeritatem non solum in argumentis dialecticis subtiles inveniuntur, sed etiam in negotiis ecclesiasticis tractandis boni decretiste sive legiste comprobantur’; Arnold of Lübeck, The Chronicle of Arnold of Lübeck, trans. by Loud, iii. 5, p. 99; Jensen, ‘Martyrs, Total War, and Heavenly Horses’, p. 113.

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This in-between state of the Danish polity — particularly considering the period from the 1130s through the 1160s — in the ethnic and political frame of the Chronica Slavorum is visible in the forms of host-guest rela­ tions featured among its elites, with whom Helmold was familiar via his own experiences and via the reports of others. It appears that the members of this group abused the customs and rituals of hospitality as if they did not know any better. Danish kings and princes may have been con­ stantly drunk and sleepy from their binge drinking, as Helmold believed, which possibly slowed their reflexes given how many were killed during banquets.37 But they were not naïve about the risks of conviviality. So, even though a Damoclean sword appears to have hung over many feasts of the Danish elites, there was always somebody responsible for hanging it in the first place. This tendency for the rituals of hospitality to be derailed also appears to be true of some more southern Christian leaders, not only in the German Empire, but in Rome as well. This raises the question: should we see these mishaps of hospitality as mere manipulations and abuses, or do they in fact reveal innate malicious aspects of hospitality? For instance, in the early winter of 1130, Knud Lavard (1096–1131), rex Obotritorum, met his uncle King Niels of Denmark (r. 1104–1134) in Schleswig. The young, up-and-coming prince seemed very motivated to politically hijack the colloquium publicum that was originally organized to confirm the bonds connecting the two men and that gave Niels an upper hand. Knud, however, ostensibly wore the crown of the Obotrites and surrounded himself with numerous followers (‘stipatusque satellitum agmine’). He neither rose before his king, nor gave him a kiss in the appropriate manner. By not being eager enough to honour his lord and by coming too hastily to stand his ground in front of him, Knud, signalled in all possible ways that he considered himself to be at least the equal of Niels who was formally the host of this meeting. Or maybe even that he should be seen as superior to the king.38 We know from Saxo that Knud Lavard, owing to his close connections with the Saxon elites and their sense of courtly culture, wore his clothes on occasions like this with quite a conscious sense of distinction in order to make a statement about his status and political alliances in northern Germany.39 It is not

37 Helmold of Bosau, Chronica Slavorum, ed. by Stoob, 109, pp. 378–79: ‘Reges enim Danorum segnes et discincti et inter continuas epulas semper poti vix aliquando sentiunt percussuras plagarum’. 38 Indeed, it seems that at this point, Knud Lavard had good grounds to see himself in this light: Hermanson, Släkt, vänner och makt, pp. 93–94; Murray, ‘The Danish Monarchy and the Kingdom of Germany, 1197–1319’, pp. 289–307. For a more general overview of the Danish and Slavic convivencia see: Jensen, ‘The Blue Baltic Border’, pp. 173–93; Kjær, ‘Druk, kongedrab og kongemagt’, pp. 127–48. 39 Saxo, Gesta Danorum, ed. by Friis-Jensen, trans. by Fisher, ii, xiii. 5. 4, pp. 922–24; xiii. 6. 7, pp. 936–39; Elliot, ‘Trickster Hospitality’, pp. 133–35.

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surprising that eventually his outfit and his demeanour made Magnus, Niels’s son (aka Magnus Nielsen, c. 1106–1134), livid with anger. Helmold records that Magnus’s mother, Queen Margareta (although it seems more likely to have been Niels’s second wife or mistress, Ulvhild of Norway)40 consciously navigated this anger into political action by whispering into his ear: Don’t you see that your nephew has grasped the sceptre and already rules? Declare him then the enemy of the state [‘hostem publicum’], who could not hold himself from usurping the royal title of your father while he still lived.41 But as Magnus began to plan the assassination of this upcoming leader, King Niels came to terms with Knud and the meeting was resolved in peace. Magnus readily used this apparent concord to put his plan into action. He invited Knud, a loyal and credulous man (‘vir fidelis’) as Helmold de­ scribed him, to a private meeting (‘singulum colloquium’).42 Knud agreed to attend, despite the forebodings of his wife, who begged him not to go. On 7 January 1131, Knud arrived in a forest outside Haraldstedt and was met by Magnus who, according to Helmold, treacherously embraced and kissed the unsuspecting man, only to have him killed as soon as they sat down to negotiate their affairs.43 Saxo’s later version of this ritual and murder generally agrees with Helmold’s, but it is still worth quoting at length. It not just fills in the frame with some dramatic details and gives a clearer picture of Knud’s honesty — rather than naïveté – vis-à-vis Mag­ nus’ duplicity. It also illustrates well the chronically manipulative character of rituals in the Gesta Danorum,44 here enhanced by Saxo’s use of the frame of the liturgical year and the revelation of truth on the Epiphany: Just as Knud was nearing the outskirts of the wood, he was welcomed by Magnus, who was sitting on the trunk of a fallen tree; assuming a hypocrite’s cheerful expression he kissed Knud with feigned

40 Margareta Fredkulla, Magnus’s mother, was probably deceased at that point (d. 1130) and even before her death she had an inhibiting rather than catalysing effect on the feuds between Niels and Knud Lavard. It is more likely that it was Niels’s second wife or mistress, Ulvhild of Norway, who goaded Magnus into action; Hermanson, Släkt, vänner och makt, p. 94 n. 135. 41 Helmold of Bosau, Chronica Slavorum, ed. by Stoob, 50, pp. 190–91: ‘“Nonne vides, quia nepos tuus sumpto sceptro iam regnat? Arbitrare ergo eum hostem publicum, qui vivente adhuc patre tuo nomen sibi regium usurpare non timuit”’. 42 On different types of colloquia and the rules regulating them, see Althoff, Spielregeln der Politik, pp. 157–84. 43 Helmold of Bosau, Chronica Slavorum, ed. by Stoob, 50, pp. 192–93; Saxo, Gesta Danorum, ed. by Friis-Jensen, trans. by Fisher, ii, xiii. 6. 8–9, pp. 938–39. 44 Esmark, ‘Just Rituals’, pp. 237–67.

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endearment. As he held Magnus tight in his embrace, Knud felt his chest clad in mail and began to make keen enquiry as to why he was wearing it. The other, eager to disguise his perfidy and wishing at the same time to give a reason for having armour on, said that there was a countryman whose home he longed to destroy. Knud solemnly pondered this savage project together with the sacredness of the season (the rites of Epiphany were then taking place), and begged him not to besmirch a public festival with private vindictiveness. Magnus declared with an oath that he would not slacken in his revenge nor give up the scheme, at which Knud started to promise his cousin due reparation and to offer his own guarantee of satisfaction in this matter.45 For Helmold, Magnus was far from the only man using invitations and customs of hospitality to lure political enemies into traps. The woman who goaded him (be it Margareta or Ulvhild) was by no means the only female to make this happen. In the early 1090s, Kruto, the aged leader of the Slavs, similarly began to plot to assassinate Henry of Lübeck (c. 1066–1127) after the latter’s marauders allied with the Danes had devastated Kruto’s coast for the third time. A great fear was spreading along the coast, so Kruto ostensibly entered into negotiations with Henry, offering to grant him a number of villages in settlement.46 Yet while Kruto sat at the table with his most trusted followers and divulged his plans to murder Henry, he was not the only one with duplicity in mind. His wife, Slavinia, intended to marry Henry and she revealed the murderous plot to him while Henry wanted to reclaim the land of his father, Gottschalk. Following Slavinia’s instructions, Henry invited Kruto for a convivium in 1093 instead. There the old drunken leader was assaulted and decapitated by a hidden Dane.47 As the news of Kruto’s death spread along the coast and into Saxony, several pagan Slavic tribes and local Christians celebrated because Kruto had heavily oppressed both groups in the past.48

45 Saxo, Gesta Danorum, ed. by Friis-Jensen, trans. by Fisher, ii, xiii. 6. 8, pp. 938–39: ‘Iamque Kanutus primos sylue aditus subibat, cum a Magno occiduum arboris truncum insidente falsa oris hilaritate et fictis osculorum blandimentis excipitur. Cuius ut astrictum amplexibus pectus ferro tectum agnouit, quid ita eo cultu esset, perquirere institit. At ille dissimulande fraudis cupidine munimenti rationem reddere cupiens, esse uirum inquit uite rustice, cuius populari penates uellet. Kanutus et rei atrocitatem et temporis religionem sancte estimans — quippe Epiphanie sacra gerebantur — ne priuata ira publicum solenne macularet, orabat. Quo neque se ultionem remissurum neque proposito cessurum iurante, ipse satisfactionis iusta promittere suamque pro eius correctione sponsionem offerre coepit’. 46 Helmold of Bosau, Chronica Slavorum, ed. by Stoob, 34, pp. 142–43: ‘Cruto preter spem Heinricum ad pacis condicionem admitteret et concesso introitu villas ei oportunas ad habitandum concederet’. 47 For a more general moral and narratological sense of vengeful feasts in medieval historiography, see Banaszkiewicz, ‘Uczta rozrachunku’, pp. 541–61. 48 Helmold of Bosau, Chronica Slavorum, ed. by Stoob, 34, pp. 140–47.

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The examples of Knud Lavard and Kruto show the fine line which separated hospitality and hostility. They also demonstrate how a ritual of reception and community of the table could quickly redraw the lines between friends or enemies and reframe their roles. In the case of Knud Lavard, there were a number of political factors at play both before and after the meeting in Schleswig. These included the growing importance of Knud in the region, his alliances in Saxony, and the competition between him and Magnus for succession of the Danish throne after Niels. If we follow Helmold’s account, during the meeting between Knud Lavard and Niels, Knud behaved as if he was practically, through his demeanour, negotiating with the old king who was to be the host and guest of this encounter. Would Knud keep his inferior position and play by the rules as he was expected to do showing proper deference to the king? Or would he assume a much more active role and demand more respect than he was initially granted?49 In other words, the conditions of hospitality itself and how they translated into hierarchy of status were at stake in these negotiations.50 It is no wonder that Magnus and Margareta saw this as an usurpation that shifted Knud’s status from the position of a guest to that of a ‘hostis publicus’. We see that the same ritual generated an ambiguity regarding which role Knud exactly played. His behaviour could thus be interpreted through incompatible, seemingly mutually exclusive frames by different participants at the same time:51 as nearly consensual — according to Niels, as agonistic — according to Knud Lavard himself, and as antagonistic — according to Margareta and Magnus, to use Chantal Mouffe’s tripartite distinction. Similarly, Knud’s situational identity could be simultaneously that of political partner, adversary, or enemy.52 Moreover, Kruto’s and Knud Lavard’s examples show that customs of hospitality were by default interpreted as a form of benign conduct underpinned with social trust.53 As such, they were perfectly suited to catching an opponent off-guard. According to Derrida, hospitality hinges upon a secret to be revealed — its temporal aspect is thus crucial. Hospitality is a form of waiting without exact knowledge of what or whom one is expecting. A Danish leader who was acutely aware of this uncertain, unanticipated character of hospitality was the Danish King Svein III (c. 1125–1157), but to consider his case we need some more context of this next chapter of the Danish 49 Goffman, ‘The Nature of Deference and Demeanor’, pp. 473–80. 50 Derrida, ‘Hostipitality’, p. 14; Elliot, ‘Trickster Hospitality’, pp. 133–37. 51 Goffman, Frame Analysis, pp. 56–58, 388; Zielyk, ‘On Ambiguity and Ambivalence’, pp. 59– 61. 52 Mouffe, The Democratic Paradox, pp. 102–03; Mouffe, On the Political, pp. 20–21; Althoff, Macht der Rituale, pp. 160–62. 53 Hellmuth, Gastfreundschaft und Gastrecht, pp. 187–96; Althoff, Family, Friends, and Followers, pp. 152–55.

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civil wars. In in the wake of King Erik III Lamb’s death in 1146 (c. 1120– 1146), three sons of the men who had fought in the previous generation — Valdemar I (b. 1131, r. 1154–1182; son of Knud Lavard), Knud V (b. c. 1129, r. 1146–1157, son of Magnus Nielsen) and Svein III, son of Erik Emune (r. 1134–1137) — crossed swords again. This conflict for the throne went on for nearly eight years until 1154, when Valdemar and Knud V managed to eject Svein from Denmark. After his deposition and expulsion, Svein III first spent his exile in Oldenburg and then at the court of Adolf II of Holstein (r. 1130–1164).54 Svein III had slim prospects to return to Denmark and regaining his power. But Henry the Lion (r. 1142/1156–1180), asked by the Saxon magnates, gathered an army to install Svein back into his country in the winter of 1156/1157. However, as they approached Denmark, and as Svein’s braggadocio about how grandiose his welcome would be intensified, they saw that ‘there was no one in the whole land of Denmark who received him, nobody came to meet him’.55 It took another intervention, this time with the support of the Obotritian Duke Niklot (1090–1160),56 and some heavy fighting against Knud and Valdemar, before Svein finally reached a truce which divided Denmark between the three of them and he was able to reclaim his position at home.57 It is impossible to say whether Svein learned his lesson during the winter campaign of 1156/1157 or at an earlier date. But when Knud V and Valdemar I invited him to a grand feast at Roskilde in August 1157, Svein was well aware that one should not count much on people’s kind­ ness in general, let alone on the kindness of recent enemies. As Otto of Freising wondered: ‘Who would complain about an enemy’s bad faith or fierceness?’58 On Helmold’s reading, the Roskilde feast (‘convivium maximum’) was organized in good faith to show Svein honour and solace for the ‘days of hostility and war’ (‘die hostis et belli’). ‘Svein, however, due to his innate cruelty, barely sat at the table and as he saw the kings feast without any suspicion or anger he began to look for a good opportunity for an ambush’.59 Finally, on the third day of the feast (9 August 1157) the

54 On the politics of exiled Danish elites, see Rønning, ‘The Politics of Exile in Northern Europe’, pp. 271–84. 55 Helmold of Bosau, Chronica Slavorum, ed. by Stoob, 85, pp. 300–01: ‘Nullus enim in tota Danorum terra fuit, qui reciperet eum aut occurreret illi’; Hermanson, Friendship, Love, and Brotherhood, pp. 97–101. 56 The father of Duke Pribislaw from the opening scene of this chapter. 57 Hermanson, Släkt, vänner och makt, pp. 209–14, 220–24. 58 Otto von Freising, Gesta Frederici imperatoris, ed. by Schmale, i. 20, pp. 162–63: ‘iuxta illud: Dolus an virtus quis in hoste requirat?’. 59 Helmold of Bosau, Chronica Slavorum, ed. by Stoob, 85, pp. 302–03: ‘At ille pro ingenita sibi crudelitate, ubi convivio assedit et vidit reges convivas inpavidos et omni suspicione vacuos, cepit rimari aptum insidiis locum’. On Svein’s innate crudelitas see also: 85, pp. 298–99.

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chance arrived, and on Svein’s signal, murderers stepped in, piercing Knud and forcing Valdemar to flee. The story of the Roskilde bloodbath is well-known and in many re­ spects constitutes a pivotal point in the Danish dynastic history of the twelfth and thirteenth centuries. Treacherous invitations to and murders at feasts in general constituted a class of particularly memorable events. For example, according to Cosmas of Prague, after Duke Boleslav I the Cruel of Bohemia (r. 935–972) had his older brother Duke Wenceslas (r. 921– 929/935, later St Wenceslas) murdered at a feast in Stará Boleslav on 28 September 929/935, a son was born to him on the very same day marked by the feast of Sts Cosmas and Damian. Immediately feeling remorse about the fratricide, Boleslav gave the newborn a strange and unheard-of name, Strachkvas (‘Ztrahquaz’), which the chronicler explicated as ‘terrifying banquet [“terribile convivium”]’.60 The son — who later became a monk — was thus turned into a living reminder, an embodied mark of Cain of his father and bore the name until his death in 996, when he allegedly almost succeeded St Adalbert as bishop of Prague. The name Strachkvas is not corroborated by other sources — if Boleslav indeed had a son at that point his name was Kristián — and is perhaps Cosmas’s own invention or a nickname preserved in the oral tradition for over a century.61 Nevertheless, the story itself is a good illustration of the very strong taboo against not just fratricide, but also against violence during feasts in this period. Returning to Roskilde in 1157. From the point of view of medieval hospitality, Helmold’s description of this bloodbath carries one crucial element. It shows that Svein agreed to accept the invitation and initially participated in the convivium against his better judgement and in anticipa­ tion of treachery on the part of his opponents, which he himself eventually provided. In a way, before Svein began to plot his attack, he was a hostage at the Roskilde banquet. He was not a hostage of Knud or Valdemar, who, according to Helmold, intended no harm. Rather, he was a hostage of hospitality itself. He was hostage of his own previous pact of peace with them and of the mandatory requirements of the festive occasion intended to seal it.62

60 Cosmas of Prague, Chronica Bohemorum, ed. by Bak and Rychterová, trans. by Mutlová and Rady, i. 17, pp. 66–67: ‘Hec autem inter convivia, que, ut supra retulimus, fraterna cede execrabilia, nascitur proles eximia ducis Bolezlai ex coniuge egregia, cui ex eventu rerum nomen est inditum Ztrahquaz, quod nomen sonat: terribile convivium’, ‘During this banquet damned by the fratricide which we have just related, an excellent son of Duke Boleslav was born from his esteemed wife, and due to the course of the events was named Strachkvas which means a “dreadful banquet”’. 61 Cosmas of Prague, Chronica Bohemorum, ed. by Bak and Rychterová, trans. by Mutlová and Rady, i. 17, p. 66 n. 173. 62 Derrida, ‘Hostipitality’, p. 9; Derrida and Dufourmantelle, Of Hospitality, pp. 105–07, 125.

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To be sure, Helmold was no better informed of the details of the Roskilde bloodbath than Saxo or the author of the Knytlingasaga, even if politically, there was less at stake in the way he chose to frame events than in the case of the latter authors working for the Danish elites.63 In Saxo’s version of events, it was Knud who invited the other two royals to Roskilde. Also the feast itself was framed in a much more agonistic man­ ner. It appears that Knud or Valdemar, jointly acting as hosts, cunningly used this occasion to publicly shame their guest of honour through the cheeky entertainment offered during this feast: Amid their other recreations a German minstrel sang about Svein’s flight and exile, and cast a variety of insults at him by turning his slurs into a ballad. When the fellow was sharply rebuked by the guests for his tactlessness, Svein concealed his annoyance and bade the musician sing again more freely about his misfortunes, avowing that he was very happy to recall his turns of ill fate now that his troubles were over.64 What Helmold’s and Saxo’s accounts thus essentially agree upon is that it was perfectly plausible that a political and military leader might agree to partake in a meeting or feast against his better judgement and with acceptance of risks for one’s life. Simply because the rules of hospitality, and connected political agreements, carried such a strong obligation that one felt obliged to swallow the potential public insults. Saxo gives a similar account of the legendary Prince Amlet, who was sure that his father-in-law, the British king, had treacherously invited him to a convivium to kill him. The prince accepted the invitation nonetheless. Having undertaken some reasonable precautions, Amlet hastened to meet his host, Amlet, recognizing his duplicity, disguised his fears and took with him a train of two hundred knights, having first put on a mail shirt; he humoured his host and preferred the danger of complying with the king’s hypocrisy than churlishly opposing him. A code of honour, to his mind, must be observed in everything.65

63 Pajung and Liljefalk, ‘Helmolds Slaverkrønike som kilde’, pp. 21–26. 64 Saxo, Gesta Danorum, ed. by Friis-Jensen, trans. by Fisher, ii, xiv. 8. 2, pp. 1090–91: ‘Inter cetera cantor Germanicus fugam Suenonis exiliumque cantilena complexus uarias ei contumelias formatis in carmen conuiciis obiectabat. Quem ob hoc acrius a conuiuis increpitum Sueno dissimulata molestia fortunas suas liberius recinere iubet, perquam libenter se post erumnas malorum meminisse confessus’; Kjær, ‘Feasting with Traitors’, pp. 269–94; Kjaer, ‘Druk, kongedrab og kongemagt’, pp. 127–48. 65 Saxo, Gesta Danorum, ed. by Friis-Jensen, trans. by Fisher, i, iv. 1. 19, pp. 216–19: ‘Amlethus cognita fraude metum dissimulanter habuit, ducentisque equitibus in comitatum receptis subarmalem uestem indutus obsequitur inuitanti, maluitque regie simulationi periculose parere quam turpiter repugnare. Adeo honestatem in cunctis obseruandam putabat’. See also Hellmuth, Gastfreundschaft und Gastrecht, pp. 180–86, 213–16; Kjær, ‘Glory and Legitimation in the Aristocratic Hall’, pp. 154–77.

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Much like the desperate Slavs, who were way over their heads in debt due to their obligations to receive guests and show off their munificence that verged on self-destruction, the Danish and German political elites also understood the rules of hospitality as rules of honour. This was a game with high stakes and little room for manoeuvre. Such strong obligatory force of hospitality did not just extort the desired behaviour from the invited guests, but also enabled guests to impose themselves on their hosts. This at least was what the young Knud Lavard did when he arrived at the court of the Duke (and Emperor-to-be) Lothar (r. 1106/1133–1137) in Saxony and stayed there for several years at some point before 1115. It is very difficult to deduce from Helmold’s description whether Lothar saw Knud Lavard’s presence as a burden or if he keenly received him, like Adolf II did in Svein III’s case, grasping an opportunity to intervene in Danish affairs. From Helmold’s perspective, it hardly mattered. Lothar was obliged to accept the young Danish duke with honour simply because he had to live up to the image of a magnificent ruler.66 Even if they sometimes pushed people into taking desperate measures or risking their necks, it is clear that the rules of hospitality were far from absolute and could in fact be moderated and qualified by other obligations and loyalties. This conditional character of hospitality is visible in the case of Erik Emune, Knud Lavard’s half-brother and avenger, whose attempts to kill Magnus were initially unsuccessful. In 1131/1132, in the wake of Knud’s death, Erik had to flee Denmark and seek refuge in Schleswig, whose inhabitants accepted him because ‘they remembered the good deeds that Knud did to them and were ready to risk death and expulsion for him [Erik]’.67 A right to be accepted and to receive military support could thus be inherited, but this both depended on and was tempered by any feelings of loyalty and shared political goals. The conditional nature of political hospitality is even more conspic­ uous in the case of the initially mentioned Obotritian Duke Pribislaw (d. 1178), the son of Niklot. Before he changed sides and became a loyal vassal of Henry the Lion — a change of allegiance that led to the

66 Helmold of Bosau, Chronica Slavorum, ed. by Stoob, 49, pp. 188–89: ‘Ubi autem Kanutus adolere cepit, timens se insidiis patrui sui facile posse obrui, transiit ad imperatorem Lotharium et mansit apud eum multis diebus sive annis, habitus, ut regiam magnificentiam decuit, cum plena honorificentia’. 67 Helmold of Bosau, Chronica Slavorum, ed. by Stoob, 51, pp. 194–95: ‘Illi autem memores bonorum, quae impenderat eis Kanutus, receperunt virum, parati pro eo ferre mortem et exterminium’; Schleswig’s burghers’ good memory and political loyalty to Knud Lavard’s heirs can be attested through other sources, though strongly coloured by Knud’s later canonization, e.g. by the mid-thirteenth-century Vetus Chronica Sialandie, ed. by Gertz, ii, 33–34; Hermanson, Friendship, Love, and Brotherhood, pp. 205–07; Derrida and Dufourmantelle, Of Hospitality, pp. 23–27.

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submission of Mecklenburg to Henry in 1167 and the installation of Pribislaw as his deputy there — the Obotritian Duke was the leader of a fierce rebellion against the Saxon rulers in 1163/1164. Heavily pressed by Duke Henry, he fled to the Slavic town of Demmin and the castle held by the Pomeranian dukes Bogislaw and Casimir. For some time, he led a successful partisan war, plundering in Schwerin and Ratzeburg. Soon enough Gunzelin and Bernhard, two vassals of Henry the Lion, struck back and Pribislaw lost his best men and his horses. Suddenly deprived of his military might, the pagan duke was soon confronted by his hosts, Bogislaw and Casimir: If you would like to live with us and be our guest [be accommodated by us, ‘uti diversorio nostro’] take care not to offend the eyes of the duke’s men; otherwise we will expel you from our lands. You have already once brought heavy atrocities over our heads and we lost our best men and castles. As if not satisfied with that, you want to now bring duke’s anger over us once more?68 These two examples suggest that when it came to political and military agreements, local loyalties occasionally triumphed over the seemingly absolute demands of hospitality. The interested parties could not only ne­ gotiate the terms of political hospitality with each other, but went as far as to explicitly dictate the rules of acceptance and engagement. Hospitality’s conventions permeated, and were also influenced by, wider social and political commitments that sometimes simply disarmed its purportedly unconditional character. For the elites, politics went before kindness, no matter how obligatory the latter was. The impression that the political elites played by their own rules of hos­ pitality intensifies when we leave the frontier context and semi-peripheries and investigate the rituals and host-guest relations within the imperial Christian polity. Consider the spectacular — if highly stylized — descrip­ tion of a lavish yet highly agonistic convivium, which Helmold could find in Adam’s Gesta, a source that otherwise has little to say about any concrete rituals of hospitality. The degree of detail of this account suggests that Adam was present at the feast. It considers a Christmas celebration between 1067 and 1069, a time by which Archbishop Adalbert already had lost his favourable position at the imperial court and in Saxony. Present at this convivium was Adalbert’s purported arch-enemy — according to Adam, which is contradicted by our knowledge about their relationship

68 Helmold of Bosau, Chronica Slavorum, ed. by Stoob, 101, pp. 354–57: ‘“Si tibi placet habitare nobiscum et uti diversorio nostro, cave, ne offendas oculos virorum ducis, alioquin propellemus te de finibus nostris. Iam pridem enim duxisti nos, ubi percussi sumus attricione maxima et perdidimus viros et urbes meliores, nec hiis contentus iteratam super nos inducere vis principis iram?”’.

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from other sources69 – Duke Magnus Billung (r. 1072–1106).70 According to Adam, the sorrow-faced Adalbert found enough composure to confront his adversaries by letting his brethren intone and loudly sing a carefully compiled set of psalms71 that stressed how deeply Adalbert had been offended. With verses such as: ‘Turn again our captivity, O Lord’ and ‘We looked for peace, and it did not come’, the archbishop and the clerics interrupted every toast, thus punctuating the merry mood of their guests. Having established their moral superiority, the clerics finally left for the chapel. Even in dire straits, the liturgical and symbolic arsenal of the clerics made it possible for them to return fire without ever risking open conflict. Incidentally, Helmold’s own example of a borderline offensive meeting between his patron, Bishop Gerold, and Archbishop Hartwig in Stade in October 1155, during which the two parts refused to exchange greetings and demonstrated anger to each other instead, shows that clerics could activate a very broad spectrum of aggressive and unwelcoming rituals.72 The Chronica Slavorum also contains significant examples of rituals of adventus and hospitable reception due to rulers,73 which were occasionally staged in a somewhat hypocritical manner. A case in point is the behaviour of Louis VII of France in 1162, who, in the course of the conflict between the competing popes Alexander III and Victor IV, appointed in the wake of Pope Hadrian IV’s death, agreed to meet Frederick Barbarossa to settle the issue of who was to rule the Church. As Louis approached the bridge over the Saône in Burgundy where they had agreed to meet, he received reports that Barbarossa was in fact accompanied by a large army, presumably to pressure Louis to support his candidate in Rome. Afraid of Fredrick but unwilling to break the oath he had given (‘propter fidem sacramentorum’), the French king upped the tempo and hastened to meeting point, arriving early on the day before the emperor would arrive. ‘This the king of France took for a fortunate sign; he washed his hands in the river as a testimony that he kept his word from which he was now released; he left on the very same day and went to Dijon’.74 That night Barbarossa showed up 69 Hartmann, ‘Konstruierte Konflikte’, pp. 124–26. 70 Adam of Bremen, Gesta, ed. by Schmeidler, iii. 70, p. 217: ‘O quotiens vidimus eum planctu faciem turbatum, si quando vastationis ecclesiae recordatus est, sive cum ipsos conspexisset vastatores! In die festo natalis Domini, cum Magnus dux adesset presens itemque magna coesset recumbentium multitudo, tunc hylares convivae pro sua consuetudine finitis epulis plausum cum voce levaverunt, quod tamen non parum displicuit archiepiscopo’; Janson, Templum nobilissimum, pp. 195–96. 71 Psalms 136, 125, 7. 72 Helmold of Bosau, Chronica Slavorum, ed. by Stoob, 83, pp. 284–85. 73 Helmold of Bosau, Chronica Slavorum, ed. by Stoob, 69, pp. 242–43; 83, pp. 282–83; 94, pp. 330–31; Warner, ‘Ritual and Memory in the Ottonian Reich’, pp. 255–83. 74 Helmold of Bosau, Chronica Slavorum, ed. by Stoob, 91, pp. 318–19: ‘Quod rex Franciae accipiens pro omine lavit manus suas in flumine ob testimonium, quasi qui fidem pollicitam reddiderit, et digrediens inde abiit ipso vespere Divionam’.

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and demanded that Louis return, but the French king refused. He ‘consid­ ered himself lucky that in this manner he was freed from the oath and slipped out of the emperor’s suspect hands’.75 Formal correctness was not a requirement nor a by-product but the very manipulation of ritual action in this case. Dissociated from belief and honest intention, such rituals made it possible for all participants to leave the stage with their honour intact while assuring that nothing had been achieved. Political agreements such as this could thus fail despite — or rather precisely because — they were performed in a work-to-rule manner. It was ritual hypocrisy that paid homage owed to the virtue. The opposite strategy, hardly visible in the examples from the Slavic and Danish regions, is the explicit negotiation and questioning of the ritualistic rules of the game and the meaning of symbolic communication in meetings and political encounters. Though the following example does not consider hospitality per se, it merits discussion because it reveals the same sense of ritualistic action filled with uncertainty foregrounded in the Chronica Slavorum. The case in point is the well-known confrontation between Fredrick Barbarossa and Pope Hadrian IV regarding the StratorDienst in Sutri in 1155. To cut a long story short: despite the fact that the details of this meeting were agreed upon in advance, when the emperor and the pope met, the two partners went quickly from exchanging acrimo­ nious remarks with each other to being embroiled in a debate about the intentions and obligations that formed a part of their ritual of meeting. Famously, at some point Fredrick grasped the stirrup on the wrong side of the pope’s horse and then only half-heartedly excused himself. For this, the emperor was reprimanded by Hadrian IV. The pope wondered sarcastically how it was possible that the emperor could be so ignorant of this well-established service that had been paid by rulers to popes for centuries. He therefore suggested that if Frederick failed at such a simple task, he would certainly have trouble coping with the demands of imperial responsibility. The emperor replied with still more hostility: I would like to learn more exactly whether I am due to perform this custom out of courtesy (‘ex benivolentia’) or out of obligation (‘ex debito’)? If out of courtesy then the pope has nothing to criticize, when a service based on free-will and not on legal ground is changed somewhat. But if he claims that this reverence is due to the prince of the apostles out of obligation of some ancient institution, what is the difference between the right and left stirrup as long as the humility

75 Helmold of Bosau, Chronica Slavorum, ed. by Stoob, 91, pp. 318–19: ‘Sed ille nulla ratione vacare potuit, gratulans se et fidem solvisse et suspectam cesaris manum evasisse’.

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is granted and the ruler curves his back to the feet of the highest pontifex?76 We know well that this version of events is penned with a certain poetic licence, not least because Helmold’s information was third-hand at best.77 Moreover, the papal vitae of Hadrian and his successor Alexander preserve a much less witty and more obstinate version of Barbarossa. He supposedly caused a public scandal by refusing to render this service to the pope at all at first and needed to be convinced by an ad hoc recalled historical prece­ dent that this in fact was his imperial obligation.78 What is striking about Helmold’s framing is the level of reflexivity shown by the participants that questions the scenario of the ritual, its building blocks, its meaning, and historical precedents. It seems that in order to save face, these two performers effectively questioned and deconstructed the very ritual they participated in, reflecting upon what about their performance should be considered transformative or obliging, that is, what their ceremony achieved in terms of political implications.79 To sum up the practice-oriented part of this chapter. As one plays back the examples considered above — from core European regions, through the semi-peripheries like northern Germany or Denmark, to group hospitality and inhospitality on the Slavic frontier — a compelling pattern emerges. Despite an overlap in ritualistic practices, there seems to have been very different motivations and rules of the game regulating hospitality in these various regions. In Helmold’s view, hospitality and its occasional derailments on the ethnic level was regulated by the Slavs’ sincere but unencumbered emotions and their ancient customs. The en­ counters and the community of the table of the Danish and Slavic elites, on the other hand, often appeared as conscious abuses of hospitality. Finally, the top echelons of the imperial and core European polities took the question of the rules of meetings and conviviality to yet another level.

76 Helmold of Bosau, Chronica Slavorum, ed. by Stoob, 81, pp. 278–79: ‘“Vellem melius instrui, unde mos iste inoleverit, ex benivolentia an ex debito? Si ex benivolentia, nil causari habet domnus papa, si vacillaverit obsequium, quod ex arbitrio, non de iure subsistit. Quod si dicitis, quia ex debito primae institucionis haec reverentia debetur principi apostolorum, quid interest inter dexteram strepam et sinistram, dummodo servetur humilitas, et curvetur princeps ad pedes summi pontificis?”’. 77 Perhaps it was Helmold’s patron Bishop Gerold who delivered the story to him: Althoff, ‘Inszenierung verpflichtet’, p. 124 n. 61. 78 Boso, Vita Hadriani, ed. by Duchesne, pp. 388–97; Boso, Vita Alexandri III, ed. by Duchesne, pp. 397–446. 79 Koziol, The Politics of Memory and Identity, pp. 42–62; Koziol, ‘Making Boso the Clown’, pp. 43–61; Althoff, ‘Inszenierung verpflichtet’, pp. 105–32; Šimůnek, ‘Rituály, ceremoniály a symbolická komunikace’, pp. 271–72; Althoff, Macht der Rituale, pp. 140–43, 166; Althoff, ‘Inszenierung verpflichtet’, pp. 123–25; Goffman, The Presentation of Self in Everyday Life, pp. 167–69, 188–90.

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They treated such encounters and hospitality in general with a great deal of reflexivity or distancing irony, freely reconstructing their ritualistic content and political meaning — features that were conspicuously absent from the meetings in the first two spheres. This overabundance of details about the events and actors’ motivations depended obviously on what sources were available to Helmold and on his spatial and historical distance from the events he depicted. The last few examples discussed here were contemporary to Helmold, who personally knew some of the participants and eyewitnesses. Many of the Danish and Slavic examples were considerably older, however. Their details were mediated via other authors and general fama. But some of them Helmold must have put together and expanded with his own imagination and his situated common sense. Perhaps the tension between these oppositions — emotions/custom, use/abuse, reflection/irony, periphery/centre — framing and informing Helmold’s sensitivity and approach to ritual hospi­ tality echoed a historical process taking place on the verge of the twelfth and thirteenth centuries. First, the period saw the introduction of courtly culture and chivalry to Germany, which also spread further north to the peripheral and frontier regions. This process is exemplified both by Knud Lavard’s glamorous and outlandish clothes and demeanour in Helmold’s description and by Saxo’s complaints about the unbecoming courtly man­ ners popping up in Denmark at the time, something which Arnold of Lübeck would rather praise him for.80 It seems that a more archaic or indigenous understanding of convivia as communal and peace-making ritu­ als was being overshadowed by more strategic traits, which pushed festive policy-making, ceremonial character, and agonism to the fore. Second, courtesy, albeit in a clerical rather than knightly sense in Helmold’s case, was becoming the new hallmark of behaviour and the way of achieving status and appreciation. This also entailed a shift in perceptions of honour. At least among the elites, the sense of honour was changing its primary reference from a group representation (e.g. social and regional structures of kinship) to a more individual. More and more honour seemed to be a matter of personal responsibility its pursuit offered a risk-ridden potential for self-invention, a process for which an ironic distance was required.81 In his peripheral but connected position, Helmold stood at the very crossroads of these developments. His paradoxical sense of host-guest relations was not just the product of these contradictory influences, but something he turned into an ability to put himself in the shoes and

80 Jaeger, The Origins of Courtliness, pp. 185–90; Esmark, ‘Just Rituals’, pp. 237–67. 81 Althoff, ‘Der frieden-, bündnis-, und gemeinschaftstiftende Charakter’, pp. 24–25; Jaeger, The Origins of Courtliness, pp. 101–03; Wenzel, ‘Repräsentation und schöner Schein’, pp. 171–208; Storelli, ‘Du mérite militaire et de la prouesse chevaleresque’, pp. 131–59; Hasty, The Medieval Risk-Reward Society.

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minds of others. This unique frame of mind allowed him to equally appre­ ciate traditional Slavic hospitality driven by alleged honesty and kindness Louis VII’s hypocritical ritual trickery: ‘ars arte delusa est’.82

La grande bouffe: Metaphorical Hospitality Among the idiosyncratic depictions of host-guest relations in the Chronica Slavorum, the text contains a number of instances that go beyond the level of concrete meetings and encounters. This is perhaps the point at which we reach sensitivity proper: the moment hospitality ceases to be just an element in the picture of represented reality and becomes the frame and the conceptual mechanism for adjustment and tension between language and reality. To explore this, I would like to call attention to sev­ eral metaphorical formulas, especially the ambiguous — simultaneously agonistic and pacific — metaphors of the table, mensa, used by Helmold.83 Hospitality practised in episcopal households and chapters seems to constitute a distinct form of host-guest relations in the Chronica, even if it shared the same uncertain character, oscillating between desirable nurtur­ ing and exploitation. In Helmold’s introduction of the life of the young Vicelin, the man he admired the most, the author notes that the orphaned boy was first educated at the court of Mathilda of Everstein, mother of Count Conrad of Everstein (r. 1113–1127). However, a conflict with an envious priest who worked at the court forced the young man to move again. It was in Paderborn, at the side of a certain Magister Hartmann, that Vicelin found his first and most important school and safe haven. ‘He [Vicelin] shared his [Hartmann’s] table and household for many years studying with indescribable fervour and diligence’.84 Years later, during his time as a teacher in Bremen, Vicelin himself acted as a mentor towards a young pupil and commensal housemate (‘discipulus et contubernio’), Thetmar.85 But as we saw in Chapter 3, episcopal households were far

82 Helmold of Bosau, Chronica Slavorum, ed. by Stoob, 91, pp. 318–19; Pössel, ‘The Magic of Early Medieval Ritual’, pp. 111–25. 83 Helmold’s chronicle has been read from a metaphorical point of view before, but only when it comes to the so-called historical metaphors interpreting history in terms of changing fortune or the tension between north/cold and south/warmth or metaphors of pagan religion, see e.g.: Rosik, The Slavic Religion, pp. 322, 376; Fraesdorff, Der barbarische Norden, pp. 324–30. 84 Helmold of Bosau, Chronica Slavorum, ed. by Stoob, 42, pp. 170–71: ‘Cuius etiam mensa et contubernio usus quam pluribus annis tanto fervore, tanta denique instantia studuit, ut non facile explicari possit’. 85 Helmold of Bosau, Chronica Slavorum, ed. by Stoob, 44, pp. 176–77: ‘Cuius tutelae commendatus puer Thetmarus factus est eius discipulus et contubernio’; Steckel, Kulturen des Lehrens, pp. 835–62; Jaeger, The Envy of Angels, pp. 76–79.

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from harmonious, envy-free places. Soon enough, Vicelin’s authority and scholarship evoked bad blood among his Bremen housemates just like it did in Everstein.86 As we observed in Chapter 3, the Bremen episcopal chapter’s descent into a hotbed of gossip began decades earlier, under Archbishop Adalbert. In his version of this story, Helmold depended on Adam’s image of Bremen from the 1060s. It is thus telling what Helmold chose to magnify and tweak in his image of Adalbert’s activity inherited from the Gesta. In Helmold’s frame, Adalbert’s ‘court was frequented by many religious and priests, particularly bishops expelled from their posts who all were guests at his table [“mensae eius erant participes”]. Wanting to get rid of this burden [“sarcina”], he sent them into the wide of the pagans, giving some of them firm posts, others, however, rather unsure’.87 For Adam, to offer a comparison, this earthly business had a broader sense than just constant feasting. It included responsibilities for the cathe­ dral, the poor, and the evangelization of Scandinavia. All this put such a heavy weight upon Adalbert’s shoulders that he relaxed his care for the spiritual matters, even if he remained steadfast and ‘without reproof ’ in the missionary endeavour.88 To the Bremen schoolmaster, the archbishop was a larger-than-life, ambivalent, but ultimately tragic figure who deserved some sympathy. In the original fragment, he stressed the archbishop’s qualities of hospitality and charisma, which had attracted so many people to Bremen. To Helmold, on the other hand, this earthly business burden­ ing Archbishop Adalbert was the source of Bremen’s moral decay. The archbishopric’s waning glory was symbolized by the parasitic, commensal 86 Helmold of Bosau, Chronica Slavorum, ed. by Stoob, 44, pp. 176–77. 87 Helmold of Bosau, Chronica Slavorum, ed. by Stoob, 22, pp. 104–05: ‘Confluebant igitur in curiam eius multi sacerdotes et religiosi, plerique etiam episcopi, qui sedibus suis exturbati mensae eius erant participes. Quorum sarcina ipse alleviari cupiens transmisit eos in latitudinem gentium, quosdam locans certis sedibus, quosdam incertis’. For the relationships at Bishop Adalbert’s court and himself as a courtier, see Jaeger, The Origins of Courtliness, pp. 67–69, 74–76. 88 Adam of Bremen, Gesta, ed. by Schmeidler, iii. 24 (23), p. 167: ‘Cumque terrenis gravatus negotiis et ad spiritalia mox languescere cogeretur, in sola gentium legatione permansit integer officii et sine querela et talis, qualem et tempora et mores hominum mallent habere. Ita affabilis, ita largus, ita hospitalis, ita cupidus divinae partier et humanae gloriae, ut parvula Brema ex illius virtute instar Romae divulgata ab omnibus terrarium partibus devote peteretur, maxime ab ominbus aquilonis populis’; Adam of Bremen, History of the Archbishops, trans. by Tschan, p. 134: ‘And though, burdened with earthly business, he had presently to relax his care for the spiritual, he remained in respect of the heathen mission alone vigorous in service and without reproof, and such as both the circumstances of the times and the ways of men would have him. So affable, so generous, so hospitable, so desirous of divine and at the same time of human glory was he that because of his ability little Bremen was, like Rome, known far and wide and was devoutly sought from all parts of the world, especially by all the peoples of the north’; Brühl, Fodrum, gistum, servitium regis, i, 178–79, 764.

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priests feeding at the episcopal mensa of their host, who nearly lost the mastery of his domain overpowered by his guests. The metaphor of the shared table and meal denoted for the chronicler from Bosau an ambiguous social and symbolic space. This space was to an equal degree suitable for the exercise of caritas, as in Vicelin’s case, or for exploitation and destruction, which evokes the logic and adjustment similar to this from Wipert’s report about Bruno. This uncertain status of mensa and the risks connected to it in the Chronica are all the more surpris­ ing considering that for Helmold — a priest — the primary connotation of mensa must have been liturgical, closely related to his daily workspace, the altar table. Here, instead, Helmold’s highly ambiguous sense of mensa to some extent mirrors or maybe even incorporates the equally perilous sense of the table produced in the emerging courtly culture.89 Incidentally, the same ambiguity of the table has been etymologically preserved in the English word ‘boarder’, which designates one who has lodging/food at the house of another or a table companion, but also relates to the transience and liminality of borders.90 An echo of this reasoning, though placing more emphasis on the predatory than on the parasitic character of the relationship, can be found in the description of Henry the Lion’s unleashing of the Rugians against the Danes in 1168, shortly before the final Danish conquest of the island. ‘After a long fasting the Slavs satiated themselves on the treasures of the Danes so they have grown heavy, fat, and strong’.91 Communal meals, consumption, and conflict — we see hospitality constantly verging on hostility. Formally consensual practices time again turn into agonistic and antagonistic in the Chronica Slavorum. Helmold’s continuous oscillation between these seemingly polar, but actually inti­ mately related social phenomena finds vivid expression in a remarkable metaphor, which he puts into the mouth of Duke Henry of Lübeck in a speech encouraging the Slavic and Saxon troops fighting the Rugians in the winter campaign of 1123/1124. After a day-long pursuit through deep snow and ice, the troops finally met their enemy, who surrounded them on a peninsula where the sea cut off any possible passageway. Seeing this, the duke said to his men:

89 Samsonowicz, ‘O znaczeniu i pojęciu stołu’, pp. 303–09; Williamson, ‘Altarpieces, Liturgy, and Devotion’, pp. 341–406; Wenzel, ‘Tisch und Bett’, pp. 318–25. 90 Reinhard, ‘Towards a Political Theology of the Neighbor’, pp. 36–37. 91 Helmold of Bosau, Chronica Slavorum, ed. by Stoob, 109, pp. 376–77: ‘Et saturati sunt Slavi post diutinam inediam diviciis Danorum, incrassati, inquam, sunt, impinguati sunt, dilatati sunt’ with a quotation from Jeremiah 5. 28: ‘sicut decipula plena avibus sic domus eorum plenae dolo ideo magnificati sunt et ditati / incrassati sunt et inpinguati’; Derrida and Dufourmantelle, Of Hospitality, pp. 59–61.

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Remember, men, where you came from and where you are! Here is a table prepared for us [‘ecce mensa posita est’], which we must sit down at with heavy hearts; there is no way to avoid it and we have to partake in this treat [‘presidium’]. Look, we are closed in by the sea all around, the enemies in front of us, the enemies behind us [‘hostes ante nos, hostes post nos’], no escape way left for us. Be strong in our God Almighty and brace yourselves because there is only one thing left for us to do: to win or to die like men.92 In writing this harangue, Helmold essentially stops but a step short of Derrida’s neologism hostipitality. There is virtually no difference between conviviality and combat in Duke Henry’s words. Hospitality and hostility float freely into each other. In addition, sociability itself — like this partic­ ular grande bouffe, but also like the grand bouffes of Svein III, Kruto, and others — turns out to be an unavoidable entrapment, which compels the diners to lethally enjoy each other’s presence until only one party is left standing. This type of metaphorical affinity and equalization between banquets and battles is not unknown in twelfth-century historiography. For instance, during a late stage of his second Pomeranian mission, after the successful conversion of the Szczecinians, Otto of Bamberg still pondered whether he should convert the Rugians. He made some inquiries whether he would be accepted as a missionary and soon learned that Rugians promised he would meet certain death if he attempted to convert them as a whole. To this ‘he silently rejoiced and prepared himself for martyrdom, and he thought out and arranged everything and debated anxiously with himself whether he ought to go alone or accompanied by others to this feast’.93 Similarly, in his Gesta Tancredi Ralph of Caen, depicting the attack on the city of Maarat (Ma’arra al-Numan) during the First Crusade in 1098, mentions that despite the enemy having laid waste to the countryside adjacent to the city to hinder the siege, ‘the supporters of Christ […] having taken the cross, never gave up and handed their bodies over to prayer for the sake of God, [and] rejoiced once the city was surrounded as if they had been invited

92 Helmold of Bosau, Chronica Slavorum, ed. by Stoob, 38, pp. 156–57: ‘“Mementote, o viri, unde venistis et ubi consistitis. Ecce mensa posita est, ad quam equo animo nobis accedendum est, nec est locus subterfugii, quin oporteat nos participari deliciis eius. Ecce mari undique conclusi sumus, hostes ante nos, hostes post nos, periitque a nobis fugae presidium. Confortamini igitur in domino Deo excelso et estote viri bellatores, quia unum e duobus restat aut vincere aut mori fortiter”’. 93 Herbord, Dialogus, ed. by Wikarjak and Liman, III, 30, p. 192: ‘Ille autem accepta legacione tali tacite apud se exultat, animum parat ad martyrium, cogitat et disponit omnia, tractat anxie apud se, an melius sit solum se ad tale convivium ire an cum multis’ emphasis mine; trans. by Robinson, p. 178.

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to a banquet’.94 In a similar manner, Gallus Anonymous, writing at the court of Duke Bolesław III Wrymouth (r. 1107–1138), remarks how King Henry V of Germany wondered about the fierceness and conspicuous bliss of the Polish troops outside Bytom Odrzański in 1109. ‘The sight of this greatly amazed the emperor: how could unprotected men face foot soldiers, or foot soldiers face knights in armor with bare swords, and go into battle as cheerfully as if they were going to a feast’.95 It could be argued that these last two fragments, associating combat with a festivity, are not metaphors sensu stricto but similes, even if the distinction is negligible.96 What these comparisons and similes do is that they measure the enthusi­ asm of partaking in one abhorrent activity (warfare) by the standards of another enjoyable activity (feasting). Against this literary background, Helmold’s battlefield-as-table and combat-as-dining metaphor seems to be something larger than just the rhetorical finesse added by the author for literary effect.97 In the light of the aforementioned metaphors, and more generally in the context of the close affinities between the ritual of convivium and hostility saturating the Chronica Slavorum, Henry of Lübeck’s figure of speech represents what George Lakoff and Mark Johnson have dubbed a structural metaphorical concept. Such language let Helmold conceptualize the social reality sur­ rounding him, that is, it made up an experientially anchored frame of mind. A common feature of metaphorical concepts of this kind is that they allow a more abstract domain (target domain) to be grasped and con­ ceptualized in terms of a more delineated and readily understood domain (source domain). In this case, the domain of the communal meal lent Helmold its vocabulary for framing the apparently less figurative domain of war-making.98 Even if it would be difficult to say whether this was a

94 Radulfus Cadomensis, Gesta Tancredi in expeditione Hierosolymitana, 96: ‘At Christicolae qui sublata cruce semetipsos abnegaverant, qui propter Deum corpora sua ad supplicia tradiderant, nihilominus urbe circumdata gratulantur, quasi ad epulas invitati.’; English translation: The Gesta Tancredi of Ralph of Caen, ed. and trans. by Bachrach and Bachrach, 96, p. 115 (emphasis mine). 95 Gallus Anonymous, Gesta principum Polonorum, ed. and trans. by Knoll and Schaer, iii. 3, pp. 230–31 (emphasis mine): ‘Quod considerans imperator, vehementer est miratus homines scilicet nudos contra clipeatos, vel clipeatos contra loricatos nudis ensibus decertare et tam alarciter ad pugnam velud ad epulas properare’. The formulation closely echoes Justin [Marcus Junianus Justinus], Epitome, i. 8: ‘Cum uentum ad castra Cyri esset, ignarus rei militaris adulescens, ueluti ad epulas, non ad proelium uenisset, omissis hostibus, insuetos barbaros uino se onerare patitur, priusque Scythae ebrietate quam bello uincuntur’ emphasis mine: http://www.thelatinlibrary.com/justin/1.html (last visited 2021–06–03). 96 Goodman, Languages of Art, pp. 77–78. 97 Curtius, European Literature and Latin Middle Ages, pp. 128–30, 134–36. 98 Lakoff and Johnson, Metaphors We Live By; Constable, ‘Medieval Latin Metaphors’, pp. 1– 20; Heß, Social Imagery in Middle Low German, pp. 7–14.

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metaphor by which his characters lived, it was no doubt the metaphor by which Helmold’s text went. The last and most comparable example of juxtaposing meals and war­ fare comes from the description of the Battle of Evesham, one of the decisive battles during the Second Barons’ War (1264–1267), which took place on 4 August 1265. According to the Lanercost Chronicle, on the morning of the battle — in which Simon de Montfort would lose his life in a spectacularly gruesome fashion with his testicles attached to his nose — the Earl of Leicester exhorted his men: ‘We go on in a constant manner, since we have taken breakfast here together, and we shall dine together in heaven’.99 It is clear that speeches by Simon and Henry allude to the same thing: the heavenly banquet awaiting Christian warriors in exchange for their sacrifice and the spilling of their blood as well as the Eucharistic symbolism.100 But despite the obvious linking of the two phenomena, cognitively and conceptually there is a marked distinction between Henry’s and Simon’s words. At Evesham, the meals taken together served to bring the knights and their leader closer to each other in the face of peril and thus merely encapsulated the scene of a military encounter on both sides, even if the author did play with liturgical overtones in representing Simon’s military leadership.101 Still, in the summer of 1265, the combat was taken for what it was. In the middle of a cold winter a century and a half earlier, the battlefield was a table and the skirmish was a banquet — the metaphorical hinging of these two frames off of each other makes all the difference.

Concluding Remarks The examples considered in this chapter reveal a conceptual grid or geometry in the Chronica Slavorum, which closely links the concepts of hospitalitas, hospes, hostis, hostis publicus, hostia, convivium, and, more remotely, mensa, contubernio, and habitus. For Helmold, this grid seems to have patterned and adjusted a whole set of practices and rituals through which encounters between groups and individuals occurred, whether they were from the same or different cultural spheres.102 Judging from the variability of these rituals and metaphors of hostipitality in the Chronica, the connections of this conceptual grid were not rigid, however. The grid’s

99 Chronicon de Lanercost 1201–1336, ed. by Stevenson, p. 76: ‘Eamus mori constanter quoniam hic jentati sumus, et in caelo manducabimus’. 100 Heffernan, Hospitality and Treachery, p. 66; Ryan, ‘Exchanging Blood for Wine’, pp. 211–18; Bynum, ‘Fast, Feast, and Flesh’, pp. 5–7; Bynum, Holy Feast and Holy Fast, pp. 136–37. 101 Figurski, ‘Das sakramentale Herrscherbild’, pp. 129–61. 102 Rosik, ‘Jarowit Mars i Czarny Bóg Diabeł’, pp. 270–71.

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cognitive elements were organized quite flexibly. They could account for, accommodate, and express performative openness of ritual and manifold frames of mind of their participants. The ritual language and action observable in Chronica reveal a number of interesting features. Regardless whether hospitality was exercised in the periphery or in the centre, the ritual forms of its expression were character­ ized not only by polysemy but also by a deeply rooted ambiguity.103 The same customary rituals such as colloquium or convivium could be organized bona fide in order to seal a political agreement, to confirm a friendship or to express kindness to strangers (even of different creed). Or they could be used with malicious intent in order to dupe opponents into traps. This ambiguity can be to an equal extent explained by being a part of ritual action itself and an element of its blurred perception, a feature of faulty cognition.104 Many characters in Helmold’s Chronica seemed hapless in deciding whether they faced genuine goodwill or if hostility lurked behind a hospitable conduct. But that paranoid suspicion and risk-oriented reflex­ ivity in relation to uncertain host-guest relations exhibited by Helmold’s protagonists may be an effect of him attributing such frames of mind to them after he had spent years of missionary experience of living in terra horroris. These frames are fictional, but not non-factual, so to speak. The ability to second-guess other people’s motivations, put oneself in their shoes, and simulate their points of view — also on oneself — must have been an adaptive socio-psychological and cognitive advantage for someone living on the frontier in close vicinity to potentially dangerous strangers.105 Incidentally, the resemblances and parallels with Saxo in this regard, notwithstanding the obvious fact that both chroniclers often depicted the same events, do not undermine this conclusion. The Danish author composed the contemporary parts of his Gesta in response to a long period of civil wars among the Danish elites. His text based on the accounts of informants who for decades lived in the state of chronic crisis of trust and widespread suspicion of treachery vis-à-vis one’s political partners and adversaries. This was a political crisis which had led to a very high death rate among the parties involved. What Saxo depicted was a sui generis risk elite society and threatened social order on the semi-periphery, which, crucially, was distinct and not reducible to that from the frontier vis-à-vis the pagans.106

103 Althoff, ‘Symbolic Communication and Medieval Order’, pp. 63–75; Fałkowski, ‘Double Meaning in Ritual Communication’, pp. 169–87. 104 Zielyk, ‘On Ambiguity and Ambivalence’, pp. 57–64. 105 Bloch, In and Out, pp. 119–25. 106 Esmark, ‘Messy Conflict’, forthcoming; Esmark, ‘Just Rituals’, pp. 237–67; Kjær, Valdemar den Store.

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Further, it is worth noting that in the above examples the types and effects of ritual ambiguity corresponded to the stakes brought into these rituals by each party and correlated with cultural distance. Hospitality on a group-scale in intercultural, Christian-pagan encounters was often beneficial, though it retained an occasional proclivity to expulsion, rejec­ tion, or risk of bloodshed like during the herring draught on Rügen. Both Christians and pagans saw these meetings as competitions for identity, cult, and ultimately for the political regime.107 The personal mezzo-level of confrontations within the Danish and pagan political elites, even though they too ran the risk of getting out of hand and ending up with killings, were consciously used either to bind closer ties with one’s political adver­ saries or to eliminate them. These rituals were also much more codified, even if the code itself did not rule out hostility between the parts. Finally, the top-level hospitality and conviviality, which constituted the most rigidly regulated and violence-free type of meetings, still left enough space for a skilled player to show the others impertinence, contempt, or even low-key hostility disguised as kindness or liturgical piety and delivered in a decorous manner.108 In some exceptional situations, participants could become almost all too aware of this very ritualization of their behaviour.109 Despite the default perception of the ritual of convivium as consensual, it often carried a potential of agonistic or even antagonistic elements. As noted by Hans Jacob Orning who has studied borderline agonistic and an­ tagonistic conviviality practised by the Norwegian elites during the same period, rituals of hospitality and common meals were always somebody’s rituals. They were a form of power play.110 In the Chronica Slavorum both consensual and contentious host-guest relations were deliberately used to establish someone’s hegemonic position, too. Finally, the transformative or even transgressive force of the rituals of hospitality and convivium. Obviously, such practices had ability to trans­ form relationships between individuals and collectives and were explicitly employed for that purpose. But this aspect had larger ramifications than that. Such practices deeply shaped collective and individual identities, transforming them from enemies to friends and the other way round. They could even equip individuals with multiple, sometimes mutually

107 Rosik, ‘Christianisierung und Macht’, pp. 183–88; Urbańczyk and Rosik, ‘The Kingdom of Poland’, pp. 300–08. 108 Miller, The Anatomy of Disgust, pp. 219–20. 109 Jostkleigrewe, ‘Ritual – Kultur – Grenze’, p. 124: ‘Rituale auch innerhalb auch eines homogenen kulturellen Umfeldes mehr sind als soziales beziehungsweise kommunikatives Instrument; ihr vollständig bewusster instrumenteller Einsatz dürfte eher die Ausnahme als die Regel darstellen’. 110 Orning, ‘Festive Governance’, pp. 175–207; Qviller, Bottles and Battles; Lukes, ‘Political Ritual and Social Integration’, pp. 289–308; Patzold, ‘Wirkreichweiten, Geltungsbereiche, Forschungsperspektiven’, pp. 349–59.

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exclusive or potential identities in the course of one and the same ritual, as was the case with Knud Lavard in 1130. Furthermore, by superimposing more indigenous senses of hospitality and convivium with an interpretatio Christiana, Helmold added an offertory dimension by binding together the notions of hostia with that of hospitalitas, and hostility.111 In the pagan mindsets — or, more precisely, in the pagan mindsets as framed and projected by Helmold — the transgression of a given sacred order of habitation and hospitality had blasphemous implications, which needed to be placated by offerings. The author’s heightened concern in this regard can be explained by the fact that for him liturgy as well as ceremonial competition and ritual transgression were tools of everyday evangelization, frames of mind, and a source of sporadic occupational hazard. Something he shared with certain missionary authors in the region as we saw in the previous chapter. So much for the multidimensional and double-edged character of hos­ pitality in the Chronica Slavorum, which Derridean hostipitality captures exceptionally well. Yet to fully explain Helmold’s sensitivity regarding riskridden host-guest relations and why this idiosyncratic vision of hospitality served as a central imaginary resolution to objective contradictions of a frontier existence we need to take a closer look at the distinct historical and political contexts in which the Chronica and its forerunner, Adam’s Gesta, emerged. After all, if sensitivity is a way of measuring the intensity of a reaction to a stimulus, in order to tell something about the strength of the stimuli we need to pay attention to the historical circumstances and biases that could have affected the original measurement.112 The explanation seems to relate to the difference between Adam’s and Helmold’s mission­ ary risk positions within a tradition so heavily dependent on host-guest relations in its evangelizing effort. As we observed in Chapter 3, due to his personal experiences and exposure the author from Bosau had more to say about the actual encounters with the heathens, the concrete rituals of hospitality, and the practical dimension of missionary action. The Bremen schoolmaster, on the other hand, writing from a distanced position, had mostly commonplaces and hearsay to offer. The second reason for how and why the two authors framed rituals of hospitality so differently considers their distinct political agendas. As we saw in the quote in the introduction and in Chapter 3, Adam was at pains to defend the dominance of the archbishopric of Hamburg-Bremen in the North and persuade Bishop Liemar not to forsake missionary efforts

111 Rosik, The Slavic Religion, pp. 265–69. 112 Goetz, ‘Constructing the Past’, pp. 17–51.

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there.113 But for missions to be undertaken, they had to be appropriately pitched to his own readers: either as a narrow and dangerous road or as broad one, with bright prospects. In this, Adam opted for an optimistic attitude, making hospitality one of the cornerstones in the ideology of expansion of the imperial Church.114 He ignored or remained oblivious of hospitality’s risky aspects, claiming instead that this or that king or that people on the Baltic Rim were very hospitable for missionaries and Christians travelling there. But what if another ruler or group of people were not? In his missionary zeal, Adam still got his way. If pagan hospitality failed and a missionary was killed, then this too was praisewor­ thy. The crown of martyrdom could always be counted on. To Adam, hospitality and hostility stayed neatly separated, compartmentalized, and contained.115 In that way, Adam’s sense of host-guest relations on the periphery perfectly matches his distanced and emotionally safe position explored in the third chapter. In Helmold’s case, there was very little glory of the martyrs. Living in the middle of terra horroris, the author stressed the blood, screams, and suffering of those who died; time and again he explicitly refused to give the details because he found them too disgusting. To him, Christian carnage seldom led to sanctification.116 How does this express Helmold’s political agenda and his risk position? First, by emphasizing his own current hard­ ships Helmold was determined to show his readers (Bishop Conrad and his chapter in Lübeck) the difficulties connected with the mission. Second, Helmold underscored that the full evangelization of Wagria could be achieved most effectively through the close cooperation of secular powers and with their military backing, in the same way his champions, Bishops Vicelin and Gerold, cooperated with Adolf II and Henry the Lion.117 No doubt, pagan hospitality and peaceful cohabitation could occasionally be counted on. But in contrast to Adam, Helmold’s view of evangelization was that it was too risky a business to leave it in the hands of apostolic agents alone. For him, convivia and rituals and institutions of hospitality were too 113 Althoff, ‘Causa scribendi und Darstellungsabsicht’, pp. 117–33; Scior, Das Eigene und das Fremde, pp. 47–49, 68–72, 137; Janson, Templum nobilissimum; Garipzanov, ‘Christianity and Paganism’, pp. 21–22. 114 Compare Heffernan, Hospitality and Treachery, pp. 61–63. 115 Adam of Bremen, Gesta, ed. by Schmeidler, iv. 9, pp. 236–37; iv. 21, pp. 250–52. For St Boniface, St Olaf and others crowned with martyrdom see: i. 10 (11), pp. 10–12; i. 21, p. 27; i. scholia 41, p. 120; iv. 18, pp. 244–46. 116 Helmold of Bosau, Chronica Slavorum, ed. by Stoob, ‘Praefatio’, pp. 26–29: ‘Ego autem in eorum laudem, qui Slavorum provinciam diversis etatibus manu, lingua, plerique etiam in sanguinis effusione illustrarunt, operibus huius paginam dicandam arbitror, quorum gloria non erit obstruenda silentio’; Jezierski, ‘Fears, Sights and Slaughter’, pp. 121–24. 117 Rosik, The Slavic Religion, pp. 259–64, 372–74; Scior, Das Eigene und das Fremde, pp. 151– 67; Ordman, ‘Crusading without Affect or Effect’, pp. 77–103; Dragnea, ‘Divine Vengeance and Human Justice’, pp. 49–82; Goetz, ‘Herrschaft und Geschichte’, pp. 76–82.

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ambiguous, too contingent, too prone to abuse for political or personal gain. Such practices were simply too difficult to distinguish from hostility. Their compulsory nature was impossible to fully control and therefore too uncertain as the singular tool of evangelization and access window to pagan communities.

CHAPtER 6

Emotional Bonding and Trust during Sieges, Twelfth–Thirteenth Centuries

The world is built on a wall that separates kind. Tell either side there’s no wall, you’ve bought a war. Or a slaughter. Lieutenant Joshi, Blade Runner 2049 dir. Denis Villeneuve

A Siege of Fear, 850s At some point in the 850s — shortly after Ansgar left Sweden in 854 — the legendary King Olaf (I) of Sweden sent a large plundering expedition from Birka across the Baltic Sea to Courland (Latvian: Kurzeme). Upon landing, Olaf ’s warriors quickly and by surprise took the well-manned littoral stronghold at Seeburg (Latvian: Grobiņa). Encouraged by the easy success, the Swedes left their boats and for the next five days marched deeper into the land to finally besiege the fort of Apulia (Lithuanian: Apuolė). This stronghold was manned by an exuberant and clearly over­ stated number of warriors (15,000). As a result, an exhausting siege en­ sued. After nine days of heavy fighting, Olaf and his troops were desperate and anxious (‘nono die populus Suenoum diutina caede fatigatus coepit angustari’) and as a result the disagreements arose about what to do next. They could neither take the fort nor could they retreat to their far-off ships and were too afraid that the Curonians would hunt them down from behind. The king and his troops, forgetful of Ansgar’s instructions in Christian creed, inanely and ineffectively drew lots to determine whether any of their ancient deities stood on their side. Had it not been for some accompanying merchants, who resolutely reminded the king that the Christian God, if asked properly, was keen to support His followers, this whole crucible would end up in a disaster. The warriors drew lots again and, quite rightly, the Christ was with them (‘Christus est nobiscum’). The good news immediately released the troops from all fear and anguish (‘Quid nunc nobis formidandum quidve pavendum est?’), which allowed

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them to take Apulia, re-impose the tribute on the Curonians, and safely return to Sweden.1 The story of this siege was related by Rimbert, who likely included it to present the tangible, almost automatic profits the converts gained from accepting the new creed. Although likely invented,2 this story con­ tains all the elements that come under scrutiny in this chapter: emotions experienced during sieges, the missionary viewpoint on faith as a military factor in medieval blockades, and the sense of belief as means of redefining sociopolitical relations both inside one’s group and with the enemies. Incidentally, the story shows also that an early medieval siege could lock in the beleaguering troops just as much as the besieged, especially if the besiegers operated on the enemy territory. A medieval siege was, above all, a nerve-wrecking game. This chapter addresses a simple question: what emotions did the me­ dieval siege experience feature and incite? Or, more exactly: what kind of social ties did these emotions and experiences produce within and without besieged fortresses in the age of intense missionary activity and crusading such as the Baltic Rim? Surprisingly, emotional and sociopolitical aspects of medieval sieges have attracted very little attention of both military histo­ rians, who tend to focus on martial and technical aspects, and historians of emotions writ large.3 And yet protracted sieges, sometimes lasting for weeks, led to the development of new social and emotional bonds and a re-evaluation of pre-existing political, ethnic, or religious divisions. The emotional sociability of sieges concerned not only relations within each of the two opposing camps, the beleaguered and the beleaguering, but also shaped the relationship between these two hostile groups.4 The sheer protracted nature of such events and the physical proximity of the fighting parties led to the development of some basic institutions like go-betweens, negotiators, ceasefires, etc., all of which hinged on mutual (dis-)trust. It is no coincidence that sieges, next to the ritualized ordeal, were among the first forms of medieval warfare to be organized by conventions and laws.5 Almost like probes stuck into the middle of frontier risk societies, sieges were real-life laboratories which conducted experiments on trust,

1 Rimbert, Vita Anskarii, ed. by Buchner, 30, pp. 95–99; Mägi, In Austrvegr, pp. 246–53; Palmer, ‘Rimbert’s Vita Anskarii’, pp. 235–56. 2 Wood, ‘Christians and Pagans’, pp. 55–56. 3 For more pluralistic approach to medieval siege warfare, see France, ‘Siege Conventions’, pp. 158–72; Petersen, Siege Warfare, pp. 316–59; Jensen, ‘Bigger and Better’, pp. 245–64. 4 Simmel, On Individuality and Social Forms, pp. 80–83. 5 France, ‘Siege Conventions’, pp. 158–72; Rogers, Latin Siege Warfare; Bradbury, The Medieval Siege, pp. 296–334; Coulson, Castles in Medieval Society; Petersen, Siege Warfare.

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emotions, and religious violence under conditions of collapsing social distance.6 To retrace these experiments this chapters asks the following ques­ tions: which emotions dominated among the collectives trapped in be­ leaguered forts or among the beleaguering troops? In what ways were the participants’ feelings affected and exploited as a means of emotional bonding during this type of protracted military conflict? How did these emotions shape the roles and identities of the people engaged in sieges? By highlighting the collective and processual aspects of emotions and their active navigation during medieval sieges, this chapter develops the concept of emotional bonding to address the issues of affective insecurity, utter dis­ trust, and both associative and aversive forms of emotional socialization. In this sense, this chapter advances the panoramic perspective on emotions of the third chapter by narrowing it down to a specific class of social situations and emphasizing their intercultural character.

Emotions and the Arrival of the Idea of Crusade to the Baltic Rim Historically speaking, this chapter charts the transition period from early, small scale, and, on average, relatively peaceful missionary forms of evangelization on the Baltic Rim to its newfound crusader forms as large-scale military campaigns, which arrived in the region in the middle of the twelfth century. Obviously, for long periods before and after the mid-twelfth century these two forms existed side-by-side in this region. For instance, the Polish campaigns in Pomerania in the 1110–1120s have been considered as proto-crusades, whose violent character St Otto of Bamberg sought to put an end to with his missionary efforts.7 Similarly, in 1123 some sort of crusading military intervention known as the Kalmar naval levy (Swedish: Kalmare ledung) was conducted by the Norwegian King Sigurd the Crusader (Old Norse: Sigurðr Jórsalafari, r. 1103–1130) in the region of Värend and Småland near the city of Kalmar on the Swedish east coast.8 Also after the mid-twelfth century, as we saw in Chapter 3 in relation to Livonia, the missionary proselytizing endeavours and crusader military efforts worked in tandem or, sometimes, in direct opposition to

6 See, for example, France, ‘Siege Conventions’, pp. 160–63; Coulson, Castles in Medieval Society, pp. 179–88; Bradbury, The Medieval Siege, p. 125; Sofsky, Zeiten des Schreckens, pp. 113–22; Maček, Sarajevo Under Siege, pp. 105–19. 7 von Güttner-Sporzyński, Poland, Holy War; Rosik, ‘Pomerania in the Zone of Polish Expansion’, pp. 346–57. 8 Snorri Sturluson, ‘Magnússona saga’, in Heimskringla, trans. by Finlay and Faulkes, 24, p. 161; Hermanson, ‘Kungahälla och Europa’, pp. 33–41.

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each other, which produced very different emotional attitudes to local population as the next chapter shows. Still, a profound a qualitative trans­ formation brought by the crusading movement on the Baltic Rim can be identified in the middle of the twelfth century. This development — measurable in levels of religious violence, the scale of military operations, and the accompanying emotional intensity — can be fleshed out with the help of previous studies. In addition, this shows what the focus on emotions in sieges can contribute to this field. Using a large sample of twelfth- and thirteenth-century texts, Su­ sanna A. Throop demonstrated that the way Christians were to confront the infidels — Muslims, heretics, apostates, Jews, and in the Baltic context, the Orthodox Russians9 – was increasingly conceptualized in terms of injury, righteous anger, and retribution directed against the enemies of Christianity. Throop argued that this new emotional regime and adversar­ ial tone was not some casual rhetoric.10 It was the very essence and reason behind the efficacy of the crusading discourse. The emotional framing of religious enmity functioned as a motivating force, buttressed by the Christian identification with the offended and thus increasingly vengeful God, a rhetoric which exculpated crusaders from potential abuses of reli­ gious violence.11 ‘Those who were zealous were depicted seeking to enact the vengeance of God through righteous anger, but at times the desire to emulate God led some to express self-sacrifice’, as Throop put it.12 In that sense, Throop and other historians have added the study of hatred, anger, and vengeance to the classic studies of love as the crucial crusader emotion.13 These emotional discourses radiated to northern Europe and the Baltic Rim, particularly in the wake of the Wendish crusade of 1147.14 Marek Tamm has studied the arguments justifying the crusade in the Livonian region during this period using papal letters as well as Baltic historiogra­ phy. Although he did not directly address the issue of crusader emotions, 9 Lind, ‘Scandinavian Nemtsy and Repaganized Russians’, pp. 481–97; Nielsen, ‘Sterile Monsters?’, pp. 227–52; Bandlien, ‘Norway, Sweden, and Novgorod’, pp. 331–52. 10 Reddy, The Navigation of Feeling, pp. 124–26; Scheer, ‘Are Emotions a Kind of Practice’, pp. 206, 208. 11 Althoff, ‘Selig sind, die Verfolgung ausüben’, pp. 121–46, 165–88; Buc, ‘La vengeance de Dieu’, pp. 451–86. 12 Throop, ‘Zeal, Anger and Vengeance’, p. 199. 13 Menache, ‘Love of God or Hatred of Your Enemy?’, pp. 1–20; Throop, Crusading as an Act of Vengeance; Throop, ‘Zeal, Anger and Vengeance’, pp. 177–201; Bernhardt, ‘Was ist Rache?’, pp. 49–71. 14 Throop, ‘Zeal, “Anger and Vengeance”’, pp. 177–201; Lotter, ‘The Crusading Idea’, pp. 285– 94; Jensen, ‘The Blue Baltic Border’, pp. 173–93; Fonnesberg-Schmidt, The Popes and the Baltic Crusades, pp. 37–43; Bombi, ‘Innocent III and the praedicatio’, pp. 232–41; Christiansen, The Northern Crusades, pp. 48–57; Dragnea, ‘Divine Vengeance and Human Justice’, pp. 49–82.

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behind these justifications — the defence of the Christians, forcing the apostates back into the fold, and the conversion of the pagans, etc. – Tamm identified the love of the Virgin Mary, fraternal love among the crusaders, admonitions to self-sacrifice, and Henry of Livonia’s rationalizations of Christian violence as motivations for the Livonian crusade.15 The common denominator of Throop’s, Tamm’s, and others’ studies is that their focus on the medieval historiographers’ theoretically embell­ ished rhetoric and normative discourses in papal letters, sermons, and theological teachings. By concentrating on the emotions used to legitimize the crusades, they offer little insight into the role this rhetoric and emotion played as a means of both bonding and warfare in concrete conflicts. This is not to claim that medieval authors operated on a disjunction between the missionary and crusading ideologies and their military practice. But as Althoff and Philippe Buc have argued, it should be demonstrated rather than tacitly assumed how and to what extent emotions foregrounded in those general crusader discourses developed during the Gregorian reforms actually influenced crusaders’ concrete actions and the use of religious violence or whether other emotions dominated real-life confrontations.16 For instance, the salient features of the siege descriptions analysed here are many different forms of distrust, fear, and terror felt or induced in missionaries, crusaders, and pagans — a set of emotions often neglected in the dominant focus on rhetorical vengeance, hatred, anger, or love.17

Method, Sources, and Emotional Bonding on the Frontier In terms of method, this chapter takes its cue from conflict- and disputesettlement studies, which offer ways of examining the extreme social events represented by sieges.18 By way of an example: as demonstrated by Orning on the examples of discussions between kings and their retainers during military expeditions in high medieval Norway, there existed con­ flicting normative vs. practical conceptions of kingship. The ideals of kings’

15 Tamm, ‘How to Justify a Crusade?’, pp. 437–44; Tamm, ‘Martyrs and Miracles’, pp. 135– 56; Tyerman, ‘Henry of Livonia and the Ideology of Crusading’, pp. 23–44; FonnesbergSchmidt, ‘Pope Alexander III (1159–1181)’, pp. 242–56. 16 Althoff, ‘Selig sind’, die Verfolgung ausüben’, pp. 176–80; Buc, Holy War, Martyrdom, and Terror, pp. 89–105; Buc, ‘Religions and Warfare’, pp. 9–26; Bradbury, The Medieval Siege, pp. 93–103; France, ‘Siege Conventions’, pp. 164–67, 171–72. 17 Spencer, Emotions in a Crusading Context, pp. 27–70. 18 The literature on medieval conflict and dispute strategies has now expanded beyond any comprehensible oversight. The core texts used for this chapter were: Brown and Górecki, ‘What Conflict Means’, pp. 1–3; Esmark and Orning, ‘General Introduction’, pp. 4–9; Orning, Esmark, and Hermanson, ‘Det rettsantropologiske perspektivet’, pp. 11–30.

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absolute power were influenced by the rex iustus ideology promulgated in contemporary law codes. Orning qualified these views by investigating how kings and their followers practically negotiated their relations as they are depicted in the kings’ sagas. Although fictitious, these emotionally heated discussions taking place during military campaigns represented the contextual outlook on what loyalty to the king was like on a practical level.19 Following this line, in this chapter I focus on emotions expressed in descriptions of sieges as well as speeches and discussions between their participants in order to consider the practical use of emotions, social realities, and normative implications. In terms of theory, I combine these conflictual and social levels of analysis with the focus on emotions in the concept of emotional bonding, which I would like to propose for the analysis of medieval sieges by adapting and modifying Rosenwein’s notion of emotional communities. As pointed out in the introduction, emotional communities are predomi­ nantly based on voluntary participation and tend to remain relatively sta­ ble, with emotional transformation occurring over the course of decades. My derivative term emotional bonding points instead to very loose, porous, and motley communities, which undergo rapid and intense emotional shifts and often involve involuntary participation. While the concept of emotional communities suggests a social institution and mainly associative affects, the notion of emotional bonding, on the other hand, focuses on the social process. It gives equal weight to association and dissociation and the conflicting emotional connections between enemies, or perpetrators of violence and their victims, not just co-combatants.20 Simply put, the social composition of communities developed during medieval blockades was determined by the pure chance of who happened to be trapped in a siege or recruited into a beleaguering army, whereas their temporal horizon was decided by how long a siege was to last. In such accidental circumstances, emotional bonding produced by sieges verged on emotional bondage. Emotions featured during blockades are thus not simply reducible to the fact that armies generally constituted a form of more long-lasting emo­

19 Orning, Unpredictability and Presence, pp. 1–10, 34–40; Orning, ‘Conflict and Social (Dis)Order in Norway’, pp. 47–48; Miller, Bloodtaking and Peacemaking, p. 46: ‘Fictionalizing dialogue, fictionalizing events, inventing characters and their psychologies might unnerve the political historian, but they need not upset the social historian at all. Even these fictions are constrained by the range of the possible in the culture and hence have useful social information to reveal’. 20 This stressing of the process rather than the institution further relates to dispute and settlement studies in which conflicts are seen, as noted by Patrick J. Geary (‘Living with Conflicts in Stateless France’, p. 139), as ‘an essential part of the social fabric […], more structures than events’; Kippenberg, Violence as Worship, pp. 30–35.

EMOTIONAL BONDING AND TRUST DURING SIEGES

tional communities, as was pointed out in the study of the Chinese mili­ tary manuals from the Warring States period (fifth–third centuries bc).21 In terms of source material, this chapter explores the descriptions of sieges by two authors who operated in distinct Baltic risk societies and contexts, the Wendish and the Livonian crusades, respectively: Helmold’s Chronica Slavorum from the early 1170s and Henry’s Chronicon Livoniae from the mid-1220s. Though both authors have already been introduced, there are good reasons why their personal experiences and numerous accounts of siege warfare make them exceptionally valuable for studying emotions connected to blockades. Their chronicles drew upon the authors’ personal risk experiences of ‘threats of death’ and the ‘constant dangers of everyday life’ related to fleeing from pagans or personally fighting them, as Helmold did in 1138 and Henry in 1219, respectively.22 Moreover, it has been argued that Henry’s most vivid descriptions of military campaigns bear witness to his active participation in them, which implies a great deal of sociopolitical intuition and emotional identification with warfare situations on his part.23 The fact that the two chronicles contain so many siege descriptions also reflects the expansion of this form of warfare in the Baltic region. Although the Hundred Years’ War is traditionally considered as the apex of these military tactics, siege warfare was already on the rise in the wake of the first crusades. Military technologies travelled fast, also to the periphery, and siege tactics made considerable inroads on the Baltic Rim after the mid-twelfth century.24 This development is attested, inter alia, by illustrations of sieges on the contemporary friezes in Danish churches, for instance, on the northern wall of Hornslet church north of Aarhus on 21 It is important in the context of military history to make a conceptual distinction between regular forms of emotional communality, the sharing of values between leaders and soldiers, and the tactical employment of feelings as a means of warfare created by the army experience and the very unpredictable, ambiguous, and volatile emotional sociability of medieval sieges: Lewis, ‘The Army as Emotional Community’, pp. 27–62. 22 Helmold von Bosau, Chronica Slavorum, ed. by Stoob, 55, pp. 204–05: ‘Ibi oratorium novum et monasterii recens structura igne consumpta sunt. Volkerus, frater magne simplicititatis, ictu gladii percussus est. Ceteri fratrum, qui evaserant, ad Falderensem portum refugerunt. […] tempore difficili et pleno formidine mortis. Preter egestatem enim et cottidiana vitae pericula cogebantur aspicere vincula et varia tormentorum genera Christicolis illata’; Heinrich, Chronicon, xxiii. 7, p. 161: ‘Dumque iam eum in sacro linire deberemus oleo, factus est clamor magnus et concursus exercitus nostri per omnes plateas, et currebant omnes ad arma, clamantes magnam paganorum malewam contra nos venientem’; Henry of Livonia, The Chronicle, trans. by Brundage, p. 179. 23 Johansen, ‘Die Chronik als Biographie’, pp. 1–24; Jezierski, ‘Fears, Sights, and Slaughter’, pp. 109–37. 24 Bradbury, The Medieval Siege, pp. 93–127; France, ‘Siege Conventions’, pp. 158–62, 171–72; Mäesalu, ‘Mechanical Artillery and Warfare’, pp. 265–90; Bysted, Jensen, Jensen, and Lind, Jerusalem in the North, pp. 94–103; Jensen, ‘Conclusion: Is it Good to be Peripheral?’, pp. 486–87.

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Jutland. As we saw in Chapters 3 and 5, the Danish aristocratic founders of those buildings and sponsors of such decorations were crucial players in the Baltic crusades (particularly in Estonia), and visually leveraged their military prowess, religious violence, and material means of warfare as symbolic capital and means of self-legitimation in domestic contexts.25 Sieges were also exceptionally spectacular and memorable because they inspired extreme emotions. Finally, scholars have argued in relation to siege descriptions in me­ dieval historiography and literature that the stark division between focus­ ing on either the rhetoric and ideology of these texts or the sense of (mili­ tary) practice and social dynamics they conveyed is misguided. The way such texts represented sieges or evoked emotions was not disconnected from their audiences’ sense of veracity and empathy.26 In this chapter, I too treat the siege depictions in these two chronicles as collectively shaped projections and frames of their authors’ missionary and crusader contexts as well as channelling their individual sensitivities and first-hand experiences.

Between a Rock and a Hard Place: Communities under Siege Sieges constituted the ultimate tests for social trust and loyalty among the besieged, and this volatility and uncertainty was even more tangible on the Baltic missionary frontier. All of a sudden, people became crammed together involuntary neighbours, who were forced to rely on one another. This enforced intimacy collapsed the customary distances maintained between members of a given society. The problems of reliance, trust, and allegiance, however, operated in a complicated dialectical relationship be­ tween the relatively safe inside of a beleaguered stronghold and its hostile exterior. The following lengthy account of the siege of Plön (c. 1075) is particularly instructive for understanding the inside-outside dialectic and the paramount problem of trust. As it was, Budivoj (Buthue), a Christian

25 Aavitsland, ‘Elite Soldiers of Christ’, pp. 175–201; Jürgensen, ‘Depictions of Violence’, pp. 117–38; Jensen, ‘Martyrs, Total War, and Heavenly Horses’, pp. 89–120; Markus, Visual Culture and Politics, pp. 98–104. The images can be consulted at: http:// www.kalkmalerier.dk (accessed 2021–06–08). 26 Jensen, ‘Bigger and Better’, pp. 258–60, 262–64; Hebron, The Medieval Siege; Petersen, Siege Warfare, pp. 10–14, 357–59; for more examples on the complex interplay between the literary and historiographical descriptions of sieges, see the essays by Michael Harney, Heather Arden, and Winthrop Wetherbee, in Corfis and Wolfe, eds, The Medieval City Under Siege; White, ‘The Feelings in the Feud’, pp. 281–311; Althoff, ‘Spielen die Dichter’, pp. 53– 71; Rosenwein, Emotional Communities, pp. 27–29; Garrison, ‘The Study of Emotions’, pp. 245–46; Schnell, ‘Erzähler – Protagonist – Rezipient’, pp. 24–30, 35–44.

EMOTIONAL BONDING AND TRUST DURING SIEGES

Obotritian duke, crossed the Elbe and came into Wagria, reaching Plön (merely 10 km from Bosau) with 600 men. To his great surprise, the fortress — spectacularly positioned at the narrow intersection of cause­ ways between three lakes — was empty except for a small group of women. One of them approached Budivoj and warned him that the local Slavs had left the city open as a trap and intended to return and close them in with a blockade. Ignoring this warning, Budivoj’s troops decided to stay overnight in Plön only to discover in the morning that they were surrounded by the pagan Slavs. A protracted siege began and the beleaguered soon suffered from great hunger. At the same time, Budivoj’s allies — the Holsteinians, Sturmarii, and the people of Dithmarschen — started to assemble to liberate the troops trapped in Plön. Hidden at a certain distance from the fort, they sent a mediator to negotiate with the besieging Slavs. Confronted with the leader of the besiegers, Duke Kruto, the mediator was immediately bribed to change sides rather than scout for Budivoj’s allies, however. The go-between revealed to Kruto that Duke Magnus Billung, of whom Kruto was afraid,27 was still on the far side of the Elbe and that he would be able to persuade him to retreat. The mediator then went over the bridge to the gate of the stronghold and falsely announced to Budivoj that the Saxons, on whose arrival the besieged troops counted, would not come because of some alleged internal discord: Deeply upset, he [Budivoj] answered: ‘Oh, miserable me! Why was I deserted by [my] friends? Is this the reward the best Saxons give to their ally: deserting him with no help in such tribulation? I have been sorely fooled, always keeping my allegiance with the Saxons only to be left alone in the outmost necessity’.28 Leaving Budivoj in utter despair, the mediator returned to Magnus Bil­ lung’s troops. There he fooled the Saxons claiming that he had reached the fortress without any trouble, stating: Thank God, there is no danger or fear of a siege. Quite the contrary, I saw Budivoj and his men in good condition, not afraid of any trouble.29

27 Helmold of Bosau, Chronica Slavorum, ed. by Stoob, 25, pp. 116–17: ‘“Dux iste, quem tu formidas, necdum transivit ripas Albiae detentus gravibus impedimentis”’. 28 Helmold of Bosau, Chronica Slavorum, ed. by Stoob, 25, pp. 116–17: ‘“Heu me miserum, quare deseror ab amicis? Siccine Saxones optimi supplicem sui et auxilii indigum in tribulatione deserent? Male delusus sum, qui Saxonibus bona semper fiducia innitens nunc in extrema necessitate pessundatus sum”’. 29 Helmold of Bosau, Chronica Slavorum, ed. by Stoob, 25, pp. 116–17: ‘“[…] et nullum Dei gratia ibi periculum est nec ullus obsidionis timor. Quin pocius vidi Buthue et eos qui cum ipso sunt letos et nil habentes turbulentiae”’.

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Abandoned, Budivoj and his troops attempted to negotiate their way out of the blockade. But Kruto would not accept any payment. Instead, he demanded an unconditional surrender of weapons in return for granting the besieged free passage. Pressed between the prospect of starving to death or being slaughtered by the besiegers, Budivoj, who did not trust the ‘notoriously unreliable Slavs’, proposed that they should remain inside Plön and await a miraculous liberation. His closest follower opposed this judgement, arguing: Admittedly, these conditions which have been offered to us by the enemy are ambiguous and truly terrifying [‘condicionem… ambiguam plenamque formidinis’] […] What use is there in a delay when there is no one to release us from this siege? It is more terrible to die from hunger than death by the sword, and it is better to end one’s life than to endure these torments.30 To cut the remainder of this story short: Budivoj’s and his adviser’s an­ guish and premonitions proved correct. As soon as Budivoj’s troops left the fortress, Kruto ordered everyone killed, goaded by a powerful woman who had spent the siege inside Plön and who saw what Budivoj’s men had done to the wives of the Slavs. The Plön example shows that sieges essentially functioned as what political scientists call social traps construed around the problem of (dis-)trust and lack of knowledge about risks. In this type of situations, independently acting people, due to the lack of trust and social capital between them, privilege short-term individual benefits over exceedingly more beneficial long-term collective action.31 The same basic social wager embedded in a siege was that the stakes and costs of trust among the insiders began to rise after a fortress or town was surrounded and kept on rising the longer a siege held. The siege of Plön marks three relationships of (dis-)trust, each punctuated in Helmold’s text by invoking the protago­ nists’ fear and uncertainty about mutual dependency. The first was the fear among the besieged that any discord on the inside would make some of them prone to strike a deal with the outsiders and let them in. The unforeseeable manner in which this besieged community arose added to this sense of uncertainty. The more time they were to spent together the more room would be given to favour tangible short-time benefits over vague future gains or wins.

30 Helmold of Bosau, Chronica Slavorum, ed. by Stoob, 25, pp. 118–19: ‘“Condicionem quidem, quae nobis ab hostibus offertur, ambiguam plenamque formidinis esse fatemur. […] Quid enim dilacio iuvat, ubi nemo est, qui obsidionem solvat? Atrociorem autem mortem fames quam gladius affert, meliusque est compendio vitam finire quam diu torqueri”’. 31 Rothstein, Social Traps and the Problem of Trust, pp. 12–14.

EMOTIONAL BONDING AND TRUST DURING SIEGES

The second was the trust the defenders put in their allies: whether they would or would not come to help. The situation with the faithless go-between shows that such high hopes among the besieged might have been futile and very easy to take advantage of. Obviously, Kruto’s anxiety regarding the whereabouts of Duke Magnus Billung’s troops showed that the besiegers depended on the reverse coming true: that the help would not come. Finally, the third type of (dis-)trust — the biggest wager of them all — concerned the question of whether any deals struck between the besiegers and the besieged would actually be kept. As the exchange between Budivoj and his follower shows, the decisive factors in such extreme cases were: 1. the willingness to obey the rather implicit, provisional codes of conduct in sieges, 2. the disparity in strength between the remaining forces on each side, and 3. the opponents’ usual trustworthiness.32 The Plön case also exemplifies the consequences of the non-elective and unforeseeable social composition of sieges. Siege warfare, like no other form of medieval combat, brought together combatants and civilians, involuntary participants of both sexes and from all social backgrounds in close contact with each other. Such heterogeneous communities com­ posed of people of different loyalties and allegiances left room for emo­ tional manoeuvring of its members in many unpredictable directions.33 In this case, the women who were left behind in the fortress seemed to have been seductively used by Kruto as bait, the absent hosts purposefully leaving the hostesses behind as sexual rewards for their guests and in order to make the latter draw.34 The implied rapes which occurred during the siege could also have been the spoils of war Budivoj could offer to his warriors in exchange for their loyalty, or his men simply having their way. Either way, when the tables were turned and Plön fell, the very same women became allies of the besiegers. The emotional bonding between the rape victims and their persecutors was now used as an argument for Kruto’s men to take revenge on Budivoj’s desperate troops.35 Feelings of oppression and desperation resulting from hunger and unrelenting enemies as well as slowly dying hopes of victory were not unknown to Henry of Livonia either, which he usually saw them from the besiegers’ perspective. We can consider the siege of the apostate Estonians 32 Petersen, Siege Warfare, pp. 327–36; Bradbury, The Medieval Siege, pp. 56–57, 83–84, 295– 334; Rogers, Latin Siege Warfare, p. 151; France, ‘Siege Conventions’, pp. 158–72; Rothstein, Social Traps and the Problem of Trust, pp. 12–14, 157–64, 204–11. 33 Bachrach and Bachrach, Warfare in Medieval Europe, pp. 145–48, 150, 154–55, 161, 171–72, 333–38. 34 Heffernan, Hospitality and Treachery, pp. 22–33, 57–58. 35 Bachrach and Bachrach, Warfare in Medieval Europe, pp. 402–03; Powers and Attreed, ‘Women in the Context of Romanesque Combat Scenes’, pp. 245–48; Petersen, Siege Warfare, pp. 318–19, 350–55; Meger, Rape Loot Pillage, pp. 37–41, 93–95.

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who defended themselves from the combined forces of the Livonians, Letts, and the Sword Brethren in the fort of Fellin (Estonian: Viljandi) in August 1223.36 After more than two weeks of siege, the hot Baltic summer took a disastrous toll on the beleaguered defenders: Since the heat was, indeed, exceedingly great and there was a multitude of beasts and men in the fort, and they were perishing from hunger and thirst, there was a great pestilence because of the excessively great stench of those who had died in the fort and the men began to get sick and die.37 Exhausted and unable to hold on, the Estonians gave up the fort and sought peace with the Christians, who agreed on the condition that the Estonians would accept the yoke of Christian discipline again. The Rus­ sians who assisted the Estonians in their apostasy and defence of Fellin, however, were captured ‘and hanged outside the castle. […] This was done to the terror of other Russians’.38 Such terrorizing demonstrations had an impact on other groups as well. For example, on the Estonians who dwelt in the fort at Nawwast (Estonian: Pala) where the Christian troops advanced next. The Estonians, feared that their fort would be taken and that they would suffer pestilence and deaths, such as had occurred in the earlier fort, and similar hardships. They gave themselves up as quickly as possible into the hands of the Christians and begged only for their lives and freedom.39 As we shall see below, this publicizing and utterly performative character of fear and terror is quite typical of Henry’s Chronicon and the crusader context he acted in.40 Above all, the Fellin case confirms the impression from the Plön example that the inside-outside dialectic of sieges was not

36 Lang and Valk, ‘An Archaeological Reading’, pp. 296–301. 37 Henry of Livonia, Chronicon Livoniae, ed. by Arbusow and Bauer, xxvii. 2, p. 195: ‘Cum enim esset calor nimius et multitudo hominum et pecorum fuisset in castro et iam fame et siti deficerent, facta est pestilencia magna pre fetore nimio interfectorum in castro, et ceperunt homines egrotare et mori’; Henry of Livonia, The Chronicle, trans. by Brundage, p. 215. 38 Henry of Livonia, Chronicon Livoniae, ed. by Arbusow and Bauer, xxvii. 2, pp. 195– 96: ‘Ruthenos vero, qui fuerant in castro, qui venerunt in auxilium apostatis, post expugnationem castri suspendit exercitus omnes ante castrum, ad terrorem aliorum Ruthenorum’; Henry of Livonia, The Chronicle, trans. by Brundage, p. 215; Urban, ‘Victims of the Baltic Crusade’, pp. 195–212. 39 Henry of Livonia, Chronicon Livoniae, ed. by Arbusow and Bauer, xxvii. 2, p. 196: ‘At illi timentes expugnationem castri sui et pestilencias et mortes, quales in priori castro fuerant, et similia mala, tradiderunt se quantocius in manus christianorum, de vita sola et libertate supplicantes’; Henry of Livonia, The Chronicle, trans. by Brundage, p. 216. 40 Compare Cassidy-Welch, War and Memory, pp. 57–58.

EMOTIONAL BONDING AND TRUST DURING SIEGES

restricted to the immediate vicinity of a stronghold and did not constitute a world within itself. The outside context could be quite far-reaching and include the circulation of rumours and the purposeful spreading of terror and outright propaganda, which in turn deeply affected the feelings and hopes of both the besiegers and the besieged. As a sociopolitical or military phenomenon, a siege was never self-contained.

Pagani: From Political Enemies to Enemies of the Faith For Helmold and Henry the invocation of fear had important productive and motivational aspects, especially when it comes to shaping collective identities. Consider Helmold’s depiction of the 1147 attack on Süssel right after the beginning of the Wendish crusade. Four hundred Frisian settlers defended a small fort from the 3000-strong Slavic force. In his depiction of the siege, the chronicler included a lengthy speech with which Priest Gerlach addressed his co-defenders. Gerlach had to resort to strong arguments against surrender. The Slavs, seeing that they would not be able to take the fort without a bloody battle, began to bargain. They offered to spare the lives of the defenders if they left the stronghold and gave up their weapons. In response to this, ‘some of the insiders began to consider a capitulation’.41 To hold them back, Gerlach had to emphasize the chasm between insiders and outsiders, making it virtually unbridgeable: ‘What is it’, he said, ‘that you want to do, men? Do you believe that the barbarians’ promise to save your lives can be trusted? […] Do you not know that of all the foreign people [settlers] the Frisians are the most hated by the Slavs? Truly, our very odor is abhorrent to them! […] I swear to you by God the creator of the world, who does not find it difficult to save the few, that you must now try to uphold your strength a little longer and fight the enemy. As long as we are surrounded by these ramparts we have power over our hands and our armor, and it is in these that the hope for our lives lies; but unarmed there is only a shameful death left’.42

41 Helmold of Bosau, Chronica Slavorum, ed. by Stoob, 64, pp. 226–27: ‘Ceperunt ergo quidam ex obsessis appetere dedicionem ob spem vitae’. 42 Helmold of Bosau, Chronica Slavorum, ed. by Stoob, 64, pp. 226–27: ‘“Quid est”, inquit, “o viri, quod agere vultis? Putatis vos dedicione vitam redimere aut barbaris fidem inesse? […] An nescitis, quia in omni advenarum genere apud Slavos nulla gens detestabilior Fresis? Sane fetet eis odor noster. […] Contestor vos per Dominum, factorem orbis, cui non est difficile salvare in paucis, ut adhuc paululum experiamini vires vestras et conseratis manus cum hostibus. Quam diu enim vallo hoc circundamur, sumus manuum nostrarum et

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After a few more heartening words, the priest commanded the gates to be opened. A fierce and emotionally solidified army made a sudden sortie, eventually forcing the Slavs to flee. It is no coincidence that Helmold noted or invented so many speeches delivered by military and religious figures during sieges. A wholehearted exhortation of a charismatic siege commander was the most basic method of inspiring the besieged to persevere in Wagria and elsewhere.43 What remains understudied in the Baltic context, however, is the emotional element of these speeches. Interpreting the Gerlach’s encouragements in Reddy’s terms, a charismatic military or religious leader’s task was to navi­ gate the feelings of his subordinates. He did this by carefully downplaying certain emotions, while emphasizing others. He did this also by carefully crafting these emotions into a compelling sequence, an emotional script.44 He assuaged the defenders’ fears and set their courage ablaze. He motivated his followers to fight in order to avoid disgrace and explicitly deepened their distrust of the enemies by emphasizing the latter’s hate, which was used as an argument to strengthen the defenders’ spirits. In a similar manner, just before the Rugians laid siege to Lübeck in c. 1101, Duke Henry of Alt-Lübeck, the Christian Obotritian leader (older half-brother of the aforementioned Budivoj from their father’s first relationship) addressed the leader of his troops. He urged him to gather and strengthen all the men he could find, to remain courageous and endure for the next four days so that Henry could gather the Holsteinians and come to the rescue.45 Despite the panegyric and heroic tone of the Süssel account — not all that uncommon for Helmold46 – which brushes over any possible disagreements between the frightened defenders, the most noticeable ele­ ment in Gerlach’s speech is the explicitly religious manner in which the priest pitted the defenders against the besiegers. In fact, considered against the contemporary standards of crusader rhetoric as seen in examples from the Mediterranean, Gerlach’s oration as well as other speeches recounted by Helmold, are more reminiscent of a secular military leader’s harangues than the sermons of educated clerics from crusader contexts like the

43 44 45

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armaturae compotes, vita nobis in spe sita est; inermibus vero preter ignominiosam mortem reliquum nichil est”’. Petersen, Siege Warfare, pp. 316–17; Hebron, The Medieval Siege, pp. 34–40; Lewis, ‘The Army as Emotional Community’, pp. 36–48. Throop, ‘Zeal, Anger and Vengeance’, p. 199; Reddy, The Navigation of Feeling, pp. 114, 118–22. Helmold of Bosau, Chronica Slavorum, ed. by Stoob, 36, pp. 148–49: ‘“Consulendum est saluti nostrae et virorum, qui nobiscum sunt et necessarium michi videtur, ut exeam ad contrahenda auxilia, si forte possim urbem obisidione liberare. Esto igitur vir fortis et conforta bellatores, qui in urbe hac sunt, et servate michi urbem usque in diem quartum”’. Helmold of Bosau, Chronica Slavorum, ed. by Stoob, 36–37, pp. 149–53.

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Holy Land.47 Helmold’s speeches hardly feature any Biblical quotations, exempla, or advanced rhetorical figures in the Chronica. They are often limited to invocations of heavenly aid and appeals to bravery and mili­ tary prowess. What counted in the siege then, especially when studied up-close, was not necessarily high-flying rhetorical ornamentation, but the immediate motivational and emotional effect a speech could have on the fighting troops. In this sense, Gerlach’s harangue and emotional script served their purpose. The pagan–Christian enmity effected by his oration was underpinned by physical disgust evoking bodily odours, stressing an almost biological distance between the combatant parties. Two remarks should be made regarding Helmold’s framings of sieges and speeches; the first relates to the way political deployment of emotions contributed to identity-formation in sieges, and the second concerns the role the creed played in these formations during the period considered here. First, collective identities are conceived through constitutive outsides, that is, through references, relations, and placing oneself in opposition with other communities.48 Even if the concept of constitutive outside is purely figurative, situations of sieges show clearly how the relationship with the enemies outside literally shaped the social fabric and provisional identities on the inside. Further, in the siege situations analysed here, the efficacy of such religious identity-formation hinged precisely on the explicit navigation and mobilizing of feelings and resultant emotional bonding.49 The second, more historical, point to make here considers the explicitly religious manner of pitting defenders against their opponents visible in the Süssel case. Whose voice is actually audible in this frame? Does it belong to Gerlach, whom Helmold might have known personally? Or is it Helmold’s, who used Gerlach as a mouthpiece to voice his own opinion? Or, finally, is Helmold’s attribution of such religious antagonism to Gerlach due to the latter’s priestly profession, something Helmold did not do in other cases which involved secular military leaders? Whichever frame one chooses to read it through, such deliberately religious motivation of violence and zeal are conspicuously absent from Helmold’s historically earlier examples of sieges, which did involve opponents of different creeds. This may simply be the result of Helmold importing these earlier episodes from Adam’s Gesta, as it was during the century dividing these two authors 47 Bachrach, ‘Conforming with the Rhetorical Tradition of Plausibility’, pp. 1–19. 48 Laclau, ‘Subject of Politics’, p. 147: ‘The reference to the other is very much present as constitutive of my own identity. There is no way that a particular group living in a wider community can live a monadic existence — on the contrary, part of the definition of its own identity is the construction of a complex and elaborated system of relations with other groups’; Derrida, The Politics of Friendship, pp. 152–53, 162–63. 49 Kippenberg, Violence as Worship, pp. 197–204; Scheer, ‘Are Emotions a Kind of Practice’, pp. 209–14.

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that the emphasis on religious antagonism between Christians and pagans came to the fore. Despite the fact that the Chronica Slavorum was written in one concen­ trated period in the 1160s and 1170s, this noticeable radicalization of the religious rhetoric in his text seems to reflect an actual historical develop­ ment. According to Henrik Janson, on the tenth- and eleventh-century Baltic Rim the relationship between Christiani and pagani, and the latter’s relapses into apostasy after conversion, were usually interpreted in terms of keeping or breaking political allegiances rather than as an incompatibility of creed. Even for contemporary missionary authors like Thietmar, fides had mainly a political connotation. This idea went back to the Ottonian conceptions of the Empire, which purposefully conflated the postulation of an imperium christianum with that of an imperium romanum. For Adam in the 1070s, the default sense of political submission to the hegemony of the German Empire was synonymous with the institutional obedience of the primacy of Hamburg-Bremen in Saxony and in Scandinavia. What made pagans into enemies on the Baltic Rim at that time was politics, not dogma.50 In the twelfth-century German Empire, this ideological and religious landscape shifted dramatically, particularly in relation to the north-eastern frontier. The change was caused by the fallout of the religious violence during the Investiture Conflict, which overlapped with and was amplified by the rhetoric of the first and second crusades. As discussed above on the margin of Throop’s findings, during this period the religious acquiescence gained the upper hand over strictly political submission in the way Chris­ tians dealt with infidels.51 Starting in 1147, when Bernard of Clairvaux’s preaching ignited the zeal for the Wendish crusade in Frankfurt am Main, a much harsher emotional regime begun to be rolled out in relation to pagans on the Baltic Rim. This new discourse and greater intolerance were propagated in the papal correspondence sent to Saxony and Riga sanctioning the Baltic crusades as a means of defending the Christians, forcing apostates back into the fold, pushing back against the Orthodox Russians, and de facto forcibly converting the pagans.52

50 Janson, ‘Making Enemies’, pp. 141–54; Janson, ‘Pagani and Christiani’, pp. 171–91; Janson, ‘What Made Pagans Pagans?’, pp. 13–31; Lotter, ‘The Crusading Idea’, pp. 267–83; Leleu, ‘Nobiles utraeque ripae Albiae’, pp. 305–38. 51 Throop, ‘Zeal, Anger and Vengeance’, pp. 177–201; Cox, ‘Asymmetric Warfare and Military Conduct’, pp. 100–25; Althoff, ‘Selig sind, die Verfolgung ausüben’, pp. 121–46, 165–88. 52 Buc, ‘La vengeance de Dieu’, pp. 473–85; Throop, ‘Zeal, Anger and Vengeance’, pp. 182, 186, 195; Tamm, ‘How to Justify a Crusade?’, pp. 437–44; Fonnesberg-Schmidt, ‘Pope Alexander III’, pp. 242–56; Fonnesberg-Schmidt, The Popes and the Baltic, pp. 37–43; Lotter, ‘The Crusading Idea’, pp. 285–94; Jensen, ‘The Blue Baltic Border’, pp. 173–93; Bombi, ‘Innocent III and the praedicatio’, pp. 232–41; Jensen, ‘Gods War’, pp. 123–47; Jensen, ‘Holy War — Holy Wrath!’, pp. 227–50.

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At the same time, the Roman Curia effectively left a great deal of leeway for the local actors on the Baltic Rim how the concrete motiva­ tions and practicalities of crusading were to be worked out. This created potential tensions and differences of perspectives on the local level. Some­ times, the convictions of priestly crusaders stood in direct opposition to those of the secular lords and knights, especially when it came to how harshly the enemies of the faith should be treated. Consider the siege of Dobin in Mecklenburg in 1147. There, the ruthless attitude towards the pagan Slavs displayed by some foreign, overzealous crusaders worried the Saxon knights and lords. The latter preferred to mitigate the violence and loosen the siege on the people, whom they still framed primarily as their neighbours and a good resource of taxation: ‘“Is not the land we are devastating our land, and the people we are fighting our people? Why are we, then, found to be our own enemies and the destroyers of our own incomes?”’53 In that sense, Gerlach’s speech quoted above does not seem to represent Helmold’s own attitude. The chronicler from Bosau did not subscribe to the rhetoric of vengeance as a motivation for the crusade, which was otherwise widespread for justifying the military efforts in the Wendish crusade writ large.54 This new emotional tone in his Chronica, pouring in from its historical context, nevertheless stands out against the less religiously radical discourses he inherited from Adam. As we have seen so far, with the exception of the Süssel siege where hatred, disgust, and courageous zeal were given precedence, the most visi­ ble emotions dominating sieges were fear and the lack of trust. These emo­ tions typically related to the lack of social cohesion within the besieged collectives. But as I have repeatedly demonstrated in this book, emotions like distrust, fear, and terror which emerged in missionary and crusader sieges on the Baltic Rim were seldom unambiguous or unilateral. These feelings could also encompass and communicate other, very different forms of bonding and commonality unique for siege situations. They were also remarkably susceptible to histrionic and strategic use as a means of warfare.

53 Helmold of Bosau, Chronica Slavorum, ed. by Stoob, 65, pp. 228–29: ‘“Nonne terra, quam devastamus, terra nostra est, et populus, quem expugnamus, populus noster est? Quare igitur invenimur hostes nostrimet et dissipatores vectigalium nostrorum?”’; Christiansen, The Northern Crusades, pp. 52–53. 54 Throop, Crusading as an Act of Vengeance, p. 85; Dragnea, ‘Divine Vengeance and Human Justice’, pp. 49–82; Ordman, ‘Crusading without Affect or Effect’, pp. 77–103.

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Fear and Terror as Public, Political, and Weaponized Emotions To demonstrate just how ubiquitous the emotions of fear and terror were in the context of sieges and how closely they were related to forts, strongholds, and castles in Livonia, we can use the methods and tools of historical semantics: e-Humanities Desktop and the analysis tool of the His­ torical Semantics Corpus Management platform in this case.55 The platform, which includes a text database and a search engine, was here employed for the analysis of Henry of Livonia’s Chronicon. For the sake of this study a cooccurrence analysis of the emotion word timor and its family (timeo, -ere, pertimesco, pertimefactus, etc.) has been conducted in order to determine which words dominate the semantic field of this emotion term.56 As we saw in Chapter 3, timor and its various forms appear sixty times in the Chronicon. The word for castle or fort and its flections and derivatives (castrum, castrensis, etc.) co-occur in the same sentences to a remarkably high degree, in 50 per cent of cases (thirty times in absolute numbers). Castrum is the noun that appears most often in the broadly conceived semantic field of timor. This association supersedes even such common pronouns as suus or qui that usually dominate lists of co-occurrences and are routinely disregarded. Such unusually high co-occurrence can be explained by the fact that in Henry’s typically long sentences the word castrum and its derivatives sometimes appears more than once, which means that one word can potentially co-occur with another to a degree exceeding 100 per cent. The word terror, including its flections and derivatives such as ex-, per-, conterreo, terribilis, etc., appears fifteen times in the Chronicon, a number so low that it hardly calls for a statistical inquiry. Still, the cooccurrence analysis confirms the above pattern. Terror’s relation to castrum is extremely close. They co-occur in 100 per cent of cases, which simply means that castles appear fifteen times in the sentences containing terror and are, again, the word which appears most often in their context. For the sake of reliability, a reversed co-occurrence analysis has been conducted, which studied how substantial a role the words timor and terror play in the semantic field of castrum. Castrum, castrensis, and their flections and derivatives appear 353 times in the text of the chronicle with typical (thus redundant) pronouns and adjectives like suus, qui, or omnis

55 https://hucompute.org/applications/ehumanities-desktop/; see also Cimino, Geelhaar, and Schwandt, ‘Digital Approaches to Historical Semantics’; Jussen, Der Name der Witwe, pp. 24–27. 56 For the purposes of this analysis, the context of co-occurrences was limited to one sentence, and the level of granularity set at lemma, compare: Schwandt, Virtus, pp. 28–29; Schwandt, ‘Digitale Methoden’, pp. 107–34.

EMOTIONAL BONDING AND TRUST DURING SIEGES

topping the list of the most often co-occurring words. The most frequent co-occurring nouns of castrum are, expectedly, exercitus (15 per cent, seventy times), theuthonicos (13 per cent, sixty-one times), and episcopus (13 per cent, sixty times). When it comes to the two emotion words studied here, timor, timeo, -ere, etc. appears in just 4 per cent (eighteen times) and terror, terribilis, etc. in 1.7 per cent (eight times) of cases. This shows that these emotional terms’ relationship to castles and forts is not reciprocal but strictly unidirectional. Whereas the perceptions of castles and forts rests on a broad and diversified field of associations for Henry (and the social context he belonged to), the semantic field behind the emotion terms for fear and terror was uniquely dominated by the image of castles and associated siege warfare.57 It is a strong suggestion that they did function as emotional spaces; as architecturally embodied as well as a corporally experienced and framed ecology of fear.58 Such co-occurrence analyses can only tell us so much, however, that is, they can determine the significance of a word or a set of words for the semantic field of a term. In this case, it clearly suggests that castles and sieges were indeed strongly emotionally conducive. But a co-occurrence analysis cannot reveal anything about particular usage or the plurality of senses in which, in this case, timor and terror functioned in concrete situations and practices. These need to be pursued in closer detail. As Marika Mägi has shown, based on both textual and archaeologi­ cal evidence, pagan and Christian strongholds, hill castles, and hillforts did constitute vital nodal points for movement in Livonia as well as its sociopolitical and economic gravitational centres.59 These locations and spaces seemed to exert the same type of gravitational effects on emotions, too. A particularly absorbing case of this is the siege of the Sword Brethren’s fort Holme (Latvian: Mārtiņsala), beleaguered by the troops of Prince Vladimir of Polotsk (r. 1186–1215) in 1206. It especially highlights the variable senses of timor and the remarkably ambivalent socializing potential of this emotion. The Russian army took the Livonians living around the fort by surprise. Some of them fled to the adjacent woods while others hid themselves inside with the Germans. The siege went on for several days and the Russian forces were soon joined by the pagans from Treiden (Latvian: Turaida) who, once Holme had been taken, intended to join the Russians in an expedition against the city of Riga. In

57 Pauk, ‘Castrensis Satane servit’, pp. 315–28; Föller, ‘Taking Fortresses in Aquitaine’, pp. 323– 45. 58 Davidson and Milligan, ‘Embodying Emotion, Sensing Space’, pp. 523–32; Bennett, ‘Fear and Its Representation’, pp. 35, 40, 43; Goodman, Sonic Warfare, pp. 70–73; Scheer, ‘Are Emotions a Kind of Practice’, pp. 203, 213, 217. 59 Mägi, ‘Political Centres or Nodal Points in Trade Networks?’, pp. 48–69; Kreem, ‘Mobility of the Livonian Teutonic Knights’, pp. 158–69.

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the meantime, an emotional storm was passing through inside the fort’s high ramparts:60 Indeed, since there were few Germans, scarcely even twenty, and since they feared betrayal by the Livonians, many of whom were in the fort with them, they sat armed night and day high on the ramparts, guarding the fort both from friends within and enemies without.61 The Germans’ anxiety was well-founded, it turned out. The Livonians conferred daily and in secret with the leaders of the Russian army about surrendering the fort and betraying its defenders. It was becoming clear to everyone that Holme would fall soon and with this Riga’s destiny was decided too. Simultaneously, in Riga they feared both for themselves, because the city had not yet been securely built, and for those of their people who were being besieged in Holme.62 A defeat seemed inevitable. In the meantime, however, the Livonian scouts reported to the Russian duke that the roads leading to Riga had been mined with caltrops. These ‘little three-pronged iron bolts’, as Henry puts it, cut both hoofs of horses and feet of men. Rumours were also being spread that some ships had arrived in the bay of Riga carrying German reinforcements: Fearing this, the terrified king [prince of Polotsk–WJ] did not descend to Riga with his army. […] And since he had gained nothing after besieging the fort for eleven days but rather had lost through the deaths of his men, and since he feared the arrival of the Germans, he rose up with his army and […] sailed back to his own country.63

60 Markus, ‘Die Christianisierung Livlands’, pp. 484–88; Markus, Visual Culture and Politics, pp. 250–54. 61 Henry of Livonia, Chronicon Livoniae, ed. by Arbusow and Bauer, x. 12, p. 42: ‘Theutonici vero cum pauci essent, utpote viginti tantum, timentes tradi a Lyvonibus, qui multi erant cum eis in castro, nocte ac die armati in munitione desuper sederunt, custodientes arcem tam de amicis infra quam extra de inimicis’; Henry of Livonia, The Chronicle, trans. by Brundage, p. 63. 62 Henry of Livonia, Chronicon Livoniae, ed. by Arbusow and Bauer, x. 12, p. 42: ‘Nam in Riga erant timores intus propter civitatem nondum firmiter edificatam et timores extra propter suorum in Holme obsessionem’; Henry of Livonia, The Chronicle, trans. by Brundage, p. 63. 63 Henry of Livonia, Chronicon Livoniae, ed. by Arbusow and Bauer, x. 12, pp. 42–43: ‘Quo timore rex perterritus Rigam cum exercitu suo non descendit […] at ille, cum post undecim dierum castri inpugnationem nichil proficeret, sed magis per suorum interfectionem deficeret, simul et adventum Theuthonicorum timeret, surrexit cum omni exercitu suo et vulneratis et interfectis et reversus est navigio in terram suam’; Henry of Livonia, The Chronicle, trans. by Brundage, p. 64.

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The different vectors of fear and their dialectic in this episode show that this emotion was neither an automatic reaction to risk and peril nor an accidental authorial filler for human motivations.64 The emotions were rather an engine of intersubjective and cognitive adjustment. The first was the fear felt by the Germans in Holme, which marked a threshold within the besieged community, despite the fact that the Livonian peasants seeking refuge in the fort were recent converts and not some pagans who happened to live nearby. These neophyte neighbours formally should have been regarded as Christians, but the moment the gates were barricaded the presence of these accidental combatants in the fort posed both a potential threat and an acute dilemma for the German defenders. Could these neighbours be trusted? Should the Sword Brethren be afraid of or fear for the Livonians? Who was the real enemy here? This suspicion was all the more motivated considering that — to make a throwback to the scene opening the introduction — it was only four years earlier, in 1202, that the pagan Semgallians burnt down the church building in Holme and who by 1206 stood on the side of the Christians.65 The political allegiances of the locals with the Christians were in constant flux in Livonia. Therefore, the fear that kept the Germans sleepless during the siege made them painfully aware of both the limits of their own community, their responsibility to protect the Livonian converts, and their own distrust of them. This conun­ drum was spatially and symbolically expressed by the Sword Brethren’s liminal position on the ramparts.66 The feeling of fear experienced by their co-patriots in Riga at the same time, was evidently a positive emotion. It was an affectionate, brotherly sympathy and care for their fellow patriots besieged in Holme. They clearly feared for them and the telepathic German connection between Holme and Riga was stronger than the short-lived, intense, but very ambiguous emotional bonding between the Sword Brethren and the converts in the fortress. This sense of affectionate fear is reminiscent of the twelfth-century Parisian theologian Peter Lombard’s notion of timor amicalis (fear for friendship) which he developed from St Augustine’s idea of timor castus (chaste fear). For both Augustine and Lombard, chaste fear was the high­ est and most acceptable form of this emotion. It stemmed from love and was motivated by love alone and related to the fear of exclusion from association with God. Lombard’s contribution to the emotional theory of this fear was an emphasis of its sociopolitical potential. Timor amicalis

64 Moretti, The Bourgeois, pp. 74–83; Reddy, ‘The Unavoidable Intentionality of Affect’, pp. 168–78. 65 Henry of Livonia, Chronicon Livoniae, ed. by Arbusow and Bauer, vi. 5, p. 18; Markus, Visual Culture and Politics, p. 252. The Semgallians converted in 1219. 66 Zwierlein and Graf, ‘The Production of “Human Security”’, pp. 9–23; Patzold, ‘Human Security, fragile Staatlichkeit’, pp. 409–10.

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comprised for him also the charitable fear of being left without one’s friends.67 During the siege of Holme, the religiously informed relationship of brotherly love and fear for friendship attributed to the Germans clashed with the accidental relation of neighbourhood with the local Livonian converts, despite the obvious, long-term military interest the besieged Sword Brethren shared with the converts at that moment.68 Even if Henry’s protagonists likely remained unaware of the exact theological foundations of such emotions, these collective fears clearly expressed very different forms of sociopolitical relationships: enmity, sympathy, and love, or an affective ambiguity as in the liminal Livonian case. Translating this emotional bonding into Schmittian terms, these fears had a strong political valence in the sense that they functioned as the mechanism for choosing one’s friends and enemies.69 What briefly appeared in Holme and during other sieges considered here was a political relationship, which suspended the limits of one’s community and called for a decision to reframe or re-establish them. The sheer intensity of fear and isolation experienced in Holme in 1206 created an affective political dilemma regarding the degree and of association or disassociation with the newly converted but distrusted Livonians.70 Further, framing the siege of Holme’s in political terms relates to a wider problem of the public and non-public character of hostility and the means of declaring it in the frontier zones like Livonia vis-à-vis core Euro­ pean regions. As pointed out by Bartlett, during the twelfth and thirteenth centuries mortal enmity or enmity in general came to be considered both a legal category and a social institution: ‘a generally recognized relationship hedged by ritual, expectation and sanction’.71 Bartlett’s and others’ claims rest on examples of procedures and prescriptions from Western and Cen­ tral Europe and shows that the way enmities were to be practically pursued

67 Petrus Lombardus, Sententiae in IV Libris Distinctiae, ed. by Brady, iii. 34, pp. 192–94; translation in: Peter Lombard, The Sentences, Book 3. On the Incarnation of the Word, trans. by Silano, 34, pp. 138–39; Coolish, Peter Lombard, i, 177–78; Buc, Holy War, Martyrdom, and Terror, pp. 226–28; Miner, ‘Thomas Aquinas’s Hopeful Transformation’, pp. 963–75. More generally Riley-Smith, ‘Crusading as an Act of Love’, pp. 182–85. 68 Weber, Economy and Society, i, 360–63, 580–83; Kippenberg, Violence as Worship, pp. 35–38; Maček, Sarajevo Under Siege, pp. 62–70, 79–119; Jón Viðar Sigurðsson and Vigh, ‘Who Is the Enemy?’, pp. 51–56. 69 Schmitt, The Concept of the Political; Wittrock and Falk, ‘Vän eller fiende?’, pp. 9–29. 70 Schmitt, Political Theology II, p. 45: ‘[T]oday one can no longer define the political from the state; what we take to be the state must, on the contrary, be defined and understood from the political. But the criterion for the political today can no longer be a new substance, or a new “subject matter”, or a new problematic in its own right. The only scientifically arguable criterion today is the degree of intensity of an association and dissociation; that is, the distinction between friend and enemy’; Strandberg, ‘Carl Schmitt och det politiskas intensitet’, pp. 31–47; Derrida, The Politics of Friendship, p. 139. 71 Bartlett, ‘Mortal Enmities’, p. 198.

EMOTIONAL BONDING AND TRUST DURING SIEGES

established some sense of fairness and authority to adjudicate. Above all, for mortal enmity to be recognized it had to be manifest and openly known. ‘Its emphasis was not on the subjective feelings of the parties or on sporadic violence, but on an objective and public relationship’ — a feature which also applied to the emerging codes of siege warfare in the West.72 High medieval political process and the public emotions expressing it — such as enmity or friendship — were primarily a matter of symbolic communication and public rituals.73 This type of public procedures and prescriptions for expressing enmity were obviously known to Helmold and Henry. They were part and par­ cel of the change of political culture slowly introduced to the frontiers like Wagria and Livonia during the period of the Baltic crusades. These procedures were also generally recognized among the combatants studied here; there was no doubt about the enmity between the Germans and the army without Holme. Yet in certain contexts, like inside this fortress in 1206, the practice did not conform to such general norms. Instead, an institutional ambiguity emerged, characterized by informality, uncertainty, and liminality.74 Among the besieged the friendship and enmity remained unstated and unpredictable — they were positioned in an in-between state as potentialities. In such circumstances, the subjective and secret feelings of the participants suddenly achieved a politically critical status.75 From the Sword Brethrens’ point of view, the behaviour and loyalties of the converts appeared as unpredictable and obscure, which defied the public nature of institutionally framed friendship and enmity.76 The Holme siege experiment may seem unusual, given particularly the level of insight it offers into the ambivalent emotional bonding between the crusaders and the local converts and their second-guessing of each others’ intentions. Yet it is neither singular nor exceptional. Rather, it constitutes a critical case which reflects a general problem: the crusaders’ dilemmas in relation to converts in Livonia. As pointed out by scholars, in the political imagination of crusader writers operating on the Baltic Rim converts occupied the grey zone between paganism and full inclusion into

72 Bartlett, ‘Mortal Enmities’, p. 198; Head and Landes, eds, The Peace of God; Koziol, The Peace of God; Koziol, ‘Peace as Integration’, pp. 135–48; Bradbury, The Medieval Siege, pp. 41–42, 295–334. 73 Althoff, ‘Aufgeführte Gefühle’; Althoff, Spielregeln der Politik im Mittelalter; Althoff, Family, Friends and Followers, pp. 62–90, 136–52; Hermanson, Friendship, Love, and Brotherhood, pp. 20–110; Jón Viðar Sigurðsson, Viking Friendship, pp. 1–36; Viðar Pálsson, Language of Power, pp. 3–23. 74 Stel, Hybrid Political Order, pp. 2–3; Berenskötter and Nymalm, ‘States of Ambivalence’, pp. 25–29, 33–36; Vigh, ‘Social Invisibility and Political Opacity’, pp. 118–25. 75 McAndrew and Koehnke, ‘On the Nature of Creepiness’, pp. 11–12, 14. 76 Schmitt, Theorie des Partisanen, pp. 72–75, 87–94; Derrida, Politics of Friendship, pp. 8–10; Althoff, ‘Symbolic Communication and Medieval Order’, pp. 63–75.

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the Christian community. They were, for instance, frequently targeted with accusations of being emotionally opaque and thus prone to treacherous­ ness and perfidy. Such arguments based on social typecasting were used as justification for the forced conversion of the apostates who, by definition, recruited from among converts.77 In the course of the thirteenth century, the in-between status of converts slowly changed through a more inclusive attitude on the part of the colonizers and the mutual acculturation of both sides of this conflict. In order to expand the Christian community and assure its political stability in the volatile frontier contexts the converts began to be treated as military allies and even, on rare occasions, as protomartyrs in crusader warfare against the pagans. This inclusive expansion of the Christian community proceeded also through ritualistic means and through emotional display highlighted in Henry’s Chronicon. For instance, converts gradually acquired the ability to feel certain emotions, such as grief and joy, which was actively used as an entry point for the Livonian neophytes into the Christian society — a topic explored in greater depth in the following chapter.78 Long before this emotional transformation came to be, however, and for a long period afterwards, the default emotions crusaders associated with the converts was the type of dorsal fear palpable in the Holme episode. The fear of neophytes as backstabbing traitors and a general distrust of their emotional displays was a very common predicament for the German missionaries and crusaders operating in Livonia as well as in other frontier contexts.79 During the raid of the heathen Öselians upstream of the Aa River in 1211, a situation similar to this from Holme, the displaced neophyte Livonians from the ravaged parish of Cubbesele (Latvian: Krimulda) also sought refuge in Riga: ‘The Rigans, however, were keeping careful watch over the city and feared that they would be betrayed by some treacherous people, so they awaited the arrival of the bishop and the pilgrims’.80

77 Tamm, ‘How To Justify a Crusade?’, pp. 440–41; Koselleck, ‘The Historical-Political Semantics of Asymmetric Counterconcepts’, pp. 155–90; Zielyk, ‘On Ambiguity and Ambivalence’, pp. 61–63. 78 Kaljundi, ‘Expanding Communities’, pp. 191–221; Kaljundi, ‘The Baltic Crusades and the Culture of Memory’; Kaljundi, ‘Neophytes as Actors in the Livonian Crusades’, pp. 93–112. 79 Kaljundi, ‘Expanding Communities’, pp. 191–221. The Livonian predicament was the rule rather than the exception given that Helmold substantiated similar claims in Wagria: Helmold of Bosau, Chronica Slavorum, ed. by Stoob, c. 14, pp. 76–77: ‘Slavorum animi naturaliter sint infidi et ad malum proni ideoque cavendi’; Scior, Das Eigene und das Fremde, pp. 214–15. 80 Henry of Livonia, Chronicon Livoniae, ed. by Arbusow and Bauer, xiv. 12, p. 87: ‘Rigenses autem civitatem diligenti custodia servantes et traditionem quorundam perfidorum timentes, adventum episcopi et peregrinorum exspectabant’; Henry of Livonia, The Chronicle, trans. by Brundage, p. 108.

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Fear and Terror as Histrionic Emotions The public dimensions of friendship or enmity may often have been lost in the messy, blurred emotional bonding developed inside besieged forts. But the public and performative character of sieges was nevertheless preserved in the way emotions were employed as a means and purpose of siege warfare itself. The final point to make here concerns the endgame of the Holme siege during which Prince Vladimir of Polotsk anxiously withdrew from the fort after hearing rumours about possible reinforcements ap­ proaching Riga and Holme. Vladimir’s reaction confirms the insight from the siege of Plön: blockades like these were often decided through the management of (mis-)information and sowing terror, fear, and insecurity among the opponents in and around a besieged fort. And vice versa; for the besiegers to bloodily resolve a siege was not just a military and strategic victory, but also a propagandistic success. As the Fellin and Nawwast sieges have shown, a craftily publicized successful siege would pre-empt the necessity of other sieges. It was as much an accomplishment as a potentiality. It was a threat.81 The most convincing form of such a threat was to present a bloody and frightening example to the pagan and apostate enemies, which hinged on the most rudimentary fear on St Augustine’s scale of fears: timor poenae (fear of punishment).82 The Baltic crusaders consciously weaponized this sort of fear in the way they treated their pagan and apostate opponents, effectively subscribing to a coercive model of conversion. This implicit model co-existed side-by-side with the formal prohibition of coercive con­ version in the region at that time.83 As Figure 7.1 in the next chapter shows, the emotion of terror in the Chronicon Livoniae was predominantly felt by the opponents of the Christians. In the Livonian context, terror was no longer a divine and thus ambivalent emotion like in the cases of Ansgar or Bruno of Querfurt. By now it was an almost fully secularized human tool employed for the purposes of holy war, turned into a piece of armament. Such weaponized terror can be detected in the speech of Duke Fredehelm, Bishop Albert’s stepbrother during the siege of Dorpat (Estonian: Tartu) in 1224. The speech was part of a discussion among the leaders of the large army — consisting of the bishop’s forces, the Sword Brethren, the Lettish

81 Petersen, Siege Warfare, pp. 206–07, 258, 311, 317–18; Bachrach and Bachrach, Warfare in Medieval Europe, pp. 397–99; Miller, ‘Threat’, pp. 9–27. 82 Buc, Holy War, Martyrdom, and Terror, pp. 226–27, 235, 238; Brown, ‘St Augustine’s Attitude to Religious Coercion’, pp. 107–16; Riley-Smith, ‘Crusading as an Act of Love’, pp. 185–89. 83 Nielsen, ‘Mission and Submission’, pp. 216–31; Ghosh, ‘Conquest, Conversion, and Heathen Customs’, pp. 90–100; Jensen, ‘Holy War — Holy Wrath!’, pp. 232–38; Jensen, Med ord och ikke med slag, pp. 257–387; Jensen, ‘Gods War’, pp. 123–47.

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and Livonian converts, as well as the Rigan merchants and pilgrims — who besieged the Russians and Livonian apostates:84 We ought to storm this fort violently by going over the walls and to take revenge upon the evildoers to the terror of the others. For in all the forts hitherto taken by the Livonians, the enemy have always kept their lives and freedom, and the rest therefore, have not been made afraid thereby. Now, therefore, we should glorify with great honours whoever of our men will first enter the fort by scaling the wall and we should give him the horses and the best captive there is in the fort, except for the king, whom we shall raise above all others by hanging him from the highest limb.85 The histrionic aspect of sieges on the Baltic Rim is particularly vivid here, together with their affectively associated carnage. To borrow a concept used by the studies of both medieval and modern religious violence, the conclusion of a siege, apart from constituting a military achievement in itself, offered an occasion for performative violence. It was a symbolic and histrionic terrorizing statement so readily activated in frontier zones.86 After all, when a siege finished, the public were already gathered and the identities of military adversaries translated into their roles as protagonists in universal struggle between good and evil, with the attendant moral implications of such subject positions. A stage for drama and — not merely allegorical as Adam saw it — but an actual spectacle of confronta­ tion between Christians and pagans was set. A finished siege turned into an emotional arena, whose contours are outlined in Duke Fredehelm’s speech.87 Sieges in Henry’s Chronicon do reveal many features of spectacles. For instance, crusader warfare was purposefully enhanced by audio-visual means and eerie, bloodcurdling special effects aiming at a particular emo­ tional response. During the same siege of Dorpat, the crusaders resorted to sonic warfare, by using the sound of pipes, drums, and war bells to

84 Selart, Livonia, Rus’ and the Baltic Crusades, pp. 125–26. 85 Henry of Livonia, Chronicon Livoniae, ed. by Arbusow and Bauer, xxviii. 5, pp. 203–04: ‘“Oportet”, inquit, “castrum istud violenter ascendendo comprehendi et vindictam de malefactoribus ad terrorem aliorum vindicari. In omnibus enim castris a Lyvonensibus hactenus expugnatis vitam et libertatem semper optinuerunt, et ideo ceteri nullos timores inde conceperunt. Nunc ergo, quicunque de nostris castrum scandendo primus intraverit, magnis eum honoribus exaltabimus et equos et captivum meliorem, qui fuerit in castro, illi dabimus, preter regem, quem in supremo ramo suspensum super omnes elevabimus”’; Henry of Livonia, The Chronicle, trans. by Brundage, pp. 224–25. 86 Jurgensmeyer, Terror in the Mind of God, pp. 124–28; Hehl, ‘Terror als Herrschaftsmittel’, pp. 11–23; Hen, ‘Charlemagne’s Jihad’, pp. 33–51. 87 Seymour, ‘Emotional Arenas’, pp. 177–97; Jurgensmeyer, Terror in the Mind of God, pp. 128– 35.

EMOTIONAL BONDING AND TRUST DURING SIEGES

unite the Christians and to scare and distress their opponents by playing them throughout the night (‘noctibus ludos et clamores exercent’), thus keeping the besieged army sleepless and affectively off-balance.88 On other occasions, like during the siege of Beverin (Latvian: Beverīna) in 1208, the intrepid priests and crusaders joyfully sung in unison, playing instruments as they readied themselves for battle or as they scaled the ramparts of be­ sieged fortresses.89 However, these spectacles and special effects, intended to deprive their opponents of sleep, did not lack spiritual overtones. As Bishop Gerard of Arras-Cambrai pointed out around 1025, bells and tintinnabula relied on a rich Biblical symbolism and came to be considered, inter alia, as powerful weapons for fighting and terrorizing the infidel long before the First Crusade.90 Gerard’s words are worth quoting at length: The use of signa is also derived from the Old Testament. In this, the Lord commanded that silver trumpets be made. […] Also summoned by their sound to war, they would cast down the weapons of their opponents; and the enemy’s bravery would fail through terror at the sound. […] In this way, tintinnabula are used in Holy Church today, so that, when they are rung, the faithful may be called to the bosom of Mother Church, so that, putting aside preoccupation with the cares of this world, they learn to arm themselves against spiritual onslaughts. And thus it comes to pass that, through hearing the war-trumpet, soldiers are lit up with more spirit for the fight [and] the enemy’s attack, vanquished by fear, is routed and broken. Thus, with the hordes who would harm them panic-stricken, the people, summoned to the war of the Lord by a signum, would be much strengthened, and with the aerial powers [i.e. demons] driven far away, the assembled church would be saved by a host of angels.91 88 Henry of Livonia, Chronicon Livoniae, ed. by Arbusow and Bauer, xxviii. 5, pp. 203–04: ‘Nulla requies conceditur fessis, diebus pugnant, noctibus ludos et clamores exercent. Lyvones cum Lettis concussione gladiorum cum clypeis conclamantes, Theuthonici in tympanis et fistulis et ceteris instrumentis musicis, Rutheni cum suis instrumentis et clamoribus noctes omnes insomnes ducunt’; Goodman, Sonic Warfare, pp. 5–13, 65–66, 189–94. 89 Henry of Livonia, Chronicon Livoniae, ed. by Arbusow and Bauer, xii. 6, pp. 61–62. 90 Arnold and Goodson, ‘Resounding Community’, pp. 99–130; Weinryb, ‘Hildesheim AvantGarde’, pp. 736–38. 91 ‘Council of Arras, 1025’, in Sacrorum conciliorum nova et amplissima collectio, ed. by Mansi, xix, 441: ‘Signorum quoque usus a veteri Testamento sumptus est. In quo per Moysem Dominus jussit fieri tubas argenteas ductiles, quam dum Levitae tempore sacrificii clangerent, sonitu dulcedinis populus commonitus, ad tabernaculum foederis ad adorandum festinarent, quarum etiam clangore hortatus ad bellum tela prosterneret adversantium, et fortitudo inimicorum eo sono exterrita in se deficeret […] Ad hunc modum in sancta ecclesia hodie tintinnabula fiunt, ut per illorum tactum fideles ad gremium matris ecclesiae invitentur, ut depositis curae saecularis occupationibus discant se armare adversus spirituales incursus. Et sicut fit, ut audita bellica tuba milites ad praelium

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Soundscape, war machinery, and excessive violence were not just a ritual­ istically deployed show in the crusader warfare and spiritual conquest and dominance. They were also means of integrating the beleaguering, resounding Christian community vis-à-vis the constitutive inside of their (textually) silenced enemies. In warfare, fear and terror were the primary means of emotional bonding in both dissociative and associative sense.92 Such transfer of the theatrical frame to warfare and vice versa in Livonia for the sake of inciting extreme emotions — here signalled by the use of the exact same term, ludus — is no coincidence.93 It has been noted that the evangelization of the Baltic Rim was performed though some entirely novel spectacular and visual means popping up on the verge of the twelfth and thirteenth centuries.94 The most famous of these was the missionary theatre (‘ludus magnus’) based on the Old and New Testament put up in Riga in 1205 ‘in order that the pagans might learn the rudiments of the Christian faith by an ocular demonstration’.95 As its central part, the spectacle featured the fervent battle scenes of Biblical military leaders. The emotional reaction of the pagan and neophyte spectators to this play was exactly the same as their response to the performative violence during sieges: panic, fear, and escape. ‘When […] the army of Gideon fought the Philistines, the pagans began to take flight, fearing lest they be killed, but they were quietly called back’.96 Henry made it clear that these three frames

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animosius accendantur, hostilis impetus formidine fusus dispergatur; ita exterritis turbis nocentibus confortetur ad dominica bella per signum populus evocatus, et procul pulsis aereis potestatibus, conventus ecclesiae manu angelica servetur’ trans. from: Arnold and Goodson, ‘Resounding Community’, pp. 120–21. Goodman, Sonic Warfare, pp. 27–29. Henry of Livonia, Chronicon Livoniae, ed. by Arbusow and Bauer, xxiii. 8, pp. 162–63, xxviii. 5, pp. 202–03; Jensen, ‘Bigger and Better’, pp. 259–63; Murray, ‘Music and Cultural Conflict’, pp. 293–305; Mäesalu, ‘Mechanical Artillery’, pp. 265–90; see also Petersen, Siege Warfare, pp. 319–20; Klein, The Vatican to Vegas, pp. 36, 51–53. Cofman-Simhon, ‘Missionary Theatre on the Baltic Frontier’, pp. 271–75, 281–82; Bolton, ‘Message, Celebration, Offering’, pp. 93–97; Meredith, ‘Latin Liturgical Drama’, p. 117. Henry of Livonia, Chronicon Livoniae, ed. by Arbusow and Bauer, ix. 14, p. 32: ‘Eadem hyeme factus est ludus prophetarum ordinatissimus in media Riga, ut fidei christiane rudimenta gentilitas fide disceret oculata. […] Iste autem ludus quasi preludium et presagium erat futurorum. Nam in eodem ludo erant bella, utpote David, Gedeonis, Herodis; erat et doctrina Veteris et Novi Testamenti, quia nimirum per bella plurima que sequuntur convertenda erat gentilitas, et per doctrinam Veteris et Novi Testamenti, quia nimirum per bella plurima que sequuntur convertenda erat gentilitas et per doctrinam Veteris ac Novi Testamenti erat instruenda, qualiter ad verum pacificum et ad vitam perveniat eternam’; Henry of Livonia, The Chronicle, trans. by Brundage, p. 53; Petersen, ‘The Notion of a Missionary Theatre’, pp. 229–43; Cofman-Simhon, ‘Missionary Theatre on the Baltic Frontier’, pp. 270–83. Henry of Livonia, Chronicon Livoniae, ed. by Arbusow and Bauer, ix. 14, p. 32: ‘Cuius ludi materia tam neophitis quam paganis, qui aderant, per interpretem diligentissime exponebatur. Ubi autem armati Gedeonis cum Phylisteis pugnabant, pagani timentes occidi

EMOTIONAL BONDING AND TRUST DURING SIEGES

of warfare — 1. the original, biblical, 2. its make-believe representation in Riga, and 3. the actual, out on the battlefields — directly interlinked and overlapped with each other:97 This play [‘ludus’] was like a prelude and prophecy of the future; for in the same play there were wars, namely those of David, Gideon, and Herod, and there was the doctrine of the Old and New Testaments. Certainly, though the many wars that followed, the pagans were to be converted and, through the doctrine of the Old and New Testaments, they were to be told how they might attain to the true Peacemaker and eternal life.98 Let us leave the crusader play aside and return to Duke Fredhelm’s words from 1224. A victorious siege offered an emotional outlet for the embit­ tered Christian besiegers whose faith and honour had been offended by the apostates and infidels. The end of a siege activated the final emotional sequence. According to this script, the crusaders now had a chance to pub­ licly recover their self-respect by taking retribution on their enemies. It was an emotionally redemptive moment. For the duration of it, the individual motives — such as the fear-induced desire for the excitement and glory of the champion entering the fortress — were subsumed under the collective exhaustion from distress, blended with feelings of self-sacrifice, followed by victorious pride and a thirst for revenge which helped washing off the shame from injured Christian honour.99

fugere ceperunt, sed caute sunt revocati. Sic ergo ad modicum tempus siluit ecclesia in pace quiescendo’; Henry of Livonia, The Chronicle, trans. by Brundage, p. 53. 97 Goffman, Frame Analysis, pp. 138–49; Kaljundi, ‘(Re)performing the Past’, pp. 301–06. 98 Henry of Livonia, Chronicon Livoniae, ed. by Arbusow and Bauer, ix. 14, p. 32: ‘Iste autem ludus quasi preludium et presagium erat futurorum. Nam in eodem ludo erant bella, utpote David, Gedeonis, Herodis; erat et doctrina Veteris et Novi Testamenti, quia nimirum per bella plurima que sequuntur convertenda erat gentilitas et per doctrinam Veteris ac Novi Testamenti erat instruenda, qualiter ad verum pacificum et ad vitam perveniat eternam’; Henry of Livonia, The Chronicle, trans. by Brundage, p. 53. 99 Throop, ‘Zeal, Anger and Vengeance’, pp. 177–201; Tamm, ‘Martyrs and Miracles’, pp. 135– 56; Nedkvitne, ‘Why Did Medieval Norsemen Go on Crusades?’, pp. 39–45; Flori, ‘Ideology and Motivations in the First Crusade’, pp. 15–36; Bysted, Jensen, Jensen, and Lind, Jerusalem in the North, pp. 129–37; Jensen, ‘Holy War — Holy Wrath!’, pp. 238–46; Lewis, ‘The Army as Emotional Community’, pp. 58–61; Spencer, Emotions in a Crusading Context, pp. 201– 03; Reddy, The Navigation of Feeling, p. 23; Cottee and Hayward, ‘Terrorist (E)motives’, pp. 966–78; Although Cottee’s and Hayward’s notion of (e)motive, which relates to terrorists’ general emotional motivations, is different from Reddy’s more narrow notion of emotive, which designates an emotionally self-referential speech-act (Reddy, The Navigation of Feeling, pp. 104–05, 128), they are nonetheless clearly akin to one another.

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Concluding Remarks The image of siege warfare in the Baltic crusades discussed in this chapter and the growing degree to which it was dominated by fierceness and reli­ giously informed violence corroborate the general picture of the crusader movement’s advances on the Baltic frontier in the course of the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, on the Wendish and the Livonian frontiers. Descriptions of sieges in Henry’s and Helmold’s chronicles featured similar emotional sequences and scripts of anger, hatred, and vengeance to those identified by scholars in other contemporary accounts. The findings of this chapter point, however, to the hitherto underappreciated role to fear, anxiety, and terror as well as paranoid distrust as important, if not the dominant clusters of emotions in siege warfare. To simply conclude that fear and similar emotions dominated siege combat would be stating the obvious.100 But contrary to the intuitive perception of fear and terror as aversive and involuntary emotional re­ sponses connected to the siege experience, which medievalists often tacitly assume rather than explicitly investigate, the Baltic evidence suggests a wide palette of fears, anxieties, and terrors both experienced and purpose­ fully employed in siege warfare. As stressed by Reddy, fear seems to be a particularly valent emotion. As also shown here, the different forms of fear included seemingly visceral yet politically exploitable instincts to flee or fight, affective rewards enjoyed by risk-seekers, strategically or histrion­ ically deployed and weaponized terror, panic, and the numbing angst of both absolute strangers as well as accidental neighbours.101 Inasmuch as fear and its offshoots could be actively navigated, assuaged, enhanced, channelled, and transformed into other emotions, they could be emotion­ ally bonding, too. The evidence presented here shows a perhaps more paradoxical socializing potential of fear. Depending on the circumstances, this emotion could be associative or dissociative. Fear served as a means of emotional interaction between clerics, crusaders, converts, and pagans, as well as apostates and Orthodox Russians. There are at least two forms of fear that are particularly evident in the Holme episode, which clashed with one another: affectious care or even brotherly love and utter distrust. Such emotionally ambiguous and undecidable moments, as in Plön in 1075 or in Süssel in 1147, in which the options of depending on or distrusting one’s accidental neighbours or customary enemies seemed equally viable, revealed the admittedly shallow socializing capacity of fear and its simulta­ neously deep function as a politically and religiously motivational force.

100 Bourke, Fear, pp. 197–221; Sofsky, Zeiten des Schreckens, pp. 118–83. 101 Reddy, The Navigation of Feeling, pp. 23–25; Miller, The Anatomy of Disgust, pp. 25–28; Bourke, Fear, pp. 1–19; McAndrew and Koehnke, ‘On the Nature of Creepiness’, pp. 10–15. See also several contributions in Plamper and Lazier, eds, Fear: Across the Disciplines.

EMOTIONAL BONDING AND TRUST DURING SIEGES

Though there was a considerable overlap between the emotional ideology and practices of missioning and crusading on the Baltic Rim, the concrete siege confrontations also revealed social dynamics of their own. From the point of view of medieval siege studies, this chapter calls on medievalists to pay greater attention to active navigation of emotions and the very elusive forms of communality they produced during blockades. Setting the embryonic siege conventions aside, through the closer study of the sociopolitical use of emotions in sieges, we may learn more about the social dynamics behind the theatre of war and arms race. These extreme, prolonged social events worked like social laboratories.102 In this way, they exposed many different types of trust and distrust within both the in-group and its relation to the out-group, which need to be further consid­ ered in relation to local historical, religious, and ethnic contexts of loyalty and identity. Put differently, sieges were socially and politically productive in how they shaped and tested many different types of relationships be­ tween friends, enemies, and accidental or more permanent neighbours. They served also as provisional and intense catalysts of religiously moti­ vated identity generated vis-à-vis others. Occasionally, however, sieges on the missionary and crusader Baltic Rim provided emotional platforms for sympathy and solidarity that defied pre-existing divisions in a manner that was not always easy to predict. Finally, from the theoretical point of view, this chapter offers an exten­ sion of Rosenwein’s notion of emotional communities, which has mainly been applied to stable, voluntary, and delineable social formations. By focusing more on the processual rather than the institutionalized types of socialization, the concept of emotional bonding can better account for evanescent and involuntary types of communality with very intense and rapidly changing affections, often accommodating relationships of distrust, hostility, victimhood, and paramount emotional ambiguity. This concept can thus add to studies of emotional forms of bonding embedded particularly in high and late medieval protests, mass unrests, collective experiences of terror, and short-lasting communities of violence.103

102 Graeber and Wengrow, The Dawn of Everything, pp. 115, 204–05. 103 Compare Freedman, ‘Peasant Anger in the Late Middle Ages’, pp. 171–88; Nordquist, ‘Envisioning a Political Community’, pp. 89–119; Heß, ‘Urban Community and Social Unrest’, pp. 307–27; Nirenberg, Communities of Violence.

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CHAPtER 7

Politics of Emotions and Empathy Walls in Livonia, Thirteenth Century

If you tickle us, do we not laugh? William Shakespeare, The Merchant of Venice

Close Encounters of the Third-Degree Burn, 1222 In 1222, Pope Honorius III (r. 1216–1227) issued the following decretal intended to put an end to the trials by ordeal and protect the local converts in Livonia: Our beloved sons [‘Dilecti filii’] recently baptized in Livonia have addressed a serious complaint to us that the Teutonic Knights of Livonia and certain other advocates and judges who exercise temporal power in the country, if ever the inhabitants are accused of any sort of crime, compel them to undergo the judgement of red-hot iron; and if they suffer any burns from this, they inflict civil penalties on the much to the scandal and terror [‘scandalum incutiunt et terrorem’] of the converts and of those about to be converted. Since, therefore, this sort of judgment has been utterly forbidden […] thou shouldst compel the said brothers and other to desist from all similar oppression of the converts.1

1 Liv- Esth- und Curlandisches Urkundenbuch nebst Regesten: 1093–1300, i, ed. by von Bunge and Hildebrand, no. 54, col. 58: ‘Honorius III. etc. Dilecti filii noviter in Livonia baptizati gravem ad nos querimoniam destinarunt, quod fratres, Templariorum ordinem in Livonia profitentes, et alii quidam advocati et iudices, qui temporalem in eis potestatem exercent, si quando de aliquo alio crimine infamantur, eos ferri candentis iudicium subire compellunt, quibus, si qua exinde sequatur adustio, civilem poenam infligunt, qua re conversis et convertendis scandalum incutiunt et terrorem. Quum igitur huiusmodi iudicium secundum legitimas et canonicas sanctiones sit penitus interdictum, utpote in quo Deus tentari videtur: mandamus, quatenus dictos fratres et alios, ut ab huiusmodi conversorum gravamine omnino desistant, monitione praemissa per censuram ecclesiasticam appellatione remota compellas’; English translation by Howland taken from Lea, The Ordeal, p. 198.

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So far, the pope’s decretal has been studied mainly for what constitutes its judicial centrepiece — the question of ordeals — and more generally considered within the context of how the 1215 papal ban against this legal practice radiated to the north-eastern peripheries of Europe.2 What has attracted no attention are the emotions and sympathy conveyed by this letter. Evidently, the pope shows affection to the converts and expresses concern about their terrors and the detrimental effect these can have on the conversion process in the region. What remains implicit is that rather than having learned about these calamities directly from his beloved sons, there must had been another group of Christians in Livonia who commiserated with the newly baptized and informed the pope on their behalf. This other institutional actor, who often found itself opposed to the Sword Brethren, was the church of Riga, whose concerns about unjust ordeals are identifiable in Henry’s Chronicon, whose wording echoes the papal decretal. Here, however, the concern is enveloped in a story of a certain greedy and perverted bailiff (‘advocatus’) and knight, Gottfried. In 1207, he oppressed the locals in Treiden (Latvian: Turaida) on Bishop Albert’s behalf by collecting too much tax, little of which he actually sent back to Riga. Soon his embezzlements saw the light of day, as did his harassment of the native population: Because he had acted unjustly in perverting judgment and oppressing the poor, in justifying the iniquitous and levying toll on the converts, by the just judgment of God it so happened that, to the terror of other such men, he should incur such a humiliation, and he afterwards died a shameful death, as some report.3 Like in the case of Reginar, the Frankish oppressor of Ansgar’s Scandina­ vian and Slavic converts, here, too, the edge of divine terror and judgement were turned against those bad Christians who failed to take proper care of 2 Jillings, ‘Ordeal by Combat’, p. 268; Vogt, The Function of Kinship, pp. 65–66; Bartlett, Trial by Fire and Water, p. 47. 3 Henry of Livonia, Chronicon Livoniae, ed. by Arbusow and Bauer, xi. 4. p. 50: ‘Et quia inique egerat pervertendo iudicium et pauperes opprimendo et iniquos iustificando et neophitos corrodendo, iusto iudicio Dei factum est, ut ad terrorem aliorum talem incurreret verecundiam, et sicut a quisbusdam relatum est, postea morte turpissima defunctus est’; Henry of Livonia, The Chronicle, trans. by Brundage, p. 70. See also the situation from 1214 when Prince Vladimir Mstislavich of Pskov was warned by Priest Alabrand from Idumea: xviii. 2, p. 115: ‘“Oportebat te”, inquit, “rex, qui iudex hominum esse meruisti, iudicia iusta iudicare et vera, non opprimendo pauperes nec res eorum auferendo, ne neophitos nostros conturbando magis a fide Christi faceres deviare”’; Henry of Livonia, The Chronicle, trans. by Brundage, p. 135: ‘“It was right, O king”, he said, “that you, who have attained the post of judge of men, should give just and true judgments, neither oppressing the poor nor taking their belongings. Nor should you, even more, disturb our converts and make them swerve from the faith of Christ”’.

POLITICS OF EMOTIONS AND EMPATHY WALLS IN LIVONIA

and commiserate with the neophytes. All this prompts almost too obvious a question: can we say which of the two main groups of the colonizers in Livonia felt more compassion for the local population and for the converts? And, perhaps less obviously: can we measure such disparities in empathy? To answer these questions, this chapter studies the representations and attributions of emotions to and of different social groups in two pieces of historiography penned in thirteenth-century Livonia: the Chronicle of Henry of Livonia and the Livonian Rhymed Chronicle. Through both quantitative and qualitative analysis, it explores to what extent the two authors — and conceivably also the colonizer groups behind them — imaginatively set themselves apart from the native population, and the types of feelings they considered could bridge the divide between them. Which emotions enabled and which impeded the making of Livonian society and community between the Christians, neophytes, and pagans in the thirteenth century? Put otherwise, what did the different politics of joy, love, brotherhood, and consolation look like to a clerical author like Henry of Livonia vis-à-vis a member of the Teutonic Knights? And just how overt and transformative were their politics of emotion? Inquiring into the politics and semantics of emotions and emotional bonding in thirteenth-century Livonia concerns the general conditions of the making of colonial Livonia as an increasingly complex and heterogeneous Christ­ ian society, particularly when it comes to the manner of creating relations between the colonizers and the natives as well as of imagining Livonia as a whole.4 Conceptually speaking, instead of attempting yet another definition of what politics of emotions is, a term both contested and fuzzy, I sketch out how the politics of emotions worked in the historical context of this experiment. As it is used here, the politics of emotions is about the ways of fashioning collectives — often practised in an adversarial manner: us vs. you and us vs. them — by attributing to them certain emotional moti­ vations and actions. Though often more implicit than overt, the workings of the politics of emotions addressed the problems of establishing and jus­ tifying prejudiced, hierarchically ordered religious and cultural divisions paired with subject positions for individuals and collectives to occupy.5 In this sense, politics of emotions belongs to a broader category of the politics of belonging as it has been formulated by Nira Yuval-Davis:

4 Stäheli, ‘Die Nachträglichkeit der Semantik’, pp. 315–40; Jezierski, ‘Introduction: Imagined Communities on the Baltic Rim’, pp. 11–33; Bateson, ‘Culture Contact and Schismogenesis’, pp. 179–80. 5 Rosenwein, ‘The Emotions of Exclusion and Inclusion’, pp. 169–78.

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Belonging tends to be naturalized, and becomes articulated and politicized only when it is threatened in some way. The politics of belonging comprises specific political projects aimed at constructing belonging in particular ways to particular collectivities that are, at the same time, themselves being constructed by these projects in very particular ways.6 Accordingly, such emotional shaping of the image of the other and the ways of acting upon others and oneself inevitably opened up or closed down avenues of interaction for exclusive or inclusive community-building in Livonia.7

Method: Asymmetrical Emotional Ascription In order to access the emotional landscapes of thirteenth-century Livo­ nia, this experiment uses the only two locally penned historiographical accounts. The first, the Chronicon Livoniae by Henry, has been introduced previously. The second text is the anonymous Livonian Rhymed Chroni­ cle written probably around 1290. Composed in verse in Middle High German, it is presumably a work by an anonymous Teutonic Knight, who likely spent at least part of his life in Livonia and, importantly, was unacquainted with Henry’s work. The Livonian Rhymed Chronicle covers the history of the Teutonic Knights from the beginnings of the mission to Livonia in the 1180s, through to the foundation of the Order of the Livonian Sword Brethren in 1202 and its subsequent incorporation into the Order of the Teutonic Knights in 1236/1237 as an autonomous Livonian branch until the last decade of the thirteenth century. As far as the Livonian Rhymed Chronicle’s audience is concerned, it has been argued that the chronicle was composed for the members of the Order and their occasional visitors, the annual visits of crusaders, and hence served somewhat propagandistic purposes.8

6 Yuval-Davis, ‘Belonging and the Politics of Belonging’, p. 197. 7 Ahmed, The Cultural Politics of Emotion, pp. 1–14; Ljunggren, Den uppskjutna vreden, pp. 7– 29; Boquet and Nagy, ‘L’historien et les émotions en politique’, pp. 5–30; Nirenberg ‘The Politics of Love and Its Enemies’, pp. 573–605; Frevert, Gefühlspolitik, pp. 16–19. 8 The references to the original text of the Livonian Rhymed Chronicle with verses separated by | are given to: Livländische Reimchronik, ed. by Meyer; The English translation of the Livländische Reimchronik in this and following chapter adapts and amends the sometimes imprecise The Livonian Rhymed Chronicle by Smith and Urban, keeping it as prose rather than translating as poetry; Murray, ‘The Structure, Genre and Intended Audience’, pp. 235– 51; Mackensen, Zur deutschen Literatur Altlivlands, pp. 21–58; Kugler, ‘Über die Livländische Reimchronik’, pp. 85–104; Feistner, Neecke, and Vollmann-Profe, Krieg im Visier, pp. 79–104; Neecke, Literarische Strategien; Olivier, ‘Introduction’, pp. 31–43.

POLITICS OF EMOTIONS AND EMPATHY WALLS IN LIVONIA

It is fair to ask whether studying how these two idiosyncratic pieces of historiography represented (self-)identification and emotional ascription in Livonia is the most efficient way to address the normative divisions of this emerging society. Would not a study of laws or sermons or other programmatic texts be more instructive way to reach the contemporary ideology? However, if the politics of emotions is a form of the politics of belonging and exclusion — ‘the dirty work of boundary maintenance’ — then studying how these two works mirrored, perpetuated, and gener­ ated cultural and social divisions by translating them into aestheticized, ‘enjoyable’ dispositions of attraction and abjection for their audiences and authors to feel towards each other and vis-à-vis their adversaries does unravel the critical, if discreet, normative frames of the Livonian colony.9 In terms of method, this experiment approaches the politics of emo­ tions in two ways, both focusing on the explicit use of emotion words expressed in the two chronicles: quantitative and qualitative. To put faces on these two perspectives: if we are to trace how the systemic emotional bias and bigotry informed specific situations in which it was expressed and vice versa, we need to toggle between Morettian distant reading and Geertzian thick description.10 While the latter means scrutinizing which emotions are expressed and between whom, as well as, in which contexts and situations and through which practices and types of language this is done, the former is more unorthodox and requires some explanation. A common trait of studies exploring the rhetoric and navigation of particular emotions — love, vengeance, shame, hatred, anger, wrath, etc. – and the ways they shaped political mobilization, construction of commu­ nities, and patterns of conversion is that they focus on the rhetoric of a singular emotion term or clusters of them. The downside of this approach is that it often misses which emotions predominated or were referred to most frequently in the texts and communities and what the proportions between them were. Such an approach thus fails to account for how different emotions worked in concert, amplified, or qualified each other.

9 Elias, ‘Interfaith Empathy’, pp. 101–04; Means Coleman, Horror Noire; Gallagher, ‘Empathy, Simulation, and Narrative’, pp. 355–81; Hunt, Bignotto, and Minchillo, ‘Empathy Has Biological Foundations’, pp. 134–39; Yuval-Davis, ‘Belonging and the Politics of Belonging’, pp. 197–214; Crowley, ‘The Politics of Belonging’, pp. 15–41; Foucault, Power/Knowledge, 194–95; Bourdieu, Outline of a Theory of Practice, pp. 15, 17, 72–73, 214 n. 1; Bourdieu, Distinction, pp. 2–6, 23, 47–48, 56–57, 94–95, 231; Eagleton, ‘The Ideology of the Aesthetic’, p. 330: ‘Structures of power must become structures of feeling and the name for this mediation from property to propriety is the aesthetic. If politics and aesthetics are deeply at one, it is because pleasurable conduct is the true index of successful social hegemony, self-delight the very mark of social submission. What matters in aesthetics is not art but this whole project of reconstructing the human subject from the inside, informing its subtlest affections and bodily responses with this law which is not a law’. 10 Moretti, Distant Reading; Geertz, ‘Thick Description’, pp. 3–33.

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This can be rectified through a quantitative approach, which canvasses a broad set of emotions and maps out the entire emotional repertoire that brought together and tore apart the colonial society in the Baltic Sea region. The further advantage is that studying emotional terms and their attribution on such a wide scale helps us to peek beyond the rhetoric and the authorial intentions and discern the tacit structural prejudices and the political dimensions of emotions in thirteenth-century Livonia. The experiment conducted in this chapter and the method developed here compiles statistics of emotion words featured in the two pieces of historiography, which involves certain limitations. First, it focuses only on subjects of emotion (who feels them) and not their objects (at whom they are directed) or their aetiology. Second, focusing on verbal expressions alone is obviously quite restrictive, as emotions can also be expressed through gestures, remain unnamed but suggested, etc.11 Yet, since the central question here addresses the overtly political uses of emotions, the more clearly spelled out its verbal and explicitly attributive features are, the better. Third, in order to arrive at viable numbers all different word forms (verbs, nouns, adjectives, etc.) and their flexions have been aggregated and all counted as instances of the same basic emotion lexeme group, similar to what I undertook in Chapter 3. Such levelling of usage is not uncontroversial, as anyone distinguishing between the utterance of ‘I love you’ to a significant other in an intimate situation and compliment while eating a cream cake of the exclamation ‘I love it!’ will readily admit. There is, however, a heuristic advantage in flattening all uses of the same emotion word and leeching them of context. This reveals namely the overall social conductivity and resistivity of certain emotional bonds, which can be sub­ sequently renuanced in concrete examples and broken down into specific word forms.12 In this way we can reach the levels of structural emotional exclusion and prejudice which might have gone unnoticed even for the authors of the texts. In purely technical terms, for mining the Henry’s Chronicon I resorted, again, to the text database, the lemma dictionary, and the search engine of the e-Humanities Desktop of the Historical Semantics Corpus Management. When it comes to the analysis of the Livonian Rhymed Chronicle so far we still lack a correct character-recognized version of the text, let alone a fully lemmatized version in Middle High German coupled to a proper dictionary. As a result, the counting of emotion words in the Livonian Rhymed Chronicle had to be performed manually. Both these techniques, needless to say, are subject to mistakes and omissions, though of a different character. The numbers presented below should therefore be taken with some caution. 11 Rosenwein, ‘Problems and Methods’, pp. 17–19. 12 Latour, Reassembling the Social, pp. 165–72; Rosenwein, Emotional Communities, pp. 57–78.

POLITICS OF EMOTIONS AND EMPATHY WALLS IN LIVONIA

Statistics of Emotions and the Binarity of Evil Rather than arbitrarily comparing the content of these two chronicles to one of the contemporary medieval lists and conceptualizations of emotions,13 in order to identify its research object this study follows Rosenwein’s inductive method of compiling lists of words clearly signify­ ing affects and emotions, emotionally laden practices, behaviours, and objects (e.g. lacrima) that emerge from the works themselves.14 Since these two chroniclers offer no explicit reflection on what they — or the communities they were a part of — considered an emotion, this is the best guide for arriving at fairly comprehensive lists.15 Some of these judge­ ment calls consider the question of what to include or exclude from the lists. For instance, while it is sensible to count Henry’s uses of fraternitas as an emotion word, given in how politically affective a manner it is used, there is little sense in doing the same for the ubiquitous notion of ‘brotherhood’ and ‘brothers’ in the Livonian Rhymed Chronicle. Though the terms definitely describe an emotional sense of belonging and kinship for the members of the Order of Teutonic Knights,16 given the method proposed here this would require counting each time the chronicle’s main protagonists — the individual or numerous brothers — are mentioned as an emotion word. To put the findings of Tables 7.1 and 7.2 into perspective: the Livon­ ian Rhymed Chronicle contains approximately 66,000 words, whereas the Chronicon Livoniae has exactly 53,956 words, making the Livonian Rhymed Chronicle relatively more emotional than Henry’s text (just under 1 per cent vis-à-vis 0.75 per cent of all words). Despite the fact that in absolute terms Henry uses roughly one-third fewer emotion words than the anonymous author, his emotional vocabulary is more variegated and nuanced than that of the Livonian Rhymed Chronicle. At the same time, none of these

13 Thomas Aquinas’s treatises on emotions would be the most suitable candidate chronologically (Rosenwein, Generations of Feeling, pp. 144–68). But because his works postdate Henry’s Chronicon Livoniae, and we can safely assume that they were not a part of the LRC’s author literary diet, they are not useful as a reference point here. 14 Rosenwein, Generations of Feeling, pp. 13–15; Rosenwein, ‘Emotion Words’, pp. 93–106. 15 Caveat lector: 1. The compiled lists are not set in stone. A more generous or narrower definition of emotion would result in slightly different lists and figures. 2. The cut-off point of measurement was set at a minimum of five hits of an emotion word per work. This is irrelevant for compiling the lists of emotion words, but is consequential for interpreting how these emotions are attributed and how many of them were included in the metrics (Figures 7.1 and 7.2). The general rule for reading the latter tables is that the fewer hits of an emotion word there are, the less sure we can be about the structural prejudice of their attribution. 16 Hentrich, ‘Die Darstellung der Schwertbrüderordens’, pp. 107–53; Honemann, ‘Zu Selbstverständnis und Identitätsvorstellungen’, pp. 255–96; Spencer, Emotions in a Crusading Context, pp. 151–54; Spencer, ‘Piety, Brotherhood and Power’, pp. 423–43; Pitt-Rivers, ‘The Paradox of Friendship’, p. 444.

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CHAPTER 7 Table 7.1. Emotion words in Henry’s Chronicon Livoniae.

Emotion word

translation

hits

gaudium

joy, rejoicing, happiness

117

timor

fear

57

letit(c)ia/letus

joy, joyful, happy

36

clamor

cry of pain/mourning, wailing

20

terror

terror, utter fear

15

consolatio

consolation, compassion

15

tribulatio

tribulation, suffering

13

dilectio

pleasure, sweetness

12

fraternitas

brotherhood, friendship

11

caritas

love, affection, charity

11

lacrima

tear(s)

10

indignatio

ire, lividness, arousal, fury

10

tristicia

sadness, dejectedness

9

vindicare

to retaliate, avenge

8

dolor

pain, suffering

8

confusio

disorder, confusion, shame

8

amor

love

7

vereor

dread

7

luctum

mourning, grief, grieving

6

flevo/ploro

to cry, sob

5

misericordia

compassion, mercy

5

ira

wrath, rage

5

Fewer than 5 hits: superbia, abhorror, furor, metus, odium, pudor, superbia, arrogancia, verecundia

20

Total

415

lists’ lengths seems particularly impressive when compared to the lists compiled, for example, for contemporary continental courtly literature,17 which reflect well the matter-of-fact and strictly homosocial character of

17 Rosenwein, Generations of Feeling, pp. 121–24, 175, 186–87.

POLITICS OF EMOTIONS AND EMPATHY WALLS IN LIVONIA Table 7.2. Emotion words in the Livonian Rhymed Chronicle.

Emotion word

translation

hits

vrô/vrôlich

happy, joyful, pleased, glad

225

lieb/liep/lieplich

love, lovingly, pleasant, friendly

58

clagen/unverclaget

complain, lament, wail

57

leiten

suffer

38

vreuden

to rejoice, feel joy, happiness

36

unvrô

unhappy, displeased

32

verdrôz/verdrôzzet

dreadful

30

zorn

anger, frustration

21

jâmer/jâmmerlich/jâmmersanc

sorrow, lament

21

vürchten/envorchten

to be scared, afraid

15

trôsten

to offer comfort, solace

13

haz/nit tragen

bear grudge, hate, enmity

13

nôt leiten

suffer depravation

12

grimmes muotes, grimmeclich

unfriendly spirit, angry

10

gemeit

happy, joyful

9

rechen

to avenge, retaliate

8

minne/minneclich

love, lovingly, friendly

7

sorge/sorgen

worry, sorrow

7

Fewer than 5 hits: willic, holt, trȗric, angest/engestlich, ûf strûtzen, hôchgemuot, vreislich

complacent/pleased, welldisposed/friendly, sad/ downcast, indignated/uproar, fear/anxious, proud/pride, terrible

18

Total

 

630

both chronicles. Still, it is striking just to what degree these lists converge in terms of which emotion words dominate, suggesting their crucial impor­ tance in thirteenth-century Livonia. Joy, rejoicing, and happiness top both lists, with love and brotherhood close behind. There are some differences, too. Henry’s vocabulary of fear (timor, terror, vereor, and negligible metus) is plentiful, varied, and relatively far more significant as I have shown in previous chapters, when compared to fears (vürchten and negligible angest)

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in the Livonian Rhymed Chronicle.18 In general, the anonymous author seems to ascribe greater importance to lamentation, anger, and different forms of suffering than Henry, whose words for sadness and crying occupy the lower tier of Table 7.1. Notably, the two texts for the most part operate with different parts of speech in their designation of emotions and emotional states. Whereas Henry uses the emotion words mostly as verbs and nouns, the Livonian Rhymed Chronicle predominantly trades in adverbs and adjectives — e.g. lieplich, vrô(lich) — and auxiliary ‘to be’ + past participle — e.g. waren vrô/unvrô, war im zorn, war verdrôzzet. This difference is largely the result of the distinct language structures and the very uneven lexical depth of emotion words in Latin vis-à-vis Middle High German, so to speak, based on their long philosophical exegesis or lack thereof. This disparity does have some significant implications, nonetheless. It suggests namely that Henry treats emotions like actions or behaviours and like abstract entities imbued with some degree of existence. On the other hand, the author of the Livonian Rhymed Chronicle for the most part operates with a sui generis emotional knowledge without concepts. He uses emotion terms princi­ pally as descriptions and qualifiers of other actions and states of beings and not as a way of generating new states or transforming social realities. This well reflects the genre hybridization typical of the Livonian Rhymed Chronicle, a mix between war historiography focused on military prowess and courtly literature concerned with proper, chivalrous demeanour; that is, qualification and evaluation of conduct.19 In addition, the requirements of rhyming affect both the type and the size of the emotional vocabulary used in the Livonian Rhymed Chronicle, which is a question addressed more thoroughly below. In Henry’s case, the emotions are to a greater degree presented as distinctly existing, even self-acting objects, and not mere attributes of other objects or actions, which is of consequence for how e.g. caritas and fraternitas can be handled.20 The lists and numbers of emotion words are the necessary first step for getting at the political, systemic emotional prejudice. Yet in the way it has been traditionally used and formulated for the purposes of this study, the politics of emotions is emphatically a qualitative concept. Can at least some of its features be operationalized for measurement so that we can precisely know the intensity and extensiveness of prejudice this politics entailed — something that goes unnoticed in qualitative analysis?21 I

18 Spencer, Emotions in a Crusading Context, pp. 53–55. 19 Crouch, The Chivalric Turn, pp. 225–51; Benveniste, ‘The Linguistic Functions’, pp. 171–74; Bourdieu Distinction, pp. 470–75; Moretti, Distant Reading, pp. 195–96; Reimitz, ‘Genre and Identity’, pp. 161–211; Healey and others, ‘The Uses of Genre’, pp. 73–102. 20 Schwandt, Virtus, pp. 198–200; Jussen, ‘“Reich” – “Staat” – “Kirche”?’, pp. 271–86. 21 Moretti, ‘Operationalizing’, pp. 108–13.

POLITICS OF EMOTIONS AND EMPATHY WALLS IN LIVONIA

contend that this can be done by approaching the problem indirectly, via proxies. One such way is to operationalize the politics of emotion through the notion of an empathy wall. According to Airlie R. Hochschild, who coined the term, ‘an empathy wall is an obstacle to deep understanding of another person, one that can make us feel indifferent or even hostile to those who hold different beliefs’.22 Prima facie, the concept addresses then the interviewing subject’s obstacles to affectively relating to the re­ search object, whose convictions are at loggerheads with the interviewer’s. However, the empathy wall lends itself to quantification if we recast it as a more general and gradable barrier to empathy between the adversarial in-groups and out-groups from the perspective of how these groups’ mem­ bers attribute feelings to each other. The degree to which the ascribed emotions are or are not shared, or how certain emotions appear limited to either party can, in fact, be measured.23 In operationalizing Hochschild’s concept for statistical purposes of studying asymmetrical emotional ascription we need to identify where these two authors drew the line between their in-groups and out-groups, that is to say, whom (and when) did they consider as us/friends versus them/enemies to attribute these emotions to (and not to) empathize with. Such a black-and-white, Schmittian friend-vs.-enemy distinction finds solid support in the previous research, which helps in identifying what constituted such watershed moments for both Henry of Livonia and the anonymous author and how differently each of them conceptualized these decisive distinctions and asymmetries.24 Broadly speaking, in the Chroni­ con the fundamental category of belonging to the in-group was constituted by baptism (in the Latin rite), while in the Livonian Rhymed Chronicle it was the cultural and/or temporary or permanent military association and alignment with the Teutonic Knights.25 Admittedly, these two authors also operated with more nuanced ways of distinguishing between different types of adversaries or allies when it came to e.g. conflicts of interests of the Bishops of Riga and the Teutonic Knights, the tensions between the

22 Hochschild, Strangers in Their Own Land, p. 5: ‘But is it possible, without changing our beliefs, to know others from the inside, to see reality through their eyes, to understand the links between life, feeling, and politics; that is, to cross the empathy wall?’. 23 Marks and Dollahite, ‘Surmounting the Empathy Wall’, pp. 762–73. 24 Schmitt, The Concept of the Political, pp. 26–27; Koselleck, ‘Begriffsgeschichte and Social History’, pp. 75–92; Koselleck, Begriffsgeschichten, pp. 274–84; Pankakoski, ‘Conflict, Context, Concreteness’, pp. 749–79; Postoutenko, ‘From Asymmetries to Concepts’, pp. 197–252; Kozlowski, Taddy, and Evans, ‘The Geometry of Culture’, pp. 935–40; Bateson, ‘Culture Contact and Schismogenesis’, pp. 181–82. 25 Feistner, Neecke, and Vollmann-Profe, Krieg im Visier, pp. 27–32. Needless to say, the bar of in-group categorisation for the Chronicon Livoniae is set much higher than for the Livonian Rhymed Chronicle.

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Germans and the Danes, or political alliances with the local tribes.26 These political and cultural divisions among the Christians were sometimes expressed through emotions, as when the Livonian Rhymed Chronicle’s author, bent on demonstrating the fearlessness of the Teutonic Knights, chided the faint-hearted clerics during the Russian attack on Dorpat in the 1250s: ‘the clerics greatly feared death. That had always been the way with them and still is today’.27 Yet, I argue, these two central occasions of bifurcation, baptism and military alliance respectively, overrode all lesser disparities. The private conflicts among the Christians did not undermine these two fundamental antagonisms against their enemies, which can thus be employed as the distinguishing criteria for tracing the statistical expression of the emotional binarity in these two chronicles. Since the categories of conversion and alliance were transient, due to intermittent apostasies or the breaking of alliances, deciding whether an emotion term was attributed to the in-group or out-group had to be resolved contextually in each individual case. What Figures 7.1 and 7.2 essentially visualize are two very different empathy walls and ways of reaching out (or not reaching out) to the other side of the religious, cultural, and military divides in Livonia in the thirteenth century. Empathy walls are not permanent, however, and as these figures also demonstrate, their height, permeability, and the emo­ tional material of which they are made are strictly contextual. In general, both authors deem their adversaries to be less sentient than their in-group. Henry ascribes to his adversaries only 20 per cent of all emotion words, but the anonymous author 29.5 per cent. Such solipsism is anything but surprising for the authors, who in their own eyes represented a superior culture. It is even less so in the light of what we know about the inverse relation between the propensity to emotion and pain attribution and empathy on the one hand, and cultural, racial, and social distance on the other.28 After all, every politics of emotions is, mutatis mutandis, a politics of wilful ignorance, an affective ‘way of not seeing’. It is a structured way of

26 Šnē, ‘The Image of the Other or the Own’, pp. 247–60; Ghosh, ‘Conquest, Conversion, and Heathen Customs’, pp. 87–108. 27 Livländische Reimchronik, ed. by Meyer, vv. 6632–33: ‘die pfaffen vurchten sêre den tôt. | daz was ie ir alder site’; The Livonian Rhymed Chronicle, trans. by Smith and Urban, p. 82. It is worth noting though that vürchten often comes as appreciative lacks of fear and thus as forms of fearlessness, which is sayable both of the brethren and their opponents: vv. 360, 1404, 1457, 3130. 28 Myrdal, An American Dilemma, ii, 616–18; Preston and de Waal, ‘Empathy’, pp. 1–72; Hollan, ‘Emerging Issues in the Cross-Cultural Study’, pp. 70–78; Hoffman and others, ‘Racial Bias in Pain Assessment’, pp. 4296–301; Jürgens and others, ‘Encoding Conditions Affect Recognition’, pp. 1–10; Manne, Down Girl, pp. 133–76.

POLITICS OF EMOTIONS AND EMPATHY WALLS IN LIVONIA

Figure 7.1. Emotional attribution in Henry’s Chronicon Livoniae.

Figure 7.2. Emotional attribution in the Livonian Rhymed Chronicle.

not attending to certain feelings of others, of purposefully narrowing one’s bandwidth of interest in the others’ inner life.29 Both figures show that adversaries are not only less likely to feel any­ thing, but their emotional repertoire appears constricted too, particularly

29 Stel, Hybrid Political Order, pp. 185–91, 204–06; Lukes, ‘Political Ritual and Social Integration’, p. 301.

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in the Chronicon. For Henry, a large number of emotions are attributable to his in-group alone: fraternitas, caritas, amor, tribulatio, lacrima, tristicia, luctum, misericordia, but practically also gaudium and leticia, as well as, con­ solatio and dilectio. More than half of all emotion terms seem unthinkable in conjunction with his adversaries. On the opposite side of the scale, the out-groups strongly dominate such emotions as indignatio and confusio and, to a lesser degree, terror, clamor, flevo/ploro, and ira. Seen on this general level, it appears that the people Henry considered antagonists were emotionally capable of suffering, arousal, confusion, and several types of fear, but they were barred from feeling love, friendship and brotherhood, charity, or mercy. In Henry’s eyes, to revisit Shylock’s jeremiad, his ene­ mies truly did not have the same ‘organs, dimensions, senses, affections, passions’. Conversely, Figure 7.1 shows very clearly just how many more emotional aptitudes and means of association were at stake in baptism than just rejoicing and mourning. Figure 7.2, on the other hand, shows that in the Livonian Rhymed Chronicle, the emotional attribution is much more equitable. ‘Something there is that doesn’t love a wall’, to borrow Robert Frost’s phrase, consider­ ing how many chinks are visible in it. Or so it seems, since the Livonian Rhymed Chronicle’s in-groups and out-groups share almost the entire emo­ tional spectrum. The full exclusion applies only in the case of comfort (trôsten) and love/lovingly (minne/minneclich), and to some degree for lieb/lieplich, which are strongly dominated by his in-group. The author’s adversaries almost solely feel hate (haz/nit tragen) — unsurprisingly, given that the emotion was considered a deadly sin — and dominate the cluster of feelings which we could describe as negative,30 such as frustrating anger, sorrow/lament, and angry hostility (zorn, jâmer, grimmes muotes) even if not as much as in the Chronicon’s case. Placed back-to-back these two empathy walls are not only of different height but also of very different making. They show two dissimilar arrays of emotional relations and asym­ metrical ascriptions between the Latin Christian population and their opponents in Livonia. The implicit message conveyed by the emotional at­ tribution in the Livonian Rhymed Chronicle visualized in Figure 7.2 is: ‘our’ adversaries are lesser, inferior versions of ‘us’. On the other hand, through his ascriptions seen in Figure 7.1 Henry comes across as a proponent of a remarkably broad and radical emotional apartheid: ‘they’ are definitely not like ‘us’. Emotional apartheid is not too strong a description. It well captures the affective chasm — this law, which is not law, to borrow Terry Eagleton’s phrase — which evangelization was meant to produce between Chris­ tians and pagans, not just in Livonia, but likely in many Christianization

30 Baisch, Freienhofer, and Lieberich, eds, Rache – Zorn – Neid.

POLITICS OF EMOTIONS AND EMPATHY WALLS IN LIVONIA

contexts. Compare the scene from Szczecin from St Otto of Bamberg’s second Pomeranian mission in 1128. On one occasion, the bishop spotted some boys playing in public and asked them who among them had been baptized. ‘They looked one upon another and began to put forward those of them who had been baptized’. These he took aside and forbade them to play with their companions for the sake of preserving their faith of baptism and in order to attract the others to Christianity. ‘Accordingly, as the bishop suggested, like associated with like, and the boys who had been baptized began to repel and show repulsion to those who had not been baptized and refused to let them join in their games’.31 Otto took this for a good sign that the structures of feeling would successfully become structures of power in the future. Let us return to thirteenth-century Livonia. In the remainder of this chapter, I take a closer look at the usage of three examples of seemingly similar emotions in the two chronicles selected on the basis of their overall saliency and their explicitly political use, although the word statistics compiled here lend themselves to further comparisons of emotions. It is through case-studies that we can flesh out these static numbers with polit­ ical dynamics and nuance, look through what practices they are framed, and see how emotions are ‘done’ or ‘had’.32 Further, combining the three types of information and pitting their criteria against each other — the relative importance of emotional terms, to whom they are attributed, and towards whom they are directed (volume vs. value vs. vector) — enables us to view these two accounts in a different light. It opens up new ways of understanding how the politics of emotions and cultural bigotry work, as not being just limited to individual emotions and their relative dominance, but also to the emotions’ systemic clustering, exclusivity, and verging.33

Joy Division: gaudium, vrôlich, vreuden If frequency of use can be taken as indicative of importance, then joy, rejoicing, and happiness were the crucial and ubiquitous emotions in

31 Herbord, Dialogus de vita s. Ottonis, ed. by Wikarjak and Liman, iii. 19, p. 181: ‘Illi sese mutuo respicientes ceperunt invicem prodere, qui fuerant ex eis baptizati. […] Si, inquit, christiani esse vultis et fidem servare baptismi, istos non baptizatos et infideles pueros ad ludum vestrum admittere non debetis. Qui statim iuxta verbum episcopi similes cum similibus congregati, pueri baptizati non baptizatos a se abicere et abhominari ceperunt nulla eis ludi societate communicantes’; The Life of Otto Apostle of Pomerania, trans. by Robinson, p. 164; Bartlett, ‘The Conversion of a Pagan Society’, p. 198; Rosik, Coversio gentis Pomeranorum, pp. 459–60. 32 Scheer, ‘Are Emotions a Kind of Practice’, pp. 194, 217–19. 33 Moretti, ‘Operationalizing’, pp. 104–09; Terpe, ‘Triangulation as Data Integration’, pp. 285– 93.

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thirteenth-century Livonia. Both gaudium/gaudere and vrô/vrôlich are far ahead of other contenders, especially if we pair them with synonyms such as letitia/letus and vreude and gemeit, respectively. The high result of vrô/ vrôlich in the Livonian Rhymed Chronicle — which stands for 36 per cent of all emotion words — demands qualification, however. While the numeri­ cal weight of gaudium in Henry’s Chronicon is solely the effect of authorial choice, the use of vrô/vrôlich is inflated due to poetic expediency and mnemonic utility for the purposes of recitation. Specifically, the way the author of the Livonian Rhymed Chronicle constructed his rhymes was often by placing vrô as endings of verses, thus rhyming it with e.g. dô or sô.34 Had it not been so compositionally valuable, vrô would certainly not have occupied so prominent a position. There is simply too much joy in the Livonian Rhymed Chronicle. Compositional and mnemonic convenience notwithstanding, it is indicative of how the ascription of vrô/vrôlich and its direct negative, unvrô (unhappy, joyless) are still skewed in relation to the baseline attribution of emotions to the out-group in the Livonian Rhymed Chronicle set at 29.5 per cent. The former hovers around 20 per cent, which is similar to vreuden, whereas the adversaries are more likely to be attributed with the lack of joy and happiness, roughly at 40 per cent. Again, all the out-group has are negative emotions. This overuse of vrô generates so much noise in this emotion’s data that it is difficult to isolate a meaningful signal. However, we can conveniently look at its less frequent but similarly attributed cognate, vreuden. It is so close a cognate that it could simply be subsumed under vrô as its verb and added to the total, but isolating this form of joy has an explanatory benefit because its use is untainted by the rhyming conveniences. Thus, unlike the adverbial and adjectival vrô, vreuden appears mainly as verbs and nouns, atypically for the entire Livonian Rhymed Chronicle. This joy behaves more like a substance, which a person or group can have plenty of; and — in keeping with the hydraulic model of emotions — it can completely fill one’s entire person or heart.35 Conversely, joy can leak out of its subject or, as a distinct entity, it can become injured or lame (crank, lam) because of some misfortune — a condition that particularly afflicts the adversaries of the anonymous author.36 Though joy and rejoicing are attributed to the enemies of the Teutonic Knights in the Livonian Rhymed Chronicle, if mostly as lack thereof,37 34 e.g.: Livländische Reimchronik, ed. by Meyer, vv. 1325–26: ‘mit den wunden lebete also. | man sach die mûter selden vrô’, vv. 4525–26: ‘daz ist sunder zwîvel sô: | mit gote suln sie wesen vrô’, vv. 9301–02: ‘sprach daz her gemeine dô: | “der gûten mêre sie wir vrô”’; Murray, ‘Formulaic Language’, pp. 86–105. 35 Livländische Reimchronik, ed. by Meyer, vv. 110–12, 413–16, 3448, 9058, 9246, 11917; Rosenwein, ‘Worrying about Emotions’, pp. 835–36. 36 Livländische Reimchronik, ed. by Meyer, vv. 5695, 1208, 6184, 8260, 10118. 37 Livländische Reimchronik, ed. by Meyer, vv. 1208, 6184, 3751, 4660, 8260, 10118.

POLITICS OF EMOTIONS AND EMPATHY WALLS IN LIVONIA

their subjects and contexts of expressions relate primarily to the Order’s masters and the armies of brothers, crusaders, and pagan allies they lead, or to the Christian groups cheering their triumphant (ceremonial) arrival and thereby recognizing their command and protection.38 Those types of military superiority — like finding one’s adversaries defenceless, seeing them surrender, or observing their scattered corpses on the battlefield — generate rejoicing so intense that the author rhetorically wonders: ‘what could be a greater joy?’39 Still, rejoicing is twofold when the victorious army, loaded with booty and aided by God’s craft, returns to Riga or to the castles of the Teutonic Knights, where the local Christian population in unison joins the crusaders in rejoicing.40 This appreciative character of rejoicing relates primarily to military achievements or their absence: victories, losses, and (un-)successful peace-making.41 Suggestively, when in the 1250s Master Andreas of Stierland (r. 1248–1253) publicly announced the successfully negotiated baptism of the Lithuanian King Mindaugas (crowned 1253) and the armistice between the King, the Master, and the Pope, ‘both young and old rejoiced’ in Livonia, and this joy reverberated among all the parties involved. Yet the causes of this joy, it seems, were not necessarily the conversion of the pagans, but the political advantage of the truce.42 This rejoicing did not fuse the Christians with the neophytes in any way. Is all vreuden secular, then? Not exactly, but the consumption of vreuden as a spiritual good cuts its radius drastically short. Christian joy — this so-rare celestial gift43 — reveals itself in how the Knights respond to defeat, loss, and grief. Joy is the exclusive reward and comfort the fallen brothers receive in heaven when they are mourned here on earth.44 In fact, the one occasion on which the author draws himself and his audience

38 Livländische Reimchronik, ed. by Meyer, vv. 3317, 3931–34, 5368, 5373, 8576, 9796, 10832, 11152, 11904; in relation to bishops: vv. 413–16, 9246; Bumke, Höfische Kultur, i, 290–301; Althoff, Spielregeln der Politik im Mittelalter, pp. 276–77. 39 Livländische Reimchronik, ed. by Meyer, vv. 3448, 10095: ‘wie grôz der cristen vreude was’, v. 11254: ‘waz mochte grôzer vreude sîn?’. Compare Rosenwein, Generations of Feeling, pp. 178–83. 40 Livländische Reimchronik, ed. by Meyer, vv. 3055–59: ‘Der meister und sîn geselleschaft | zû Rîge mit der gotes craft | quam vil vrôlîche wider. | die von Revele ritten sider | mit vreuden hin zû lande’, vv. 4294, 7384. 41 Livländische Reimchronik, ed. by Meyer, vv. 5695–96: ‘sie wâren alle vreuden blôz, | ir gemûte in zorne vlôz’, 7760: concerning the joyful Russians, counted as an in-group, who entered the peace with the Teutonic Knights. 42 Livländische Reimchronik, ed. by Meyer, vv. 3535–76; Baronas and Rowell, The Conversion of Lithuania, pp. 77–108. 43 Livländische Reimchronik, ed. by Meyer, vv. 110–12: ‘dem wirt ein sêlig lôn gegeben | mit gote in himelrîche; | dâ ist man vreuden rîche’, 12013. 44 Livländische Reimchronik, ed. by Meyer, vv. 8487, 9055–58: ‘got der gab im sînen trôst, | daz er von sêrde wart erlôst. | daz er die craft an im vernam, | sîn hertze in grôze vreude quam’.

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into the emotional labour of grief, he paradoxically renders it futile and redundant.45 Mourning simply pales in the light of what brothers and crusaders will enjoy in the afterlife: I commend to God in heaven those Brothers who were slain there. I will not mourn them, for they exchanged this wretched life for the kingdom of heaven. As comrades of the martyrs their joy shall never fade, but endure forever. There is no doubt about that: they shall rejoice with God.46 Compared to this, the way the ascriptions of vrôlichkeit and vreude are divided in the Livonian Rhymed Chronicle vis-à-vis the extremely exclusive gaudium and leticia in the Chronicon Livoniae suggests that these two emotional clusters did not work in the same way. In fact, the two occasions on which Henry’s pagan opponents do rejoice look more like his slips of the pen than any significant exceptions. The first concerns the Estonians in 1217 rejoicing because of the military support they received from the Orthodox Russians against the Christian army. The second regards the sending of the bloody swords as calls to arms between Fellin, Otepää, and Dorpat in order to create an alliance against the Sword Brethren in 1223, at which all the involved pagans rejoiced.47 If anything, the singular attribution of letus to the adversary petty Russian Orthodox King of Kukenois in 1208 is more telling, as it exemplifies Henry’s perennial obsession — glimpses of which we saw in the previous chapter — with whether his adversaries’ feelings or promises were authentic or false.48 Because of the conflict between the King and a certain Daniel, a knight from Lennewarden (Latvian: Lielvārde), the former was captured and the Bishop of Riga helped to settle the dispute. In the process, the Bishop allied himself with the King, eventually sending him back to Koknese loaded with gifts and ‘a happy face, although he was meditating trickery in his heart’.49

45 Bumke, Höfische Kultur, ii, 706–07. 46 Livländische Reimchronik, ed. by Meyer, vv. 4516–26: ‘nû bevele ich gote von himele | die brûdere, die dâ sint geslagen, | ich enwil sie nimmer geclagen: | sie haben diz vil cranke leben | um daz himelrîche gegeben. | die vreude die mûz êwic stân, | nimmer mêr mac sie vergân, | ir vreude mûz dâ wesen grôz, | sie sint der merterêre genôz; | daz ist sunder zwîvel sô: | mit gote suln sie wesen vrô’; The Livonian Rhymed Chronicle, trans. by Smith and Urban, pp. 58–59. 47 Henry of Livonia, Chronicon Livoniae, ed. by Arbusow and Bauer, xxi. 2, p. 142: ‘Et gavisi sunt Estones et miserunt per universam Estoniam et congregaverunt exercitum magnum nimis et fortem’, xxvi. 7, p. 190: ‘Et illi gaudentes omnes verbum istud acceperunt’. 48 Kaljundi, ‘Expanding Communities’, p. 203. 49 Henry of Livonia, Chronicon Livoniae, ed. by Arbusow and Bauer, xi. 8, p. 56: ‘Cum quibus idem rex leta quidem facie, licet dolos meditaretur in corde revertitur in Kukenoys’; Henry of Livonia, The Chronicle, trans. by Brundage, p. 76. This is admittedly a borderline case of

POLITICS OF EMOTIONS AND EMPATHY WALLS IN LIVONIA

The fact that the weight of the in-group’s joy (gaudium/gaudere and letus/leticia) stands in inverse proportion to the negative emotions (con­ fusio and dolor), which primarily befell Henry’s opponents, is no mere correlation. Rather, it is an effect of direct causation. As the author himself remarked: ‘But to the extent the joy of the Christians was increased, so the multitude of the pagans was made sorrowful and confused’.50 For Henry, joy and rejoicing, both when used as verbs (cf. especially the collec­ tive and inclusive congaudere, used eight times) and nouns additionally have a strong community-building thrust. Their subjects are almost never individuals but collectives (cf. the abstract institutional and collective subject: ecclesia Lyvonensis) expressing the emotion unanimously. A quick co-occurrence analysis shows that in more than 40 per cent of cases the subjects of gaudium are emphatically qualified as omnes, omni.51 Joy, to put it in Marshall Sahlins’s economic terms, is a resource that is pooled by the entire Christian community in order to create a within relation among its members and emotionally feed them.52 Accordingly, as pointed out by Kaljundi and Jaan Undusk, rejoicing and its consumption are quite consistently informed and structured by public ritual, liturgy (especially on Gaudete Sundays), and framed by biblical quotations and prototypes throughout the chronicle, especially when presented as an orchestrated effort to bind Christian colonists with neophytes.53 This does not apply to vrô/vrôlichkeit, which in the Livonian Rhymed Chronicle are not system­ ically connected to ceremonies and God’s glory and refer more to the winning of battles.54 For the most part this emotion’s usage is generic, i.e. it is used to remark that a person or group felt pleased. As Figure 7.1 indicates, joy and rejoicing are assuredly postbaptismal emotions. But how solid is this association? How strong does joy bond to baptism? A co-occurrence analysis of baptizare, baptizatus, baptismum, etc., a word that occurs 163 times in the Chronicon, shows that the relative importance of the lexeme group of joy (gaudere, gaudium), words that co-occur eleven times in the contexts of the same sentences, is roughly 5.4 per cent. This does make joy the most frequent emotional term directly attached to baptism, but not to an exceptional or incomparable degree. The

50 51 52 53 54

emotional attribution which shows the sporadic problems with the binary method adopted here. Henry of Livonia, Chronicon Livoniae, ed. by Arbusow and Bauer, viii. 2, p. 24: ‘Sed quo magis augetur leticia christianorum, eo amplius dolet et confunditur multitudo paganorum’; Henry of Livonia, The Chronicle, trans. by Brundage, p. 46. Kaljundi, ‘Expanding Communities’, p. 212. Sahlins, Stone Age Economics, pp. 170–71. Kaljundi, ‘Expanding Communities’, pp. 191–221; Kaljundi, ‘Neophytes as Actors in the Livonian Crusades’, pp. 93–112; Undusk, ‘Sacred History, Profane History’, pp. 45–75. e.g. Livländische Reimchronik, ed. by Meyer: vv. 920–46, 1172–74: ‘nâch des meisters râte | lebeten sie vil gerne dô. | sie wâren gotes êre vrô’.

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relative share of this emotion’s lexeme group increases also in the sentences following those featuring words for baptism. This is an indication that joy is not the substrate but the slightly delayed product of conversion, with baptism acting as a catalyst of this transformative reaction. In that sense, as Kaljundi also notes, joy and rejoicing appear to be decoupled from rituals of baptism and submission, to some extent — they are positioned farther afield, so to speak.55 This can be related to Undusk’s analysis of one of the elements of Henry’s style: the repetitive adaptation of the biblical motif ‘reversi sunt in terram suam’ by adding cum gaudio or gaudentes.56 There is virtually a mechanical, slot-machine quality to how Henry builds the syntax of those clauses (returning from a military campaign + subject + emotional state + home/one’s land). As Undusk argues, the most ubiquitous and crucial ideological hinge of this narrative structure is joy (gaudium, leticia), ascribed mainly to the returning German crusaders and their Livish and Lettgallian allies, thus functioning as a token of belonging to Christendom.57 If form and style are the subtlest and thus most efficacious — because invisible — vehicles of ideology, by functioning as closures forming the distinct narrative entities in the strongly episodic chronicle, joy and rejoicing work as the crucial termini to come (back) to and conclude with.58 Not only is gaudium literally the ultimate emotion term in the Chronicon Livoniae, used with the imperative redite in its closing sentence, but, as visible in Figure 7.3, which is a simplified version of Figure 3.1 from Chapter 3, joy and rejoicings, rather than being equally distributed throughout the text, radically increase in the chronicle’s final sections covering the jubilations during the visit of the papal legate in 1225–1227.59 Joy is the last emotion.

Figure 7.3. Distribution of joy and rejoicing in Henry’s Chronicon Livoniae.60

55 Kaljundi, ‘Expanding Communities’, p. 212. 56 e.g. III Kings 22. 17 and 22. 36; IV Kings 3. 27; Ezra 2. 1; Judith 16. 25; Luke 10. 17; John 7. 53. 57 Undusk, ‘Sacred History, Profane History’, pp. 70–73 fig. 2.1. 58 Kermode, The Sense of an Ending, pp. 5–10, 43–58, 174–75; Jezierski, ‘Æthelweardus redivivus’, pp. 175–76; Allison and others, ‘Style at the Scale of the Sentence’. 59 Moretti and Pestre, ‘Bankspeak’, pp. 96–99. 60 Distribution of the 117 hits of gaudium broken down as the truncated gaud*, gavi*, and conga*, respectively, with the use of Voyant Tools (https://voyant-tools.org/). For the sense

POLITICS OF EMOTIONS AND EMPATHY WALLS IN LIVONIA

What motivates this finality of joy, other than Henry’s sycophantic descriptions of the ceremonies related to the papal legate? What does this peculiar distribution of this emotion reveal about the chronicler’s autoethnography? Kaljundi explicates such privileging of rejoicing in the Chronicon, which spreads mainly through emotional contagion from Christians to neophytes as the latter join the Church community, with Henry’s apostolic focus on the conversion and baptism traditionally con­ nected to and expressed through gaudium. In this sense joy has to be considered from the perspective of salvation that likely informed Henry’s, his community’s, and his addressee’s expectations about the triumphant future of the Livonian Church.61 In comparison with the Livonian Rhymed Chronicle, where the community-building joy is caught up in the present, primarily oriented towards celebrating the Masters of the Order and the Teutonic Knights as a whole, in the Chronicon Livoniae rejoicing tends to be autotelic. The Christian society celebrates itself and its own everevolving expansion through conversion. On this reading, gaudium becomes the unifying end product, the pivotal jouissance of crusading and missionary labour and the literary cornerstone of the emotional apartheid in Christian Livonia.62 Undusk’s interpretation of this repetitive concatenation of the crusader doings and accomplishments — subjections, returns, and rejoicings — treats them as something more than just a trite literary habit of an untalented author. Rather, he sees it as a stylistic mimesis of Henry’s ritually saturated reality. In fact, this adjustable narrative device functions as what Pierre Bourdieu dubs the ‘structuring structure’. It mirrors the variable yet structured habits, or habitus, and the annual campaigning cycles regulating the move­ ments, the physical coming and going of crusader joy divisions as well as their emotional bonding produced in and through this transformative social kinetics.63 The traces of the same habitus, as we have seen, are visible in the Livonian Rhymed Chronicle too, though without the biblical overtones. This strengthens the case that the means of production of joy in Livonia was the actual social praxis that shaped and stretched beyond the literary expressions studied here.

of scale of the bubbles: the largest and rightmost in gaud* represents sixteen hits, the one to its left seven hits, and the first one (leftmost), four hits. Gavi* and conga* are single and double hits. 61 Kaljundi, ‘Expanding Communities’, pp. 201–03; Cramer, Baptism and Change, pp. 108–09, 173–78, 217–18; Tyerman ‘Henry of Livonia and the Ideology of Crusading’, pp. 23–44; Spencer, Emotions in a Crusading Context, pp. 202–03. 62 Eagleton, ‘The Ideology of the Aesthetic’, pp. 327–38; Jezierski, ‘Introduction: Nordic Elites in Transformation’, pp. 15–18. 63 Bourdieu, Outline of a Theory of Practice, pp. 72–73; Moretti, The Bourgeois, pp. 56–57; Lupton, Risk, pp. 161–70; Döşemeci, ‘The Kinetics of Our Discontent’, pp. 254–58, 263–66, 285–88; Selart, ‘Sie kommen, und sie gehen’, pp. 27–60.

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Much of what has been said about gaudium/gaudere applies to leticia/ leti as well, as these two expressions of joy often co-occur and seem interchangeable in the Chronicon. Instead of reiterating the same argument, a minor point can be made about a certain temporal and political anomaly that is nestled in Henry’s use of this emotion term. On a few occasions, Henry plays with the homophonic double-entendre of the joyful Letts by linking the ethnonym with the emotional designation: Letti/Lethti and leti.64 The proleptic paradox consists in the fact that this pun can be acti­ vated only after the Letts’ baptism. The Letti can become fully leti — joyful — but by the virtue of the homophony… nominally themselves, truly living up to their ethnic designation, only after they have converted. Before that, their proper name — signalled by the excessive, supplementary doubled consonant t — is deferred, so to speak. Their baptism erases this regrettable différance in their human essence.65 Their emotionally-bound Christian destiny is always already in their name, as it were.

Love Will Tear Us Apart: caritas, fraternitas, lieb Compared to the temporal, future-oriented senses of joy and rejoicing in the Chronicon, the cluster of fraternitas, amor, as well as, dilectio and caritas is driven by the logic of economy and trade, I would contend. The stark clustering of these four lemmas comes from their high co-occurrence rate and propensity to compound in expressions such as fraternitatis amor, fraternitatis caritate, fraterna dilectio, etc., with brotherhood and friendship constituting the central term of the four with the greatest syntactical valence. Even a brief glance at the sentences using fraternitas shows that the term primarily comes enveloped (in nine out of eleven cases) in conditional clauses, rendered as direct or reported speech, opening with the traditional, fundamentally transformative ‘ifs’ (si) of conversion.66 To compile and compress:

64 Most clearly in: Henry of Livonia, Chronicon Livoniae, ed. by Arbusow and Bauer, xii. 6, p. 65: ‘Lethti vero […] se deposuerunt et divisis inter se spoliis universis leti in Beverin redierunt’; suggested in xi. 6, p. 54: ‘[…] collaudantes de ecclesie profectu leti cum Letigallis’. See also this alliterative passage suggesting this connection: xxix. 3, p. 210: ‘Unde mane facto, congregatis Lettis universis, cum leticia letam eis domini Iesu Christi doctrinam predicavit et, sepius passionem eiusdem domini Iesu commemorans, letos eosdem quam plurimum letificavit fidemque eorum et constantiam commendans’; Kaljundi, ‘Expanding Communities’, p. 212 n. 91. 65 Derrida, Positions, pp. 28–29; Derrida, Of Grammatology, pp. 23–24, 62–73; Barthes, S/Z, pp. 106–08; Koposov, ‘Events, Proper Names and the Rise of Memory’, pp. 52–57; Fabian, Time and the Other, pp. 26–27, 80–81. 66 Geelhaar, Christianitas, pp. 290–302.

POLITICS OF EMOTIONS AND EMPATHY WALLS IN LIVONIA

If you will renounce the worship of false gods / put down your treacherous weapons / and receive the true peace […] we will gladly […] receive you in the love of our brotherhood / you may attain our eternal friendship.67 Brotherhood thus turns out to be a strictly transactional emotion. It is ‘our’ commodity and relationship of power disguised as an emotional bonding and placed on the counter, so to speak.68 It is exchanged under duress and threat for the sake of renunciation of ‘your’ false deities, your baptism, and your submission to ‘our’ iura christianitatis — it is a political contract in the form of a gift.69 Such commodification of brotherhood and friendship as alliance and dependence bartered for belief and subjection is well grounded in the Old Testament — the primary source of Henry’s biblical quotations,70 especially on such occasions — as well as in Indo-European senses of those notions.71 The instrumental treating of love and friendship as commodities and gifts in the Chronicon operates through their function­ ing as abstract nouns endowed with some degree of distinct existence. Better, fraternitas and its compounds are syntactically rendered through ablatives and accusatives. This means they can be handled like utensils and objects.72 Something that can be proposed, given, or withheld/accepted, reciprocated, or refused. This emotion thus belonged to the same category of dangerous, counterfeit gifts, which demanded all too much of their involuntary recipients like these encountered in Birka or in Wolin.73 The most common form of this formally free but actually oppressive gift of fraternitas takes is that of granting access to a location. Used as

67 e.g. Henry of Livonia, Chronicon Livoniae, ed. by Arbusow and Bauer, xiv. 11, p. 84: ‘“Si”, inquit, “renunciaveritis culture deorum vestrorum falsorum”’, xvi. 4, p. 109: ‘“Si renunciaveritis falsorum deorum cultibus”’; xix. 4, p. 127, xix. 8, p. 133: ‘“perfidie vestre […] volueritis arma deponere libenter vobis parcendo vos in fraternitatis nostre recipiemus amorem”’, xx. 6, p. 138: ‘“Si volueritis […] veram pacem […] recipiemus vos in fraterne dilectionis nostre consorcium”’, xxi. 5, p. 144, xxx. 5, p. 221, Henry of Livonia, The Chronicle, trans. by Brundage, pp. 105, 129, 153, 158. 68 Marx, Capital: Volume 1, pp. 164–65, 170, 1063–64. 69 Nielsen, ‘Mission and Submission’, pp. 216–31; Sahlins, Stone Age Economics, p. 153: ‘The first consent is not to authority, or even to unity. It would be too literal an interpretation of the older contract theory to discover its verification in nascent institutions of chieftainship. The primitive analogue of social contract is not the State, but the gift’. 70 Arbusow, ‘Das entlehnte Sprachgut’, pp. 100–53. 71 Nirenberg, ‘The Politics of Love and Its Enemies’, pp. 576–79; Tull, ‘Jonathan’s Gift of Friendship’, pp. 130–43; Benveniste, Dictionary of Indo-European Concepts, pp. 133–39. 72 Schwandt, Virtus, pp. 166–67, 199–200; Derrida, Politics of Friendship, p. 39. 73 Graeber, ‘On the Moral Grounds of Economic Relations’, pp. 65–74; Gosden, ‘What Do Objects Want?’, pp. 193–211; Groebner, Liquid Assets, Dangerous Gifts, pp. 9–13; Derrida, Given Time: I. Counterfeit Money, pp. 70–80; Pitt-Rivers, ‘The Paradox of Friendship’, pp. 448–50.

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locative accusatives, e.g. ‘in perpetue fraternitatis nostre consorcium’,74 vectored and directed by verbs of receiving (recipere, accipere, suscipere), it designates ‘our’ place and community that the pagans can move toward, be included in and partake in, or — as apostates — secede from. It is a goal-based emotional concept.75 Paired with other expressions of love and presented as a lifeline thrown to the other side of the empathy wall intended to pull in the adversaries, fraternitas thus marks an elevated threshold the pagans need to cross in order to enter and belong to the Christian community and space. In this sense, Henry’s political economy of friendship and brotherhood resonates with those more eloquent theo­ logical discourses of these emotions circulating in crusader milieus around that time, which saw love as something more than mere fraternal affection for fellow Christians. It was a tool of — de facto violent — conversion and a motivation for vengeance in retaliation for apostasy, so the pagan avoidance of such love is hardly surprising.76 Fraternitas for Henry was at the same time a project, a projection, and a projectile. According to the chronicler’s implicit distinction, what was found on the in-group’s side of this empathy wall was exactly this more advanced and less utilitarian, non-transactional form of love. It was reserved for fellow Christians alone and judging by its workings and forms, it sounded to some extent like a faint echo of the learned discourses on love of its time.77 It was mainly expressed through terms such as caritatis affectu and dilectio/diligo and sequentially came later, as the use of these terms for the most part is detached from the baptisms and submissions.78 This love, which for the neophytes constitutes their final but very remote destiny, appears to be modelled on the connections between God, the Virgin Mary, and Christ (‘dilecte genetricis’, ‘filio suo dilecto’).79 The exclusive character of this higher love is signalled by its attribution to Henry’s proto-martyrs, as in this particularly amorous fragment:

74 Henry of Livonia, Chronicon Livoniae, ed. by Arbusow and Bauer, xiv. 11, p. 84, xvi. 3, p. 109, xxi. 5, p. 141, xxi. 5, p. 145, xxiii. 3, p. 156, xxiii. 7, p. 161. 75 Feldman Barrett, How Emotions are Made, pp. 89–94; Marx, Capital: Volume I, pp. 163–72; Schwandt, Virtus, pp. 127–28, 167–70. 76 Cavell, Must We Mean What We Say?, pp. 246–325; Riley-Smith, ‘Crusading as an Act of Love’, pp. 185–90; Throop, ‘Zeal, Anger and Vengeance’, pp. 184–88; Throop, Crusading as an Act of Vengeance, pp. 62–64, 109; Tamm, ‘How to Justify a Crusade?’, pp. 431–55. 77 Petrus Lombardus, Sententiae in IV Libris Distinctiae, ed. by Brady, iii. 29–30, pp. 171–80; Peter Lombard, The Sentences, Book 3. On the Incarnation of the Word, trans. by Silano, iv. 29–30, pp. 122–28. 78 Throop, Crusading as an Act of Vengeance, pp. 139–42; Riley-Smith, ‘Crusading as an Act of Love’, pp. 177–92. 79 Henry of Livonia, Chronicon Livoniae, ed. by Arbusow and Bauer, vii. 6, p. 23, x. 5, p. 36, xix. 7, p. 132, xxv. 1, p. 178, xxix. 8, p. 214, xxix. 9, p. 215, xxx. 5, p. 221; Kaljundi, ‘Livonia as a Mariological Periphery’, pp. 431–60.

POLITICS OF EMOTIONS AND EMPATHY WALLS IN LIVONIA

Constant in the love of God [‘in dilectione Dei’], they [Kyrian and Layan] confessed that they had embraced the faith they had received with all devotion [‘caritatis affectu’] and affirmed that no kind of torture could separate them from the love and society of Christians [‘ab amore et societate christianorum’].80 Compared to Henry’s quite overt politics of love, the senses of this emotion in the Livonian Rhymed Chronicle have to be teased out of the frustratingly laconic mentions that nonetheless come in abundance. Inter­ estingly, the senses of lieb/lieplich roughly correspond to what is found in the Chronicon Livoniae, revealing some degree of cultural distinction and the implicit politics of belonging. On two occasions the anonymous author singles out a special, Christian love — kristen liep. With such special love, for instance, the missionary and first Bishop of Livonia, Meinhard (d. 1196) ‘converted many people, and won them over for the Christian love’. This love was also felt in the 1190s by the prominent chieftain convert Caupo of Turaida (d. 1217) thanks to the God-sent spirit.81 Such spiritual coding of love is reinforced by its being the primary emotional bonding between the Teutonic Knights and Virgin Mary and God.82 Love is thus often treated as a sign of belonging to Christendom and a community-building, unifying emotion, connecting masters, bishops, and even popes. Though presenting a much feebler transformative aspect, this type of love in the Livonian Rhymed Chronicle corresponds to Henry’s uses of gaudium.83 As far as the differences go, lieb/lieplich plays a more vertical, leadership-legitimizing role similar to vreuden, without the same type of political or economic overtones as for Henry. It comes to the fore partic­ ularly in the demonstrations of allegiance and loyalty to the individual Masters of the Teutonic Knights, by the knights themselves, by the general Christian population, and by the occasional (pagan) allies.84 Consider, for instance, the collective expression of love by the brothers responding to the newly appointed Master Burckhardt von Hornhausen’s (r. 1257– 1260) call to arms to attack Karschauen. ‘“For your sake we are ready to endure and share both joy [‘lieb’] and sorrow [‘leit’] in raids and battles 80 Henry of Livonia, Chronicon Livoniae, ed. by Arbusow and Bauer, x. 5, p. 36: ‘Qui constantes in dilectione Dei fidem susceptam se omni caritatis affectu amplectere profitentur, ab amore et societate christianorum testantur nulla eos posse genera tormentorum separare’; Henry of Livonia, The Chronicle, trans. by Brundage, p. 57; Tamm, ‘Martyrs and Miracles’, pp. 135–56. 81 Livländische Reimchronik, ed. by Meyer, vv. 242–43: ‘vil manchen er bekârte, | daz er die cristen lieb gewan’, vv. 265–68: ‘got der sante sînen geist | mit der genâden volleist | an den tugenthaften man, | daz er die cristen lieb gewan’. 82 Livländische Reimchronik, ed. by Meyer, vv. 35, 445, 450, 5997, 12016. 83 Livländische Reimchronik, ed. by Meyer, vv. 394, 825, 1794, 9502, 9504, 9696, 9723. 84 Livländische Reimchronik, ed. by Meyer, vv. 724, 419, 4335, 5493, 5551, 5562, 5928, 6327, 8873, 8893, 10941; Assmann, Herrschaft und Heil, pp. 61–62.

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at all times”’.85 This connection to warfare and military achievements springs from their being the main obligation and source of honour of the Knights and their Masters.86 Collective love comes also in the form of greetings and receptions filtered through the customs of courtly culture, be it after military successes or during the arrivals of crusaders to Livonia, allying with other groups, or the Masters’ inspections of their castles.87 This last usage overlaps with the exclusive in-group attributions of minne/ minneclich, the hallmark and the central virtue of chivalry. In the context of the Livonian Rhymed Chronicle, it merely indicates proper conduct and customary reception (‘gar nach minneclîchen site’), without any of the romantic or libidinal overtones associated with courtly love.88 The six occasions on which the adversaries of the Teutonic Knights are said to feel lieb/liep, whose meaning is not limited to love/lovingly but signals a general sense of satisfaction, tap into the Livonian Rhymed Chronicle’s conventional ways of qualifying moods and actions. However, its manner of delivery in dative forms, expressing a state of being content with something, does not appear different from the general way of attribut­ ing this emotion to the author’s in-group.89 The conclusion to draw here is that the way love is used in the Livonian Rhymed Chronicle is by primarily signalling cultural belonging to Christen­ dom in general and the Order of the Teutonic Knights in particular, which marks social distance vis-à-vis the local population. For the anonymous author love does not serve as this explicit, uniquely powerful tool of conversion — the very engine of the Christian politics of belonging — as it does in Henry’s Chronicon, but only as its rare symptom.

Politics of Comfort: consolatio and trôsten As Figures 7.1 and 7.2 show, there is a broad agreement between the two authors that both their in-groups and out-groups can suffer. They may perhaps be suffering differently, in the way Henry attributes allegedly undeserved tribulationes (afflictions, persecutions) to his in-group alone.90

85 Livländische Reimchronik, ed. by Meyer, vv. 5561–64: ‘“sunder wanc wir sîn bereit | durch ûch lieb unde leit | dulden zû allen zîten | in reisen und in strîten”’; The Livonian Rhymed Chronicle, trans. by Smith and Urban, p. 70. 86 Livländische Reimchronik, ed. by Meyer, vv. 2514, 5332, 5336, 5364, 5490, 7788. 87 Livländische Reimchronik, ed. by Meyer, vv. 1344, 1984, 2955, 2971, 2972, 3474, 4335, 5284, 5551, 5928, 8811, 8814, 8893, 9448, 9655, 10341, 10362, 10919, 10941, 12005. 88 Livländische Reimchronik, ed. by Meyer, vv. 625, 849, 920, 940, 1186, 1983, 3125; Robertshaw, ‘Minne and Liebe’, pp. 1–21; Bumke, Höfische Kultur, ii, 503–82. 89 Livländische Reimchronik, ed. by Meyer, vv. 4686, 6108, 6518, 6526, 6572, 6587. 90 Henry of Livonia, Chronicon Livoniae, ed. by Arbusow and Bauer, vii. 2, p. 24, x. 13, p. 43, xii. 5, p. 61, xiv. 1, p. 73, xvi. 7, p. 78, xiv. 8, p. 81, xiv. 12, p. 86, xix. 2, p. 124, xix. 6, p. 130,

POLITICS OF EMOTIONS AND EMPATHY WALLS IN LIVONIA

These render the Livonian church as a passive victim that can thus strengthen its relationship with God. This option is unavailable for the emotionally troubled and disoriented adversaries experiencing only confu­ sio and indignatio. Yet while the terrain of suffering on which the empathy walls stand in both the Chronicon Livoniae and Livonian Rhymed Chronicle appears roughly flat on either side, even if tilting in Henry’s case, Figures 7.1 and 7.2 make it clear that the ways of dealing with these pains through compassion — consolatio and trôsten, respectively — are not as levelled. What would make consolation so political and divisive an emotion? According to Martha Nussbaum, who studied compassion and grief from both evolutionary and historical viewpoints, the political dimension of these emotions consists in the way they blur and expand the limits be­ tween the other and oneself.91 They allow for the appraisal of the other as a subject of a shared emotion, which establishes the community; a sense and function widely prevalent in different contexts throughout the Middle Ages.92 On this reading, offering consolation is a form of emotional naviga­ tion of others. This perspective to some extent undercuts the methodology employed here, however, which primarily focuses on subjects of emotions and not their targets. Grief and comfort are experienced as in-betweens. The question is between whom? Disregarding the occasions on which Henry uses consolatio in a purely material sense of succour or remuneration,93 the dominant meaning of the term fuses emotionality with spirituality. What governs its use, however, is precisely that material and economic logic. The prime dispenser of consolation in the Chronicon is God, who sends or gives it (mittere/dare) as a gift that his church can receive (recipere/accipere) in desperate times:94 ‘For consolation [consolatio] followed after this tribulation [tribulatio], and after sadness [tristiciam] God gave joy [leticiam]’.95 The gift of consolation appears as a very luxurious commodity offered in a top-down fashion — from a named one to the nameless many; from haves to have nots

91 92 93 94 95

xix. 7, p. 132, xx. 1, p. 135; xxvii. 6, p. 198, xxix. 3, p. 210. Incidentally, those tribulationes afflicting the Livonian church are concentrated in the first half of the chronicle and peter out in the second. This corresponds well with the general reading of Henry’s Chronicon as depicting a transition from the period of fear, trouble, and darkness to one of joy, light, and happiness as I demonstrated in Chapter 3. Nussbaum, Upheavals of Thought, pp. 297–454; Spencer, Emotions in a Crusading Context, pp. 165–73. Rosenwein, Emotional Communities, pp. 86–89, 146–48; Rosenwein, Generations of Feeling, pp. 101–02, 200–01, 261–73. e.g. Henry of Livonia, Chronicon Livoniae, ed. by Arbusow and Bauer, xi. 4, p. 49, xxv. 1, p. 178. Henry of Livonia, Chronicon Livoniae, ed. by Arbusow and Bauer, xi. 3, p. 49, xii. 5, p. 61 (twice), xix. 2, p. 124; Jussen, ‘Religious Discourses of the Gift’, pp. 183–84. Henry of Livonia, Chronicon Livoniae, ed. by Arbusow and Bauer, xiv. 8, p. 81: ‘Post hanc enim tribulationem secuta est consolatio, post tristiciam dedit Deus leticiam’.

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— primarily by prominent persons such as popes, bishops, kings, and emperors, whose munificence is modelled on the divine example.96 The prerequisite of comfort is thus a form of (spiritual) capital, whose posses­ sion and dispensation in and of itself retroactively glorifies its distributor.97 Despite this secular logic and overtones, consolatio as well as grief are essentially Christian, non-pagan capacity in Henry’s Chronicon.98 Such conviction was widespread among Christian authors working on the Baltic Rim. As Adam of Bremen observed about the Danes — in his mind still largely pagan — in the 1070s. ‘Tears and plaints and other forms of compunction, by us regarded as wholesome, are by the Danes so much abominated that one may weep neither over his sins nor over his beloved dead’.99 Similarly, the late twelfth-century anonymous Historia Norvegie tells us about the meeting between pagan Finns and Christian merchants: ‘Once, when Christians who had come to trade had sat down at table with some Finns, their hostess fell forward all of a sudden and expired. While the Christians felt serious grief, the Finns were not in the least saddened, but told them the woman was not dead, merely pillaged by the gands of her adversaries, and that they could quickly restore her’.100 In Henry’s Chronicon this general conviction about the pagans’ inability to mourn is clear from its single but very illuminating attribution to an anthropomorphized pagan Estonia, weeping over its fallen sons, where it is stated explicitly that the country cannot receive consolation because its sons have died without the prospect of salvation.101 The pain of such

96 Henry of Livonia, Chronicon Livoniae, ed. by Arbusow and Bauer, xiv. 4, p. 74: ‘consolationem paucorum’, xiv. 13, p. 87, xix. 7, p. 132, xx. 1, p. 135, xxiv. 4, p. 173. 97 e.g. Henry of Livonia, Chronicon Livoniae, ed. by Arbusow and Bauer, xii. 5, p. 61: ‘De quorum adventu ecclesia adhuc parva quam plurimum letificata et confortata post tristia bella gratias agebat Deo, qui semper suos in omni tribulatione non desinit consolari, cui est honor et gloria in secula’. 98 Kaljundi, ‘Expanding Communities’, pp. 191–221; Spencer, Emotions in a Crusading Context, pp. 150–65. 99 Adam of Bremen, Gesta, ed. by Schmeidler, iv. 4, p. 234: ‘Nam lacrimas et planctum ceteraque genera compunctionis, quae nos salubria censemus, ita abhominantur Dani, ut nec pro peccatis suis ulli flere liceat nec pro caris defunctis’; Adam of Bremen, History of the Archbishops, trans. by Tschan, p. 191. See also Adam’s story about the crying inhabitants of Blekinge in south-eastern Sweden as they abandoned their idols: Adam, Gesta, ed. by Schmeidler, iv. 4, p. 236. 100 Historia Norvegie, ed. by Ekrem and Mortensen, trans. by Fisher, 4, pp. 62–63: ‘Quadam uero uice dum christiani causa commercii apud Finnos ad mensam sedissent, illorum hospita subito inclinata expirauit. Vnde christianis multum dolentibus non mortuam, sed a gandis emulorum esse depredatam, sese illam cito adepturos ipsi Finni nichil contristati respondent’. 101 Henry of Livonia, Chronicon Livoniae, ed. by Arbusow and Bauer, xviii. 5, p. 119: ‘Estonia quoque plorans filios suos consolari non potuit, quia et hic perditi sunt et in futura vita, et maxime pre multitudine interfectorum, quorum non erat numerus’; Kaljundi ‘Expanding Communities’, pp. 200–11.

POLITICS OF EMOTIONS AND EMPATHY WALLS IN LIVONIA

others can be disregarded and ignored. The lives of pagans are ungrievable, as Butler would say, which marks the fundamental emotional asymmetry in Livonia and a hard limit of Henry’s empathy. Comfort and grief — and correspondingly the temporal life whose loss thus becomes grieveable — make sense only sub specie aeternitatis, from the viewpoint of redemption and eternal life.102 Speaking in parenthesis, Henry’s idea of mercy (misericordia) does not connect to compassion or forgiveness, but curiously branches out of the author’s notions of fear, only tangentially attaching to tribulatio. With just five mentions, it is easy to scrutinize its subjects, objects, and contexts. Tellingly, the quality of this mercy is so strained and exclusive that only God and the Virgin Mary can dispense it. Misericordia drops like a heavy hailstorm from heaven, as it is — and typically for Henry — a weaponized fear and tool of justice.103 As an attribute of God and Mary it inspires fear, dread, and awe in the opponents of the Rigan Church, including other Christians, e.g. the Danes.104 This mercy is twice blessed, yet it glorifies only Him that gives and blesses only those that reap its fruits in the form of military victories, fleeing opponents, subjugated pagans, or even effectively collected taxes.105 As such, it is an inhuman emotion. In comparison, the notions of trôsten in the Livonian Rhymed Chronicle, rather than a gift-giving procedure designate an emotional navigation and a form of emotional labour, as Hochschild would say, commonly performed by a powerful individual on behalf of many. Its spiritual precon­ dition is thus not capital, but charisma.106 Accordingly, the most common sources and practices of comfort are the speeches of the good Masters of the Teutonic Knights. They console the poor, returning hostages, envoys, and the brothers, and turn the Christians’ sorrows inflicted upon them by the pagans into joy. It is a type of emotional conversion and transformation on a grand scale, which pains their adversaries.107 This conventional motif in crusader literature — emotional navigation delivered in the form of a 102 Butler, The Force of Nonviolence, pp. 10–11, 54–59, 73–75, 105–08, 112–14, 147; Sontag, Regarding the Pain of Others. 103 Throop, Crusading as an Act of Vengeance, pp. 18–19, 24, 54 n. 50, 90–91; Spencer, Emotions in a Crusading Context, pp. 165–73. 104 Henry of Livonia, Chronicon Livoniae, ed. by Arbusow and Bauer, ix. 3, p. 28: ‘Cernens itaque Semigallorum dux Lethones de Dei misericordia ita conterritos’; xxv. 2, p. 181: ‘principes Ruthenorum sive paganorum sive Danorum sive quarumcunque gencium seniores, ipsam tam mitem matrem misericordie timete, ipsam Dei matrem adorate, […]!’; Sahlins, Stone Age Economics, p. 180. 105 Henry of Livonia, Chronicon Livoniae, ed. by Arbusow and Bauer, vii. 2, p. 19, xvi. 5, p. 111, xix. 8, p. 133, xx. 6, p. 138, xxi. 5, p. 144, xxviii. 6, p. 205. 106 Hochschild, The Managed Heart, pp. 137–38, 147–49, 153–56. 107 Livländische Reimchronik, ed. by Meyer, vv. 642–44, 693, 1948, 1975–84, 10725–26: ‘daz er wart sêliclîch getrôst | und von der heidenschaft gelôst’, 10799–803: ‘er sprach: “ich wil sie trôsten sô, | daz sie des alle werden vrô. […] daz sie die tôten wol verclagen”’; 11985–89:

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harangue — is perhaps best exemplified early on in the Livonian Rhymed Chronicle by Bishop Berthold’s speech to Riga’s inhabitants and crusaders as they readied for the Estonian attack on their city. Berthold’s clerical harangue, though not entirely representative for this secular chronicle, is a particularly eloquent use of trôsten (as the entire speech is described), here employed for the sake of martial encouragement and not consolation after a loss.108 The ability to offer consolation, particularly when showcased by the individual Masters of the Order, is so spellbinding that thanks to their appointments, arrivals, actions, and deaths the Teutonic Masters are often transformed into the very embodiments of comfort for their country and people.109 Such personification of comfort adds to the impression that the anonymous author uses several emotions for de facto textually producing and elevating — and not merely chronicling — the Order’s Masters as charismatic objects at the centre of community, which primed the chronicle’s audience to show them admiration and fidelity.110 Just as in Henry’s case, however, the ultimate source of comfort is God himself, especially in times of mourning the dead in which only Christians can partake.111 Compassion, grief, and comfort did open intersubjective borders in thirteenth-century Livonia, as Nussbaum would have it. But this expansion occurred only on the in-group side of the empathy walls for Henry and the anonymous author, which rhymes with Spencer’s finds regarding grief in crusading contexts from the Holy Land.112 The two Livonian authors saw comfort being disseminated through centrifugal and downward motion, from authoritative individuals to anonymous collectives. They differed as to the form in which it was deployed: as an abstract, lavish gift in the former’s case and as emotional rhetoric in the latter. There can be no doubt, however, that for both authors the notions and practices of consolare/trôsten grew out of the Christian ethos, in Henry’s case much more filtered through the salvific perspective. As a result, the politics of

108 109 110 111 112

‘die cristen wurden alle vrô. | die der Lettowen hant | gevangen hette in Kûrlant, | die wurden vrôlich getrôst’. Livländische Reimchronik, ed. by Meyer, vv. 539–55; Bachrach, ‘Conforming with the Rhetorical Tradition of Plausibility’, pp. 1–19; Jensen, ‘Verbis non verberibus’, pp. 179–206. Livländische Reimchronik, ed. by Meyer, vv. 2009, 7993: ‘sint ward daz lant getrôstet wol’, 8164. Jaeger, Enchantment, pp. 3–24; Bedos-Rezak and Rust, ‘Faces and Surfaces of Charisma’, pp. 3–7, 17–25; Bourdieu, Distinction, p. 208; Geertz, ‘Centers, Kings, and Charisma’, pp. 122–46. Livländische Reimchronik, ed. by Meyer, v. 7334–37: ‘sechs hundert man dâ lâgen tôt | und zwenzik brûdere dâ bie. | wie ouch ir aller name sie, | sô mûze sie got trôsten dort’, 9055: ‘got der gab im sinen trôst’. Spencer, Emotions in a Crusading Context, pp. 165–73.

POLITICS OF EMOTIONS AND EMPATHY WALLS IN LIVONIA

comfort was limited to and practised only by the Christians in Livonia. Their as-yet-unconverted opponents seemed to lack the very faculties to receive its favours.

Concluding Remarks It is clear there is a considerable overlap between the emotional landscapes featured in the Livonian Rhymed Chronicle and the Chronicon Livoniae and the ways these affective discourses translate into empathy walls between the authors’ in-groups and out-groups. In fact, the degree to which these views converge — despite the sixty years between these works’ dates of composition and the fact that they were penned independently of each other — suggests that we should not dismiss these views of emotions as idiosyncratic authorial visions. The way they concur regarding the differences in sensibility between the out-groups and in-groups or certain emotional connections to particular forms of devotion and objects of piety suggests they represent more widely held attitudes. They reveal a hege­ monic emotional regime, as Reddy would say, existing among the colonial Christian elites in Livonia writ large.113 Similarly, they agree that emotions were the go-to material with which cultural belonging and distance in a frontier society were to be fashioned. These two chronicles thus give us a fair idea of the logic as well as the conductivity and resistivity of emotional bonding and networking in thirteenth-century Livonia that might have been quite real in their social consequences. These two discourses on emotions do differ in some significant ways, however, which indicates that the Livonian emotional regime consisted of distinct emotional communities. The divergence in the semantics and usage of emotions springs in part from the level of syntax, grammar, and vocabulary, all of which had an impact on the very conditions of doing pol­ itics of emotions. In the Livonian Rhymed Chronicle feelings mostly work as qualifying carry-ons, superimposed emotional motivations of actions and states of being. This makes sometimes it difficult to identify their source other than authorial whim or poetic constraints. In Henry’s Chronicon, on the other hand, emotions often function as objectified entities or locations. This renders them utilizable objects and destinations for the author to connect his protagonists with or to. The primary manner in which these two chronicles deviate from each other concerns the emotional attribution, which is detectable only through metrics. To reiterate and qualify an earlier point. Whereas the anonymous author’s implicit viewpoint that ‘our adversaries are an inferior version of 113 Reddy, The Navigation of Feeling, pp. 118–22; Gramsci, Selections from the Prison Notebooks, pp. 348–50.

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us, more or less’ seems to hold when the numbers shown in Figure 7.1 are subjected to scrutiny in search of their values and vectors, Henry’s position requires emendation. The case-studies of specific emotions and the emo­ tional discourse in the Chronicon suggest rather: ‘they are definitely not like us — but they can be’. Put differently, both authors performed politics of emotion as an evaluative boundary maintenance through emotional attribution, which resulted in a segregationist affective bias against their adversaries. But it was only Henry of Livonia who took the prescriptive step forward and outlined an admittedly rudimentary model of emotional integration of the neophytes and the local population writ large.114 These two standpoints can perhaps be conceptualized — at the risk of sounding anachronistic — as conservative vs. radical types of politics of emotions. The standpoint of the anonymous author on the issue of emotions is conservative in that he does not intend to change the status quo. His adversaries seemed similar in certain emotional aspects and dif­ ferent in others, but the sociocultural segregation between ‘us’ and ‘them’ kept in place and reinforced through means of an emotional apartheid was hardly an alterable fact of life. ‘Good fences make good neighbors’, to borrow from Frost’s poem one last time. Moreover — as also the 1222 papal decretal shows — viewing one’s adversaries as emotionally inferior versions of oneself dissuaded the colonizers from taking a deeper interest in the inner lives and pains of the colonized, which would entail recogniz­ ing the others’ alterity to the full. Or perhaps such emotional and ethical recognition was qualified or overridden by other concerns. Either way, such complacency of emotionally shielding oneself from the other was further incentivized by the fact that it cemented the Christian colonizers’ — particularly the Teutonic Knights’ — cultural hegemony in Livonia. It helped preserve the raison d’être of the military order (and their annual crusader guests) who saw the local population, their pagan neighbours, as grass to be continuously mowed and harvested thus perpetuating the war. They did not seem to be primarily interested in building an integrated Christian society. This does not mean that the anonymous author and his audience did not imaginatively put themselves in the shoes of their adversaries. They did, but in far more ambiguous and murky ways, as I demonstrate in the following chapter. Henry of Livonia’s implicit standpoint, on the other hand, was radical in the elementary, etymological sense of the term. It addressed the radices of the antagonism between his community and the local population and aimed at uprooting the causes of these divisions which he nevertheless re­ produced.115 As a result, Henry’s politics of emotion was deeply dialectical. It enabled both the separation and integration between us and them. For 114 Crowley, ‘The Politics of Belonging’, pp. 15–41; Manne, Down Girl, pp. 41–43. 115 Jezierska and Polanska, ‘Social Movements Seen as Radical Political Actors’, pp. 687–88.

POLITICS OF EMOTIONS AND EMPATHY WALLS IN LIVONIA

him, emotions were both the material of which the empathy wall between these two groups was made and the means necessary for transgressing and tearing down that very obstacle. On Henry’s view, the politics of belonging was as inasmuch about boundary maintenance as it was about proper gatekeeping. Emotional apartheid was not an end in itself, but a means of building a different society. Paradoxically, the challenging height of the empathy wall visualized in Figure 7.1 does not mean that Henry was indifferent to his adversaries’ emotions. On the contrary, he, and presumably the emotional community he belonged to, had all the interest. Only the radically other could be radically transformed, apparently. The vehicle of change and cultural amelioration necessary for this affective dialectic to operate was evidently baptism. This dovetails with and expands on previous studies’ claims that proselytizing and conversion constituted key concerns for Henry of Livonia — concerns that had particularly rich emotional ramifications in terms of both the breadth and the depth of the feelings they made available.116 In fact, this interface between the sacrament of baptism and emotions was so formidable that it rendered the converts recruited from the native population not only more sentient and feeling the correct emotions, but more human, more like us. The making of the Christian Livonian society was like making a real-life emotional palimpsest then, inscribed on the skins and minds of the pagans, where certain emotions were to be erased and overwritten by other feelings. It was Henry’s much more cultivated semantics of emotions (gepflegte Semantik), as Luhmann would say, that elicited this transforma­ tive, incorporative, and community-building aspect of emotions such as love, brotherhood, and certain aspects of friendship.117 He reached deeper into their sacramental aspects, clustering and partially systematizing them, and by instrumentalizing as well as dynamizing these feelings as forms of movement or points and communities of arrival. In the case of joy and rejoicing, he additionally vectored and temporalized them by opening them into the future, in both the short and long (redemptive and salvific) term perspectives. This historical sense of joy was not absent from the Livonian Rhymed Chronicle, but it was not nearly as systemically plotted out in the service of the politics of becoming as in Henry’s case.

116 Kaljundi, ‘Expanding Communities’, pp. 191–221; Tamm, ‘Martyrs and Miracles’, pp. 135– 56; Christiansen, The Northern Crusades, pp. 94–97. 117 Luhmann, Theory of Society, i, 172–73, 188, 324–27; Luhmann, Theory of Society, ii, 179–81, 323–24; Stichweh, ‘Semantik und Sozialstruktur’, pp. 157–71.

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Hospitality and the Formation of Identities in the Livonian Rhymed Chronicle, Thirteenth Century

I was afraid of my own shadow as long as I imagined others to be looking at me, but when I was actually looked at, I seemed to become aware of my real character. Unable to suspect others, unable to believe in others, one would to live in a suspended state, a state of bankrupt human relations, as if one were looking into a mirror that reflects nothing. Kōbō Abe, The Face of Another

Danish Discomfort Food, 1223 The following gruesome scene supposedly occurred in the province of Jerwia (Estonian: Järvamaa; German: Jerwen) in today’s central Estonia in 1223. This year marked a major Estonian relapse from Christianity and the effective collapse of Danish rule in the region, which coincided with the capture of King Valdemar II (r. 1202–1241) by Count Henry of Schwerin.1 It appears that the political and institutional ramifications of these unprecedented calamities were directly matched by the bestiality of the pagans seeking to oust the Danes from their region: After this the Saccalians went into Jerwan. There they seized the magistrate, Hebbus, and brought him with the other Danes back to their fort and tormented him and the others with cruel martyrdom. They tore out their viscera and plucked out Hebbus’ heart from his bosom while he was still alive. They roasted it in the fire, divided it among themselves, and ate it, so that they would be strong against the

1 Bysted, Jensen, Jensen, and Lind, Jerusalem in the North, pp. 212–25; Lind, ‘Denmark and Early Christianity in Finland’, pp. 46–47, 50; Jezierski, ‘Angels in Scandinavia’, p. 171.

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Christians. They gave the bodies of the Danes to the dogs to gnaw and to the birds of the air.2 To Henry of Livonia, the cannibalistic Saccalian pagans — much like the blood-drinking Obotrites described by Helmold — were zombie-like. Through admittedly cultured preparation (roasting in fire) and consump­ tion, they directly transformed the worthy Christian life and flesh into purely carnal nutrition and energy for revenge. In the process, they also built a hideous, ghastly community of the table — a parody of communion — with wild animals. Simultaneously, through digesting Hebbus’s valuable human life into their bare, animalistic life, the pagans transformed him into yet another of Henry’s proto-martyrs, an Agambensian homo sacer. This gave the chronicler an opportunity to transform Hebbus back into a protagonist in a pseudo-hagiographic piece.3 In a way, what occurred in Jerwia in 1223 was a deviant, repugnant feast without guests, a feast populated by hosts alone. Hebbus, the Danish guest on their territory and the purported lord of Saccalians in his role as bailiff, was instead served as the main course during this act of aberrant hospitality. For Henry, any normal host-guest relations between Christians, pagan zombies, and wild beasts were clearly out of the question.4 This chapter explores the codes, displays, and metaphors of hospitality as a way of framing the encounters, relations, and confrontations between the Teutonic Knights and the pagan or apostate people in thirteenthcentury Livonia. It asks what consequences such framing of the host-guest relations might have had for the self-comprehension of the chronicle’s author and his audience. More generally, I focus on the ways in which medieval Christian authors would sometimes dialectically assume — or refuse to assume — the viewpoint of the local population and their enemies on them. The source materials selected for this experiment are the same two locally penned thirteenth-century narratives of crusading and colonization in Livonia as in the previous chapter. However, my main

2 Henry of Livonia, Chronicon Livoniae, ed. by Arbusow and Bauer, xxvi. 6, p. 190: ‘Post hoc iidem Saccalanenses abierunt in Gerwam et comprehendentes ibi Hebbum, qui erat advocatus eorum, et cum ceteris Danis reduxerunt eum in castrum suum et crudeli martyrio cruciaverunt eum et alios, dilacerantes viscera eorum et extrahentes cor Hebbi adhuc vivum de ventre suo et assantes ad ignem et dividentes inter se, comederunt illud, ut fortes contra christianos efficerentur, et corpora eorum canibus et volatilibus celi rodenda dederunt’; Henry of Livonia, The Chronicle, trans. by Brundage, p. 209. 3 Agamben, Homo sacer, pp. 1–3, 8–10, 90, 109, 124; Tamm, ‘Martyrs and Miracles’, pp. 135– 56; Kaljundi, ‘Expanding Communities’, pp. 210–11, 215–16. 4 Papastergiadis, ‘Hospitality and the Zombification of the Other’, pp. 147–52, 155–58; Welten, ‘Über die Gastlichkeit der Kannibalen’, pp. 501–12; Heffernan, Hospitality and Treachery, pp. 33–36, 80; Agamben, Homo sacer, pp. 71–111, 157–58; Comaroff and Comaroff, ‘Alien-Nation’, pp. 779–805; Jezierski, ‘St Adalbertus domesticus’, pp. 213–14.

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focus is on the Livonian Rhymed Chronicle, whereas examples form Henry’s Chronicon — like the scene of Hebbus’s martyrdom — are employed as material for occasional comparisons.

Clashes of Cultures and Meetings of Minds Strikingly — and similarly to Helmold’s Chronica — host-guest relations as a means of both a clash of cultures and a meeting of minds between the Teutonic Knights and the local population in the Livonian Rhymed Chroni­ cle remains a largely overlooked topic.5 However, in order to understand what is the added value of this perspective, we need to consider the wider background of previous studies on the topic of intercultural relations and identity-formation of the Teutonic Knights in this region. So far, scholars have noted that similar to other historiographical works of the Order from the Baltic frontier, the chronicle promoted the vision and identity of the Knights as noble war heroes, who constantly proved their military prowess on the battlefield, and who maintained brotherly loyalty to the Order. Fighting with God’s aid and under the symbol of the Virgin Mary and,6 the Knights, and particularly their masters, were framed as Christian heroes, even though the anonymous author did not buttress his worldview with biblical imagery, which was quite typical of the later historiography of the Teutonic Order.7 Given how little importance the chronicle attached to the conversion of the pagans, scholars have concluded that its author and his crusader audience largely disregarded the beliefs of the native population. This self-image of the Knights in the Livonian Rhymed Chronicle was rather contrasted with their view of the natives and Orthodox Russians as duplic­ itous enemies whose political allegiances meant more than their creed.8 As also shown in the previous chapter, when contrast it with Henry’s Chronicon, the worldview promoted by the Livonian Rhymed Chronicle appears quite secular in its identity-formation through military action and unapologetic pagan-Christian enmity.9

5 Janiec, ‘Livonian Hospitality and Neighborhood’, pp. 248–59. 6 Dygo, ‘The Political Role of the Cult of the Virgin Mary’, pp. 63–80; Mentzel-Reuters, ‘Bartholomaeus Hoeneke’, pp. 43–47; Kaljundi, ‘Livonia as a Mariological Periphery’, pp. 431−60. 7 Fischer, ‘Biblical Heroes and the Uses of Literature’, pp. 261–75; Feistner, Neecke, and Vollmann-Profe, Krieg im Visier, pp. 27–40, 79–104; Neecke, Literarische Strategien, pp. 21– 24, 28–32, 50–59. 8 Murray, ‘The Structure, Genre and Intended Audience’, pp. 235–51; Scales, The Shaping of German Identity, pp. 431–46; Hentrich, ‘Die Darstellung der Schwertbrüderordens’, pp. 107– 53; Honemann, ‘Zu Selbstverständnis und Identitätsvorstellungen’, pp. 255–96. 9 Eihmane, ‘The Baltic Crusades’, pp. 37–51; Šnē, ‘The Image of the Other or the Own’, pp. 247–60; Ghosh, ‘Conquest, Conversion, and Heathen Customs’, pp. 87–108; Kivimäe,

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Some scholars have noted that the Livonian Rhymed Chronicle and other thirteenth- and fourteenth-century Teutonic historiography from the Baltic frontier created a space for the cultural meetings of minds.10 Apart from conveying information about military alliances or bargaining for baptism, on very rare occasions, such meetings of minds could go as far as to encompass traces of religious syncretism, such as Christian priests using pagan modes of reasoning as a way to convince their adversaries of Christ’s superiority. Similarly, there are examples of crusaders and Teu­ tonic Knights temporarily entertaining the idea about the efficacy of pagan deities. However, most of these sporadic instances of colonizers accepting some beliefs of the native Baltic people come from the fourteenth and fif­ teenth centuries when the alien aspect of pagans was declining in Christian authors’ eyes. 11 A more readily available example of the meetings of minds come is the prominence of warrior identities and military prowess in the Livonian Rhymed Chronicle — the earliest example of a secular crusader chronicle from the region, which shows that the Teutonic Knights shared similar notions of warrior honour (êre) with their pagan adversaries, par­ ticularly Lithuanians. This meant that the Knights could appreciate the impressive warrior skills or shining armour of pagans and occasionally cooperated militarily with them.12 As far as the rare instances of religious syncretism are concerned, it has been argued that the author of the Livonian Rhymed Chronicle may have had some respect for divination as performed by the pagans. This includes such practices as the casting of lots, reading in bones, and bleeding of animals — all employed as ways to predict the outcome of battles or to confirm forebodings of imminent death. The anonymous author could go native in as much as he seemingly accepted that the Lithuanian god Perkūnas could freeze the Baltic Sea to allow the heathen army to cross it.13 Famously, in 1312 a papal legate accused the Teutonic Knights in the Baltic of practicing divination, witchcraft, and burning their deceased brothers. These accusations need to be taken cum grano salis, however. The trial may

10 11

12 13

‘Henricus the Ethnographer’, pp. 77–106; Kivimäe, ‘Servi Beatae Marie Virginis’, pp. 201–26; Tamm, ‘Inventing Livonia’, pp. 186–209; Tamm, ‘How to Justify a Crusade?’, pp. 431–55; Murray, ‘Heathens, Devils and Saracens’, pp. 199–223; Schlegl, ‘Männlichkeitskonstrukte’, pp. 79–98. Mažeika, ‘Granting Power to Enemy Gods’, pp. 153–71; Scales, The Shaping of German Identity, p. 434. Rowell, ‘A Pagan’s Word’, pp. 145–60; Mažeika, ‘Of Cabbages and Knights’, pp. 63–76; Mažeika, ‘Bargaining for Baptism’, pp. 131–45; Kļaviņš, ‘The Ideology of Christianity and Pagan Practice’, pp. 260–76; Mažeika, ‘An Amicable Enmity’, pp. 49–58; Kala, ‘Rural Society and Religious Innovation’, pp. 169–90. Ghosh, ‘Conquest, Conversion, and Heathen Customs’, pp. 102–03, see references there; Neecke, Literarische Strategien, pp. 60–70. Mažeika, ‘Granting Power to Enemy Gods’, pp. 162–65; Mažeika, ‘An Amicable Enmity’, pp. 50–51; Rowell, ‘A Pagan’s Word’, pp. 145–60.

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have been a ripple in the all-out assault on the Knights Templars unfolding in Europe at that time.14 Although this chapter does not deal with the accusations of 1312, it does point to mental frames through which such syncretism might have been produced. To show how the hospitality perspective builds bridges between the clash-of-cultures and the meeting-of-minds perspectives my argument un­ folds as follows. The following section studies courtliness and chivalry as modes of conduct which the Teutonic Knights used to distance themselves from the native population in Livonia, but also as a means of striking alliances with pagan elites in the region. Through a comparison with Henry’s Chronicon, I show how the two authors employed very dissimilar notions of hospitality as a litmus test for the civilization of their heathen adversaries and as a means of recognizing them. In the second and third section, I establish how two different renditions of the same miracle story from 1223 presented in the Chronicon and in the Livonian Rhymed Chronicle exhibit very different attitudes towards pagan inhospitality. The analysis also demonstrates that the two chroniclers might have inadver­ tently included some beliefs of the local population which relate to the threshold character of hospitality. Finally, the fourth section focuses on the metaphors of hospitality used in the Livonian Rhymed Chronicle. It reveals some unanticipated and subversive ways in which the author of the chronicle and his audience regarded their own presence in the region and their relationship with the pagan population.

Chivalry, Courtesy, and Conversion At the time of the composition of the Livonian Rhymed Chronicle in the 1290s, the Livonian branch of the Order of the Teutonic Knights exemplified courtly society steeped in chivalric ideals. Throughout the thirteenth century, many knights from across Europe, predominantly from Germany, travelled to Livonia and Prussia to participate in annual military expeditions against the pagans. These crusader guests brought with them their courtly ideas, insistence on the correct behaviour for a respectable knight, the concept of noble honour (êre), and a predilection for hunting as well as elaborate and lavish festivities.15 Expectedly, the author of the

14 Kļaviņš, ‘The Ideology of Christianity and Pagan Practice’, pp. 262–63; Neecke, Literarische Strategien, pp. 58–59; Selart, Livonia, Rus’ and the Baltic Crusades, pp. 286–89. 15 Paravicini, Die Preußenreisen des europäischen Adels, i, 275–85, 288–304, ii, 122–37; Fischer, ‘Di Himels Rote’, pp. 145–48; Urban, ‘The Teutonic Knights and Baltic Chivalry’, pp. 519–30; Demel, ‘Hospitality and Chivalry in the Teutonic Order’, pp. 278–79; Demel, ‘Hospitalität und Rittertum im Deutschen Orden’, pp. 33–56; Kaeuper, Holy Warriors; Heffernan, Hospitality and Treachery, pp. 104–15.

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Livonian Rhymed Chronicle devoted so much space and attention to the questions of hospitality and courtliness in the Order’s castles across Livo­ nia and Prussia, particularly regarding the welcome extended to Western European crusaders. Traditionally, the lordly adventus and ensuing recep­ tion received particular attention, as during the festivities which Master Volkwin (r. 1209–1236) prepared for the visit of Duke Albrecht I of Saxony (r. 1212–1260) in 1219:16 [T]hey received the worthy pilgrims [crusaders] kindly. The master and his men offered entertainment. Everything in the stables was placed at their service, and oats, hay, and grass were distributed. The next day they invited the Duke and his men to be their guests, so pleased was he that they had come. Even many who were not his followers had invitations to the banquets pressed upon them and this was not soon forgotten. He generously provided good wine, beer, mead, and whatever else one might wish for. The hospitality was such that all thanked him and this same hospitality was extended to all, to rich and poor alike. All were happy under God.17 As argued by Murray, such accounts of the brethren’s courtliness in the chronicle may have been used to inspire admiration of the German cru­ saders who were the main source of military support for the Teutonic Knights. In this sense, both the presumably public recitations of the Livon­ ian Rhymed Chronicle at courts in Germany and the examples of largesse it contains were used for propagandistic purposes. The chronicle stressed the worldly allure of crusading and encouraged visitors to the eastern Baltic to return in the future for equally munificent receptions.18 The chronicle contains numerous accounts of such banquets, but it is clear that there was nothing either transgressive or precarious about this type of hospitality. On the contrary, these feasts functioned as a fixed

16 Benninghoven, Der Orden der Schwertbrüder, pp. 158–66; Hentrich, ‘Die Darstellung der Schwertbrüderordens’, pp. 127–30. 17 Livländische Reimchronik, ed. by Meyer, vv. 920–46: ‘vil minneclîch enpfienc man dô | die werden pilgerîne. | der meister und die sîne | leisten in gesellekeit. | in was allez daz bereit | daz imme hove was: | habern, heu und gras | man ummevûrte vaste. | des anderen tages zû gaste | lût er den herzogen dô | und alle die sîne. er was vil vrô, | daz sie zû lande wâren komen. | dar zû wart manch man genomen, | der sîn gesinde nicht enhiez, | die man der bete nicht erliez, | sie enmûsten mit in ezzen; | des enwêre nicht wol vergezzen. | vil mildeclîche man daz tete: | gûten wîn, bier und mete | hatte er sich gewarnet gnûc. | minneclîche man dar trûc | waz man gûtes mochte hân. | die wirtschaft wart alsô getân | daz sie im alle sageten danc. | rîche und arme durch die banc | der pflac man vollenclîch also, | daz sie alle in gote wâren vrô’; The Livonian Rhymed Chronicle, trans. by Smith and Urban, p. 14. 18 Murray, ‘The Structure, Genre and Intended Audience’, pp. 246–50; Paravicini, Die Preußenreisen des europäischen Adels, i, 316–29; Småberg, ‘“Mead and Beer and Cherry Wine”’, pp. 295–320; Bumke, Höfische Kultur, i, 240–334; Honemann, ‘Zu Selbstverständnis und Identitätsvorstellungen’, pp. 268–70.

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representative form of medieval publicity, in which the roles of the guests (geste) and hosts (wirt; wirtschaft) remain clearly defined and stable. In the quoted passage, Master Volkwin safely occupied the position of the host. He was free to invite, receive, and provide, accept gratitude, and then enjoy posterity’s remembrance. This courtliness and largesse were also limited to the top echelon of society, even if such festive receptions may have occasionally been extended to include subordinate social groups. This act of charity was not intended as an invitation to participate, but as a deliberately conspicuous largesse as in the example quoted here, a postponement. Such feasts thus strained the Pauline sanctions against private suppers and exclusive eating ahead of others, which undermined the community of the Church (I Corinthians 11. 20–34), but this critique is not foregrouned in the chronicle.19 Instead, the 1219 banquet was an empowering and diacritical feast, to use Michael Dietler’s taxonomy, which stressed the social distances and particularly the asymmetry vis-à-vis the local population.20 Such courtly ceremonies provided occasions for presenting the masters of the Order as the objects of attention and charismatic subjects.21 Upon the visit of an Order’s master or his return from a successful military campaign — especially if he was newly elected — people from all social groups would pour out of the cities and strongholds to receive him.22 For instance, when Master Burckhardt von Hornhausen (r. 1257–1260) arrived in Livonia after being elected in Germany, the brothers, their squires, visiting crusaders, and city burghers took to the streets of Riga in a collective gesture of welcome worthy of the Master’s honour. As usual after such adventus, lavish festivities and collective prayers ensued. All these public gestures conveyed and openly signalled (‘offen schîn’) courteous hospitality and religiously framed political recognition.23 It should be stressed that the practices and displays of courtliness were not limited to the established Christian community. Gift-giving and court­ liness could also be extended to the leaders of the Livish and Lettgallian

19 Heffernan, Hospitality and Treachery, pp. 66, 75–77. 20 Dietler, ‘Theorizing the Feast’, pp. 76–82, 85–90; Wenzel, ‘Repräsentation und schöner Schein’, pp. 171–208; Wenzel, ‘zuht und êre’, pp. 21–42; Bumke, Höfische Kultur, i, 314–17, ii, 399–413, 416–30; Crouch, The Chivalric Turn, pp. 176–200; Christoph, ‘Hospitality and Status’, pp. 45–64. 21 Heffernan, Hospitality and Treachery, p. 67. 22 Forey, ‘Visitations in Military Orders’, pp. 95–122; Paravicini, Die Preußenreisen des europäischen Adels, i, 322–23, 333–35; Biskup and Janosz-Biskupowa, eds, Visitationen im Deutschen Orden im Mittelalter. Vol. 1. 23 Livländische Reimchronik, ed. by Meyer, vv. 4405–36; see also: vv. 2299–319, 8597–604, 8869–900; Bumke, Höfische Kultur, i, 282–86, 290–301, 334–41.

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converts in return for military aid.24 As shown by scholars, the adversary pagan elites were not fundamentally different in this regard either. Pagans could also obey similar codes of hospitality as a way of showing civility, especially when forging political and military alliances with Christians against other pagans. The celebrated example is that of Mindaugas, the Grand Duke of Lithuania (r. 1236–1251, as a king: 1251–1263), who in 1250 formed a strategic coalition with the Teutonic Order just when the knights were about to launch a crusade against him. Through this alliance, Mindaugas not only averted the danger of a military campaign against his lands, but also gained substantial leverage in the internal conflict with other Lithuanian factions, which proved to be decisive for securing the crown.25 This description of the ritualistic forging of this coalition shows that even by the Teutonic Knights’ standards friendly pagan leaders seem to have possessed the necessary skills to play the game of courtesy. In ad­ vance of their meeting, Mindaugas flattered Master Andreas von Stierland (r. 1241, 1248–1253) with valuable gifts and an invitation to his court. Although Andreas took some precautionary measures, involving a great deal of consultation before his journey, upon his arrival the Master was received by him [the King] like a lord should be. The Queen [Martha] also came out to him and welcomed him lovingly together with all the Brothers who had come there, as I have learned. Afterward when it was time to eat, nothing proper to such an occasion was neglected. They treated their guests well.26 The result of this meeting was not only a proper coronation, but also the baptism of the Lithuanian court and the recognition of the king by Pope Innocent IV (r. 1243–1254) through a papal bull. In exchange, the Livonian brothers supposedly received vast land donations from the king. In dealings like these, courtesy and goodwill were typically not enough, however. The agreement was also sealed by more traditional means such

24 Livländische Reimchronik, ed. by Meyer, vv. 2935–86; Mažeika, ‘An Amicable Enmity’, pp. 53–54. 25 Mažeika, ‘When Crusader and Pagan Agree’, pp. 197–214; Mažeika, ‘Bargaining for Baptism’, pp. 131–45; Rowell, ‘A Pagan’s Word’, pp. 145–60; Baronas and Rowell, The Conversion of Lithuania, pp. 77–108. 26 Livländische Reimchronik, ed. by Meyer, vv. 3471–82: ‘von dem wart er entpfangen wol, | als man einen hêrren sol. | die kunigîn ouch zû im gienc, | den meister sie lieplîch entpfienc | und alle die brûdere, daz ist wâr, | die mit im wâren komen dar. | dar nâch dô die zît was komen, | als ich vor wâr habe vernomen, | daz man solde ezzen, | nichtes wart dâ vergezzen, | daz man zû êren haben sol: | dâ mite pflac man der geste wol’; The Livonian Rhymed Chronicle, trans. by Smith and Urban, p. 47.

LIVONIAN RHYMED CHRONICLE: HOSPITALITY AND IDENTITIES

as sacred oaths and the exchange of high-profile hostages.27 Although the use of hostages as a means of personal surety on the occasion of baptism in the Livonian context has attracted scholars’ attention,28 it is sometimes forgotten that hostageship and oath-taking — which John of Salisbury considered to be a verbal hostage given to God29 — also be­ longed to the broadly conceived discourses and practices of hospitality and gift-exchange. Hence, rather than interpreting this and similar exchanges of hostages in the Livonian Rhymed Chronicle as abuses of hospitality and symptoms of mutual distrust, it is better to conceive of them as coercive extensions of hospitality riddled with ambiguity and distrust.30 Though the oaths and the truce established between Mindaugas and the Teutonic Knights were soon broken and the king and his followers re­ lapsed into paganism, the contractual pagan-Christian courtliness of 1250 revealed little ambiguity or danger. In the context of this feast, Andreas was presented as an unusually powerful guest with significant gifts at his disposal. In exchange for baptism, he offered the crown that would further enhance the superiority and honour of his host, radically transforming the latter’s identity. Such arrangement was readily accepted by Mindaugas.31 Although Mindaugas’s role as a host in 1250 may seemed stable and the chronicle does not present Andreas as an imposing guest, the latter’s gifts and offers were unmistakable tokens of the submission he was expecting from his host. The exchange thus rendered the guest, Andreas, as a master in this transformed relatioship.32 When, a couple of years earlier, a number

27 Livländische Reimchronik, ed. by Meyer, vv. 3502–11: ‘der meister und der kunic sân | ir gelubde machten sie dô, | des die cristen wurden vrô. | der kunic einen heiden nam | biderbe, als iz wol gezam, | er was ein vil rêtig man, | dô der meister wolde von dan, | der was Parnus genant. | der reit kegen Nieflant | mit deme meister wider’. 28 Blumfeldt, ‘Über die Geiselschaft’, pp. 17–28; Kaljusaar, ‘The Lives of Hostages’, pp. 23–46; Rowell, Lithuania Ascending, pp. 140–45; Rowell, ‘A Pagan’s Word’, pp. 145–60; Ekdahl, ‘The Treatment of Prisoners of War’, pp. 263–69. For the use of oaths and hostages in the Livonian context, see Kreem, ‘The Teutonic Order as a Secular Ruler’, pp. 215–32. 29 John of Salisbury, Letters, ed. and trans. by Millor, ii, no. 298, p. 694: ‘primo Deum et [ut dici solet] Christianitatem suam obsidem dabat’; Kosto, Hostages in the Middle Ages, p. 15. 30 Kosto, Hostages in the Middle Ages, pp. 55–57, 68–72; Morschauser, ‘Hospitality, Hostiles and Hostages’, pp. 461–85; Lavelle, ‘The Use and Abuse of Hostages’, pp. 269–96; Olsson, The Hostages of the Northmen, pp. 1–12, 27–40; Esders, ‘“Faithful believers”’, pp. 357–74; Bennett and Weikert, eds, Medieval Hostageship c. 700–c. 1500; Niewiński, Jeniectwo wojenne w późnym średniowieczu, pp. 7–18; Derrida, ‘Hostipitality’, p. 9; Derrida and Dufourmantelle, Of Hospitality, pp. 105–07, 125. 31 Livländische Reimchronik, ed. by Meyer, vv. 3493–96: ‘“wurdest du ein cristen man, | grôze êre ich dir danne gan: | sô wil ich dir irwerben | die crône, ich ensterben”’; Mažeika, ‘When Crusader and Pagan Agree’, pp. 198–200; Heffernan, Hospitality and Treachery, pp. 119–20, 126–27. 32 Benveniste, Dictionary of Indo-European Concepts, pp. 64–66; Derrida, ‘Hostipitality’, pp. 4– 5; Rabinow, Reflections on Fieldwork in Morocco, pp. 48–49; Heffernan, Hospitality and Treachery, pp. 65–66.

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of Lithuanian nobles, whose ‘pure hearts really did long for Christianity’, rebelled against Mindaugas, turning to the Master of the Teutonic Knights for help in overthrowing the duke, the roles were effectively reversed. The master ‘rejoiced in his guests’, extending a proper welcome, but as a host he made an unequivocal offer of friendship-cum-obedience.33 The frame of intercultural feasting in the Livonian Rhymed Chronicle does not go farther than the exchange with Mindaugas, and the chronicle’s author does not reach outside of it and does not feature descriptions of pagan feasts or hospitality. Yet in the context of Middle High German texts, we can conveniently point to an example from the Chronicle of Prussia (Kronike von Pruzinlant), written in the 1330s by Nicolaus von Jeroschin, a priest in the Teutonic Order. This is not to suggest that all vernacular chroniclers working among the Teutonic Knights thought or felt exactly the same about codes of hospitality practised by their pagan adversaries. It is only to suggest that this example seems to extrapolate the attitude from the Livonian Rhymed Chronicle: When they have guests, they do the best for them that they possibly can (that is their greatest virtue). Whatever food or drink they have in their house they share it freely and generously. They do not think they have been hospitable and looked after their guests well unless they have given them so much to drink that they begin to vomit. The normal practice is that they oblige the other to keep pace with their own immoderate drinking; they start by each guest bringing the host a measure and drinking his health on condition that the host drains the same measure. They go on drinking each other’s health and the tankard goes back and forth, full and empty, for as long as it takes until men and women, host and guest, large and small are all drunk. By their way of thinking this is a very honourable way of passing the time — I think it does them no credit at all.34

33 Livländische Reimchronik, ed. by Meyer, vv. 2809–27: ‘daz si an den meister riten dô. | der was der werden geste vrô, […] “des bitte wir durch ûweren got; | wir leisten gerne sîn gebot. […] tû wir der heidenschaft leit, | daz wir ûch wilkomen sîn”’. 34 Nicolaus von Jeroschin, Di Kronike von Pruzinlant, ed. by Strehlke, vv. 4159–94: ‘Swenn in ouch komen geste, | den tûn sî gar daz beste, | daz sî indirt mugint | (daz ist ir grôste tugin), | und nicht in irme hûse ist | von tranke, spîse in der vrist, | sî inteiln iz williclîch | in mitte under mildiclîch. | Sî indunkit des ouch nicht, | daz sî iz vrûntlich hân bericht | und gepfloin der geste wol, | inwerdin sî nicht alsô vol | trankis, daz sî spîin. | Gewonlich ist daz bî in, | daz sî einandir pflichtin | in unmêzlîchin schichtin | glîche trunke und der vil. | Dâvon geschît iz in dem zil, | sô sî in tranc gesetzin sich, | daz dem wirte ein iclîch | hûsgenôze brengt ein maz | und trinkit im zû ûf daz, | daz der wirt ouch âne haz | ûztrinke vol daz selbe vaz. | Sust trinkin sî einandir zû | und lân dem napfe keine rû: | er loufit hin, er loufit her, | itzunt vol, itzunt lêr. | Sô lange trîbin sî daz an, | unz daz wîp unde man, | wirt und hûsgenôzin, | dî cleinin mit den grôzin, | alle werdin trunkin. | Daz ist nâch irn gedunkin | kurzewîl und êre

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What we find here is a mixture of disgust as a marker of cultural distance and personal indignation on the one hand, and an appreciation for the communal, egalitarian, and welcoming spirit of pagan hospitality, on the other hand.35 It is a position similar to that presented by Helmold. This fragment in fact almost sounds like a distant echo of Adam’s opinion about the general hospitable character of the Hyperboreans, perhaps due to the same ethnographic tone and tense as well as a temporal frame, which produces an impression that the pagans and their customs exist in an eternal, unchanging ‘now’.36 On this account, the pagan Prussians essentially seem to practice a culturally inferior version of courtliness. The pagans may lack bodily control and may be driven by unrestrained appetite, but they practice courtliness all the same and achieve similar socially integrative ends. If we compare this example and the evidence of the Livonian Rhymed Chronicle with that of the Chronicon Livoniae, it is striking how little space Henry of Livonia devoted to matters of courtliness and hospitality. This difference is related to the different genres represented by these two texts, discussed in the previous chapter, and the clerical background of Henry as opposed to the knightly or ministerial background of the anonymous author. Like Saxo and other clerical writers of this period, and in spite of his panoramic appreciation of the crusaders’ ideas and military performance, Henry remained almost ostentatiously unimpressed by their feats of chivalry.37 The grand reception of Duke Albrecht which took place only six or seven years before Henry composed his work, and of which accounts must have circulated in the Rigan cathedral’s milieu, is not mentioned at all. Instead, in reporting the duke’s visit Henry focused on his military campaigns, the submission of the pagans, and customarily extorted baptisms. The only festivities and celebrations brought up in con­ nection with Albrecht’s stay in Livonia are either strictly religious in nature — such as the brief mention of the Christmas of 1219 — or collective thanksgivings and rejoicings after successful battles.38 Henry’s renditions of the rituals of adventus and occursus focused predominantly on the figures of Bishop Albert of Riga and papal legate William of Modena who were usually received with ‘greatest devotion’.39 The lordly aura of these arrivals is unmistakable, and, just like in the examples above and those discussed

35 36 37 38 39

grôz, | doch dunkit iz mich êren blôz’; Nicolaus von Jeroschin, The Chronicle of Prussia, trans. by Fischer, p. 72. Miller, The Anatomy of Disgust, pp. 35–36, 80, 195–205; Kolnai, On Disgust. Fabian, Time and the Other, pp. 80–87, 92. Jaeger, The Origins of Courtliness, pp. 176–94; Bumke, Höfische Kultur, i, 205–10, ii, 583–92. Henry of Livonia, Chronicon Livoniae, ed. by Arbusow and Bauer, xxiii. 1–11, pp. 154–69. Henry of Livonia, Chronicon Livoniae, ed. by Arbusow and Bauer, xxix. 3, p. 210: ‘Et inde procedens in Wenden a fratribus milicie et ab aliis Theuthonicis ibidem habitantibus devotissime receptus est’.

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in the previous chapter, these practices often celebrated returns from military campaigns. Henry did not attach any courtly festivities or explicit ceremonial attributes to such occasions, and repeatedly presented them using Biblical quotations instead.40 As a result these rituals were modelled more on the notions of adventus prevalent in the earlier Middle Ages than those cherished by the neighbouring Sword Brethren.41 These ceremonies did help to create a community between the Christian settlers and the local neophytes, but in doing so they stressed the religious divide vis-à-vis the pagans, apostates, and Orthodox Russians even more. To Henry, feasting and drinking — the default tokens of hospitality in this period and region — did not play a socially integrative role, nor did they serve as a way to convert and govern the newly conquered region. He rather associated such practices with the enemies of Christianity.42 For in­ stance, on 6 January 1217, during the Feast of the Epiphany, the Orthodox Russians, as usual, had forgotten themselves in their convivia and drinking. As a result, the military expedition of the Sword Brethren, the Ugaunians, and Bishop Albert’s forces caught them off-guard and defeated them in a single strike.43 Similarly, the pagan Estonians and Livonians customarily incinerated the remains of their dead and mourned them with excessive libations, in defiance of the burial regulations that the Rigan Church was introducing in the region.44 As we saw in Hebbus’s case, pagan feasting was often described in connection with scenes of Christian martyrdom and depicted as utterly disgusting and terrifying. The Christian victims of these abominable ceremonies were always presented as memorable individuals, whereas the pagan perpetrators were lumped together into a dark, indistin­ guishable, and forgettable mass.45 By presenting the pagans through the 40 Henry of Livonia, Chronicon Livoniae, ed. by Arbusow and Bauer, x. 14, p. 45 (Luke 8. 5), xi. 2, p. 48 (Genesis 19. 1), xiv. 13, p. 87 (Luke 10. 17), xv. 3, p. 91 (Acts 2. 47), xx. 1, p. 135 (Acts 8. 9), xxix. 7, p. 213 (Tobit 14. 17). 41 Willmes, Der Herrscher-‘Adventus’ im Kloster; Warner, ‘Ritual and Memory in the Ottonian Reich’, pp. 255–83. 42 Orning, ‘Festive Governance’, pp. 175–208, Viðar Pálsson, Language of Power. 43 Henry of Livonia, Chronicon Livoniae, ed. by Arbusow and Bauer, xx. 5, p. 138: ‘cum conviviis et potationibus suis magis solent occupari’; Nielsen, ‘Sterile Monsters?’, pp. 227– 52; Selart, Livonia, Rus’ and the Baltic Crusades pp. 120–22; Selart, ‘Orthodox Responses to the Baltic Crusades’, pp. 263–78. 44 Henry of Livonia, Chronicon Livoniae, ed. by Arbusow and Bauer, xii. 6, p. 65: ‘Sed Estones propter tantam suorum interfectionem ad persequendum Lethtos venire non presumebant, sed tristia funera a Letthis sibi iniecta multis diebus colligentes et igne cremantes, exequias cum lamentationibus et potationibus multis more suo celebrabant’, xvii. 5, p. 114: ‘Pro cuius redemptione postea datum est capud eiusdem Lettonis occisi, ut saltem capite recepto debitas post eum celebrarent cum potationibus more paganorum exequias’. 45 Tamm, ‘Martyrs and Miracles’, pp. 151–54; Kala, ‘Rural Society and Religious Innovation’, pp. 169–90; Ghosh, ‘Conquest, Conversion, and Heathen Customs’, pp. 101–03; Jezierski, ‘Fears, Sights and Slaughter’, pp. 124–31; Manzanas Calvo and Sanchez, Hospitality in American Literature and Culture, pp. 81–101.

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aesthetics of the horrible and inhuman, he exposed the religious others as lacking any hierarchy, distinction, or cultural qualities.46 The ambiguous attitude towards pagan feasting featured in the Chronicle of Prussia was not just unacceptable for Henry. It was unthinkable. To Henry, situations of courtliness and hospitality were clearly reli­ giously and culturally, rather than socially, exclusive. They distanced his community from the customs of the Sword Brethren, with whom the Rigan Church had its occasional disagreements, as well as those of the native population. Hospitality and its logic of equivalence between the parties involved did not constitute a platform for political cooperation with the pagans or a means of recognizing them. What is symptomatic, in the Chronicon Livoniae high-status hostages were unilaterally given to the crusaders and usually under duress. The purpose of this surrender of hostages was frequently to give them instruction in the Christian faith. By comparison, in the Livonian Rhymed Chronicle, the taking of hostages was employed to secure political cooperation or military submission alone and was done much more equitably.47 In other words, for Henry, even in this extreme form, hospitality as human equivalence through hostageship only deepened the chasm created by the difference in creed. As the previous chapter has shown, the adversaries had to be transformed by baptism before they could be treated more equitably. For the author of the Livonian Rhymed Chronicle, on the other hand, their equivalence and utility came first. Their religious identities were of secondary importance.

Death of a Salesman: Miracle of Inhospitality One of the most interesting texts handed down from the Livonian mission of the thirteenth century is a brief description of a miracle which occurred in Saccalia (in Estonia) in 1223, that is, during the same pagan revolt in the course of which the heart of Hebbus was consumed. As noted by Tamm, although most of the miracles in Henry’s Chronicon reproduce the exam­ ples and motifs of miracle stories widely circulating in Europe at that time, this particular miracle has no counterpart anywhere else and seems to be truly Livonian in origin.48 Stunningly, the author of the Livonian Rhymed Chronicle preserved his own version of the same miracle, independently of Henry. This offers an opportunity to compare the different meanings attached to this miracle and their larger implications for the reconstruction

46 It should be stressed, however, that Henry did differentiate the heathens based on political categories: Šnē, ‘The Image of the Other and the Own’, pp. 247–60. 47 Blumfeldt, ‘Über die Geiselschaft’, pp. 17–28; Ghosh, ‘Conquest, Conversion, and Heathen Customs’, pp. 93–99; Kosto, Hostages in the Middle Ages, pp. 35–41. 48 Tamm, ‘Martyrs and Miracles’, pp. 148–49. More broadly Borg, ‘Våld och visioner’, pp. 5–41.

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of divergent stances towards pagan beliefs and hospitality in Livonia at that time. As mentioned above, 1223, the year when the miracle supposedly occurred, was a time when the apostasy of the Estonians was particularly severe. A papal legate to Estonia, Gregorius de Crescentio, had to abort his mission and stay in Denmark for two years instead.49 The pagans were remembered to purposefully wash off the signs of baptism and dig up the corpses of those buried in Christian cemeteries in order to burn them instead.50 In Henry’s Chronicon, written shortly thereafter, the miracle story is immediately preceded by a description of the negotiations between Christians and Saccalians, which took place in the midst of the rebellion. As Henry notes, the messengers (‘nuncios’) of the Saccalians appeared in Riga asking for the renewal of the peace. In the same breath, however, they added that they would never accept the Christian faith as long as even a single Christian child remained in Livonia. As if to stress this point, the Saccalians suggested that hostages be returned and exchanged on both sides. This act of negative reciprocity meant that their intention was to terminate all relations of enforced trust and mutuality with the Christians: ‘They demanded their boys who were hostages [“obsides”] and promised that for each of their hostages [“obsidibus”] they would return one of the merchants and Brothers of the Militia whom they had, still alive, in chains’.51 As Henry notes, the exchange was accomplished successfully, thereby dissolving any bonds between the two parties, which, paradoxically, made their balanced relationship highly unstable.52 Directly following on from this, as if proving the wickedness of the apostasy of the Saccalians and to demonstrate that their hostility would not be restrained by any consideration, Henry reports the following mira­ cle: There was at that same time a Christian merchant in the house of an Estonian in Saccalia and when all the Germans in the land were being

49 Perron, ‘Metropolitan Might and Papal Power on the Latin-Christian Frontier’, pp. 202–03; Jezierski, ‘Angels in Scandinavia’, p. 171. 50 Henry of Livonia, Chronicon Livoniae, ed. by Arbusow and Bauer, xxvi. 8, p. 191: ‘Et receperunt uxores suas, tempore christianitatis dimissas, et corpora mortuorum suorum, in cemeteriis sepulta, de sepulchris effoderunt et more paganorum pristino cremaverunt et se et domos suas et castra lavantes aquis et scopis purgantes, taliter baptismi sacramenta de finibus suis omnino delere conabantur’. 51 Henry of Livonia, Chronicon Livoniae, ed. by Arbusow and Bauer, xxvi. 9, p. 191: ‘Et requirebant pueros suos obsides, promittentes se fratres milicie, quos habebant in vinculis adhuc vivos, pro singulis obsidibus singulos fratres et mercatores restituere, quod et factum est’; Henry of Livonia, The Chronicle, trans. by Brundage, p. 210; Kaljusaar, ‘The Lives of Hostages’, pp. 28–29; Sahlins, Stone Age Economics, pp. 173, 177. 52 Hicklin, ‘Aitire, 人質, тали, όμηρος, ‫ره ن‬, obses’, pp. 166–70; Sahlins, Stone Age Economics, pp. 205–06.

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killed, this Estonian rushed upon his guest [‘hospitem suum’] and murdered him. After this had happened, the wife of the murderer gave birth to a son. This son had upon his body fresh wounds in all the spots in which the father had wounded and slain the innocent man, and the wounds were similar in every way to the wounds of the murdered man. They later healed, and the scars appear to this day. Many people saw this and were astonished, bearing witness to and proving God’s vengeance [‘vindictam Dei probantes’], for the murderer was slain at once by the Christian army.53 As argued by Tamm, the miraculous logic behind this episode is that of liminality and intergenerational inheritance by children of sins and wounds inflicted by their parents. During the medieval and early modern period, a pregnant woman’s body was conceptualized as a porous entity. It was able to absorb external events and experiences and imprinting them on the foetus and its mother. A pregnant woman occupied a threshold between the outside and the inside, ambiguously suspended between life and death. For the story reported by Henry, Tamm finds a fitting contemporary parallel in Gerald of Wales’s (c. 1146–c. 1223) Itinerarium Kambriae. An infant boy is said to have miraculously inherited a scar from a wound received by his father, a certain Erchembaldus. This was used as proof of his parentage, thereby forcing Erchembaldus to acknowledge his son’s true identity.54 Tamm’s argument should be taken one or two steps further, however, as the Livonian miracle can be taken for a sign of something else. Notwith­ standing the fact that the miracle story of 1223 is a small piece of a larger discourse through which Henry justified the crusade and the vengeance taken on the apostates by the crusaders who fashioned themselves as God’s avengers,55 it is first and foremost a story about miscarried hospitality. Incidentally, this story is one of the only two times where the word hospes

53 Henry of Livonia, Chronicon Livoniae, ed. by Arbusow and Bauer, xxvi. 10, p. 191: ‘Fuerat eodem tempore mercator christianus in domo Estonis in Saccala, et cum omnes Theuthonici interficiuntur, qui erant in terra, irruit eciam idem Esto super eundem hospitem suum et interfecit eum. Quo facto peperit uxor occisoris filium, et habebat idem puer in corpore suo vulnera recentia in omnibus locis, in quibus pater vulneraverat innocentem, et similia per omnia vulneribus interfecti, que tamen postea sanata fuerunt, et apparent cicatrices ad hunc diem. Et multi videntes admirabantur, testimonium perhibentes et vindictam Dei probantes; nam et idem occisor ab exercitu christianorum statim interfectus est’; Henry of Livonia, The Chronicle, trans. by Brundage, pp. 210–11. 54 Gerald of Wales, Itinerarium Kambriae, ed. by Dimock, ii. 7, pp. 129–30; Gerald of Wales, The Journey, trans. by Thorpe, pp. 190–91; Tamm, ‘Martyrs and Miracles’, pp. 148–49; Rublack, ‘Pregnancy, Childbirth and the Female Body’, p. 86; Irigaray, ‘Toward a Mutual Hospitality’, pp. 42–54. 55 Tamm, ‘How to Justify a Crusade?’, pp. 431–55; Tyerman, ‘Henry of Livonia and Crusade Ideology’, pp. 23–44; Throop, ‘Zeal, Anger and Vengeance’, pp. 177–201.

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appears in Henry’s Chronicon, in which the term hospitalitas does not appear even once.56 What has escaped scholars’ attention is the fact that the pregnant woman’s liminal state mirrors the threshold character of hos­ pitality. Thus an alternative reading of this episode can be presented. The child (guest) leaves his mother’s body, its temporary biological hostess, bearing wounds which mirror those his father — whose actions identify him as a host — previously inflicted on their Christian guest.57 As a result, the baby of the hosts is, to some extent, a ghost. Or, more exactly, the baby is a (g-)host, an in-between creature inhabited by the ghost of the hosts’ guest. The child’s wounds and scars are, paradoxically, both real and phantom at the same time. They are both his own and the revenant’s, they are both present and derived from the past. The infant’s hybrid body thus becomes a blurred space of adjustment between different temporal, cultural, and cosmic frames.58 From this perspective, the immediate revenge taken on the murderer by the Christian army taps into something deeper than just questions of apostasy and the motivation behind the crusades. If the City Law of Riga from 1270 can provide legal guidance here, the violation of the house and murder of either a travelling guest or host were treated as noncompensable crimes, punishable with death.59 In this light, the Christian army’s revenge addressed two offences at once. It was not only the murder of the German merchant which was avenged, but also the unforgivable, haunting inhospitality that he had been offered; it was this that classed the killing as particularly outrageous.60 Compared to Henry’s short version, the one recorded in the Livonian Rhymed Chronicle is rich in detail and colourful dramaturgy, which are

56 See also Henry of Livonia, Chronicon Livoniae, ed. by Arbusow and Bauer, vii. 2, p. 19. Henry does use the word hospicium (x. 2, p. 33). However, in this context the term refers to a guesthouse in which Prince Vladimir of Polotsk deceptively accommodated the German envoys during his secret and duplicitious negotiations with the Livish apostates in 1206. 57 Aristarkhova, Hospitality of the Matrix, pp. 29–54. 58 Derrida and Dufourmantelle, Of Hospitality, pp. 4, 37; Heffernan, Hospitality and Treachery, p. 10; Calbi, ‘“The Ghosts of Strangers”’, pp. 50–51; Sahlins, ‘The Original Political Society’, pp. 100–08; Schmitt, Ghosts in the Middle Ages, pp. 178–82, 195–200; Bynum, Metamorphosis and Identity, pp. 69–73; Arnold, ‘Talking with Ghosts’, pp. 235–49. 59 Das älteste Rigische Stadtrecht, ed. by von Bunge, p. 13, § 8: ‘Si uero armatus domum querit et occiderit ibi domesticum uel hospitem suum uel alium quempiam dupliciter satisfacet parentibus et VI marcis urbi. Si captus fuerit uitam pro uita dabit’; Treating the intrusion into the house and murder of the host or guest as non-compensable crimes was a widespread legal standard in the Baltic region, compare King Canute VI’s Ordinance on Homicide for Scandia (promulgated in 1200), which must have been known in neighboring Danish Estonia, see: The Danish Medieval Laws. The Laws of Scania, Zealand and Jutland, ed. by Vogt and Tamm, pp. 33, 100 § 6; Vogt, ‘Legal Encounters in Estonia’, pp. 237–43; Brlečić Layer, ‘Prekäre Gastfreundschaft’, pp. 61–72. 60 Heffernan, Hospitality and Treachery, pp. 51, 64–65.

LIVONIAN RHYMED CHRONICLE: HOSPITALITY AND IDENTITIES

worth discussing more thoroughly. It is said that the death of the salesman and the subsequent miracle occurred in the village of Poderejal (German: Morsel-Podrigel, Estonian: Riidaja) in the district of Karkus,61 and that an account of the miracle, now lost, was sent to Rome in a letter by William of Modena.62 As the author of the chronicle states, the village belonged to the Teutonic Knights (the Sword Brethren at that time), which may explain why he had access to more details of the story. But it is likely that the original account, perhaps similar to Henry’s version, was enhanced with other memories, new details, and layers of meaning before it entered the Livonian Rhymed Chronicle in the 1290s. In the Livonian Rhymed Chronicle, the generic mercator christianus from Henry’s account is specifically presented as a not-so-wealthy German, who ‘made his living going from village to village selling needles’.63 Although his creed is not specified, as in the Chronicon, his ethnic identification made the tension between his Christianity and his hosts’ implicit paganism com­ prehensible. The whole scene seems to be purposely emblematic, given the wider context in which this story is framed, that is, the hatred-driven rebellion of the Estonians bent on ‘cutting down Christianity’.64 The needle salesman’s entry into the village in search of hospitality and friendship is presented as benign, non-threatening: ‘Now he came to a place where he thought he had good friends [‘vrûnde’]’.65 This framing of the miracle story more clearly operates with the vocabulary of hospitality. Whereas Henry identifies the murderer only as an Estonian (‘idem Esto’), the anonymous author describes him twice as the host (‘wirt’) in relation to the needle merchant, identified as a guest (‘gast’): ‘The host received him hospitably [‘in gûtlîch entpfienc’] but in the end things turned out badly’.66 The relation between the two, presented sketchily in the Chronicon, is here clearly defined not just as hospitable but, more significantly, as that of a host offering a guest protection in times of unrest: ‘“Do not worry about

61 Feldmann, von Zur Mühlen, and Westermann, eds, Baltisches historisches Ortslexikon. Vol. 1. Estland (einschließlich Nordlivland), pp. 365–66. 62 Livländische Reimchronik, ed. by Meyer, vv. 1320–23, 1329–32. 63 Livländische Reimchronik, ed. by Meyer, vv. 1283–84: ‘von durfe zû durfe trûc er die. | des amtes er sich begie’; The Livonian Rhymed Chronicle, trans. by Smith and Urban, p. 19. 64 Livländische Reimchronik, ed. by Meyer, vv. 1278: ‘den cristentûm sie slûgen nider’; The Livonian Rhymed Chronicle, trans. by Smith and Urban, p. 19; Neecke, Literarische Strategien, pp. 84–85. 65 Livländische Reimchronik, ed. by Meyer, vv. 1285–86: ‘der quam an eine stat gegân, | dâ er gûte vrûnde wânte hân’; The Livonian Rhymed Chronicle, trans. by Smith and Urban, p. 19. 66 Livländische Reimchronik, ed. by Meyer, vv. 1287–88: ‘der wirt in gûtlîch entpfienc, | daz doch zû bôsem ende ergienc’; The Livonian Rhymed Chronicle, trans. by Smith and Urban, p. 19.

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any harm. I will protect you from any trouble. We can take a bath together”. And a room [‘stube’] was warmed [for this purpose]’.67 Before entering the sauna, however, the Estonian host hides two hatch­ ets under his arm, which his guest does not notice (‘dâ der gast nicht sach’). The events then progress quickly: He [the host] said to his wife, ‘Help me kill this man. You stand before the door and when he passes by, hit him on his head. Then I will come help you finish him off. [Because] I begrudge him his life’. She promised him this and it was a wicked agreement. They carried out the deed, murdering him in that horrible manner. He was then dragged into the woods and left lying there naked. Now the woman was with child and when she gave birth, the child bore the same wounds as those on the man slain [by her and her husband].68 Contrary to Henry’s account, the pregnant wife is presented as equally guilty of the murder as her husband. The shame of both parents’ inhospi­ tality is thus transferred to their ghostly and ghastly child. The accounts also differ concerning the consequences suffered by the perpetrators. In the Chronicon the Christian army served as a tool of God’s vengeance by executing the Estonian man almost immediately. In the Livonian Rhymed Chronicle, God himself takes revenge more directly by imprinting the stigma on his child and causing its premature death a year and a half later, thus turning its identity into yet another iteration of a spectral form. The parents’ lives were spared, but were filled with sorrow and unhappiness.69

Sauna: Hostipitality in the Other Space Perhaps the most puzzling addition of the Livonian Rhymed Chronicle to this story about haunting inhospitality is its setting in the sauna.70 The connection between hospitality, protection, and a warm bath or sauna

67 Livländische Reimchronik, ed. by Meyer, vv. 1290–93: ‘“ensorge nicht vor ungemach: | ich behûte dich vor schaden. | wir suln mit einander baden” | man machte in eine stube warm’, The Livonian Rhymed Chronicle, trans. by Smith and Urban, p. 19. 68 Livländische Reimchronik, ed. by Meyer, vv. 1296–1315: ‘zû sinem wîbe er alsô sprach: | “hilf mir slâen disen man: | des lîbes ich im nicht engan. | dû salt wesen vor der tur: | nim war als er gêet her vur, | sô slâ in an daz houbet sîn. | ich tû dir danne helfe schîn, | daz er vil schîre tôt gelît” | daz gelobete si im ân allen strît. | daz was ein verwâzen rât. | sie vollenvûren mit der tât: | vil jêmerlîchen morten sie in. | zû pusche er wart gesleifet hin, | dâ bleib er ligende alsô blôz. | daz wîb daz gienc mit kinde grôz. | dar nâch sie schiere des genas: | waz wunden an dem tôden was, | die sie und ir man slûc, | daz kint die wunden an im trûc | zû glîcher wîs alsô der man’; The Livonian Rhymed Chronicle, trans. by Smith and Urban, p. 19. 69 Livländische Reimchronik, ed. by Meyer, vv. 1316–26. 70 Friese, ‘Spaces of Hospitality’, pp. 67–79.

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offered to a guest in the frontier zone between the West Slavic, Russian, and Finno-Ugric spheres of cultural influence is in no way coincidental, however. It enables the consideration of wider intercultural references and signals conveyed by the miracle story, as well as adding depth to both the image of problematic hospitality and its liminal character. It is thus worthwhile to zoom out from thirteenth-century Livonia for a moment in order to sketch the cultural context in which this story emerged. This should help to establish the way in which locating the murder in a sauna with its hot, steamy, and blurred atmosphere reinforced the focus on hospitality within this chronicle. The archaeological evidence of saunas at the intersection of the Baltic, West and East Slavic, and Finno-Ugric cultural zones long predates the Livonian Rhymed Chronicle.71 Saunas were constructed on flat ground or sunken into the earth. These buildings were widely associated with feminine chthonic forces which preceded the arrival of Christianity and these associations continued to exist parallel to its teachings long into early modernity and beyond.72 One of the first early medieval observations about the Baltic and East European Slavs referred precisely to their pecu­ liar predilection for steamy baths. This almost ethnographic description of what was unmistakably a sauna was made by Ibrāhīm Ibn Yaʿqūb al-Turtušī, possibly an Andalusian slave merchant or diplomat of Sephardic or Muslim origin who reached the Baltic Rim in the 960s. Ibn Yaʿqūb made a distinction between the baths he knew from the Mediterranean and the saunas he encountered in the North. Although his account revealed little about the cultural significance of the sauna ritual, it did resonate with the image of a gathering of porous, sweaty, cooking bodies releasing and absorbing fluids within the steamy atmosphere.73

71 Tamla, Kiudsoo, and Toome, ‘Viking Age Hoard from Kinksi’, pp. 227–36; Viklund, ‘Beer Brewing in Medieval Sweden’, pp. 235–43; Vahros, Zur Geschichte und Folklore, pp. 13–29. 72 Vahros, Zur Geschichte und Folklore, pp. 136–308; Woleńska, ‘Łaźnia’, pp. 114–15; Brückner, Mitologia słowiańska i polska, pp. 139–52; Gieysztor, Mitologia Słowian, pp. 116–20, 224–28; Uspieński, Kult Św. Mikołaja na Rusi, pp. 119, 225; Banaszkiewicz, ‘Król i łaźnia, Bóg i łaźnia’, pp. 205–22. 73 ‘Ibrahim ibn-Ya’qub at-Turtushi’s Account’, trans. by Mishin, p. 191: ‘The Slavs do not have baths. Instead, they build wooden houses, caulk all the holes with a thing which grows on their trees, looks like moss, and is called by them “m.kh.” They use it also as tar for their ships. So, they build a stone hearth in one of the corners and open in its upper part a small window through which the smoke escapes. When it gets warm, they close that window and close the door of the house. They have there jars of water. They pour that water on the warm hearth, and the steam starts rising. Everyone holds in his hand a bundle of grass with which he draws the air towards himself. Their pores open, the sweat flows from their bodies, and their manges and ulcers disappear. They call this building “al-at.bba.” ’; Ibn Fadlān and the Land of Darkness, trans. by Lunde and Stone, pp. 162–68; van Dam, Het middeleeuwse openbare badhuis, pp. 97–100, 156–89.

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What seemed common for both southern baths and northern saunas was their sociable and often political character, which remained consistent from the early to the high Middle Ages. In the ninth century, Charlemagne was famously fond of overcrowded steamy baths (balneum) in the hot springs in Aachen, to which he invited his family, friends, and followers.74 Also in the Baltic context, in an early twelfth-century account, King Bolesław I the Brave/Chrobry (r. as duke 992–1025, as king 1025) was said to invite his magnates to enjoy the bath (balneum) with him like a father with his children. Bolesław’s baths were not merely social events, however. Sometimes the queen would lead magnates who had been ban­ ished or sentenced to capital punishment to the royal bath so that the king, after he had mildly punished them with a switch, could extend to them his pardon.75 As if bringing them back from the dead, the ritual purification in this otherworldly steam bath allowed the ghostly nobles to re-enter Bolesław’s polity.76 On the other hand, saunas on the Baltic Rim were also spaces for practicing amicable, if occasionally illicit and sexually suspicious, intercultural relations. That was the case of a bath building raised in the St Peter’s Yard in fifteenth-century Novgorod. There Catholic Hanseatic merchants from predominantly male community occasionally met and mixed with Orthodox Russian women to play board games and dice, which ran against the local regulations and the precepts of sexual politics of both the Hanseatic Kontor and the Novogordian authorities.77 As Grischa Vercamer has argued, the early and high medieval signifi­ cance of warm baths and saunas can be boiled down to three basic func­ tions: 1. religious purification, 2. enjoyment and health, and 3. an instru­ ment of rulership, all three of which often mutually informed each other.78 The common denominator of all these functions was that the invitation of a guest or political partner to the sauna, which necessarily involved undressing and setting weapons aside, created extraordinary intimacy. The underlying condition and message of this rite was thus the complete trust, which both parties showed to each other — even if the host tended to retain control over the situation in the sauna with his guests enojoying the bath at his mercy. As with many aspects of hospitality, the trust and intimacy of the sauna were prone to abuse. For instance, in November 1227, almost simultaneously with the events studied here, the Piast Duke 74 Einhard, Vita Karoli Magni, ed. by Holder-Egger, 22, p. 27; van Dam, Het middeleeuwse openbare badhuis, pp. 101–10. 75 Gallus Anonymous, Gesta principum Polonorum, ed. and trans. by Knoll and Schaer, i. 13, pp. 60–63. 76 Banaszkiewicz, ‘Król i łaźnia, Bóg i łaźnia’, pp. 205–22; Vercamer, ‘Das Bad des Königs’, pp. 349–72; Woleńska, ‘Łaźnia’, pp. 114–15. 77 Lukin, ‘German Merchants in Novgorod’, p. 132. 78 Vercamer, ‘Das Bad des Königs’, pp. 358–61; Grünbart, Inszenierung und Repräsentation, pp. 118–19.

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Leszek the White (r. c. 1201–1227) was caught off-guard by his enemies while enjoying the sauna during a political meeting in Gąsawa in Greater Poland. The duke allegedly fled naked on his horse, but he was pursued and killed.79 In the Livonian context, Henry reports on the Livonians using saunas for ritual purification and undoing their baptisms in 1198.80 He also gives an example of a certain neophyte chieftain, Thalibald, who was captured by Estonian pagans as he prepared himself for a bath in his sauna in 1215.81 However, of all the examples of the Baltic sauna experience in the Middle Ages, the one that casts the most light on the miracle of 1223, by tying together aspects of femininity, the sauna’s liminal character, the gamble of suspension between life and death, and vengeance, is the steam bath prepared by the Kyivan Princess Olga (r. 945–c. 963). According to the early twelfth-century Russian Primary Chronicle/Pověst vremennych lět, soon after the Derevlians slew Igor (r. 912–945) in 945, Olga invited their magnates to Kyiv, to formally negotiate a marriage between her and the prince of the Derevlians. The real, secret intent was to avenge her husband: When the Derevlians arrived, Olga commanded that a bath should be made ready, and invited them to appear before her after they have bathed. The bathhouse was then heated, and the Derevlians entered into the bath. Olga’s men closed up the bathhouse [истъбу] behind them, and she gave orders to set in on fire from the doors, so that the Derevlians were all burned to death.82 From the perspective of the author of the Primary Chronicle, Olga’s duplic­ itous invitation and retributive inhospitality shown to the noble messen­ gers was not worthy of vengeance; rather, it was agreeably vengeful in itself. Yet her abuse of the implicit asylum associated with the sauna must have been obvious, particularly in the context of a culture in which the warm bath played so important a role in the cult of the dead.83 To return to the Livonian Rhymed Chronicle. If we pool together the presented evidence as a background for the 1223 miracle story, Baltic saunas emerge as what Michel Foucault dubbed the other spaces, or

79 Labuda, ‘Śmierć Leszka Białego (1227)’, pp. 7–36; Chrzanowski, Leszek Biały, pp. 135–66. 80 Henry of Livonia, Chronicon Livoniae, ed. by Arbusow and Bauer, ii. 8, p. 11; Jensen, Med ord och ikke med slag, pp. 386–87. 81 Henry of Livonia, Chronicon Livoniae, ed. by Arbusow and Bauer, xix. 3, pp. 124–25. 82 Pověst vremennych lět’. Vol. 1. Vvodnaja čast, ed. by Shakhmatov, p. 65; The Russian Primary Chronicle: Laurentian Text, ed. and trans. by Hazzard Cross and Sherbowitz-Wetzor, pp. 79– 80. The English translation is somewhat imprecise as Olga’s invitation is given in direct speech. 83 Woleńska, ‘Łaźnia’, pp. 114–15; Banaszkiewicz, ‘Król i łaźnia, Bóg i łaźnia’, pp. 205–22; Vahros, Zur Geschichte und Folklore, pp. 30–49, 96–135; Uspieński, Kult Św. Mikołaja, pp. 297–98; Grünbart, Inszenierung und Repräsentation, pp. 119–20.

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heterotopias.84 ‘Heterotopias are spaces where difference is concentrated so as to arouse strong, transformative feelings (wonder, desire, awe, time­ lessness, etc.)’.85 They are porous, ambiguous spaces in which otherwise impossible meetings and changes take place. The location of the 1223 murder in the other space of the sauna thus connects to and adjusts the topic of ambiguous hospitality that runs through the entire chronicle. If the liminal character of hospitality in Poderejal was doubled by the woman’s pregnancy in Henry’s version, it was at least tripled in the anony­ mous author’s adaptation. The liminality here was further enhanced by the bodily porosity, otherworldly permeability, juxtaposition of incongruable timescapes, and blur associated with the sauna as a space of hospitality.86 God’s direct retaliation for the inhospitality shown by the Estonian couple to the German merchant also suggests that the murder in the sauna was interpreted as going beyond the current conflict between Christianity and paganism or the legal ramifications of inhospitality. The murder threatened the balance between the worlds of the living and the dead which extended to even more basic forces of nature and the cosmos. In this miracle story, the obligations of hospitality way transcended the notions of politeness or courtesy. This appealed to the most rudimentary local, and often pagan, conceptions of the sacred, which thus invaded the narrative of the Livonian Rhymed Chronicle.87 In the light of this evidence, it is thus worth adding the fourth function to Vercamer’s tripartite categorization of the saunas: the sauna as as the other, liminal space of uncertain host-guest relations.

Metaphors: Hostile Guests and Hospitable Enemies If the ambiguity inherent in the social codes and ethics of hospitality could have such destabilizing consequences, it is time to ask what effect it could have on the formation of identities in thirteenth-century Livonia. As stated in the introduction and convincingly argued in a growing body of research, the way cultural attitudes and intentionality of other people were represented in courtly narratives was central for their audiences’ potential for self-reflexivity. Simply put, the ethical and emotional coding of protagonists’ actions was a way of experimenting with and training the different attitudes the audiences of such texts could have had towards other people. As demonstrated above, the roles of hosts and guests did shape the identities of the protagonists in the Livonian Rhymed Chronicle.

84 85 86 87

Foucault, ‘Of Other Spaces’, p. 26; Franklin, Everyday Cosmpolitanism, pp. 82–84. Cole, ‘Homotopia, or, Reading Sagas’, p. 105. van Dam, Het middeleeuwse openbare badhuis, pp. 156–89; Foucault, ‘Of Other Spaces’, p. 26. Gieysztor, Mitologia Słowian, pp. 79–80; Vahros, Zur Geschichte und Folklore, pp. 79–95; Wodziński, Odys gość, pp. 91–131; Banaszkiewicz, Podanie o Piaście i Popielu, pp. 147–71.

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Hence, for the audience of this text, and also its author, the imaginary displays of courtesy and hospitality presented in the chronicle performed the different attitudes they could have had towards the native population. In the context of the chronicle, whose knightly protagonists and recipients were practically the same people, this must have entailed a great deal of identification between the listeners and these literary avatars.88 The question is in what ways the theme and perspective of hospitality in the Livonian Rhymed Chronicle may have shaped the (self-)dispositions of its audience? What can the eye of the beholder tell us about the I of the beholder? The Livonian Rhymed Chronicle offers an extraordinary opportunity to answer these questions by focusing on the author’s use of metaphors and similes. In his comprehensive exposition of the structure, genre, and pre­ sumed audience of the chronicle, Murray briefly remarked that a number of puns used by the author plays on the double meaning of the Middle High German word gast (pl. gesten), meaning guest as well as stranger and outsider.89 For instance, during the attack of the Samogitians on the stronghold of the Teutonic Knights in Dobeln (Latvian: Dobele), as the pagan forces start to storm the castle ‘the brothers were not slow to lavishly entertain their guests [“gesten”], but the pagans had little joy from such gifts [reception] given to them — many men who rushed the house [cas­ tle] were laid low’. The pagans withdrew and ‘those who had tasted of the Brothers’ welcome had soon enough of it and were carried away dead’.90 It is clear that the metaphor of hospitality drives the description of the battle. Further, the basic logic of these puns was perfectly reversible. On another occasion, during the retaliatory attack on the castle of Kretenen (Lithuan­ ian: Kretinga), north of Memel (Lithuanian: Klaipėda), the roles changed: ‘The brothers pursued them into the fortress at Kretenen and there the earnest guests/strangers [“geste”] killed all their hosts [“wirte”]’.91 The principal victims of this attack were pagan women and children and, as if 88 Bumke, Höfische Kultur, ii, 700–09; Althoff, ‘Spielen die Dichter’, pp. 53–71; Schnell, ‘Erzähler – Protagonist – Rezipient im Mittelalter’, pp. 24–30, 35–44; Hasty, The Medieval Risk-Reward Society, pp. 118–22; Dunbar, ‘Cognitive and Network Constraints’, pp. 16–18; Yee and Bailenson, ‘The Proteus Effect’, pp. 271–90; Ereira and others, ‘Social Training Reconfigures Prediction Errors’; Gallagher, ‘Empathy, Simulation, and Narrative’, pp. 355– 81; Neecke, Literarische Strategien, pp. 11–17; Rank, The Double, pp. 3–33. 89 Murray, ‘The Structure, Genre and Intended Audience’, pp. 243–44. 90 Livländische Reimchronik, ed. by Meyer, vv. 5455–64: ‘die brûdere wâren nicht zû laz, | sie schenketen baz unde baz | iren gesten, die dar wâren komen. | die heiden hatten keinen vromen | des schenkens, des man in dô pflac. | vil manich man dâ nider lac, | der vor daz hûs quam gerant. | ûf hôr sie trâten al zû hant. | geschenket wart in sô genûc, | daz man sie tôt von dannen trûc’; The Livonian Rhymed Chronicle, trans. by Smith and Urban, p. 69. 91 Livländische Reimchronik, ed. by Meyer, vv. 7044–47: ‘die brûdere jageten in nâch | zû Kretênen in die veste. | die ernsthaften geste | ir wirte slûgen si alle tôt’; The Livonian Rhymed Chronicle, trans. by Smith and Urban, p. 87.

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to hammer his point home, the author added sarcastically: ‘They [women and children] learned that [these] guests had come from whom they would have little use, and they paid for the victory they had won earlier’.92 This reversible metaphor of hospitality applied to combat seems to have been perennially upsetting and abusive, especially when presented with such sarcasm and irony. According to this logic, guests would occa­ sionally force the door of the host’s house and invade it. For instance, in the mid-1250s Teutonic Knights on their way from Memel to Samland had to cut through a mighty barricade dividing the Curonian Spit made of tree trunks, which was ‘black as night’. After the barrier was breeched and Samland lay open, ‘the Samites knew that they were being burdened with guests who wished to do them harm’.93 Sometimes the guests would invade pairs and jointly burden the host: for instance, in the mid-1280s the Semgallian army readied itself for an attack against the Teutonic Knights’ castles at Heiligenberg and Terweten (Latvian: Tērvete). When they saw their Lithuanian allies arrive, they ‘rejoiced’, and together with ‘their guests [“mit den gesten”] rushed toward the above-mentioned castle’.94 The visits of such guests obviously pleased no one, as we also learn from an account of the attack on the Curonian fortress of Gresen near Amboten (Latvian: Embūte) that probably took place in the mid-1260s: ‘It was still very early when the army entered the fortress, where no one invited those guests — I can assure you of that. Many of the hosts were slain in very short order’.95 Once in, the guests — particularly the Teutonic Knights — had an awful habit of overstaying their welcome and abusing their hosts. During the campaign against the Semgallians around 1227, having defeated the pagan army, the Knights plundered the region for a considerable period: ‘The Master stayed in the land for three weeks and those who were the cause of his coming soon learned how they should take care of him. When the guest gives the orders, it is a very hard day for the host’.96 The outcomes of such courtesy and hospitality were always the same: terror 92 Livländische Reimchronik, ed. by Meyer, vv. 7051–53: ‘den sie hetten vor nomen. | in wâren sulche geste komen, | der sie genuzzen cleine’; The Livonian Rhymed Chronicle, trans. by Smith and Urban, p. 87; Urban, ‘Victims of the Baltic Crusade’, pp. 195–212. 93 Livländische Reimchronik, ed. by Meyer, vv. 3994–96: ‘dâ wart den Samen bekant, | daz sie wâren verladen | mit gesten, die in wolden schaden’; The Livonian Rhymed Chronicle, trans. by Smith and Urban, p. 53. 94 Livländische Reimchronik, ed. by Meyer, vv. 9991–95: ‘des wâren die Semegallen vrô. | nicht lenger sûmeten sie sich dô: | die Semegallen mit den gesten | îlten vor die vesten, | diu ûch hie vor ist genant’; The Livonian Rhymed Chronicle, trans. by Smith and Urban, p. 121. 95 Livländische Reimchronik, ed. by Meyer, vv. 7252–60: ‘ez was dannoch harte vrû. | daz her in die burc trat, | niemant ez zû gaste bat, | bereitet alzû mâle wol, | als ich verwâre sprechen sol. | dô wart in sneller île | in vil kurtzer wîle | der wirte vil geslagen tôt | und ouch gebrâcht in sulche nôt’; The Livonian Rhymed Chronicle, trans. by Smith and Urban, p. 89. 96 Livländische Reimchronik, ed. by Meyer, vv. 1713–18: ‘der meister in dem lande lac | drî wochen. wie man sîn dô pflac, | des mochten sie wol nemen war, | durch die er was geriten

LIVONIAN RHYMED CHRONICLE: HOSPITALITY AND IDENTITIES

and flight. When in c. 1265, Master Konrad von Mandern (r. 1263–1266) led a successful campaign against the Semgallian forces, the latter ‘all fled into their fortresses to escape from their foreign guests [“vor den vremden gesten”], that is, the Brothers and their army’.97 After such devastating visits, ‘the guests then rode home without further delay’, as the crusader army had done after it destroyed the Semgallian stronghold of Racketen (Latvian: Rakte) around 1290.98 Whether they played the role of guests or hosts, however, it was usually the Teutonic brothers who were victorious in the end. War was a feast of calamity and exploitation.99 For sure, as demonstrated in Chapter 5, this narratively expedient metaphor of vicious hospitality applied to — and hence ritualized — scenes of warfare and military action was not an uncommon literary device in twelfth- and thirteenth-century Latin historiography. The anonymous author of the Livonian Rhymed Chronicle was not the only one to employ it in Middle High German either, though he might have been the first to do so in the Baltic context. Nicolaus von Jeroschin used a very similar expression, when narrating the storming of Kymel (Lithuanian: Kelmė) castle in 1295: It was strong and well garrisoned and the brothers’ forces had attacked it repeatedly in the past at great cost and to little effect. They fearlessly ran at the castle gates before the heathens in the castle knew they were coming. The unwanted guests ferociously attacked the host and his household and murdered all of them [‘Dâ wurdin von den gestin | wirt unde huisgenôzen | vîentlich vorstôzen, | want sî sî gar irmorten’]. Then they set the castle on fire and razed it to the ground.100 In Nicolaus’s version, the connection and the blur between the host-guest relation (gestin, wirt), the sense of the home space (huisgenôzen), and invasive hostility (vîentlich) is spelled out to the full. This example is

97 98 99 100

dar: | wâ der gast gebieten mac | dâ hât der wirt vil swâren tac’; The Livonian Rhymed Chronicle, trans. by Smith and Urban, p. 24. Livländische Reimchronik, ed. by Meyer, vv. 7414–17: ‘die Semegallen alle sider | vlohen ûf ir vesten | vor den vremden gesten; | daz wâren die brûdere mit ir schar’; The Livonian Rhymed Chronicle, trans. by Smith and Urban, p. 91. Livländische Reimchronik, ed. by Meyer, vv. 11087–94: ‘nicht lenger wart dô gebiten, | die geste hin zû hûse riten’; The Livonian Rhymed Chronicle, trans. by Smith and Urban, p. 133. Hayden, ‘Fabulous Feasts’, p. 37. Nicolaus von Jeroschin, Di Kronike von Pruzinlant, ed. by Strehlke, vv. 20798–815: ‘wol gemmanit unde vast, | von der dî brûdre ubirlast | hattin genûc gedoigit | und ofte geurloigit | dâkegin mit kostlîchir craft | und doch lutzil icht geschaft. | Zu der burc sî sundir grûwe | nâmin einen snellin hûwe | und daz tor irrantin, | ê denn ir kumft irkantin | dî heidin ûf der vestin. | Dâ wurdin von den gestin | wirt unde huisgenôzen | vîentlîch vorstôzen, | want sî sî gar irmorten. | Darnâch an allin orten | wart dî burc von in inzunt | und vortilgit in den grunt’; Nicolaus von Jeroschin, The Chronicle of Prussia, trans. by Fischer, p. 232.

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fascinating also because the Kronike von Pruzinlant is a Middle High Ger­ man translation-cum-adaptation of the Latin Chronicon Terrae Prussiae by Peter von Dusburg written a decade earlier. But the Latin original simply states that the inhabitants (habitatoribus) of Kymel were slaughtered by the brothers. The discourse of hospitality is absent.101 The battle scene is evidently reframed by Nicolaus through the host-guest relationship. This strongly suggests that for the writers in the Teutonic Order the ambiguity of hospitality was related to and enhanced by code-switching to German and its semantics and linguistic frame. Let us return to the Livonian Rhymed Chronicle. It should be noted that the text does also operate with other conceptualizations of combat, such as teaching the enemies how to die, as a rude awakening, or as unnecessarily getting out of bed in the morning.102 Nevertheless, if the frequency of use is a good indication of preference, then cruel hospitality and armed entertainment between hosts and guests were the metaphorical and literary weapons of choice of the anonymous author. The narrative adaptability and sheer abundance of these expressions in the chronicle is striking, especially when compared with Nicolaus von Jeroschin’s work which uses such comparisons very sporadically. In fact, given overall pre­ occupation with the theme of hospitality in the Livonian Rhymed Chronicle, it seems that the guests and hosts fighting in thirteenth-century Livonia were more than just a narrative motif. Rather, again, what we find is a structural metaphorical concept functioning as a crucial frame of mind. This metaphor was a schema for the anonymous author to conceptualize and adjust the social and political relationship between the crusaders and colonizers and the local population. The domain of hospitality, chivalry, and courtesy lent the anonymous author the vocabulary necessary to structure the apparently less figurative domain of war-making.103

101 Peter von Dusburg, Chronicon Terrae Prussiae, ed. by Töppen, 265 (258), p. 162: ‘viderent castrum firmum dictum Kymel, pro cujus destructione fratres et sumptus et labores per se et per suos sepius iterabant, licet non proficerent. Quod intrantes viriliter, occisis habitatoribus, ipsum apposito igne funditus cremaverunt’; Wüst, ‘The Chronicles of the Teutonic Order’, pp. 371–400. 102 Livländische Reimchronik, ed. by Meyer, vv. 1454, 8963, 9145–46; Murray, ‘The Structure, Genre and Intended Audience’, p. 244. 103 The connecting hinge in classical and medieval Latin is the polysemy of hospes meaning both host and army. This polysemy is preserved in the same double sense of the English word host meaning a receiving party as well as a multitude and army; both meanings can be traced to the thirteenth century: ‘host, n. 1’, Oxford English Dictionary Online. June 2021. http://www.oed.com/view/Entry/88743? rskey=k0uQzO&result=1&isAdvanced=false (accessed 2021–06–02). ‘host, n. 2’, Oxford English Dictionary Online. June 2021. https://www-oed-com.ezproxy.ub.gu.se/view/Entry/ 88744?rskey=kbAfZM&result=2&isAdvanced=false (accessed June 2, 2021); Lakoff and Johnson, Metaphors We Live By, pp. 3–6, 61–68.

LIVONIAN RHYMED CHRONICLE: HOSPITALITY AND IDENTITIES

The cognitive expediency of this metaphorical concept hinged on the semantic ambiguity of the word gast as both guest and stranger, as rightly pointed out by Murray. As shown above, in the Livonian Rhymed Chronicle the codes of hospitality seemed paramount and appeared in both intercultural and intracultural contexts. For every example of an abusive guest listed here, the chronicle contains many examples of benign and non-threatening visitors received by both Christians and pagans, such as the annual arrival of crusader guests from Germany. Nonetheless, the position of the metaphorical guests in the Livonian Rhymed Chronicle relates more to the Simmelian observations about the ambiguity inherent in the notion of the stranger/der Fremde, in which a relationship with a stranger designates a very special type of interaction like that discussed in Chapter 4.104 This type of stranger/gast is culturally and religiously dis­ tant, bur physically threateningly near. The vantage point from which the anonymous author viewed the pagan adversaries of the Teutonic Knights was positioned in an ambiguous space of hospitality, where the other’s ‘proximity is remote’ and his ‘distance is close’.105 As the metaphorical expressions studied here reveal, the Teutonic Knights could also assume the roles of hostile guests, hospitable enemies, and suffering hosts. The perfect reversibility of the roles of guests and hosts in this chronicle suggests that the ambiguity of hospitality went beyond the meaning of the word gast and its etymology in the Middle High German. It related to the same conceptual and semantic ambiguity of hospitality in many Indo-European languages hinted at previously, which continuously eroded the etymological and institutional stability of the en­ tire host-guest compound. It is worth collecting these scatterred remarks here. On the one hand, the ancient Latin equivalent of the Gothic gast, from which the Middle High German evolved, was hospes. The position of gast/hospes (presenting a host’s position literally as this of a guest-master) framed both the self-identity of the host/master and his power domain, as demonstrated by the example of Mindaugas and others before. On the other hand, the term hostis — etymologically stemming from notions of equalization and compensation — historically mutated into meaning both stranger and enemy in classical Latin, before evolving into the more abstract notion of hostility.106 As a result, the abstract institutional compounds of hospitality/Gastfreundschaft and host-guest relationships in thirteenth-century Livonia — from the point of view of the anonymous author and perhaps his audience at least — remained ineradicably threat­ ened by hostipitality.

104 Simmel, On Individuality and Social Forms, pp. 143–49. 105 Friese, ‘Spaces of Hospitality’, p. 68; van den Broek Chávez and van der Rest, ‘The Hospitalities of Cities’, pp. 31–53; Simmel, On Individuality and Social Forms, pp. 143–44. 106 Benveniste, Dictionary of Indo-European Concepts, pp. 61–73.

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All these themes — the host-guest metaphor, the ambiguous proximity and distance in the space of hospitality, the necessity of guests for the establishment of the hosts’ or masters’ identities, and the compensatory, vengeful relationships with one’s enemies — coincide in the final example I would like to discuss here. It considers the preparations for the attack against the castle of the Teutonic Knights around 1252/1253. As the chronicler writes, ‘there were some in Samland who learned that a strong fortress that lay on the Memel [River], [was] full of many bothersome foreigners [“mit vil swêren gesten”]’.107 The pagans sent three scouts to undertake a reconnaissance, and as one of them, an anonymous Samite, gazed at the castle from a hill close to Memel, he allegedly uttered the following words: All the Christians there will regret this. They seem to me [to be] blind to all reason, out of their wits indeed, if they think they can stay here. I rejoice that our land, called Samland, has so many noble men who know how to conduct war. We will swiftly tear this crane’s nest to pieces. Then, from among the people who live on the shore, men, women and children, we will select by lot and sacrifice them, both big and small [i.e. adults and children-WJ], to our gods. No one can stop us.108 The scout then quickly returned to his companions and all three, angered by what he had seen (‘daz was in harte swêre’), rode back to Samland to deliver the information and incite the pagans to retaliate: ‘“It pains us”, the three messengers said, “that evil guests [‘bôse geste’] are living near us. […] It is a good advice: we say to you, that we should destroy it [the castle-WJ] and avenge [‘rechen’] ourselves with their lives”’.109 After the council, the Samites set about gathering an enormous coalition of ships and forces, eager to ‘turn back injustice’, but they were defeated by the Teutonic Knights.110 107 Livländische Reimchronik, ed. by Meyer, vv. 3725–28: ‘dô wart den von Samelant | von der Mimele bekant, | daz dâ lêge ein vesten | mit vil swêren gesten’; The Livonian Rhymed Chronicle, trans. by Smith and Urban, p. 50. 108 Livländische Reimchronik, ed. by Meyer, vv. 3746–64: ‘er sprach: “iz berûwet | alle die cristen, die hie sint. | sie dunken mich der sinne blint, | sie sint sunder witzen, | wênen sie hie besitzen. | ich vreuwe mich, daz unser lant, | daz Samelant ist genant, | hât sô manchen rischen man, | der mit urlouge kan | harte wol gebâren. | diz krêhennest wir zwâren | wollen zû kleinen stucken | in kurtzer wîle rucken. | die lûte die dar ûffe sint, | man, wîb unde kint | die wolle wir mit lôzen | die cleinen unde grôzen | unsern goten senden; | daz enkan niemant wenden”’; The Livonian Rhymed Chronicle, trans. by Smith and Urban, p. 50. 109 Livländische Reimchronik, ed. by Meyer, vv. 3772–74: ‘zû der Mimele. “iz tet uns wê” | sprâchen die boten alle drî: | “uns wonen bôse geste bî”’, vv. 3780–82: ‘“daz sage wir ûch wol bedâcht: | die wolle wir abe brechen, | an irme lîbe uns rechen”’; The Livonian Rhymed Chronicle, trans. by Smith and Urban, p. 51. 110 Livländische Reimchronik, ed. by Meyer, v. 3815: ‘“unrechtes sich moge irwern”’.

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There are four points to be made about this terrifically layered frag­ ment, particularly considering how it relates to crusader autoethnography. First, it is obvious that all these conversations and speeches were not eye­ witness accounts, second-hand information, or even reminiscences. They are purely products of the authorial invention, phantoms of imagination. That does not mean they are inconsequential. As shown by Murray and Mažeika, Baltic chroniclers’ use of direct speech can often be read as a way of framing liminality between conflicting cultures.111 In addition, the speaking Samite occupied the space of remote proximity, positioned far away and undetected on a hill, yet at the same time audible to the audience of the Livonian Rhymed Chronicle.112 His gaze on Memel is projected through a distorted perspective. It projects from a distant viewpoint which is incongruous with and thus drastically foreshortened by the intimacy necessary for an earshot. It has thus the same uncanny quality as the scene outside the gates of Riga in 1205, with which this book opened.113 Second, the whole scene effectively functions as some sort of black mirror, which in a sequence of speeches demonstrates how the Teutonic Knights framed how their enemies saw them. Basically: how we think that they think that we think.114 This reflective scene was a phantasmatic, roundabout exercise in self-cognition, that is, a ‘comprehension of self by the detour of the comprehension of the other’.115 The anonymous author reflexively imagined that the pagans perceived him and his brothers as evil guests and, accordingly, that the pagans identified themselves as the rightful hosts in Samland. This is as close as we get to the author’s quite elaborate theory of mind of his adversaries, that is, his ‘capacity to attribute mental states to self and others’ — which here is enabled and mediated by the metaphor of hospitality.116 Furthermore, this phantasmatic point of view of the Samitian scouts was also a truly Simmelian vision of the strangers. The Teutonic guests were not ‘as the wanderer who comes today and goes tomorrow, but rather as the man who comes today and stays tomorrow’, similar to what we saw in Otto of Bamberg’s example from 111 Murray, ‘Henry the Interpreter’, pp. 107–34; Mažeika, ‘Pagans, Saints, and War Criminals’, pp. 271–88. 112 Friese, ‘Spaces of Hospitality’, p. 68; van den Broek Chávez and van der Rest, ‘The Hospitalities of Cities’, pp. 31–53. 113 Žižek, For They Know Not, pp. 89–91; Jezierski, ‘Speculum monasterii’, p. 285; Warner, Publics and Counterpublics, pp. 80–81. 114 Mažeika, ‘Pagans, Saints, and War Criminals’, pp. 276–77, 285–88; Jezierski, ‘Speculum monasterii’, pp. 285–89; Bührer-Thierry, ‘Des communautés de païens menacées’, pp. 43–55. 115 Ricoeur, The Conflict of Interpretations, p. 4. This translation is taken from: Rabinow, Reflections on Fieldwork in Morocco, p. 5; Žižek, For They Know Not, p. 13; Laclau, ‘Subject of Politics’, pp. 146–64; Derrida, The Politics of Friendship, pp. 152–53, 162–63; Adams and Heß, ‘Encounters and Fantasies’, pp. 3–28. 116 Goldman, ‘Theory of Mind’, p. 402; Lakoff and Johnson, Metaphors We Live By, pp. 232–33; Bloch, How We Think They Think, pp. 24–27, 43–44; Bloch, In and Out, pp. 119–32.

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Pyrzyce from 1124.117 In the imagined eyes of the enemies in Livonia it was exactly this quality that made the Knights appear bothersome and simply out of their wits, and thus worthy of brutal elimination. The third point refers to the fantasy about the Samites’ motivations and compensatory logic behind their military action. According to the anonymous author, the pagans did not just intend to defeat the Teutonic Knights and oust them from the region. What drove them was anger and a thirst for vengeance. In describing this motivation, the author is project­ ing upon the pagans one of the major driving forces and emotionally buttressed ideologies behind the crusader movement in this region. Here, suddenly, it is not just the act of crusading that becomes an enactment of vengeance but also the resistance to it.118 As we saw in the previous chapter in Figure 7.2, especially in comparison to Figure 7.1, the feeling of vengeance (‘rechen’) was very evenly distributed between the Teutonic Knights and their adversaries. The emotion was attributable on both sides of the empathy wall and thus constituted a superb vehicle for simulating the minds of others as being not so different from one’s own. In this particular case, the form of the simulation was essentially a revenge fantasy. Finally, fourthly, according to this projection, the Christian men, women, and children of Memel selected for death by the drawing of lots were not simply victims of violence. The only way to compensate for the offence caused by the very presence of the evil guests and the resulting anger of their hosts was by sacrificing the guests themselves to the offended pagan gods.119 Even though the term hostia is not mentioned anywhere, structurally this concept organizes the subject positions here. It is, again, the same basic frame and economy of sacrifice and equalization that drives this episode. Its mechanism allowed the imaginary pagans to distinguish between and equate regular victims of warfare and sacrificial offerings — fighting and violence became religiopolitical gestures aimed at purifying their land of unwelcome guests.120 In other words, according to the anonymous author’s logic the pagan tribes were also engaged in a holy war, though not a war of conversion but of elimination. Once again, the evil guests in Memel, that is, the Teutonic Knights and German Christians, occupied an ambiguous space of hospitality, which this time stemmed from the ambivalence of the sacred which the imagined pagan hosts utilized to regain their master-identity in Samland. In order to achieve this,

117 Simmel, On Individuality and Social Forms, p. 143. 118 Throop, Crusading as an Act of Vengeance; Dragnea, ‘Divine Vengeance and Human Justice’, pp. 49–82; Nowakowski, ‘Alternativen der Vergeltung’, pp. 73–100. 119 Mažeika, ‘Granting Power to Enemy Gods’, pp. 153–71; Bernhardt, ‘Was ist Rache?’, pp. 49– 71. 120 Schmitt, The Concept of the Political, p. 35; Sawyer, ‘Sacrifice’.

LIVONIAN RHYMED CHRONICLE: HOSPITALITY AND IDENTITIES

the battle at Memel was transformed into a sacrificial ceremony and an act of retaliation, distantly echoing the scenes from Prussia in 1009 or Rügen in 1168.121

Concluding Remarks Zombies, (g-)hosts, phantoms of imagination. What kind of imaginary resolutions did these creatures deliver in thirteenth-century Livonia? Res­ olutions to what objective contradictions?122 After all, it seems paradoxical that the Livonian Rhymed Chronicle — an intellectual expression of a social group which used chivalry and courtliness as a way to elevate itself above its subalterns — is so infatuated with and menaced by the discourse and practices of hospitality as a way of framing the Teutonic Knights’ self-identity through the relation to their monstrous pagan, apostate, and infidel adversaries.123 As we saw in the previous chapter, the emotional frame through which the Teutonic Knights saw their relation with the native population was decidedly hegemonical. Yet, as Derrida put it, ‘hegemony still organizes the repression and thus the confirmation of a haunting. Haunting belongs to the structure of every hegemony’.124 Here the legitimacy of this hegemony is haunted by the ghostlike status of Teutonic Knights and crusaders and their uncertain lives and status as undecidable hosts or guests in Livonia. In contrast, the author and the missionary community lurking behind the Chronicon Livoniae — those actively engaged in day-to-day evangeliza­ tion, conversion, and preaching — appear to have been indifferent to the discourse and practices of hospitality as a way of framing their relations with pagans. Chronologically speaking, it would also be easier to imagine that the Christian presence in the region was regarded merely as a provi­ sional visit to a territory ruled by hostile hosts in Henry’s account from the mid-1220s, than in the narratives of the 1290s, over a century after the colonization of the eastern Baltic had begun. However, the exact opposite was true. Henry may have been eager to justify the crusade to Livonia, but this eagerness did not stem from any doubts about the Christians’ legitimacy to reside there.125 As stated previously, the perspective of the 121 Ridder, ‘Religiöse Tabus und negative Emotionen’, pp. 27–47; Angenendt, Geschichte der Religiosität, pp. 356–60; Agamben, Homo Sacer, pp. 71–86; Heffernan, Hospitality and Treachery, pp. 6, 9, 11, 14–22. 122 Althusser, ‘Ideology and Ideological State Apparatuses’, pp. 256–58; Torfi Tulinius, ‘Legitimation and Its Problems’, pp. 295–311. 123 Urban, ‘Victims of the Baltic Crusade’, pp. 202–06. 124 Derrida, Specters of Marx, p. 46; Moretti, ‘Dialectic of Fear’, pp. 83–108; Arnold, ‘Talking with Ghosts’, pp. 241–43. 125 Tamm, ‘How to Justify a Crusade?’, pp. 431–55.

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Livonian Rhymed Chronicle did not evolve from the worldview of the Chronicon Livoniae, but was a frame parallel to and distinct from it.126 How can this discrepancy be accounted for? Perhaps a tangential answer to this question can be provided by addressing the problem of the language barrier and the channels of communication between the colonizers and the colonized in thirteenth-century Livonia. Despite a few perceptive studies on orality and inter-linguistic exchanges in Henry’s chronicle and in Livonia in general, we still know frustratingly little about communication between Christian settlers, crusaders, and priests and natives and how the latter conveyed their views to the Westerners. Some insight into translations during diplomatic and war-related negotiations, and for the purposes of preaching, has been provided, however. Scholars have shown that inter-linguistic communication was not impossible and that it probably grew in scope over time, even though it depended on a low level of written culture and fleeting oral transmission for a very long time.127 There is one social group whose role as vehicles of acculturation grew over the course of the thirteenth century, and who may have conveyed such repressed outside views and voices, however. Views and voices that conceivably had a better chance of finding their way into the Livonian Rhymed Chronicle than into the Chronicon Livoniae. Something which might explain, for instance, why the anonymous’s thought experiment in self-alienation through enemies’ eyes outside of Memel in 1252/1253 is much more complex than that outside of Riga in 1205 performed by Henry with which this book opened. This group were the political hostages. As shown by scholars, the use of noble native hostages as a means of surety and allegiance proliferated both in Livonia and in Prussia throughout the period studied here. But while many hostages were taken to Germany during the early period of mission in these two regions, over time more and more hostages were kept in the Christian strongholds within the region. Learning the language and the new faith, but also acting as cultural brokers, intercultural translators, and prospective indigenous agents of evangelization, these involuntary guests lived ghostly, in-between lives in the households of the Teutonic Knights for extended periods, usually around ten years. They were witnesses to, and almost certainly participants in, the courtliness and hospitality performed by their Teutonic hosts, who actively encouraged their prisoners to mimic their mores. How­ ever, as these hostages were tucking in their local cultural habitus under

126 Ghosh, ‘Conquest, Conversion, and Heathen Customs’, pp. 87–108. 127 Murray, ‘Henry the Interpreter’, pp. 107–34; Selart, ‘Sprachenkompetenz’, pp. 155–84; Selart, ‘Popes and Livonia’, pp. 437–58; Jensen, Jensen, Lind, ‘Communicating Crusades and Crusading Communications’, pp. 5–25; Tamm, ‘Communicating Crusade’, pp. 341–72; Jensen, ‘Verbis non verberibus’, pp. 179–206; Selart, ‘Popes and Livonia’, pp. 437–58.

LIVONIAN RHYMED CHRONICLE: HOSPITALITY AND IDENTITIES

their new Western clothes, their experience of hospitality remained precar­ ious, their positions deeply ambivalent, and their emotional attachment to their hosts complicated, to say the least.128 In exceptional circumstances, some of them even turned against their Teutonic hosts after release.129 This is not to suggest that any opinions held by Livonian hostages can be isolated in the Livonian Rhymed Chronicle. The subalterns cannot speak in this text, at least not directly. It is only to suggest that interactions between the Teutonic Knights and their hostages kept in Livonian strongholds may have provided occasions in which the natives’ views and framing of their conquerors were expressed and discussed, providing food for thought for their occupant hosts and chroniclers during a period of radical societal change. In that narrow sense, the Livonian Rhymed Chronicle can be read as an emotional palimpsest too.130 It may thus have been the Teutonic Knights’ socially and culturally motivated investment of their self-image in chivalry and courtliness which they had to display to the guest crusaders which led to this obsession with hospitality. In other words, the author’s social mores began to un­ consciously determine crucial elements of his worldview. The result was that the positions of guest and host in the Livonian Rhymed Chronicle functioned as a pair of tightly bound, but empty signifiers able to be filled with any content. Hosts and guests constituted a set of supposedly distinct, yet in reality conflated and ambiguous roles. It is conceivable that the authorial preoccupation with host-guest relations also opened up a channel through which local cultural traditions, such as those concerning saunas, appreciation of the military valour of pagan warriors, and even personal equivalence pertinent to hostageship, travelled. Put differently, for the anonymous author and audience of the Livonian Rhymed Chronicle, the discourse of hospitality may have created an opportunity to engage with a whole row of social institutions and cultural views that served as a means of occasional accommodation with pagans and produced the new hosts’ hybrid identities.131 Still, to claim that the motif of hospitality saturating the Livonian Rhymed Chronicle was a symptom of self-doubt on the author’s or his audience’s part would be an exaggeration. This ambivalent, somewhat subversive spectral motif was just one among many, often more conspic­ uous ways of expressing the identities of Teutonic Knights and their 128 Bhabha, The Location of Culture, pp. 128–31. 129 Kaljusaar, ‘The Lives of Hostages’, pp. 23–46; Nielsen, ‘Mission and Submission’, p. 218; Kosto, Hostages in the Middle Ages, pp. 55–77; Niewiński, Jeniectwo wojenne, pp. 237–74. 130 Hicklin, ‘Aitire, 人質, тали, όμηρος, ‫ره ن‬, obses’, pp. 151–76; Kosto, ‘L’otage, comme vecteur d’échange culturel’, pp. 171–81; Spivak, ‘Can the Subaltern Speak?’, pp. 90–99; Spivak, ‘Ghostwriting’, pp. 70–71, 78–82; Bunn, ‘Reimagining Repression’, pp. 43–44; Arnold, ‘Talking with Ghosts’, pp. 247–49. 131 Elias, ‘Interfaith Empathy’, pp. 99–124.

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claims to cultural, moral, or social superiority over pagan societies. The lines between these groups were real and may have appeared to be rigid. But these lines were also constantly eroded by intercultural fluidity and spectral porosity. The Livonian Rhymed Chronicle — similar to Helmold’s Chronica, but unlike Henry’s or Adam’s works — is a text powered by and adjusted through risk-ridden hostipitality between missionaries or crusaders and local populations. Such in-betweenness, mutual entangle­ ment, antagonistic acculturation, and a sense of vulnerability of one’s social order were perhaps unavoidable when, as the author lamented, ‘“we are surrounded by many nations, all of whom war on us”’.132 Given the socially distancing role of this chivalric style of host-guest relations, however, it seems the risk position from which the anonymous chronicle was written represented a mixture of class society and risk society.133 In the headspace the anonymous author created for his audience and himself, Livonia as a whole was becoming the other space of hospitality. It was a dangerous, contingent, and threatened heterotopia, but which was also interculturally a porous and socially stratified one.

132 Livländische Reimchronik, ed. by Meyer, vv. 1357–58: ‘“wir sint mit manchen landen belegen | die alle strîtes ûf uns pflegen”’; The Livonian Rhymed Chronicle, trans. by Smith and Urban, p. 20; Devereux and Loeb, ‘Antagonistic Acculturation’, pp. 133–47; Graeber and Sahlins, On Kings, pp. 370–73. 133 Beck, Risk Society, p. 36; Frie, Meier, and Schmidt, eds, Bedroht sein.

CHAPtER 9

Epilogue

‘Civilisation’ does not contact ‘barbarism’. A collective consciousness, into which such a notion might (just) possibly fit, does not exist. […] What happens is, that men make contact with other men. Or, with other kinds of women. A. P. Thornton, Jekyll and Hyde in the Colonies

Conquest, Colonization, and Cultural Change: Emotions It is time to sum up the results of the analysis and experiments undertaken throughout this book which traced how missionary and crusader frontier experience was framed and organized in terms of emotions and host-guest relations. Clearly, these two perspectives both complete and qualify our understanding of Christianization processes and the ways cultural change took on the Baltic Rim. The hospitable and emotional sets of discourses and practices were not external to these processes. They were intrinsic elements of Christianization and cultural change. Agents of evangelization focused on and utilized emotions — both their own and their addressees’ — and hospitality for the sake of intercultural communication as well as a means of conversion and conquest, be it bargaining for baptism and gift-giving between the pagan elites and the missionaries like in the case of Otto of Bamberg or Mindaugas’s conversion, in addressing the pagan assemblies like in the case of Bernhard or St Adalbert, in violent cultural and ritual submission like in the case of Arkona’s conquest, in habitation among pagan communities like in the case of Ansgar or Bruno of Querfurt. To put it in functionalistic terms these two discursive and practical means served most of the time as facilitators but also, occasionally, as inhibitors in these large processes. Emotions, to begin with, were pre-eminently purposefully employed as ways of framing intercultural communication. As we saw in manifold examples, fear and terror were not just byproducts of warfare or exposure to danger. They were utilized as its means and as a way of treating the local population. In this, the hitherto under-examined emotions of distrust, fear,

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terror, and sense of unsafety were the most conspicuous form of emotional bonding between the Christians and the natives. These emotions were to some extent the first affective steps, before more advanced but sequentially secondary emotional discourses such as Christian anger and vengeance and, further down the line, friendship, brotherhood, or love were activated, the last three of which were intimately connected to baptism and conver­ sion and have thus traditionally received scholarly attention. The very same emotions were also the building blocks of the Christian societies and their future on the frontier. They worked as ways of circumscribing and limiting these social formations and thus fashioned their politics of belonging and non-belonging. Emotions also helped to set up divisions and stratifications within these societies. Emotional discourses, spaces, and practices thus set conditions as to who they might empathize with or not, whom to grieve or lament for, whose life and pain to scorn, whom to invite to the space of love and brotherhood, and whom to leave outside the door or force to enter. There is no doubt the inner lives and feelings as well as emotional reliability and transparency of pagans, soon-to-be-converts, and converts, mattered greatly to the missionaries and crusaders. Just as the emotions of both groups did to the authors who depicted and partook in such evangelizing efforts. And finally, so too did their own emotions about the emotions of others. Given the main focus of this book on risk and its related emotions, that is, fears and (un-)safety, my results concur with Spencer’s observations that there was a great variability of experiences and the use of these emotions in missionary and crusader contexts. Anxiety, fear, horror, and terror were a part of the frontier experience, but in no way was this emo­ tional experience uniform. For sure, the omnipresence of fear, anxiety, and distrust is perhaps a common denominator in the contexts studied here and the base cord related to dwelling on the Baltic frontier. The frontier was a scary place which many clerics tried to avoid and from which they fled given the occasion. The senses of uncertainty, unsafety, and distrust towards others, particularly towards permanent and accidental pagan or converted neighbours constituted the basic emotional tone. But fears and anxiety could also be overcome and transgressed. The fearlessness of holy men, like Ansgar or Otto of Bamberg, or of members of military orders or noble elites who professed martial virtues, quickly became legendary and worthy of emulating. Especially given the way these related values were propagated in the hagiography and historiography. For sure, as we saw in the case of the siege of Süssel in 1147 or with other sieges, that with the incursion of the crusader emotional discourse fear was seen in relation to anticipated shameful behaviour, as pointed out

EPILOGUE

by Spencer for crusader contexts writ large.1 But in general, missionary and crusader fears in the face of pagan danger could be admitted to and constructively managed without incurring shame, invoking ridicule, and without seeking to purge them entirely, like we saw in the examples of Thi­ etmar, Helmold, and many of Henry of Livonia’s protagonists. Amicable, friendly fears also constituted a form of emotional care and a vehicle of so­ cialization within the Christian communities, be them among the frontier elites, professed more generally among frontier communities, or between men sent to the periphery and their communities in core European regions insulated from such dangers. In Adam of Bremen’s case, we saw examples of vicarious but sterile and disarmed anxieties, experienced from afar, para­ doxically evoking a sense of safety. Finally, the apparent career of terror is that it went from being part of the missionaries’ emotional experience and fate — like we saw in the case of Bruno and his emotional community — and a God-sent feeling, which men like Ansgar could channel against their oppressors, to gradually becoming an ever more secularized crusader weapon activated at will. Despite these broad trends and occasional tendencies to develop widely shared emotional stereotypes and frames, especially when it comes to portraying the others as dangerous, rabid, insane animals, and despite the tendency to dissolve and subsume individual affective experiences or traumas into a generalized angst in relation to the frontier condition, what is most striking are the differences between emotional discourses and practices visible in particular contexts and texts. Again, I concur with Spencer who claims that authorship — and by extension, the individual experience and belonging to a particular emotional community with its own affective standards — was the decisive factor in developing these discourses and senses of risk.2 As was shown comparatively in Chapter 7, even within largely the same sociopolitical context of thirteenth-century Livonia there existed quite different ways of framing emotional communi­ ties and regimes among the Christian and crusader populations. These led to different understandings of empathy vis-à-vis the local population, quite opposed roles of emotions in societal and cultural change, and very different levels of interest in the inner lives of natives. Similarly, the com­ parison between Adam and Helmold showed quite opposing senses about the immediacy of pagan danger and the experience of the frontier or the distance from it. This is in spite of considerable overlap between the latter’s Chronica with the former’s Gesta. The same variability applied to Henry of Livonia, Bruno of Querfurt, and the authors of lives of Ansgar and St Adalbert, and the anonymous author of the Livonian Rhymed Chronicle, who all channelled their — sometimes imagined — experiences of the 1 Spencer, Emotions in a Crusading Context, p. 241. 2 Spencer, Emotions in a Crusading Context, pp. 247–48.

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frontier and conceptualized the dangers slightly distinctly. Life on the Baltic frontier was not as emotionally and socio-psychologically homoge­ nizing as we might have assumed. A frontier meant and felt differently to different people and encompassed a very broad spectrum of experiences. In temporal sense, emotions — fear and joy in particular — were used to reframe and rewrite the past, just as histories written by other authors were used as emotional palimpsests. Such historical use of emo­ tions served, for instance, as a means of distancing the chroniclers’ and their communities’ own present from their past or as marking progress e.g. a distinction and transition from the bygone times of horror at the beginnings of evangelization from the more hopeful and joyful current state of building a Christian society on the periphery. The temporal use of emotions went in the opposite direction too. Sometimes emotions were employed as ways to connect the past — e.g. biblical past — close to the current crusader efforts and legitimize them, like in the case of the theatre of horror in Riga in 1205. Finally, emotions had a futuristic dimension too. With their help the authors could, for instance, produce emotionally-bound projections of love for the emerging Christian societies on the periphery and integration with the local populations. Vis-à-vis these optimistic, joyful projections, some authors presented gloomier, frightening visions of the future encounters in the lands of horror as spaces of hospitality. In this spatial sense, emotions were not just about temporal projections. They were above all about risky, besieged spatiality in which the members of the frontier risk societies currently lived or occasionally found themselves like in the case of sieges.

Conquest, Colonization, and Cultural Change: Hospitality Turning to the discourses and practices of hospitality, these played the role in conversion as envisioned by Adam of Bremen, but in a manner radically at odds with his optimistic attitude. Host-guest relations were not open doors for agents of evangelization to simply enter pagan communities. The descriptions of meetings between missionaries and crusaders quite often operated with the language of hospitality, presenting the agents of evangelization as guests and strangers relying on their pagan hosts. But almost just as often these authors — and seemingly the protagonists of these meetings — had trouble distinguishing between consensual and am­ icable line of conduct, between hostile and agonistic attitudes. More often than not hospitality was a means of competition and comparison between hosts and guests. It was also used as a proxy for open conflict. Hospitality was thus practised through and led to infiltration, symbolic colonization, spatial appropriation, exploitation of indigenous cultural customs, etc. The

EPILOGUE

Christian guests utilized a full spectrum of means in their host-guest rela­ tions aimed at the conversion of their hosts: cajoling, mediation, threats of violence and political backing, mimicry and ostentatious otherness, and gifts. These exchanges of gifts included simple munera, but also gifts of highly symbolic weight, like in the case of the crown for Mindaugas, or voided, dangerous gifts like in the case of Ansgar’s Bible, Bernhard’s gift of himself, or the gift of love and brotherhood. Clearly, the doors of hospitality often had to be knocked upon or forced open. Sometimes a backdoor was a better way in. Their thresholds were always very high and these doors time and again turned out to be trapdoors. All this led time and again to blurring of the supposedly clearly distin­ guishable roles of hosts and guests. Consequently, this blur affected also the identities and subject positions of the involved parties. The hostipitable readings of Helmold’s Chronica and the anonymous Livonian Rhymed Chronicle as well as of the missionary hagiographies in Chapter 4 are cases in point. To their authors and audiences, hospitality was a highly ambiguous, perilous affair. Host-guest relations constantly produced ques­ tions and imaginary resolutions about master position, dominance, and subordination, about rights to reside on the frontier, about who got to call these regions their home and dwell there and who did not. These hospitable encounters and autoethnographic texts also worked like cul­ tural sponges. They sucked up influences from local customs and beliefs, Biblical models and discourses, frames of Christomimesis and notions of sacrifice, etymological ambivalences, liturgy, codes of courtliness, the individual experiences of risk-ridden host-guest relations, etc. As a frame for projecting the minds and the perspectives of others and thus serving as a vehicle of reflexivity, hospitality resulted in complex, at times, quite sub­ versive processes of (self-)identification and (self-)estrangement. Again, these texts and authors did not do that in a uniform fashion. Hospitality was a platform of intercultural relations, a means of (self-)transformation, and a frame of recognition only for some authors and groups of frontier societies, but far from all. Variability triumphed over homogeneity in the role host-guest relations played in the conquest, colonization, and cultural change on the Baltic Rim. In contrast to emotions, which predominantly operated within tempo­ ral facets, hospitality was usually framed in spatial terms. As stated above, spaces of hospitality and thresholds practically produced during these encounters and discursively in missionary and crusader texts functioned both as unavoidable traps and as necessary passages for agents of evange­ lization. These spaces were manifold: assemblies, markets, the outskirts of villages and cities, festive halls, tables, the sea, saunas, etc. They were both real and concrete as well as imaginary and metaphorical. The practical and discursive production and use of such other spaces were habitually marked with in-betweenness and blurred proximity and distance allowing their

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producers and users to negotiate and adjust their relationships and identi­ ties in consensual, agonistic, or sometimes antagonistic fashion. Gradually the precarious and provisional relations of hospitality were superseded with a more permanent forms and tenets of a Christian society on the frontier. But as we saw in the previous chapter, even a century after the start of the conquest colonizers were still haunted by upsetting apparitions which put their own right to call Livonia their home and their status as its rulers into question. Considered on this general level, it is clear that the missionary and crusader conquest, colonization, and cultural change that made the Baltic Rim through emotions and hospitality, produced in tandem with the local population, shows that the processes of evangelization and Christianiza­ tion had a less dichotomous and unilateral export character than often assumed. Acculturation was not a one-way street or a passive reception of a cultural export. It was a complex mutualistic process, which to an equal de­ gree transformed, hybridized, and consumed the agents of evangelization engaged in transforming of the local recipients.

Risks before Modernity, Knowledge without Concepts In this book I opted for softer terms like uncertainty or contingency over hard risks, but allow me to finally return to the question posed in the introduction. Were there risks and risk assessment in the Middle Ages? And what does the evidence of the missionary communities and crusader societies from the Baltic frontier have to say about premodern knowledge of risks? Clearly, there is no single document or instance discussed in the course of this book that could be pointed to as unequivocal evidence that the missionary and crusader authors or communities to which they belonged or described operated with a clear notion of risk. In this sense, any potential subjective observations of risks could not be treated as concepts or assessed, as Luhmann or Giddens would have it.3 But perhaps the bar set by this criterion is both too high and situated in the wrong position. By aggregating the evidence from several missionary and crusader theatres from across three centuries, it seems that these authors and societies did operate with senses and conceptualizations which were amalgams of dangers, risk, insecurity, and uncertainty. Their awareness of and attending to the conflicting emotional discourses and their engagement in uncertain host-guest relations demonstrate they could tacitly know, cognitively map out, or at least surmise the general condition

3 Luhmann, Risk, pp. 21–22.

EPILOGUE

of uncertainty and risk related to their existence on the frontier. These authors and the communities behind them knew more than they could write or say, so to speak. There was a functional as well as phenomenal relationship between these proximal domains of emotions and hospitality ridden with uncertainty and ambiguity and the more distant and abstract sense of risk connected to evangelization and cultural transformation. As stated in the introduction, the crucial distinction between premod­ ern hazards and modern risks is that the latter are commonly self-induced and self-inflicted. Dangers are supposedly external whereas risks depend on the decisions of the actors. There is little doubt that missionary and crusader risk were a mixture of both objective dangers and subjective sense of risks. However, the distinction between these two categories was far from stable. Rather, a whole lot of dangers presented by Christian authors as objective, in reality consisted of externalized, self-induced and thus sub­ jectively experienced risks which the evangelization practices and cultural conquest produced. Accordingly, the sense of vulnerability of missionary and crusader social orders was both real and self-manufactured at the same time.4 It is just that the self-inflicted character of those risks, dangers, and sense of vulnerability related to the frontier societies was always already forgotten, so to say. It fell prey to the structural amnesia of these authors and their communities, who framed others as the primary source of danger and painted themselves as victims in need of protection, merely practicing self-defence. This diffusion of responsibility and displacement of danger as well as sources of violence and aggression very likely contributed to pre­ serving a tacit and implicit rather than objectified and abstract knowledge of risk. The connection between frontier emotions and hospitality, on the one hand, and risk and uncertainty, on the other hand, was not just functional and phenomenal. It was also semantic. That is, it was meaningful — often existentially meaningful — to those who operated with this type of knowledge. Missionaries and crusaders on the Baltic frontier, including those who refused to travel there, interiorized and invested their identities in the sense of danger they were, or would be, exposing themselves to through their short or prolonged stay among frightening strangers. These emotionally and culturally entrenched frames of knowledge enabled them to also make second-order observations, which for Luhmann constitutes the distinction between objective dangers and subjective risks.5 The dis­ cursive frames of emotions and hospitality served not just as ways of mak­ ing observations and making distinctions between them, that is, of making first-order observations. They also enabled making sense of other people’s observations and differentiating between their perspectives and one’s own. 4 Giddens, ‘Risk and Responsibility’, p. 4. 5 Luhmann, Risk, pp. 21–22.

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As we saw most clearly in the example regarding the battle for Memel in the early 1250s in the previous chapter, but also in Bruno’s or Thietmar’s thoughts about mimicry, in the use of metaphors and metonymies of hos­ pitality and sacrifice in many texts, etc. these simulated frames also helped making sense of others’ observations of one’s observations. By attributing and including the perspectives of others on themselves, the missionary and crusader authors, their audiences, and communities they belonged to effectively produced second- and even third-order observations tainted with a sense of self-uncertainty in view of the other.6 The three aspects of frontier knowledge enumerated above — func­ tional, phenomenal, and semantic (sometimes complemented with the ontological) — are the crucial tenets of what Michael Polanyi dubbed tacit knowledge or what Bourdieu dubbed knowledge without concepts.7 This, I think, is how close we can approach the question of risk, its reflexivity, and the risk-ridden self-consciousness and introspection of members of Baltic societies based on the material used in this book. Risks associated with the Christianization and the life on the frontier thus turn out to be domain-dependent and situated in the person- and group-specific cultural forms, beliefs, experiences, and interests.8 They were framed and expressed through language of the concrete: emotions, hospitality (or hostility), codified through notions of liturgy, the ambivalence associated with the holy, sacrifice, codes and ideals of courtliness, metaphors, etc.9 In that sense, these pre-conceptual risks were not radically different from the simultaneously emerging notions of resicum, risico, etc. derived from Arabic rizq, which materialized in the merchant contexts around the Mediterranean. These too, as shown by Benjamin Scheller and others, grew out domain- and context-specific contingencies. They were just as intimately tied to economic calculations of loss, dangers and fortunes of the sea, unreliability of stranger merchants, etc. often framed in affective terms of (un-)safety or (dis-)trust. These terms did admittedly acquire greater semantic specificity and economic meaning in the institutions of Commenda, which begun to clearly distinguish between accountabilities and liabilities of investors and people directly involved in distant sea trade who performed these ventures.10 Still, the pre-conceptual, procedural, and

6 Andersen, Power at Play, pp. 12–18; Luhmann, ‘Deconstruction as Second-Order Observing’, pp. 763–82; Reimitz, ‘From Cultures to Cultural Practices’, pp. 272–75; Reimitz, History, Frankish Identity, pp. 7–8. 7 Polanyi, The Tacit Dimension, pp. 4–24; Bourdieu, Distinction, pp. 470–75; Jussen, ‘“Reich” – “Staat” – “Kirche”?’, pp. 274–75; Bloch, In and Out, pp. 114–17. 8 Polanyi, Personal Knowledge. 9 Jussen, ‘“Reich” – “Staat” – “Kirche”?’, pp. 281–82. 10 Scheller, ‘Die Geburt des Risikos’, pp. 305–31; Piron, ‘L’apparition du resicum en Méditerranée’, pp. 59–76; Luhmann, Risk, pp. 21–22; Zinn, ‘Risk, Affect and Emotion’, pp. 1–11.

EPILOGUE

blurred status of missionary and crusader sense of risks on the Baltic frontier does not mean that the authors or agents discussed here lacked the necessary intellectual capabilities or that they lacked the facets of reflexivity in view of the dangers they confronted. Quite the contrary. The complex mechanisms of framing reconstructed here are a good indicator of that. This also means that the research problem of premodern (senses of) risk and their knowledge does not exhaust itself in or can be narrowed to their abstract conceptualization, declarative knowledge, and semantic fields alone.11 *** As stated initially, the current historiography of the conversion and col­ onization of the Baltic Rim during the high Middle Ages is stretched between the grand narratives of aggression, the violent clash of cultures, and asymmetrical acculturation on the one hand, and tales of peaceful connections and intercultural accommodation, on the other hand. But, as shrewdly pointed out by several historians and anthropologists, despite our best efforts — and despite missionary and crusader authors’ best efforts — to reify cultures (both pagan and Christian cultures) in their medieval reality cultures did not meet other cultures. Civilization did not confront barbarism. Instead, men met other men and women.12 Or, as Rabinow put it: It should be clear that the view of the ‘primitive’ as a creature living by rigid rules, in total harmony with his environment, and essentially not cursed with a glimmer of self-consciousness, is a set of complex cultural projections. There is no ‘primitive’. There are other men, living other lives.13 Thornton’s and Rabinow’s words ring all the more true in the Baltic context considering the local variabilities, situational complexities, and the personal idiosyncrasies and viewpoints of the missionary and crusader experiences and senses of the frontier and their open-ended means of (self-)identification there. The cultural lines and divisions between and within these missionary and crusaders societies — including those drawn within their individual members — as well as the lines and divisions in­ forming their relations with the local populations were real. They also may have appeared as very rigid. What reinforced and blurred these lines, what bridged the divisions between these men and women and what pulled them apart, what helped them experiment with the relations between

11 Compare Sennefelt, ‘Bortom kunskapens gräns’, pp. 694–703. 12 Thornton, ‘Jekyll and Hyde in the Colonies’, pp. 226–27; Goffart, Barbarians and Romans, pp. 31–32. 13 Rabinow, Reflections on Fieldwork, p. 151.

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them and imagine these relations to be organized differently — but above all — what helped them make sense of their own as well as others’ collective and individual lives were, among other things, their feelings and frames of hospitality.14

14 Graeber and Wengrow, The Dawn of Everything, pp. 73, 92–98, 113; Bloch, ‘The Blob’.

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General Index

Absalon of Roskilde and Lund, bishop and archbishop: 79–80, 82, 150 Adalbert of Bremen, archbishop: 68, 75, 159–60, 165–66 St Adalbert of Prague, missionary and bishop: 22, 45, 51, 57–58, 71, 100, 102–07, 109, 112–14, 116, 118, 121, 129–31, 135–36, 141, 156, 275, 277 Adalvard of Bremen, archbishop: 76 Adam of Bremen, schoolmaster and chronicler: 26, 40–41, 55, 57, 59–60, 63–68, 72–81, 85, 88–95, 102–03, 127, 136, 140–42, 145– 49, 159–60, 165, 172–74, 189– 91, 200, 234, 251, 274, 277–78 Adolf II of Schauenburg and Holstein, count: 155, 158, 173 Agamben, Giorgio: 128–29 Albert of Buxhövden/of Riga, bishop: 82, 199, 208, 251–52 Albrecht I of Saxony, duke: 246–47, 251–52 Albuin, missionary and companion of St Otto of Bamberg: 132–36 Alexander III, pope: 160 alienation: 22–23, 27–28, 55, 118– 20, 135–36, 268–73, 278–79 Althoff, Gerd: 38, 142–43, 179 ambiguity: 25, 29, 34–36, 42–45, 49, 54–56, 99, 102, 107, 110–14, 120–23, 126, 128–29, 131–34, 136–38, 142, 145, 154, 164, 166, 170–74, 181, 184, 191, 195–97,

204–05, 238, 249, 253, 255, 262, 266–68, 270, 273, 279, 281 Amboten (Embūte): 264 Amlet (Amleth) of Denmark, legendary prince: 157–58 Anders Sunesen of Lund, archbishop: 82, 150 Andreas of Stierland, master of Teutonic Knights: 223, 248–49 anger: 51, 64, 70, 80, 98, 107, 112, 114, 117, 120, 124, 130, 137, 152, 155, 159–60, 178–79, 204, 211, 215–16, 220, 268, 276 Ansgar, missionary and bishop: 57, 68–74, 76, 80, 86, 89, 93–94, 109, 175, 199, 208, 275–77, 279 anxiety: 20, 34, 60–61, 64, 70–76, 80–81, 84, 93, 167, 175, 185, 194, 199, 204, 215, 276 Apulia (Apuolė): 175–76 Arkona: 79, 111, 147, 275 Arnold of Lübeck, abbot and chronicler: 55, 150–51, 163 Asia Minor: 26 Asser of Lund, archbishop: 149 asylum (sanctuary): 124, 125–31, 137–38, 260–61 audience: 46–47, 57, 61–62, 69, 73, 77–80, 101–02, 182, 210–11, 223–24, 236, 238, 242–43, 245, 262–63, 267, 269, 273–74, 279, 282; see also spectatorship St Augustine, bishop and philosopher: 134, 195–96, 199 autoethnography: 27, 58–59, 227, 269, 279

348

GENERAL INDEX

Autbert, companion of Ansgar: 74 Babylon: 110 Bamberg: 97–98 Bartlett, Robert J.: 28, 49–50, 54, 196–97 Beck, Ulrich: 24, 30–37, 45, 60–61, 65, 89, 93 Benedict (Bogusza), missionary and companion of St Adalbert: 104 Benveniste, Émile: 106, 112, 143 Bernard of Clairvaux: 190 Bernhard, magnate and vassal of Henry the Lion: 159 Bernhard of Spain, bishop and missionary: 115–22, 141, 147, 275, 279 St Berthold of Livonia, bishop: 85, 236 Beverin (Beverīna): 201 Birka: 70, 72, 120, 175, 229 Björkö, island on Lake Mälaren: 70 Black Sea: 25, 108 Blomkvist, Nils: 50, 53–55, 57–59 blur: 34–35, 43–46, 55, 58–59, 62, 90, 92, 100, 170, 199, 233, 256, 259, 262, 265–66, 279–80, 283– 84 Bogislaw of Pomerania, duke: 159 Boleslav I the Cruel of Bohemia, duke: 156 Bolesław I the Brave/Chrobry of Poland, duke and king: 103, 106, 260 Bolesław III the Wrymouth/ Krzywousty of Poland, duke: 115–16, 118, 125, 168 Bourdieu, Pierre: 227, 282 Bremen (also Hamburg-Bremen): 67–69, 74, 75, 77–78, 80, 88, 90– 91, 164–65 St Bruno of Querfurt, missionary and bishop: 45, 51, 57, 65, 103–

15, 118–19, 129, 141, 146, 148, 168, 199, 275, 277 Buc, Philippe: 179 Budivoj (Buthue), duke: 182–85, 189 Bulley, Dan: 42–43, 99 Burckhardt von Hornhausen, master of Teutonic Knights: 231, 247 Burgundy: 160 Butler, Judith: 120, 235 Bücken: 88 Bytom Odrzański: 168 cannibalism: 107–15, 145–46, 241– 42 Casimir of Pomerania, duke: 159 Caupo of Turaida, chieftain: 231 charisma: 165, 189, 235–36, 247 Charles the Bald, emperor: 70–71 Cistercians: 85, 89–90 clothes, clothing: 64–65, 110, 118– 20, 149–50, 163, 272–73 comfort, comforting: 67, 75, 214–15, 220, 223, 232–37, 241 Conrad of Everstein, count: 164 Cosmas of Prague, canon and chronicler: 156 Courland (Kurzeme): 175 Cubbesele (Krimulda): 198 danger (periculum): 21–22, 25, 30– 36, 45, 51, 53–55, 59–61, 65–66, 72–76, 78–80, 85, 87–89, 93–94, 120, 123, 126, 130, 134–35, 157, 170, 173, 181, 183, 229, 248–49, 274–83 Daniel from Lennewarden (Lielvārde), knight: 224 David, biblical king: 202–03 Demmin (in Mecklenburg): 122–23, 159 Denmark, Danes: 35, 46, 71, 74, 141, 149–58, 162–63, 254

GENERAL INDEX

Derevlians: 261 Derrida, Jacques: 41, 146, 154, 167, 229, 271 Dijon: 160 disgust: 60, 77, 90, 111, 146, 173, 189, 191, 250–52 distrust: see trust Dithmarschen: 183 Dobeln (Dobele): 263 Dobin: 191 Dziwna (Dievenow) River: 124–25 Eagleton, Terry: 220 Ebo of Michelsberg, hagiographer: 130, 132–33 Elbe River: 63, 183 emotional apartheid: 220–21, 227, 238–39 emotional bonding: 25, 28, 39, 47, 137–38, 177, 179–81, 185, 189, 191, 195–99, 202, 204–05, 209, 227, 229, 231, 237, 276 emotional labour: 66, 119, 224, 227, 235 emotional navigation: 131, 137, 152, 177, 188–89, 204–05, 211, 233– 36 emotional palimpsest: 59–62, 68, 88, 239, 273, 278 emotional space: 39, 87–95, 99, 105, 195, 278 empathy: 39, 65, 71, 77, 79–80, 165, 182, 195–96, 205, 208–09, 217– 18, 220, 230, 233, 235–39, 270, 276–78 enmity, making enemies: 19–21, 27, 42, 45, 53, 79–80, 93, 108–11, 125–28, 133–34, 137, 152–55, 167–69, 171–72, 176–80, 184, 187–91, 194–96, 199–205, 217– 18, 220, 222–23, 242–43, 252, 262–71 Erik Emune/the Memorable of Denmark, king: 155, 158

Esbern Snare, Danish magnate: 79– 80 Estonia, Estonians: 19–21, 85, 182, 185–86, 199, 224, 234, 236, 241, 252–58, 261–62 Evesham: 169 Eysteinn Erlendsson of Nidaros, archbishop: 110 Faldera (Neumünster): 80, 91–92 fear: 19–21, 34–37, 45–46, 51, 60, 65–66, 68–90, 93–94, 107, 124, 129, 131–34, 153, 157, 175–76, 179, 183–84, 186–88, 191–96, 198–99, 201–04, 214–15, 218, 220, 233, 235, 275–78 fearlessness: 45, 68–78, 80, 94, 131, 218, 265, 276 feasting: 41, 115, 121, 140, 143, 145– 46, 151, 153–57, 159, 165, 167– 68, 242, 246–47, 249–50, 252– 53, 265; see also food Fellin (Viljandi): 186, 199, 224 Finland Proper (south-western Finland): 85, 113 food (eating, drinking): 19–20, 75, 108, 110–11, 136, 139–40, 145, 149, 151, 166, 241–42, 246–47, 250, 253, 280; see also feasting Foucault, Michel: 261–62 Frankfurt am Main: 190 Fredehelm, duke: 199–200 Frederick I Barbarossa, German emperor: 81, 160–62 friendship, making friends: 41–42, 46, 53, 64, 122, 125, 132–34, 137, 146, 154, 170–72, 183, 194–97, 199, 205, 214–15, 217, 220, 228– 32, 239, 248, 250, 257, 260, 277– 77 Frisia, Frisians: 187 Frost, Robert: 220, 238

349

350

GENERAL INDEX

Gaudentius of Gniezno, missionary and archbishop: 104 Gauzbert, bishop and missionary: 70, 72–73 gaze: 21–22, 27, 65, 77, 106, 109, 119–20, 147,159, 217–18, 220, 244, 263, 268–70, 272 Gąsawa: 261 Gdańsk (Danzig): 103–04 Geertz, Clifford: 211 genre: 40, 62, 67, 73, 216, 251, 263 Gerald of Wales, chronicler: 255 Gerard of Arras-Cambrai, bishop: 201 Gerlach, priest: 187–89, 191 Germany, Germans, Germanic: 19– 20, 23, 27, 51, 68, 84, 90, 102, 111, 128, 134, 140–41, 143, 150– 51, 158, 162–63, 193–98, 218, 226, 245–47, 254, 256–57, 262, 266–67, 270, 272 German Empire: 46, 90, 115, 122, 151, 168, 190, 245 Gerold of Oldenburg and Lübeck, bishop: 78–79, 139–42, 160, 162, 173 Gerovit, deity: 123 ghosts: 255, 258, 260, 271–73 Giddens, Anthony: 30–34, 280 Gideon, biblical military leader, judge, and prophet: 202–03 gifts, gift-giving: 41, 70, 112, 118, 120, 124, 223–24, 228–30, 233– 36, 247–49, 263, 275, 279 Gniezno: 103, 114, 118 Goffman, Erving: 29, 39, 60 Gottfried, bailiff: 208 Gottschalk from Bardowick, priest: 147–48 Gresen: 258 grief, grieving: 37, 46, 51, 60, 198, 214–15, 220, 223–24, 232–37, 252, 276

Gunzelin, German magnate and vassal of Henry the Lion: 159 habitus: 142, 169, 227, 272–73 Hadrian IV, pope: 81, 160–62 Hamburg-Bremen, archbishopric: 67–69, 75, 78, 90, 172, 190 Harald Klak (Halfdansson) of Denmark, king: 71 Haraldstedt: 152 Hartmann of Paderborn, magister at the cathedral school: 164 Hartwig of Bremen and Stade, archbishop and count: 160 hate: 81, 107, 137, 178–79, 187–88, 191, 204, 211, 214–15, 257 Havelberg: 123 Hebbus, bailiff in Estonia: 241–43, 252–53 Heiligenberg: 264 Helmold of Bosau, priest and chronicler: 45–46, 55, 57, 60, 66–68, 74–75, 78–81, 87–94, 139–74, 181, 184, 187–89, 191, 197–98, 204, 242–43, 251, 274, 277 Henry the Lion, duke: 155, 158–59, 166, 173 Henry of Lübeck, duke: 88, 153, 166–69 Henry of Schwerin, count: 241 St Henry, missionary and bishop of Finland: 113 Henry II of Germany, emperor: 109 Henry IV of Germany, emperor: 75, 91 Henry V of Germany, king: 168 Henry of Livonia, priest and chronicler: 20, 45–46, 57, 66–68, 81–87, 181–82, 185–86, 196– 200, 202–05, 208–39, 242–43, 245, 251–58, 262, 271–72, 274, 277

GENERAL INDEX

Herbord of Michelsberg, hagiographer: 121, 124, 126, 128–33, 149 Herod, biblical king: 203 Hochschild, Arlie R.: 39, 217, 235 Holme (Mārtiņsala): 193–99, 204 Holstein, Holsteinians: 92, 183, 188 Holy Land: 26–27, 68, 188–89, 236 home (domestic space): 74, 76, 97– 99, 111, 120, 132–36, 153, 226, 263–71, 279–80 Honorius III, pope: 207–08 Horik II of Denmark, king: 74 Hornslet church: 181–82 horror: 26, 45, 60–61, 65–66, 70–71, 73, 77–78, 81, 84, 87–93, 118– 19, 141, 147, 149, 170, 173, 276, 278 hospitality, space of: 29, 42–43, 45, 90–100, 102–03, 105–07, 111– 12, 122–31, 133–38, 262, 267– 70, 274, 278–79 hostages: 63–65, 156, 235, 248–49, 253–54, 272–73 hostia: 111–14, 146–48, 169, 172, 270 hostipitality: 104–05, 167, 169, 172, 258–62, 267, 274, 279 Iberia, Iberian Peninsula: 22 Ibrāhīm Ibn Yaʿqūb al–Turtušī, merchant and traveler: 259 identification process, identity: 21– 25, 40, 45, 52, 54–57, 62, 64–66, 80, 94, 98–99, 102, 104–05, 113, 115, 119–20, 126–29, 133, 137, 146–48, 154, 171, 178, 181, 189, 205, 211, 243, 249, 255–58, 263, 267, 269–71, 279, ignorance: 34, 118, 218–19 Igor of Kyiv, prince: 261 Innocent IV, pope: 248 Ireland: 26

Iwanus, companion of St Otto of Bamberg: 149 Janson, Henrik: 190 Jensen, Kurt Villads: 54 Jericho: 133 Jerwia ( Järvamaa; Jerwen): 241–42 Johannes Canaparius, hagiographer: 103–04 John ( Johannes) Stric, priest and crusader: 85–86 Johnson, Mark: 168 jouissance: 227 joy, rejoicing: 37, 46, 51, 69–70, 81– 85, 107, 131, 167, 198, 201, 209, 211, 214–15, 220–28, 231, 233, 235, 239, 250–51, 263–64, 268, 278 Julius Caesar, emperor: 98, 116 Jutland: 90–91, 181–82 Kaljundi, Linda: 51, 142, 227 Kalmar: 126, 177 Kamień Pomorski (Kammin): 124 Karkus: 257 Karschauen: 231 keywords: 29, 47, 143–44, 169–70 Kipsal (Krimulda): 85 Knights Templars: 245 knowledge, tacit: 34–35, 169–74, 211–12, 272–74, 280–83 St Knud Lavard, Danish and Obotritian duke: 151–55, 159, 163, 172 Knud V Magnussen of Denmark, king: 155–57 Konrad von Mandern, master of Teutonic Knights: 265 Koselleck, Reinhart: 143 Kretenen (Kretinga): 263–64 Kruto, pagan duke: 88, 91, 153–54, 167, 183–85 Kujawiński, Jakub: 99, 133

351

352

GENERAL INDEX

Kukenois (Kuknese): 224 Kyivan Rus’: 108–09, 261 Lakoff, George: 168 Latvia: 19 Leszek the White, Polish duke: 260– 61 Letts: 185, 228 Liawizo I of Bremen, archbishop: 88 Liemar of Bremen, archbishop: 75– 76, 90, 141, 172–73 Lithuania, Lithuanians: 19–21, 85– 86, 175–76, 223, 244, 248–50, 264 Livonia, Livonians: 20, 23, 27, 39, 46, 50–51, 67, 81–87, 92–94, 178– 79, 181, 185–87, 192–205, 207– 74, 275–80 Livonian Rhymed Chronicle (Livländische Reimchronik): 46– 47, 57, 61, 209–39, 242–74, 277– 80 Livs: 226, 247, 256 Loccum: 85 Louis the Pious, emperor: 71, 89 Louis VII of France, king: 160–61, 164 love: 22, 37, 46, 51, 81, 107, 134, 178–79, 195–96, 204, 207–09, 211–12, 214–15, 220, 228–32, 234, 239, 276, 278–79 Luhmann, Niklas: 30–33, 239, 280– 82 Lupton, Deborah: 34 Lübeck: 55, 60, 67–69, 150 Maarat (Ma’arra al-Numan): 167 Maccabees: 69 Magdeburg: 113 Magnus Billung of Saxony, duke: 159–60, 183–85 Magnus Nielsen/the Strong, Danish duke: 151–54

Mainz: 88 Margareta Fredkulla, Danish queen: 152–54 Martha, Lithuanian queen: 248 Martin, Rigan citizen: 19–21 Mathilda of Everstein, German countess: 164 Matthew, evangelist: 21 Mažeika, Rasa: 53, 269 Mecklenburg: 122, 131–32, 140, 159, 191 Mediterranean Sea: 25, 32, 188, 259, 282 Memel (Klaipėda): 263–72, 282 St Meinhard of Livonia, bishop: 85, 231 mercy: 113, 214, 220, 235, 260 metaphors: 43, 84, 87, 90, 114–15, 135–36, 144, 148, 164–69, 242, 245, 262–71, 279–80, 282 Międzyrzecz: 109 Miller, William Ian: 90 mimicry: 119, 272–73, 279, 282 Mindaugas of Lithuania, king: 223, 248–49, 267, 275, 279 miracle: 70, 86, 108, 110, 113–14, 253–59, 261–62 Modzelewski, Karol: 51–52, 127 Moretti, Franco: 87, 143–44, 211 Mouffe, Chantal: 154 mourning: see grief Murray, Alan V.: 52–53, 246, 263, 267, 269 Nawwast (Pala): 186, 199 Nebuchadnezzar (II), king of Babylon: 110 Nethimer, Prussian ruler: 108–12 Nicolaus von Jeroschin, chaplain, Teutonic Knight, and chronicler: 250–51, 265–66 Nidaros (Trondheim): 110 Niels of Denmark, king: 151–54

GENERAL INDEX

Niklot, Polabian duke: 155, 158 Nithard, cousin of Bishop Gauzbert: 73 Norbert of Xanten, archbishop of Magdeburg: 123 Nordalbingia, Nordalbingians: 91 Nussbaum, Martha: 233, 236 Obotrites: 145–46, 151, 155, 158– 59, 183, 188, 242 Oddar, priest and relative of Svein Estridsen: 59–60, 78 Odra River: 97, 122 Olaf (I) of Sweden, legendary king: 71, 275 St Olaf Haraldsson of Norway, king: 110–12, 173 Oldenburg: 59, 67–68, 88, 140, 155 Old Lübeck (Alt-Lübeck): 80 Olga of Kyiv, princess: 261 ordeal: 108–10, 114–16, 176, 207–08 Orning, Hans Jacob: 171, 178, 180 Otepää: 224 Otto, priest: 85 St Otto of Bamberg, missionary and bishop: 45, 51, 57, 97–98, 100, 118, 121–35, 149, 167, 177, 221, 269, 275 Otto of Freising, bishop and chronicler: 155 Ösel, Öselians: 84, 198 Papendorf (Rubene): 67, 82 parasitism: 134–36, 165–66 St Paul, apostle: 69, 247 Paulicius, comes/castellanus of Santok: 129–30 Pechenegs: 108–09 Perec, Georges: 19, 29, 49, 97 Peter von Dusburg/Duisburg, Teutonic priest–brother and chronicler: 266 Peter Kakuwalde, priest and crusader: 85

Peter Lombard, philosopher: 195 Philistines: 202 Plön: 91, 182–85, 199, 203 Poderejal (Morsel-Podrigel, Riidaja): 257, 262 Poland, Poles: 65, 103, 106, 109, 115, 117, 121–22, 168, 177, 261 Polanyi, Michael: 282 polarization: 42–43, 51, 61, 124–25, 166, 187–91, 193–95, 209 politics, political relations: 23–26, 28–29, 31, 33–39, 42–43, 46, 50– 51, 53, 59, 74–75, 80, 98–102, 106, 111, 120, 125, 128, 131, 134–35, 138, 143–44, 151–54, 157, 159, 162–63, 170, 173–74, 176, 181, 184, 187–91, 195–98, 204–05, 209–11, 216–21, 225– 39, 239, 247–48, 253, 260, 266, 270, 272, 276–77, 279 Pomerania, Pomeranians: 27, 50, 97– 136, 146, 148–49, 159, 167, 177, 221 Prague: 156 Pribislaw of Mecklenburg, duke: 139–40, 142, 155, 158–59 Prussia, Prussians: 22, 27, 103–15, 136, 245, 250–51, 271–72 Pyrzyce (Pyritz): 121–23, 270 Rabinow, Paul: 34, 283 Rahab, biblical figure: 133 Ralph of Caen, chronicler: 167 rape: 185 Ratzeburg: 159 Redars (Redarians): 102 Reddy, William M.: 38, 40, 188, 203– 04, 237 reflexivity: 24–25, 27–40, 43–44, 57– 58, 62, 89, 95, 142–44, 162–63, 170, 262–63, 269, 279, 282–83 Reginar, Frankish magnate: 70–71, 208

353

354

GENERAL INDEX

Rethra: 102–03, 136 revenge: see vengeance Riedegost (Radigast, Radogost, Radogoszcz, Radogošč), pagan centre: 103 Riga (Rīga), Rigans: 19–21, 23, 36, 67, 82, 190, 193–95, 198–203, 208, 217, 236, 247, 251–54, 256, 269, 272, 278 Rimbert of Hamburg-Bremen, archbishop and hagiographer: 45, 68–74, 80, 89, 93–94, 176 risk: 21–40, 43–46, 49, 52, 54–56, 58–62, 65–66, 68, 74, 78–80, 86– 90, 93–94, 99, 101, 110–11, 140– 42, 151, 157–59, 163, 166, 170– 76, 181, 184, 195, 204, 274, 276– 83 rituals, ritualization: 29, 38, 43, 45– 47, 50, 79, 83, 106, 110–12, 114, 141–43, 148, 151–54, 159–64, 168–73, 176, 196–98, 202, 225– 27, 248, 251–52, 259–61, 265, 275 Rodenpois (Ropaži): 20 Rosenwein, Barbara H.: 37–39, 46, 65, 89, 180, 205, 213 Rosik, Stanisław: 133 Roskilde: 155–57 Rus’: 25, 108–09 Rügen, Rugians: 79–80, 111, 147, 149–50, 166–67, 171, 188, 271 Saccalia, Saccalians: 85, 241–42, 253–55 sacrifice: 86, 111–14, 129, 145, 147– 48, 169, 178, 203, 268, 270–71, 279, 282 Sahlins, Marshall: 225 Samland, Samites: 264, 268–71 Satan: 97–98 Saône River: 160

Saxo Grammaticus, canon of Lund and chronicler: 26, 79, 93, 151– 52, 157, 163, 170, 251 Saxony, Saxons: 63–67, 75, 85, 88, 91, 144–47, 151, 153–55, 158– 60, 166, 183, 190–91 Scandinavia: 35, 51, 69, 72–73, 90, 150, 165, 190, 208 Scheer, Monique: 39–40 Scheller, Benjamin: 282 Schmitt, Carl: 124, 217 Schwerin: 159 Seeburg (Grobiņa): 175 Segeberg: 67–69, 82 semantics: 36, 127–28, 170, 192–93, 209, 212, 237–39, 265–67, 281– 83 Semgallia, Semgallians: 20, 195, 264– 65 Shadrach, Meschach, and Abednego, biblical figures: 110 Siegfried II of Stade, margrave: 63– 64 Sigurd the Crusader, king of Norway: 177 Simmel, Georg: 100, 122, 147, 267, 269 Simon de Montfort, earl of Leicester: 169 Slavinia, princess: 153 Slavs, Slavic: 51, 59–60, 67, 70, 81, 88, 91, 102, 128, 134, 139–48, 151, 153, 158–59, 161–64, 166, 183–84, 187–88, 191, 208, 259 Småland region: 177 sonic warfare: see warfare, sonic space of hospitality: see hospitality, space of spectacle: 59–60, 63, 65, 78–79, 94, 169, 182, 200–02 spectatorship: 22–23, 50, 58–61, 63, 65, 77–80, 170, 200–03, 269; see also audience

GENERAL INDEX

Spencer, Stephen J.: 51, 54, 68–69, 86, 93, 236, 276–77 Stade: 63–64, 160 Stará Boleslav: 156 Strachkvas, monk: 156 Sturmarii: 183 subject positions: 94, 137, 200, 209, 270, 279 subjectivization process: 22–24, 31– 33, 36, 40, 43, 52, 54–57, 60, 62, 126–28, 137, 142, 195, 197, 211– 12, 217, 222, 225–26, 229, 233, 236, 247, 281 Sune Ebbesen, Danish magnate: 79– 80 Sutri: 161 Süssel: 187–91, 204, 276 Svantevit, deity: 79, 111, 147 Svein III of Denmark, king: 154–58, 167 Svein Estridsen of Denmark, king: 60 Svelgate (Žvelgaitis), Lithuanian chieftain: 19–20, 62 Sweden, Swedes: 22, 35, 40–41, 71– 72, 77, 84, 140, 175–76, 234 Sword Brethren, Livonian branch of the Teutonic Knights: 84–86, 186, 193–99, 208, 213–14, 224, 231, 235, 244, 247–48, 252–54, 257, 263, 265, 269; see also Teutonic Knights Szczecin (Stettin), Szczecinians: 111, 119, 122–25, 167, 221 tacit knowledge: see knowledge, tacit Tamm, Marek: 86, 178–79, 255 terror: 39, 69–71, 76, 81–83, 87–88, 109, 115, 179, 186–87, 191–205, 207–09, 214–15, 220, 264, 275– 77 Terweten (Tērvete): 264 Teutonic Knights, military order: 23, 46–47, 52, 84, 207–39, 242–73; see also Sword Brethren

Thalibald of Livonia, chieftain: 261 Thetmar of Bremen, pupil of Vicelin: 164 Thietmar of Merseburg, bishop and chronicler: 55, 64–65, 134, 282 Theodoric, priest and crusader: 85– 86 theory of mind: 44, 52–53, 80, 101, 106, 114, 136, 163–64, 168, 170, 172, 244, 269–70, 279 Throop, Susanna A.: 178–79, 190 Treiden (Turaida): 193, 208 Triglav, deity: 97, 111 trust: 22, 24, 34, 37, 46, 51, 53–54, 58, 86, 142, 153–54, 170, 176– 79, 182, 184–85, 187–88, 191, 195–96, 198, 204–05, 249, 254, 260, 275–76, 282 Turku (Åbo): 113 uncertainty: 21, 24–25, 29–36, 40, 43, 45–46, 49, 56, 62, 65, 91, 98– 102, 125, 133–34, 137–38, 154, 161, 164, 166, 170, 174, 182–84, 197, 262, 271, 276, 280–82 Ulrich, missionary and companion of St Otto of Bamberg: 132–36 Ulvhild of Norway, queen: 152–53 Undusk, Jaan: 225–27 Ungannia, Ungannians: 85 Uppsala: 85 Uppsala temple, Old (Gamla) Uppsala: 77–78 Ural Mountains: 108 Usedom, island: 132–35 Valdemar I the Great of Denmark, king: 155–57 Valdemar II the Victorious/Sejr of Denmark, king: 241 Värend: 177 vengeance: 22, 37, 51, 81, 97–98, 107, 117, 125, 153, 158, 178–79,

355

356

GENERAL INDEX

185, 191, 200, 203–04, 211, 214– 15, 230, 242, 255–56, 258, 261, 268, 270, 276 Vercamer, Grischa: 260, 262 Vicelin of Oldenburg, bishop: 67–68, 74–75, 80–81, 91–93, 141, 164– 66, 173 Victor IV, pope: 160 Viesthard, Semgallian chieftain: 20 Vikings: 63–65, 88 Vineta: 146–47 Virgin Mary: 179, 230–31, 235, 243 Vistula River: 103 Vladimir the Great of Kyiv and Novgorod, grand prince and prince: 108 Vladimir of Polotsk, prince: 193–94, 199, 208, 256 Volga River: 108 Volkwin von Naumburg zu Winterstätten, master of Teutonic Knights: 246–47 Wagria: 67, 78–80, 88, 91–93, 139, 141, 149, 173, 183, 188, 197–98 Wala of Corbie, abbot and magnate: 71

Walthard, archbishop of Magdeburg: 134 warfare, sonic: 200–02 Wartislaw I, duke of Pomerania: 124, 128, 132, 135, 140 Weber, Max: 134 St Wenceslas of Bohemia, duke: 156 Wends: 40–41, 67 Widikind (Witikindus) of Havelberg: 122 William of Modena and Sabina, bishop and papal legate: 82–84, 226–27, 252, 257 Wipert (Wibert), missionary and companion of Bruno of Querfurt: 107–14, 119, 146, 166 Wolgast: 131–35, 140 Wolin (Iulin), Wolinians: 97–98, 115–20, 122–29, 146–47, 229 Wood, Ian N.: 90–91 Yuval–Davis, Nira: 209–10 zombies: 242, 271

Early European Research

All volumes in this series are evaluated by an Editorial Board, strictly on academic grounds, based on reports prepared by referees who have been commissioned by virtue of their specialism in the appropriate field. The Board ensures that the screening is done independently and without con­ flicts of interest. The definitive texts supplied by authors are also subject to review by the Board before being approved for publication. Further, the volumes are copyedited to conform to the publisher’s stylebook and to the best international academic standards in the field.

Titles in Series Sociability and its Discontents: Civil Society, Social Capital, and their Alternatives in Late Medieval and Early Modern Europe, ed. by Nicholas Eckstein and Nicholas Terpstra (2009) Diseases of the Imagination and Imaginary Disease in the Early Modern Period, ed. by Yasmin Haskell (2011) Giovanni Tarantino, Republicanism, Sinophilia, and Historical Writing: Thomas Gordon (c. 1691–1750) and his ‘History of England’ (2012) Writing Royal Entries in Early Modern Europe, ed. by Marie-Claude Canova-Green, Jean Andrews, and Marie-France Wagner (2013) Friendship and Social Networks in Scandinavia c.1000–1800, ed. by Jón Viðar Sigurðsson and Thomas Småberg (2013) Identities in Early Modern English Writing: Religion, Gender, Nation, ed. by Lorna Fitzsimmons (2014) Fama and her Sisters: Gossip and Rumour in Early Modern Europe, ed. by Heather Kerr and Claire Walker (2015) Understanding Emotions in Early Europe, ed. by Michael Champion and Andrew Lynch (2015) Raphaële Garrod, Cosmographical Novelties in French Renaissance Prose (1550– 1630): Dialectic and Discovery (2016) Languages of Power in Italy (1300–1600), ed. by Daniel Bornstein, Laura Gaffuri, and Brian Jeffrey Maxson (2017) Performing Emotions in Early Europe, ed. by Philippa Maddern, Joanne McEwan, and Anne M. Scott (2018) Women and Credit in Pre-Industrial Europe, ed. by Elise M. Dermineur (2018)

Emotion and Medieval Textual Media, ed. by Mary C. Flannery (2019) Luxury and the Ethics of Greed in Early Modern Italy, ed. by Catherine Kovesi (2019) Memories in Multi-Ethnic Societies: Cohesion in Multi-Ethnic Societies in Europe from c. 1000 to the Present, I, ed. by Przemysław Wiszewski (2020) Historiography and the Shaping of Regional Identity in Europe: Regions in Clio’s Looking Glass, ed. by Dick E. H. de Boer and Luís Adão da Fonseca (2020)