Social and Cultural Relations in the Grand Duchy of Lithuania: Microhistories 9780429557866, 0429557868

Table of contents :
Cover
Half Title
Series
Title
Copyright
Dedication
Contents
List of Figures
List of Tables
Acknowledgements
Introduction
Part I Urban Spaces and Communities
1 What’s in a Name? Conflict and the Common Weal, Unity and Diversity in the Early Modern City
2 A History of One House: The Microcosm of the Jurydyka of the Vilna Cathedral Chapter in the Sixteenth and Early Seventeenth Centuries
3 The Poor and the Community: The Lutheran Charitable System in Eighteenth-Century Wilna
4 A Town After a Fire: Losses and Behaviour of Jewish Communities
5 The Attempts of the Bernardines to Influence the Society of Kowno in the Second Half of the Seventeenth Century: The Case of a Miraculous Image
Part II Families and Networks
6 Noble Names: Changes in Lithuanian Aristocratic Name-Giving During the Late Fourteenth and Fifteenth Centuries
7 The Sphragistics and Heraldry of Three Representatives of the Radziwiłł Family
8 Noblemen’s Familia: The Life of Unfree People on Manors in the Sixteenth Century and the First Half of the Seventeenth Century
9 Noble Community and Local Politics in the Wiłkomierz District During the Reign of Sigismund Vasa (1587–1632)
10 From Clientage Structure to a New Social Group: The Formation of the Group of Public Servants in the Grand Duchy of Lithuania in the Late Eighteenth Century
Part III Texts and Travels
11 ‘An Earnest Gospeller’ and ‘A Dignified Martyr’: Networks of Textual Exchange Between the Grand Duchy of Lithuania and England, 1560s–1580s
12 Terrible Reality? Cannibalism in the Grand Duchy of Lithuania and in Livonia in the Sixteenth to Eighteenth Centuries—Between Chroniclers’ Invective and the Findings of Cultural Anthropology
13 A Lithuanian Nobleman’s Mapping of Poland: The Itinerary of a Peregrination by Stanisław Samuel Szemiot (1680)
14 Propaganda in the Parishes: Local Communication During the Insurrection of 1794
15 The Route Map of Dean Szymon Waraxa’s Courier
Appendix
List of Contributors
Index

Citation preview

Social and Cultural Relations in the Grand Duchy of Lithuania

The Grand Duchy of Lithuania was one of the largest and most linguistically, ethnically and religiously diverse polities in late medieval and early modern Europe. In the mid-1380s the Grand Duchy of Lithuania entered into a long process of union with the Kingdom of Poland. Since the destruction of the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth in 1795, the history and memory of the Grand Duchy of Lithuania have been much contested among its successor nations. This volume aims to excavate a level below their largely incompatible narratives. Instead, in an encounter with freshly discovered or long neglected sources, the authors of this book seek new understanding of the Grand Duchy, its citizens and inhabitants in ‘microhistories’. Emphasizing urban and rural spaces, families, communities, networks and travels, this book presents fresh research by established and emerging scholars. Richard Butterwick is Professor of Polish-Lithuanian History at UCL-SSEES and holds the European Civilization Chair at the College of Europe, Natolin, Warsaw. Wioletta Pawlikowska is Researcher at the Tadeusz Manteuffel Institute of History of the Polish Academy of Sciences in Warsaw.

Routledge Research in Early Modern History

The English Chartered Trading Companies, 1688–1763 Guns, Money and Lawyers Michael Wagner Enlightenment in Scotland and France Studies in Political Thought Mark Hulliung The School of Salamanca in the Affairs of the Indies Barbarism and the Political Order Natsuko Matsumori Criminal Justice During the Long Eighteenth Century Theatre, Representation and Emotion Edited by David Lemmings and Allyson N. May The English Woollen Industry, c.1200—c.1560 John Oldland Incombustible Lutheran Books in Early Modern Germany Avner Shamir The Peace of Augsburg and the Meckhart Confession Moderate Religion in an Age of Militancy Adam Glen Hough Social and Cultural Relations in the Grand Duchy of Lithuania Microhistories Edited by Richard Butterwick and Wioletta Pawlikowska For more information about this series, please visit: www.routledge.com/ Routledge-Research-in-Early-Modern-History/book-series/RREMH

Social and Cultural Relations in the Grand Duchy of Lithuania Microhistories Edited by Richard Butterwick and Wioletta Pawlikowska

First published 2019 by Routledge 52 Vanderbilt Avenue, New York, NY 10017 and by Routledge 2 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon, OX14 4RN Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa business © 2019 Taylor & Francis The right of Richard Butterwick and Wioletta Pawlikowska to be identified as the authors of the editorial material, and of the authors for their individual chapters, has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers. Trademark notice: Product or corporate names may be trademarks or registered trademarks, and are used only for identification and explanation without intent to infringe. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data A catalog record for this book has been requested ISBN: 978-0-367-20666-6 (hbk) ISBN: 978-0-429-26280-7 (ebk) Typeset in Sabon by Apex CoVantage, LLC

For the Wróblewski Library of the Lithuanian Academy of Sciences in Vilnius

Contents

List of Figures List of Tables Acknowledgements Introduction

x xi xii 1

WIOLETTA PAWLIKOWSKA AND RICHARD BUTTERWICK

PART I

Urban Spaces and Communities

11

  1 What’s in a Name? Conflict and the Common Weal, Unity and Diversity in the Early Modern City

13

DAVID FRICK

  2 A History of One House: The Microcosm of the Jurydyka of the Vilna Cathedral Chapter in the Sixteenth and Early Seventeenth Centuries

28

WIOLETTA PAWLIKOWSKA

  3 The Poor and the Community: The Lutheran Charitable System in Eighteenth-Century Wilna

47

MARTYNAS JAKULIS

  4 A Town After a Fire: Losses and Behaviour of Jewish Communities62 JURGITA ŠIAUČIŪNAITĖ-VERBICKIENĖ

  5 The Attempts of the Bernardines to Influence the Society of Kowno in the Second Half of the Seventeenth Century: The Case of a Miraculous Image VAIDA KAMUNTAVIČIENĖ

75

viii Contents PART II

Families and Networks

89

  6 Noble Names: Changes in Lithuanian Aristocratic Name-Giving During the Late Fourteenth and Fifteenth Centuries

91

RIMVYDAS PETRAUSKAS

  7 The Sphragistics and Heraldry of Three Representatives of the Radziwiłł Family

105

AGNĖ RAILAITĖ-BARDĖ

  8 Noblemen’s Familia: The Life of Unfree People on Manors in the Sixteenth Century and the First Half of the Seventeenth Century

120

NERINGA DAMBRAUSKAITĖ

  9 Noble Community and Local Politics in the Wiłkomierz District During the Reign of Sigismund Vasa (1587–1632)

132

ARTŪRAS VASILIAUSKAS

10 From Clientage Structure to a New Social Group: The Formation of the Group of Public Servants in the Grand Duchy of Lithuania in the Late Eighteenth Century

148

RAMUNĖ ŠMIGELSKYTĖ-STUKIENĖ

PART III

Texts and Travels

167

11 ‘An Earnest Gospeller’ and ‘A Dignified Martyr’: Networks of Textual Exchange Between the Grand Duchy of Lithuania and England, 1560s–1580s

169

HANNA MAZHEIKA

12 Terrible Reality? Cannibalism in the Grand Duchy of Lithuania and in Livonia in the Sixteenth to Eighteenth Centuries—Between Chroniclers’ Invective and the Findings of Cultural Anthropology ALEH DZIARNOVICH

183

Contents  ix 13 A Lithuanian Nobleman’s Mapping of Poland: The Itinerary of a Peregrination by Stanisław Samuel Szemiot (1680)

205

JAKUB NIEDŹWIEDŹ

14 Propaganda in the Parishes: Local Communication During the Insurrection of 1794

217

RICHARD BUTTERWICK

15 The Route Map of Dean Szymon Waraxa’s Courier

235

MICHAŁ GOCHNA

Appendix List of Contributors Index

238 239 242

Figures

  3.1 The number of poor and patients admitted to the almshouse and hospital (1723–99)   3.2 General income of the almshouse and the donations of the community (1750–92)   5.1 Supposedly miraculous painting of the Mother of God. From Laima Šinkūnaitė, Kauno pranciškonų (bernardinų) Šv. Jurgio bažnyčia, Kaunas: Kauno arkivyskupijos muziejus, 2008, p. 26   7.1 Scheme 1: Typical Radziwiłł coats of arms   7.2 Marshalled coat of arms of Janusz Radzwiłł (1629). Albuminscriptie/van Janusz Radziwill (1612–55), hertog van Birze en Dubinki, voor Johann Alberts (1600–80), Album amicorum van Johann Alberts, Leipzig, 1629. Den Haag, Koninklijke Bibliotheek: 133 C 14—A, fol. 3.1r.   7.3 Seal of Karol Stanisław Radziwiłł (1698). Wróblewski Library of the Lithuanian Academy of Sciences, MS F273–2106   7.4 Scheme 2: The marshalled coat of arms of Karol Stanisław Radziwiłł   7.5 Reconstructed seal of Karol Stanisław Radziwiłł (1712) by Rolandas Rimkūnas   7.6 Scheme 3: The marshalled coats of arms of Karol Stanisław Radziwiłł   7.7 Fragment of Voyszundus I. Christianus Radvila’s portrait by Herszek Leybowicz (1758). Vilnius University Library, sign. LeyH IC-1 12.1 Augsburg single-leaf (1571) ‘A frightening but true dreadful famine and pestilential plague that occurred in the land of Rus´ and Lithuania in the year 1571’ 14.1a and 14.1b  ‘Letter to confrères about the arrival of proclamations from Wilno “of both highest authorities” ’. Wróblewski Library of the Lithuanian Academy of Sciences, MS F43–26934 15.1 The route map of Dean Szymon Waraxa’s Courier (scale 1:275,000)

50 57

77 107

109 111 111 112 113 114 185

218 236

Tables

2.1 Possessors of the house on Bernardine Street, Vilna, 1533–162041 3.1  The clientele of Lutheran charitable institutions 52 9.1  Group 14 (ten sejmik attendances and two elections) 135 9.2  Rajecki, Podlecki and Komorowski in local politics 136 9.3  Group 14 continuity in the Wiłkomierz district 138

Acknowledgements

This volume originated in a conference held on 21 March 2015, organized by the School of Slavonic and East European Studies, University College London, with the generous support of the Embassy of the Republic of Lithuania in the United Kingdom, the Embassy of the Republic of Poland in the United Kingdom, the Polish Cultural Institute in London, Vilnius University and the late Count Andrzej Ciechanowiecki—the Patron of the Anglo-Belarusian Society. Particular thanks are due to the then Director of SSEES, Jan Kubik, who has been an inexhaustible source of interdisciplinary inspiration both during the proceedings and during the long road to publication. Thirteen of the eighteen speakers have revised or altered their papers for this book; an additional chapter has been contributed by Rimvydas Petrauskas. The editors also wish to offer their thanks to the staff at Routledge, with whom it has been a pleasure to work. Permission to reproduce illustrative material has been kindly granted by St George’s Convent, Kaunas; the Wróblewski Library of the Lithuanian Academy of Sciences, Vilnius; Vilnius University Library; Den Haag, Koninklijke Bibliotheek and Rolandas Rimkūnas.

Introduction Wioletta Pawlikowska and Richard Butterwick

The first mention of Lithuania is in the early twelfth-century annals of Quedlinburg Abbey. It locates the martyrdom of St Bruno of Querfurt in 1009 ‘in confinio Lituae et Rusciae’. This linkage proved significant. The Grand Duchy of Lithuania emerged out of the Baltic forests in the mid-thirteenth century, just as the Teutonic Order was moving in. As it extended its sway across Rus´, Europe’s last pagan polity soon became its largest. It expanded still further, briefly stretching from the shores of the Black Sea to the Baltic, after its rulers adopted Christianity in the 1380s. Their conversion inaugurated an evolving union with the Kingdom of Poland, which became much closer with the formation in 1569 of a joint political community or Commonwealth (Respublica, Rzeczpospolita). Despite its sixteenth-century territorial losses, the Grand Duchy of Lithuania remained one of the largest and most diverse polities in early modern Europe. Here eastern and western Christendom overlapped, the Protestant Reformation made significant inroads, one of the most numerous Jewish communities in the world grew to maturity, while Muslims, Karaites, Old Believers and others found their niches. Integrated into a predominantly agrarian and boreal economy and society were several hundred urban communities, many of whom flourished for centuries.1 The Grand Duchy of Lithuania ultimately lost the long contest for hegemony in eastern Europe to Muscovy—transformed into the Russian Empire by Peter the Great. The Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth was partitioned for the third and final time in 1795. During a long nineteenth century under foreign rule, the Commonwealth’s ‘Two Nations, Polish and Lithuanian’, were transformed. Poland and Lithuania regained independence as separate nation-states in 1918, but neither their union, nor the Grand Duchy of Lithuania were restored. During the two centuries that followed the dismemberment, the common past became a store of contested memories and myths among the Grand Duchy’s successor nations. These include modern Lithuanians, Belarusians, Poles, Ukrainians, Tatars, Latvians, Russians, Germans and Israelis. Many historians hailing from the region sought to write the history of the Grand Duchy in such a way as to justify the claims to successorship of their own state,

2  W. Pawlikowska and R. Butterwick nation or nation-state.2 This still applies to much Belarusian, Lithuanian, Polish and Russian historiography—if no longer to German. Sometimes a residual resentment against foreigners who presume to write ‘our history’ is voiced. It is certainly apparent in the region’s entangled politics of history, memory and culture, which in the last few years have once again become more antagonistic. However, an increasing number of historians from these and other countries, taking their cue from poets such as Czesław Miłosz and Tomas Venclova,3 have cast themselves in the role of rebels against nationalist narratives. They have instead tended to evoke a multicultural, multiconfessional, multilingual world, characterized by multiple identities, mutual tolerance and civic patriotism. While not all interpretations have been roseate in hue, the Grand Duchy of Lithuania has become a rather alluring imagined community, one still more pluralist than the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth as a whole (largely because of the relative dilution of its ‘Polish’ component).4 This ‘vanished kingdom’ has been contrasted favourably with the increasingly homogenized ethno-linguistic nationstates of the twentieth and early twenty-first centuries.5 Certainly a growing number of ‘western’ scholars have been fascinated by the history, culture and legacies of the Grand Duchy of Lithuania—especially in its cities.6 The challenge they face, however, is to refrain from casting themselves as lofty arbiters between the conflicting and clamouring claims of exotic, ‘Eastern European’ nationalists. In a Europe whose elites aspire to a post-national condition, few themes are as widely acceptable as that of ‘borderland’. It abounds in the titles of conferences and collective volumes; so do variants on ‘between East and West’. For these purposes the Grand Duchy of Lithuania is ideal. Convivial gatherings of scholars from the Grand Duchy’s successorstates and beyond have done much to break down barriers. The region’s early modernists have (for the most part) avoided the emotive confrontations familiar to historians specializing in the rawer twentieth-century past. However, these well-intentioned efforts often suffer from compartmentalization into separate contributions on ethnic and confessional communities—the Jews, the Tatars, the Scots; the Orthodox, the Catholics, the Lutherans, and so forth. They are also flooded by synthetic reports on given problems in ‘national historiographies’—as if most historians could accurately be pigeon-holed thus. Moreover, the characteristic overload of under-prepared and hurriedly delivered papers, and the chronic shortage of time for discussion reduce the opportunities and incentives for cross-fertilization. As a result, almost two decades into the twenty-first century, national and nationalist prisms continue to frame the field, even as they are denounced and renounced, deconstructed and reconstructed. It is still difficult to study the Grand Duchy of Lithuania on its own terms and in its own times.

Introduction  3 At this point it may be as well to explain the approach adopted by the editors to the vexatious problem of how to render personal and place names. In historical sources most of these have been variously recorded in different languages, which only rarely correspond to the orthographically approved versions current in the several states which now encompass lands which at some time were part of the Grand Duchy of Lithuania. To take the most prominent example, the name of its capital city—Vilnius in Lithuanian—is encountered as Vilna in Latin, Wilna in German, Wilno in Polish, ‫( ענליוו‬Vilne) in Yiddish, Вільно (Vil´no) in Ukrainian, Вiльня (Vil´nia) in Belarusian, and Вильна (Vil´na) in older Ruthenian and Russian sources—not to mention variant spellings. Given that acceptable English versions are extremely rare for this part of the world, we have striven here to get as close as possible to the languages of the sources. This could be Chancery Ruthenian (the legal language of the Grand Duchy until 1697), Latin (widely used for scholarly, ecclesiastical and artistic purposes), Polish (increasingly the preferred language of the Grand Duchy’s noble and urban elites) or German (used, for example, by the Lutherans of Wilna). Without doubt, the unfortunate casualty of our approach is the language most commonly spoken by most of the population in the north-western parts of the Grand Duchy—Lithuanian—which was only rarely written down between the sixteenth and eighteenth centuries. We have reproduced archaic spellings where these appear with any regularity. Modern alternative versions of place and personal names have however been provided on first mention, whenever it has seemed appropriate to the editors. Transliteration from the Cyrillic alphabet is according to a simplified version of the Library of Congress system, except for the phonetic preference for ‘h’ rather than ‘g’ to represent ‘г’ in Ruthenian, Belarusian and Ukrainian. Complete consistency has eluded us, but we do not endorse the policy of least resistance—rendering everything in the version officially approved by the state currently in possession. Adopting such a policy would have led to a welter of anachronisms (of which perhaps the worst would be transforming Königsberg into Kaliningrad). Our purpose is to enable the reader to get as close to the past as the sources permit, and we accept full responsibility for this decision. The critical remarks made thus far are in no way intended to diminish the considerable achievements of the numerous historians who have delved deep into the records left by the rulers, institutions, citizens, communities and observers of Grand Duchy of Lithuania. They are however intended to draw attention to the centrality of sources to the advancement of historical knowledge and understanding. This volume aims to excavate a level below national or anti-national grand narratives, striving to leave to one side these ongoing arguments. Instead, the authors of this book seek different perspectives on the Grand Duchy of Lithuania and its inhabitants in more intimate encounters with hitherto neglected

4  W. Pawlikowska and R. Butterwick sources. In this respect, the last two or three decades have been fruitful indeed. Since the downfall of the Soviet Union, it has become incomparably easier for scholars freely to study unpublished documents held in the collections of Ukraine, Belarus, Lithuania, Latvia and (at least until very recently) Russia. Archives and libraries in these countries have welcomed foreign researchers in unprecedented numbers, while locally based historians are no longer obliged to confine their research to permitted topics within ideologically approved paradigms. This volume contains fifteen chapters which explore social and cultural relations in the Grand Duchy of Lithuania from a variety of perspectives. The first of its three parts deals with towns and cities. It is opened by David Frick, whose reconstruction of social, religious and cultural bonds between and within families and their spatial context in seventeenthcentury Wilno has raised the bar for early modern urban history.7 Here he reflects on his experience of research in the archives of Vilnius and ponders the forms which a larger comparative study of cities might take. He concludes that the practice of early modern urban history depends chiefly on two interacting factors—the nature of the available sources and the temperament of the researcher. The physical environment is in the sights of Wioletta Pawlikowska, who traces the fortunes over almost a century of a single house and its remarkable possessors through sources created by the Cathedral Chapter of Vilna, thereby capturing the factors which weighed upon corporate decision-making. Jurgita ŠiaučiūnaitėVerbickienė reaches her striking conclusions on relative mobility and immobility within Jewish and Christian communities respectively from the analysis of later eighteenth-century censuses and data on the fires that afflicted towns in the Grand Duchy of Lithuania in this period. Confessional and social history intersect in Martynas Jakulis’s study of the scrupulously well documented ways in which Wilna’s Lutheran community took care of its own poor and sick—not least to protect them from conversion to Catholicism. The competitiveness induced by cramped urban space even affected those of the same confession and calling: the canons and prelates of Vilna argued over the use and abuse of property; Bernardine friars and Jesuits argued over the use and abuse of miracles in Kowno (Kaunas). The latter, recorded in a ‘Relation about the miraculous image’, now in Vilnius University Library, are contextualized by Vaida Kamuntavičienė within responses to everyday challenges, such as disease and floods, in the decades following the Muscovite occupation of the city in 1655–61. The second part of the book deals with families and networks. Rimvydas Petrauskas probes the relatively scarce surviving sources from the long fifteenth century for evidence of naming strategies in elite families, formerly pagan and now Catholic. It transpires that via patronymics, individual names from the pagan era were transformed into family surnames. One of these was Radivil, better known as Radziwiłł (Radvila).

Introduction  5 The elaborate coats of arms of two notable seventeenth-century princes of this family are subjected to close analysis and connected with their legendary protoplast by Agnė Railaitė-Bardė. However, the carefully fashioned image of a Prince Radziwiłł could sometimes collide with the expectations of his more substantial clients. Artūras Vasiliauskas’s research on correspondence preserved in the Radziwiłł archive and the records of the district-level parliamentary assembly of Wiłkomierz (Vilkmergė vel Ukmergė) has unearthed complex interrelationships of neighbourhood, kinship, friendship, economic and political cooperation at local level. This challenges long-standing assumptions that Lithuanian politics were oligarchic in character: a classic example of a small key opening a large door.8 Looking towards the other end of the social scale, many inventories and court verdicts record unfree persons on noble-owned manors in various parts of the Grand Duchy of Lithuania during the sixteenth century. Neringa Dambrauskaitė shows how they retained their specific place in noble households and families, even as their status was transformed into that of serfs or employees at the end of the century. Towards the end of the existence of the Polish-Lithuanian state, a new social group began to emerge—professional officials—shaped by the requirements of bureaucratic procedure while not yet free from older patron-client relationships. Ramunė Šmigelskytė-Stukienė has trawled Lithuanian Treasury records to reveal the career paths and working conditions of junior public servants, men who were often recruited from the poorer nobility. The third part of the volume concerns texts and travels. Religious refugees and martyrological tracts alike came to the Grand Duchy of Lithuania from England in the late sixteenth century. Tracing these networks, Hanna Mazheika argues that given the lack of local martyrs for their faith, the executions of both Protestants and Catholics in England could fuel confessional polemics in the Commonwealth. Still grislier passages circulated regarding the incidence of cannibalism during the wars fought by the Grand Duchy of Lithuania from the late sixteenth century onwards. Aleh Dziarnovich blends anthropologists’ observations with classical source criticism in a close reading of such texts. The last three chapters trace actual journeys made. Jakub Niedźwiedź reads a nobleman’s travel diary with the eye of a literary scholar, and in doing so takes us beyond the borders of the Grand Duchy in order to reflect on what made its author Lithuanian. From this neighbourly perspective, the Kingdom of Poland is seen as a foreign country through a lens comparable to that of contemporary cartographers. Samuel Szemiot was not the last Lithuanian to gaze with fascination on the Tatra Mountains—so high, that the clouds touched the earth. Finally, a document found in the Wróblewski Library of the Lithuanian Academy of Sciences, triangulated with ecclesiastical visitation acts and Prussian military maps, allows Richard Butterwick to explore the ease and speed of communication amidst the lakes, hills and forests of what is now the Polish-Lithuanian

6  W. Pawlikowska and R. Butterwick borderland—the Suwalszczyzna/Suvalkija. Following the distribution of propaganda in 1794 also casts light on insurrectionary discourse and the perennial problem of residence and plural benefices among the diocesan clergy. This chapter is complemented by the work of the historical geographer Michał Gochna, who has reconstructed a map of the route taken by the courier(s). Most of these investigations could in some respects be called microhistories. Microhistory can be simply and aptly defined as ‘the intensive historical investigation of a relatively well defined smaller object, most often a single event, or a village community, a group of families, even an individual person’,9 but like many a good idea, it can be made far more complicated. Microstoria congealed as a recognizable approach in Italy in the later 1970s, and soon aroused interest in France, Germany and the Anglophone world, where it encountered the slightly earlier turn towards historical anthropology. Since microhistory hit the heights of fashion in the early 1990s, it has spawned a profusion of commentaries, published in historiographical collections and periodicals, and served up to students in anthologies. Definitions multiply, irrespective of whether or not they are applied. So do works claiming the label. As Ewa Domańska acidly remarks: ‘the employment in a book’s title or description of the term “microhistory” has become an advertising trick to increase its sales, when the work itself has nothing in common with genuine microhistory’.10 It is equally salutary to recall that the classics of microhistory were assigned to the canon retrospectively. When Natalie Zemon Davis was asked: ‘In what way do you distinguish your book on Martin Guerre from the other important microhistories written by Ginzburg and Le Roy Ladurie?’, she replied: ‘I don’t mind being categorized as a microhistorian, although when I came to the project I was thinking of myself as an anthropologist who goes to a village and is interested not only in ethnography but also in performance’.11 Matti Peltonen observes that Carlo Ginzburg’s 1979 essay on ‘Clues’ (Spie: radici di un paragigma indiziario), often read as a founding text of the genre, does not contain the word ‘microhistory’ at all.12 By his own account, Ginzburg, on first hearing the term from Giovanni Levi, was content ‘with the reference to the reduced scale suggested by the prefix micro’. Well after Microstorie, the series he edited with Levi and Simona Cerutti, had become seminal, he discovered several earlier uses of the term, which had not caught on.13 For Levi himself, microhistory is more practice than theory.14 As for Emmanuel Le Roy Ladurie, his introduction to the bestselling Montaillou: village occitan de 1294 à 1324 (1975) is far from being a programmatic statement of methodology, micro-historical or otherwise. His largely implicit methods have been much debated.15 It is doubtless much rarer now than it was a generation ago for an experienced scholar to discover that she or he has been a micro-historian all along, in the manner of Molière’s Jourdain: ‘Par ma foi, il y a plus de

Introduction  7 quarante ans que je dis de la prose, sans que j’en susse rien’. And this despite all his expensive lessons.16 Nonetheless, the implication remains subversive: the elaboration of a method(ology) may not have much impact on its practice. Indeed, the theoretical discourse of microhistory may even buttress the kind of ‘power relations’ it claims to undermine. The dense encryption of questions about knowledge in self-referential code keeps uninitiated ingénues out of swathes of academe just as effectively as elaborate etiquette guarded respectable Victorian society from the ‘great unwashed’. The long-standing divide between those academics who in writing about methodology seldom trouble themselves with primary sources, and those who pore over sources without bothering much with theory, retains much currency. Subject to such caveats and cautions, a reduced scale of investigation offers the historian significant advantages. These include a stronger sense of historical reality, a closer approach to the meanings of lived experience, and the opportunity to consider multiple contexts from a single viewpoint and thereby approach a more rounded, perhaps even total view of history. All these advantages have their concomitant dangers. If God is in the details, so is the Devil. One of the principal lines of division is between those who believe that in minutely investigating a drop, we are also exploring the ocean, and those who deny that the detailed study of a single event or individual can have any meaning beyond the story the historian is able to tell. The latter is sometimes referred to as ‘incident analysis’. Although such ‘microhistories’ offer no grand narratives of their own, their advocates nevertheless argue that they help to expose flaws in existing metanarratives. Put slightly differently, some microhistorians incline more towards cultural history and postmodernist approaches to narration, with the historian at the epicentre of the process. Others, especially in Italy, cleave to an older tradition of empirical and structural social history, not eschewing quantitative data, while striving ‘to be a remedy for de-humanised social and structural history’, as Tomasz Wiślicz puts it. Most, but not all practitioners espouse the cause of ‘history from below’. Perhaps most temptingly and perilously, historians persuaded by Clio to embrace microhistory may seek to seduce a wider public—especially if their tales involve sex, violence and alcohol.17 In our view the point of departure should be the survival of sources and the possibility of analysing and interpreting them. The key is not the type of source per se, but the level of detail in the information they contain. Choosing the micro-historical approach offers a closer encounter with the sources—our thick, uneven and scratched lenses into the past. That said, for source-focused historians who tailor their studies according to the available material, the understanding and description of past realities, formed by human beings, things and places, may come only when the effort is made to place the observed information in wider contexts, and when it is compared to other extant sources which bear on

8  W. Pawlikowska and R. Butterwick the problem. The essential conditions for accurate contextualization— whether we are dealing with a person, a place or an event—are the accurate reading of the relevant sources and critical reflection upon them. Micro-historical analysis is not therefore limited to those marginalized by ‘History’, important as efforts to recover ‘silent voices’ can be. Microscopic analysis can also yield new insights into supposedly wellresearched ‘great events’, ‘great men’ and ‘great women’. The results of such research may even change ‘grand narratives’. The approach, not the subject, is what matters here. The reader may judge whether and to what extent the present volume fulfils its claim to offer microhistories. Probably no chapter meets each and every criterion demanded of the genre. David Frick’s contribution is a reflection on the ‘intensive cultivation’ of urban history rather than a case study itself. Other chapters are directly based on the analysis of primary sources, but the methods employed include those of literary studies, martyrology, mirabilia, cultural anthropology, topography, cartography, prosopography, onomastics and sphragistics. The scale of investigation varies—whether in time, space or the number of persons concerned. These persons’ social status varies from princes through junior officials to unfree persons. Surely no account of human misery could surpass tales of cannibalism. Besides hunger, some authors seek to understand how particular communities coped with challenges: fire, indigence, sickness, precedence and the common weal. This variety testifies to the wide range of approaches that can be comprehended within the term microhistory, including intensive studies of political participation and political communication.18 It is also a taste of ongoing, multinational research on the diverse social and cultural history of the Grand Duchy of Lithuania, much of it conducted at local level. The growing closeness between local history and microhistory as practised globally is also making its mark on the historiography of the Grand Duchy.19 It is tempting to assume that the Grand Duchy of Lithuania, at least as much as the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth as a whole, was sui generis among European polities. It was certainly distinctive—but not least in the ways in which it blended features also found in neighbouring countries. As the chapters in this book show, the lived experience of diverse citizens and inhabitants of Lithuania included tendencies ranging from Baroque religiosity to the bureaucratizing impulse which were also familiar elsewhere. This openness to the four winds might perhaps be expected from one of Europe’s lowest continental watersheds—between the Baltic and Black Seas. But then every town or village has its own character, and micro-historians are concerned with specificity as well with wider patterns. It is clear, however, that religious, intellectual, political and other groups and individuals within the Grand Duchy participated in much larger networks and communities, extending right across the Commonwealth and far beyond. Many more of these connections remain

Introduction  9 to be explored in the sources left both by visitors to the Grand Duchy of Lithuania, and by its inhabitants and citizens.

Notes 1. The history of the Grand Duchy of Lithuania and its union with the Kingdom of Poland may be approached via, inter alia, Darius Baronas and S. C. Rowell, The Conversion of Lithuania: From Pagan Barbarians to Late Medieval Christians, Vilnius: The Institute of Lithuanian Literature and Folklore, 2015; Robert Frost, The Oxford History of Poland-Lithuania, vol. 1, The Making of the Polish-Lithuanian Union, 1385–1569, Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2015; Daniel Stone, The Polish-Lithuanian State, 1386–1795, Seattle, WA: University of Washington Press, 2001; Zigmantas Kiaupa, The History of Lithuania, 2nd edn, Vilnius: baltos lankos, 2004. 2. Robert Frost, ‘Ordering the Kaleidoscope: The Construction of Identities in the Lands of the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth since 1569’, in Len Scales and Oliver Zimmer (eds.), Power and the Nation in European History, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2005, pp. 212–31. 3. Inter alia: Tomas Venclova, Vilnius: A  Personal History, Riverdale-onHudson, NY: The Sheep Meadow Press, 2009; Czesław Miłosz, Szukanie ojczyczny, Cracow: Znak, 1992; see Viktorija Daujotytė and Mindaugas Kvietkauskas, Litewskie konteksty Czesława Miłosza, Sejny: Pogranicze, 2014. 4. E.g. Alfredas Bumblauskas, Senosios Lietuvos istorija. 1009–1795, Vilnius: R. Paknio leidykla, 2005; idem, Wielkie Księstwo Litewskie: Wspólna historia, podzielona pamięć, Warsaw: Bellona, 2013; Andrzej Sulima Kamiński, Rzeczpospolita wielu narodów, Lublin: Instytut Europy Środkowo-Wschodniej, 2000; Jakub Niedźwiedź, Kultura Literacka Wilna (1323–1655), Cracow: Universitas, 2012; Michał Kopczyński and Wojciech Tygielski (eds.), Under a Common Sky: Ethnic Groups of the Commonwealth of Poland and Lithuania, Warsaw: Museum of Polish History, 2017. 5. Norman Davies, Vanished Kingdoms: The History of Half-Forgotten Europe, London: Allen Lane, 2011, pp.  229–308 (ch. 5: ‘Litva: A  Grand Duchy with Kings (1253–1795)’). 6. Eg. Stefan Rohdewald, ‘Vom Polocker Venedig’: kollektives Handeln sozialer Gruppen einer Stadt zwischen Ost- und Mitteleuropa (Mittelalter, frühe Neuzeit, 19. Jh. bis 1914), Stuttgart: Franz Steiner Verlag, 2005; Christoph v. Werdt, Stadt und Gemeindebildung in Ruthenien. Okzidentalizierung der Ukraine und Weißrusslands in Spätmittelalter und in der frühen Neuzeit, Wiesbaden: Harrasowitz Verlag, 2006; Matthias Niendorf, Das Großfürstentum Litauen 1569–1795: Studien zur Nationsbildung in der Frühen Neuzeit, 2nd edn, Wiesbaden: Harrasowitz Verlag, 2010; David Frick, Kith, Kin, and Neighbors: Communities and Confessions in Seventeenth-Century Wilno, Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 2013; Theodore R. Weeks, Vilnius Between Nations, 1795–2000, DeKalb, IL: Northern Illinois University Press, 2015. 7. Frick, Kith, Kin, and Neighbors. 8. This metaphor was used in the excellent guide issued to research students in the Modern History Faculty at the University of Oxford in the early 1990s. 9. Sigurður Gylfi Magnússon and István M. Szijártó, What Is Microhistory? Theory and Practice, London: Routledge, 2013, p. 4. 10. Peter Burke, What Is Cultural History? Cambridge: Polity Press, 2004, pp. 43–6; Ewa Domańska, ‘Posłowie’, in Natalie Zemon Davis (ed.), Powrót Martina Guerre’a, Poznań: Zysk i S-ka Wydawnictwo, 2011, p. 195.

10  W. Pawlikowska and R. Butterwick 11. Maria Lúcia Pallares-Burke, ‘Natalie Zemon Davis’ in eadem, The New History: Confessions and Conversations, Cambridge: Polity Press, 2002, pp.  50–79 (pp.  67–8). Cf. Natalie Zemon Davis, The Return of Martin Guerre, Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1983. 12. Matti Peltonen, ‘What Is Micro in Microhistory?’ in Hans Renders and Binne De Haan (eds.), Theoretical Discussions of Biography: Approaches from History, Microhistory and Life Writing, Leiden and Boston, MA: Brill, 2014, pp.  103–18 (p.  105); cf. Carlo Ginzburg, Myths, Emblems, Clues, London: Hutchinson Press, 1989. 13. Carlo Ginzburg, ‘Microhistory: Two or Three Things That I Know About It’, Critical Inquiry, 20, 1993, 1, pp. 10–35 (pp. 10–15). 14. Giovanni Levi, ‘On Microhistory’, in Peter Burke (ed.), New Perspectives on Historical Writing, 2nd edn, Cambridge: Polity Press, 2001, pp. 97–119 (pp. 97, 99). 15. Emmanuel Le Roy Ladurie, Montaillou: Cathars and Catholics in a French Village 1294–1324, Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1980, p. vii–xvii. Cf. ‘Storia totale fra ricerca e divulgazione: il Montaillou di Le Roy Ladurie’, Quaderni storici, 40, 1979, pp.  205–27; it was also criticized by Susan Stuard (‘An Unfortunate Construct: A Comment on Emmanuel Le Roy Ladurie’s Montaillou’, Journal of Social History, 15, 1981, 1, pp. 152–5) for maintaining a view of women as a commodity of exchange. 16. Molière, Le bourgeois gentilhomme [1671], act 2, scene 4, www.toutmoliere. net/acte-2,405364.html, accessed 16 October  2018. This quotation was often used by Zbysław Wojtkowiak to illustrate the idea of becoming conscious of the apparently obvious, during classes in source criticism at the History Institute of the Adam Mickiewicz University in Poznań in the early 2000s. 17. István Szijarto, ‘Four Arguments for Microhistory’, Rethinking History, 6, 2002, 2, pp. 209–15; see also Magnússon and Szijártó, What Is Microhistory? pp.  5–8; John Brewer, ‘Microhistory and the Histories of Everyday Life’, Cultural and Social History, 7, 2010, 1, pp. 87–109; Filippo De Vivo, ‘Prospect or Refuge? Microhistory, History on the Large Scale: A Response’, Cultural and Social History, 7, 2010, 3, pp. 387–97; Ewa Domańska, Mikrohistorie: spotkania w międzyświatach, 2nd edn, Poznań: Wydawnictwo Poznańskie, 2005, pp. 62–3; Burke, What Is Cultural History? pp. 112–16; Tomasz Wiślicz, Love in the Fields: Relationships and Marriage in Rural Poland in the Early Modern Age: Social Imagery and Personal Experience, Warsaw: Instytut Historii PAN, 2018, p. 9. Cf. Wioletta Pawlikowska, ‘Sex, Violence and Alcohol in Sixteenth-Century Vilnius: Cases from the Acts of the Cathedral Chapter’, Tiltas: Journal of the British-Lithuanian Society, 11, 2011, 2, pp. 20–4. 18. Cf. De Vivo, ‘Prospect or Refuge?’ pp. 393–4. 19. Rita Regina Trimonienė, ‘Mikroistorijos ir lokalinės istorijos taksoskyros problematika’, in Ramunė Šmigelskytė-Stukienė (ed.), Miestas—dvaras— kaimas: Lietuvos Didžiojoje Kunigaikštytėje ir Lenkijos Karalystėje XVIXVIII a. Lokalinės istorijos problemos, Vilnius: Lietuvos istorijos institutas, 2018, pp. 27–45.

Part I

Urban Spaces and Communities

1 What’s in a Name? Conflict and the Common Weal, Unity and Diversity in the Early Modern City1 David Frick ‘All happy cities are alike; each unhappy city is unhappy in its own way’. With due apologies to Tolstoy, does this famous dictum apply to a comparative study of such larger ‘families’, in this case, the early modern European city (and perhaps more generally)? My interest here is limited to those cities that were, at some point, ‘mixed’. Perhaps all of them were mixed with regard to estate, wealth and profession, but I am particularly concerned with those that were also confessionally, religiously, ethnically and culturally diverse. If the definition of a ‘happy city’ is not necessarily the monoconfessional, mono-cultural one (which often had come into being after much unhappiness), it was rather the one that was successful, in some measure, by some means, in meeting the various challenges, threats and opportunities presented by its diversity. If the second is the case we might, in fact, imagine of a broad continuum of ‘solutions’ to the questions posed by co-existence within municipal walls of more than one confession. This continuum might begin with cities that, in the name of the common weal, made the stark choice to eradicate or expel certain undesirable groups, or to force them into hiding. One thinks of decrees de non tolerandis Iudaeis, or the eradication, persecution and/or banishment of Christian ‘others’, such as Anabaptists, Antitrinitarians, Mennonites, etc. Or the ‘toleration’ of ‘crypto-churches’: these might be simply some number of individual believers known ‘only’ to each other, who gathered in some neighbouring extramural places that offered them open worship (a practice known as Auslauf); or they might be the ‘hidden’ intramural spaces in which they gathered for services, what the Dutch called schiulkerken, ‘clandestine churches’ (of which, in 1700, Amsterdam alone boasted twenty Roman Catholic, six Mennonite and at least one each of four other confessions).2 At the other end of our continuum of ‘happy cities’, we might find solutions that found means and methods to allow relatively peaceful open co-existence of two or several more groups otherwise thought to exist in some sort of disharmony, what the Confederacy of Warsaw of 1573 termed, neutrally at first, dissidentes in religione. Perhaps the best known

14  D. Frick of such arrangements would be the so-called parity cities of the Holy Roman Empire that had elaborated various systems of equilibrium between two confessions in one city (typically Roman Catholic and either Lutheran or Calvinist). They followed patterns that would be worked out through the negotiations of everyday life in the period after the Peace of Augsburg (1555), which had introduced a rather different, monoconfessional ‘solution’—that of cuius regio, eius religio—which is to say, freedom of conscience for the local prince and his co-confessionals, and freedom for the dissenters to move with house and goods to the next welcoming principality. Individual local attempts to temper the principle of cuius regio would be severely challenged during the Thirty Years’ War; but for a select number of cities, the modus vivendi toward which progress had been made between 1555 and shortly after 1618 would be written into law by the Westphalian settlement in 1648. And there we finally find the quite specific legal provisions for the open co-existence of two confessions in one city.3 This being so, what will be the definition of an ‘unhappy’ city? If it is one that had to face the challenges posed by the open presence of multiple communities, and that had limited success in bringing all those groups into some sort of harmony, then we might assign places all along that same continuum to almost all of them. That is to say, most of these cities will find their spots on both lists. Reacting to the Tolstoyan dictum leads us to suspect that the binary distinction hides a set of gradations, and that while all cities share some things, that they are all in some way comparable, nonetheless, each one poses its own questions, demands its own interpretative and descriptive strategies, and struggled toward its own solution to the ‘problem’ (or ‘presence’) of diversity, one that would be more or less inclusive or exclusive. Or as Brian Pullan put it in his study of ‘Catholics and the Poor in Early Modern Europe’: ‘The conclusions of every local study are clouded by the suspicion that its people were acting, not as Catholics, but as Parisians, or Lyonnais, or Venetians’ (or, we might add, Vilnans, etc.).4 This chapter arose as a preliminary attempt to answer a question that invariably arose in the questions and answers section of presentations related to my book Kith, Kin, and Neighbors.5 My constant answer was a helpless shrug of the shoulders and a direct confession: ‘I just don’t know’. It is also a suggestion of a new comparative project that will attempt to provide a few answers. Its topic (title?) will come from the constantly changing forms of ‘dissidentes in religione’, and it will range between, and insist on the crucial difference between ‘toleration’ and ‘tolerance’, which has been elided in some recent works.6 This sense of a seemingly infinite variability, which, nonetheless, also manifests itself in what may be seen as a rather fixed set of parameters— of a ‘unity and variety’, or ‘unity in diversity’—is reflected in the ease with which students of quite disparate cities find mutual topics of interest.

What’s in a Name?  15 That said, what interests me here are the constants and variables across the spectrum of mixed cities in Europe (and, where possible, beyond); in a Europe both East and West, but in particular of the early modern period: from the advent of the Reformation to the beginning of the Enlightenment; in other words, some of the laboratories of the day-to-day toleration that would eventually become (be replaced by? merged with? enter into some dialogue with?) the precursors of the proponents of the tolerance of the Enlightenment, and their sixteenth- and seventeenthcentury precursors, many with roots in Poland-Lithuania and EastCentral Europe in general. Those who work more specifically on the cities of the Grand Duchy of Lithuania, or, more generally, on those of the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth (themselves huge polities at the time), are well aware of the great variety of ethno-confessional mixes, types of city charters, modes of co-existence, their success and failures over the course of their individual histories. Cities were the property of kings and/or their consorts, also of bishops, of magnates and nobles. Some had grants of Magdeburg Law; some did not. The ‘same’ law often functioned in somewhat different ways in different cities: did, for example, a royal city with Magdeburg Law receive its wójt (Vogt, advocatus—here the overlord of a city) as a royal appointee, or did a (semi-)autonomous Magistracy play roles in the selection and presentation of their wójt for royal approval? Did the burghers have a privilege de non tolerandis Iudaeis, or did the Jews have a privilege from the city’s owner for residence within the walls? Or did the two groups have mutually exclusive privileges and find practical solutions for the absurdities of the unworkability of the privileges? Where did Jews (and Christian minorities, such as Mennonites) live in cities that accepted them; and where did they live in relation to cities that had expelled them, but nonetheless quite clearly wanted them nearby; where did they live in ‘cities where they weren’t?’ Was their place of habitation in any way limited (by law, by customs, by architecture, by gates, etc?), or were they simply to be found in some preponderance in certain places, or did they (also?) live in many discontiguous parts of the city? Or all of these things? Were there restrictions on appearance in public? With regard to time, place, behaviour, dress? These and countless other questions of modes of co-existence, as well as the answers to them, were everywhere the same and everywhere different. Similar results often had different contextual meanings. All of them are worth charting in an attempt to draw a map of the practice of toleration (or its opposite) and the search for the common weal in the cities and towns of early modern Poland-Lithuania, and in Europe in general (and further abroad into the Ottoman Empire, for example). It is not at all the case, for example, that a particularly ardent Catholic noble would necessarily impose his faith on his city. Catholic nobles (and nobles of other confessions) were economic and political actors, and

16  D. Frick there were often reasons—reasons of every sort—to tolerate, even encourage, the presence of Jews, Mennonites, Lutherans, Calvinists, Tatars, Armenians, Scots, Italians (radical heretics and strict Roman Catholics) among others. The question then became: how to make the presence of all these diverse citizens and non-citizens contribute to a ‘common weal’, from which some siginificant number would reap some benefit? Nor was it the case that quite different ‘solutions’ produced radically different results. One telling example: beginning around 1400, in the wake of anti-Jewish riots, Cracow’s Jews began resettling and/or being resettled to the walled suburb of Kazimierz, a royal town on the other side of what was then a small branch of the River Vistula—now, since the nineteenth century, paved over as the Planty Dietlowskie, one part of Cracow’s Ring. (The Jews—all of them?—lived within their own walls as a separate neighbourhood of otherwise Christian Kazimierz.) At this point (circa 1400), the University began acquiring much of the previous intramural Jewish settlement in its renovation of the Studium Generale, in and around St Anne’s Street. In this case, what was to become a privilege of non tolerandis Iudaeis would seem to have had the ‘expected’ results. Jews did not live legally outside their own ‘sub-suburban walls’.7 In the second capital of the Commonwealth, the burghers of Wilno (Vilna, Vil'nia, Vilne, Vilnius), were able, on rare occasions, to obtain such an exclusionary privilege—mostly symbolic—but the Jews there were much more successful in obtaining and implementing their own royal privileges for intramural residence, worship, ritual (including bathhouses) and commerce. They were to remain concentrated in the centre of the city until the mass deportations and murders of the Second World War; throughout the seventeenth century, they lived in some concentration in a ‘Jewish triangle’ of Jewish, Meat Shop and German Streets, but, in spite of bilateral segregationist ‘real estate initiatives’, they also lived in Christian streets and with Christians in Christian houses, often quite far afield from the ‘neighbourhood’, and yet still within the walls. And Christians continued to live and own houses within a ‘Jewish ghetto’ that was no ghetto. For the seventeenth century we have detailed proof of this phenomenon from as late as 1690.8 The point here is that two antithetical ‘solutions’—banishment of Jews from within the walls, versus establishment of a ‘Jewish neighbourhood’ in the centre of the city, but with extremely porous limits—led to two roughly similar results: thriving Jewish and Christian life of every sort, side by side, with relatively few recorded ‘tumults’ (and those records ought to have survived). The question that remains to be examined (and this applies for all these mixed cities and for all the various groups within them) is the ‘side-by-sidedness’. How did it work? Do we again find ‘variety in unity’? How were mixed cities of the age of confessional strife able (or unable) to facilitate, ensure or impose the relatively peaceful and successful

What’s in a Name?  17 co-existence of more than one confession or religion, within one relatively compact polity; a co-existence that fostered something like a striving for a common weal (‘weal-er’, as always, for some more than for others)? This is not a story of some sixteenth- or seventeenth-century precocious tolerance. The discussion of tolerance before the Age of Enlightenment— and it was mostly just that, a discussion—was conducted in the rarified realm of a select few intellectuals: some of them, at the beginning of our period, Erasmians; some of them, for obvious reasons, from the more radical margins—Antitrinitarians, Anabaptists, pacifistic ‘communists’. As Joseph Lecler pointed out so long ago, and so gently and reasonably, the Church (Churches) produced elite protagonists of tolerance, and indeed, on occasion practised a kind of everyday toleration, when it felt threatened; once the threat disappeared, the discussion (and the practice) then often died down in the newly dominant party.9 But I am not dealing foremost with the intellectuals. The relationship of theoretical and polemical writings about tolerance to the daily practice of toleration in the early modern cities will largely remain under the sign of a question mark, a topic to be worked out on the margins, in the process of our investigations. This is rather the story of toleration, of finding a set of practices—some of them implicated in violence or at least in adversarial relationships—that allowed individuals and communities to coexist, sometimes cheek by jowl, with people who were hated or at the very least considered incorrigibly wrong-minded.10 As Benjamin Kaplan has written in his study of ‘religious conflict and the practice of toleration’, for the non-elites ‘tolerance had a very concrete, mundane dimension. It was not just a concept of policy but a form of behavior [. . .] a pragmatic move, a grudging acceptance of unpleasant realities, not a positive virtue’. This attitude, he writes, was Janus-faced: in it tolerance and intolerance were ‘dialectically and symbolically linked’. By the act of tolerating, those who allowed others to live among them, whatever the rules set out for their behaviour, ‘made powerful, if implicit, claims about the truth of their own religion and the false, deviant character of others’.11 What would the ‘ideal’ model of the day-to-day practice of ‘toleration in the early modern city’ look like? What sources would we like to have in its elucidation? What can we do in the face of what are always defective document bases? There are, of course, myriad ways to describe how a city is shaped and how its inhabitants lived with each other within its confines: perhaps as many as there are cities, and—looking from the outside in—as many as are the individual archives that provide us windows onto part of them, and as many as are the scholars sitting in the often drafty reading rooms. At the outset of my work on Wilno—I now realize—I was feeling my way toward one ‘maximalist’ variant. My goal at some early point in my research—and the goal and strategies changed constantly in

18  D. Frick response to growing knowledge of what those archives have (and do not have) to offer—was to address something like this cluster of questions: to what extent did Vilnans live in neighbourhoods and form human networks (through marriage, choice of guardians and other legal representatives, enlistment of godparents and witnesses, creation of professional associations, etc.) that were confessionally and culturally bounded? In what circumstances did they cross those boundaries? What sorts of crossconfessional constellations were more likely than others, and under what circumstances? How did they work out in practice? It is important to recall that—in early modern Wilno—this was not a situation of ‘two confessions in one city’ (the aforementioned title of Paul Warmbrunn’s now classic study of four ‘imperial parity cities’). In Wilno we find five Christian confessions—Roman Catholics, Lutherans, Calvinists (all of them, the ‘Romans’, the Protestants from the 1550s) and Ruthenian Orthodox and Ruthenian Uniates (both of them, the ‘Greeks’, the Orthodox before the official conversion of Lithuanian, the Uniates since 1596), who shared power across the city’s secular sodalities in similar parity arrangements under those two rubrics. And we find three religions: Christians, Jews (living in mono-religious neighbourhoods, but also widely dispersed, within the walls); further—Muslims (living side by side with each other, but also with Christians, without the walls). What I sought to uncover were the human networks that individuals and families gathered around themselves at key moments in the life cycle; among them: birth and baptism, godparenting, education, courtship and marriage, separation and divorce, the work place, times of need, sickness and death. An early encounter with one particularly rich source—a survey of each intramural dwelling, that had been conducted in preparation for a visit by the king and his entourage in 1636—suggested making it the foundation of the building and society I was constructing.12 I therefore began my study—to shift the metaphor slightly—with the backdrops and stage props for the chapters in the life-dramas I hoped to evoke: in this case, primarily, with a laying out of social and confessional topographies, and of overarching rules for behaviour in public and more private spaces. In other words, this became a project based on maps and small dramas, in which my goal became that of situating my various human dramas in space and time. Again, we encounter a primary problem with comparative studies: every investigator of the history of any given city is utterly at the mercy of the archives. Some encounter an embarrassment of riches and are forced to develop strategies of selection, of searching for ways to find the forest among all those trees. Others (most of us who work in this, the eastern, part of early modern Europe) deal with spotty archives (a word I shall often have recourse to here, but one that sometimes puts things most mildly) and are forced to develop strategies for connecting wildly disparate data into something like a whole. In general, the former situation

What’s in a Name?  19 (the embarrassment of riches) is the case the closer the focus is on the present, and the latter holds for more distant times; but there is also a general gradation of cultural geography in early modern Europe, from west (with a thicker source base) to east (where the record is often much more fragmented). And this is for a variety of reasons. Two key factors are: first, how quickly top-down directives from the Churches and secular polities to keep specific types of records (baptisms, marriages, deaths, tax rolls of various sorts, etc.) were put in place in given territories (and how present and effective were the servants of that Centre—assuming there was one); and second, what sorts of interruptions (war, fire, deluge, theft, plague, locusts, vegetarians,13 etc.) the given city’s record-keeping had been subject to and how well prepared this keeper of the archives was to protect the documents (including the drawing up of evacuation plans). Both sets of issues put historians of the early modern European east at a disadvantage—which itself can become the mother of invention. All cities are alike, but each city is different. More crucial for us, each archival base is different. A  wider comparative reading of existing city studies for early modern Europe makes students of places with sparser document bases envious; but this reading also offers, when taken in aggregate, something like the image of an ideal set of materials for the study of any city in that larger community. And that wider reading may suggest questions not otherwise immediately obvious from the local, limited archival base. What would an ideal wish-list look like? (Just to mention some of the items.) Above all, complete Church registers (baptisms, marriages, communion-taking, financial offerings, episcopal visitations, last wills and testaments, etc.) for the entire period under scrutiny—something that would allow a reasonably confident recreation of family structures, histories, genealogies, etc. Second, inventories or surveys, carried out by secular and ecclesiastical authorities for various reasons, among which might be: to establish ownership of real estate; to assess taxes (based, for instance, on the number of ‘smokes’, that is, hearths—an approximate indicator of numbers of some sort of family units; or on declared wealth or income; or however the authorities decide to assess tax burdens); to settle questions of inheritance; to survey houses by the various jurisdictions to which they, and their inhabitants, were subject. Above all, surveys that allow us to put names of householders and renters on a map, assess wealth confession(s), and give a sense—often surprisingly detailed of the physical topography of the city (often including the basements). In addition to these registers, inventories and surveys of people, of records of crucial moments in their lives (some of which establish kinship relations and suggest other networks), and of their properties in their urban context, our wish-list would include a complete set of the acta for all the local legal jurisdictions, secular and ecclesiastical. These will give us, among other things, litigation among city dwellers, their financial

20  D. Frick transactions, last wills and testaments—all of which, if read carefully will occasionally offer additional information on place of residence, membership in family and other personal networks, and other biographical details. Further, it would be useful to have private and public letters, diaries, city chronicles, funeral sermons, accounts of public processions, festivals and other ceremonial events, memoirs, descriptions of the city, contemporary maps, birds-eye-view representations, horizontal city panoramas, and so on. No city I know of possesses such a complete array of sources for the study of its early modern history. But here, again, there is a considerable range of difference between the cities of western Europe (especially northern Italy and the entire north-west) and those of the east. Those who work with a richer document base usually list the gaps in any of these registers, lamenting the fact that complete family reconstruction is not possible, or that it is not completely possible for some aspects of the period under examination. But then they must make a decision to base their study on one document or rich series of documents, with the others serving ancillary roles, in an effort to bring the unruly wealth of materials under control. Those of us who work on cities where the record is exponentially more spotty are forced—I would say, more positively, invited, encouraged—to use more imagination in finding ways to make connections between more disparate types of documents; in short, we must accept anecdotes, pieced-together stories, and more and less haphazard lists, in creating what slender histories we are able to weave. Allow me, once again, to use seventeenth-century Wilno as an example. It bears repeating: the scholar is always and everywhere at the mercy of the archive. But in our part of the world this means spending some time finding out just how dispersed, due to the vagaries of history, that putative archive has become, and just what losses it has survived, or might conceivably have survived. (A judicious use of the ‘argument from silence’ cannot be ignored in our strategies here.) The case of Wilno requires some travel: the significant core is still to be found locally, in Vilnius—chiefly in the Lithuanian State Historical Archive, Vilnius University Library, the Wróblewski Library of the Lithuanian Academy of Sciences, and the Martynas Mažvydas Lithuanian National Library—far away enough for many of us. But there are also important collections of manuscripts and printed books in various Polish centres (the National Library, the University Library and the Central Archive of Old Records (AGAD), in Warsaw; the Jagiellonian Library, the Czartoryski Library, the Library of the Polish Academy of Sciences and Arts and of the Polish Academy of Sciences (BPAUiPAN), in Cracow), crucial archival resources in Moscow (RGADA, the Russian National Library), St Petersburg (the Russian National Library and the Synodal Library of the Moscow Patriarchate) and in Berlin (the Geheimes Staatsarchiv Preussischer Kulturbesitz, Berlin-Dahlem). For peculiar reasons, unique copies of things are

What’s in a Name?  21 still showing up in Swedish collections (for example in Uppsala). One always fears (suspects, hopes) that something new will turn up in places like St  Petersburg or Minsk, when a new guide to the archives is produced; or, better, when someone who has spent a lifetime in those collections steps forward with some golden piece of information. Still, even for ‘locals’, the study of seventeenth-century Vilnan society requires a certain amount of travel, effort and expense. By contrast, the student of Swabian Augsburg will work, for a much longer time, in that city’s much richer archives and spend a miniscule amount of time in neighbouring Bavarian Munich.14 A student of Alsatian Colmar will work in that city’s archives (again very rich) and briefly in neighbouring Strasbourg.15 In both cases, relatively complete tax records (here too, mostly minus the identification of confession) will serve as the foundational sources. These are two quite different and crucial cities for learning how parity worked in the Holy Roman Empire; among others, they can serve, for the moment, for some thoughts about what comparative reading offers the writer of a comparative urban monograph. What fragments are available for a study of seventeenth-century Wilno from this ideal source base I have sketched out? The first important thing to note is the destruction of the archives. The city burned rather thoroughly in 1610; the Calvinist compound, together with its archive—spared the fires of 1610—was burned to the ground in an anti-Calvinist ‘tumult’ of the next year 1611. The city was once again subject to destruction and pillage following the Muscovite occupation of 8 August 1655. This means that for many series of documents, especially those connected with the acta of the courts of the Magistracy—the central source for a study of the life of the city’s burghers—the archive is practically vacant for the period before 1610. And it is extremely thin—and thin is probably much too optimistic a word—for the period 1610–55. After that period, these acta get back in swing and leave, with a few hiccups at the beginning, reasonably thick documentation for the rest of the seventeenth century. The acta of other jurisdictions have been preserved in quite different ways, some of them defying any final explanation. The record of the Roman Catholic Cathedral Chapter, which, among other things, had jurisdiction over two little streets on either side of the very top of Castle Street—Skop and Bernardine Streets, plus adjacent alleyways—seems reasonably full, at least for the higher instances of their court and for the entire seventeenth century (perhaps due to some sort of plans for evacuation). Lower instances for the same jurisdiction have left us two fascinating smaller books of litigation for the period from the 1620s to just before the Muscovite conquest of 1655. And it should be noted that, although the judges were canons, that is, clergymen, they passed judgement according to the very secular Third Lithuanian Statute, and the cases they heard (litigation, defamation, theft, entry of financial records and last wills and testaments—not all of the latter by any means Roman Catholic)

22  D. Frick differed little from the procedures found in the acta of the Magistracy of the burghers governed by Magdeburg Law. We have spotty records from the Roman Catholic Consistory and for the so-called Horodnictwo, a legal jurisdiction peculiar to the Grand Duchy of Lithuania. For the seventeenth century, we have baptismal records—for the Roman Catholics, 1611–16, 1664–92, with minor gaps; for the German Catholics at the Jesuit Church of St Ignatius, 1666–1700; for the Calvinists, 1631–35 and 1663–1700, with minor gaps. We have records of marriages: for the Catholics at the Parish Church of St John, 1602–15 and 1664–72; for German Catholics at the Jesuit Church of St Ignatius; and for the Calvinists, 1635–55, 1663–81, and 1684–1700. We have records of communion for the Calvinists, 1663 and 1682–99. We have death records—for the Calvinists, 1671–82, 1687–1700; and for the German Catholics, 1668–1700. We have offertory records for the Lutherans and the Calvinists. We have some books of inscriptions into religious brotherhoods. We have spotty record books of the guilds. We have a few funeral sermons, and two important memoirs. Several things jump out immediately: the huge chronological gaps in the individual records and the great disparity in the sorts of documents available for the various confessions (for example, money offerings from the Lutherans, but no baptismal or wedding records; baptismal records for the Catholics, but no communion records, etc., etc.); and the absolute silence on these or analogous issues in the extant documents about the lives of Jews and Tatars. We have some relevant documents at higher levels, ‘one remove’ from the local: the pinkasim of the Chief Lithuanian Jewish Communities (from 1622), and the annual acta of the Synods of the Reformed (Calvinist) Church in the Grand Duchy of Lithuania—both relatively complete for the seventeenth century, and which very occasionally have things to say with direct bearing on local Vilnan problems.16 However, one issue is so glaring that it has mostly been ignored: the complete absence of any of these sorts of Church records for the ‘Greeks’, both Orthodox and Uniate. After all, after the Council of Trent, the Uniates (like the Roman Catholics) were supposed to begin keeping complete records of things like baptism, communion, marriage, death; and the Orthodox began in a general way to emulate their Uniate brethren, sometimes with a delay of a few decades. None of that is to be found in places where I know to look. Or at least, I haven’t been able to unearth it. One hopes they were carted off after the partitions, and that both Orthodox and Uniate records (some must have existed) made their way to collections of the Holy Synod of the Russian Orthodox Church in St Petersburg. But this search may take time, so hope remains. I decided to begin with the map that was suggested by the aforementioned prose list of the Lustration [Rewizja] of the Dwellings of the Court of His Royal Majesty, composed in preparation for the visit to Wilno of the king and his entourage in 1636. Luckily, it came my way early in my

What’s in a Name?  23 work on Wilno. I  am, by training, a philologist, not an historian, and certainly was not then a frequenter of archives (the inside of one I would not see for another year or so after encountering this foundational manuscript). The realization of this prosaic document’s eloquence came as a sort of epiphany before my first trip to Vilnius and to the archives in the fall of 1999. I spent that summer making a data base of all the information the document seemed, to me at that time, willing to surrender: the basis for a detailed map of the houses of the city, with addresses assigned to each house; names of owners and renters associated with the given address; the legal jurisdiction of the house; the estate or profession of the inhabitant/owner (if Christian), the religion (if non-Christian); a remarkably concise, but precise physical description of the dwelling—its size, building material, the numbers, types and general layouts of rooms, basements, outbuildings, their condition (the purpose, after all, was to determine whether to put the ‘Queen’s Washer Woman’ in the dwelling, or ‘The Royal Marzipan Maker’, ‘The Royal Wigmaker’, ‘The Royal Discantist’ (that is, Castrato), or even ‘Lord Ordyniec, the Lord Judge Marshal’, who, we read, took up his temporary Vilnan abode ‘by force’). And so, I quickly made maps and databases of every bit of information that occurred to me at that early moment, including whether the basements were full of water, and how many horses might be bedded down in the internal courtyards. The one thing all this information lacked, and this includes practically all secular documents, litigation, etc.—the very core of my proposed investigation—was confession. Students of cities with much richer archives—I have mentioned Augsburg and Colmar—note similarly that their main records (mostly tax records and litigation) omit information on confession. This fact alone tells us something about the status of confession in the urban politics in these three mixed cities. So what had the gods of the archives bestowed upon me, just as I was about to venture into uncharted territory? One very rich document, but above all, material for possibly useful databases, and most particularly a list of names, regretfully minus confessions attached to those names. It turned out, given the spotty, but nonetheless existing Church records I outlined above, and armed with my treasure trove of names, I was soon able to attach confession to many names and begin to build preliminary, tentative genealogies, and their related confessional topographies. The courts, litigation, last wills and testaments, and other documents, helped fill in gaps; they were especially crucial for the ‘Greeks’, for whom, as I have said, we lack all normal Church registers. So here, I realized much later, was a paradox. The aforementioned exhaustive two-volume study of Augsburg, that most important parity city, in the period ‘between the struggle over the calendar and parity’ (that is, circa 1582 to 1648), tells us on several occasions that, ‘before the turning point in the confessional relations in the Thirty Years’ War’, confessional

24  D. Frick identity never (until 1645) played the least role in the responses elicited from (presumably also in the questions posed to) those who were ‘taxed’ (in the good King James Bible sense of the word). After that date, confession was front and centre, along, as ever, with the assessment of taxable worth. These ‘simple’ facts tell us important things about confessional relations in the city at a given moment, and researchers are quite aware of this. Confession remained absolutely missing from such surveys throughout the seventeenth century. This too has its own eloquence. But what interests me here is the scholarly workbench, and the resulting picture of confessional relations. Those with such embarrassments of riches—for example, the students of Augsburg, who work primarily with tax records—will claim that general topographies of wealth, profession and position, and something like class, are possible, but that up to the point where these same tax records begin to list confessions (for that city in 1645), we cannot form clear pictures of confessional topographies. I  doubt this very much. It would ‘simply’ have been a matter of making lists of names from the existing tax records, ‘confessionless’ though they were (which these scholars had clearly done), and then matching the names with more disparate, sometimes more narrative records (baptisms, testaments, litigation, etc.). This would allow us to assign confession on occasion and to begin to form such a map and a narration. It was certainly not a question of laziness. A lazy reader would never undertake to make his or her way through the massive, high-quality literature on Augsburg; I can only marvel at the effort that went into producing them. I was interested in rather different things. My sources were relatively skimpy, and they headed in other directions. My goal was to try to pull pieces of them together. And in the day of laptop computers, some good part of this smallish data base was within the purview of one researcher. The result, for those who like telling tales, was that the outlines of stories—a detail here, a litigation there, a death here—began to offer something like biographies, skeletons at best, but there they were! It is the result, I would argue, of facing an archival semi-desert, being shown some volumes and boxes (more than one might have expected, but nothing ‘complete’), and being told, in effect: ‘here, see what you can do with this’. It is the result of a love for the hunt, the story, the anecdote, and the sense that, in the face of a lack of fuller documentation, a good yarn bring us something good, useful, suggestive. Two things are sometimes lacking for me in the magisterial city studies of north-western Europe from which I am attempting to learn. First, the linking of names from things like tax rolls and other records, where information about confession is missing, with other records, where we can supply this information. Second, the use of the linking of names in order to put together small stories. I recalled a very short article I  had read some years ago, by Carlo Ginzburg and Carlo Ponti, entitled ‘The Name and the Game: Unequal

What’s in a Name?  25 Exchange and the Historiographic Marketplace’ (originally published in 1979).17 The unequal exchange of the subtitle had to do with the fact that the two Italian historians had noticed that Italian historical scholarship was very much in a debtor-creditor relationship with their French neighbours, if ‘only’ to take into account the massive achievements of the Annales school. What the two Italians wished to point out were the rich, practically untouched archival fields of Italy ready for the reaping, which, until then (actually decades before then), had ‘been subjected to extensive, but not intensive cultivation’ (italics mine). But what was the remedy? Since their interest was in the ‘small people’, those who show up seldom and/or with sporadic bursts (think inquisitorial trials)—but they did show up!—they suggested collecting and following the appearance of names all over the vast record. In their words: ‘The guiding thread is the name’. Ginzburg and Ponti suggested this approach as a more intensive cultivation of an incredibly lush pasture. I had come to somewhat similar conclusions as a means of survival in an arid field, whereas my interest, of necessity, became not the lowest of the low (who for us have all but disappeared), but a society of relatively modest, some less-modest, burghers, artisans, tanners, goldsmiths, salt merchants, doctors, lawyers, executioners and the occasional ‘loose persons’, who, for whatever reason, made it into that part of the record that has remained extant. The two methods are not that far apart. As I spent the months putting together the index for Kith, Kin, and Neighbors, I  came to realize that it was beginning to take on the shape of something like recent German-style telephone books, but for seventeenth-century Vilnan society: names, addresses, titles, professions, relations, connections—for an American private telephone subscriber, much too much information. In any event, I  do not suggest that my approach for Wilno will be useful for all cities, or even most of them. I suspect that in a large comparative study of mixed cities in early modern Europe—which I eagerly await and hope to contribute to—we will begin to discern and recognize patterns and differences, ‘unity in diversity’ between, for example, the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth and the Imperial cities, as well as between the Grand Duchy and the Crown; but we will also see structuralhistorical differences and similarities across the distances from east to west. I simply suggest some strategies, and flexibility in employing them. Each archive is different. Each researcher is different. The responses to the available resources will be different. The guiding questions perceived at the outset of each venture will be different. Each project will take surprising turns in response to what the archive offers. In addition to my Kith, Kin, and Neighbors, three substantial monographs on Wilno/Vilnius/Vilna have appeared in recent years.18 The authors are of one generation (if the youngsters will be generous to me). We had more or less extensive access to the same archives. But for some

26  D. Frick perverse reason, people obstinately insist on posing different questions and employing differing methods to the same sources—all of which makes the hunt more fun and interesting, but the finding of comparanda more difficult. But put all together, in a larger comparative context, the results might amount to something. Whether or not Tolstoy’s binary distinction was correct, we can leave for the Tolstoyans.

Notes 1. To the memory of my mother, Ruth Hudson Frick (29 January  1929–1 April 2015). 2. Benjamin J. Kaplan is particularly good on ‘hiding in plain sight’. See his Divided By Faith: Religious Conflict and the Practice of Toleration in Early Modern Europe, Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2007, e.g., ‘Fictions of Privacy’, pp. 172–97; and ‘Sharing Churches, Sharing Power’. pp. 198–236. 3. See Paul Warmbrunn’s now classic study Zwei Konfessionen in einer Stadt. Das Zusammenleben von Katholiken und Protestanten in den Paritätischen Reichsstädten Augsburg, Biberach, Ravensburg und Dinkelsbühl von 1548 bis 1648, Veröffentlichungen des Instituts für Europäische Geschichte Mainz, Abteilung für abendländische Religionsgeschichte, vol. 111, Wiesbaden: Franz Steiner Verlag, 1983. 4. Brian Pullan, ‘Catholics and the Poor in Early Modern Europe’, Transactions of the Royal Historical Society, 5th series, 26, 1976, pp.  15–34 (at p. 26). 5. Kith, Kin, and Neighbors: Community and Confession in SeventeenthCentury Wilno, Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 2013. 6. Among many examples, see Ole Peter Grell and Bob Scribner (eds.), Tolerance and Intolerance in the European Reformation, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996; John Christian Laursen and Cary J. Nederman (eds.), Beyond the Persecuting Society: Religious Toleration Before the Enlightenment, Philadelphia, PA: Pennsylvania State University Press, 1998. 7. On this, in English, see Bożena Wyrozumska, ‘Did King Jan Olbracht Banish the Jews from Cracow?’ in Andrzej Paluch (ed.), The Jews in Poland, vol. 1, Cracow: Jagiellonian University Research Center on Jewish History and Culture in Poland, 1992, pp. 27–37. 8. On Jewish settlement throughout the century, see David Frick, ‘Jews and Others in Seventeenth-Century Wilno: Life in the Neighborhood’, Jewish Studies Quarterly, 12, 2005, 1, pp. 8–42; idem, ‘Jews in Public Places: Further Chapters in the Jewish-Christian Encounter in Seventeenth-Century Vilna’, in Adam Teller, Magda Teter and Antony Polonsky (eds.), Polin: Studies in Polish Jewry, vol. 22, Social and Cultural Boundaries in Pre-Modern Poland, Oxford: Littman, 2010, pp. 215–48. 9. See Joseph Lecler, Toleration and the Reformation, 2 vols, New York: Association Press, 1960, e.g., vol. 1, p. 421; vol. 2, pp. 483, 485–6. 10. David Nirenberg (Communities of Violence: Persecution of Minorities in the Middle Ages, Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1996) is especially good on the rituals of violence that, paradoxically, were part of keeping the peace in late medieval France and the Crown of Aragon. For a mistaken—in my opinion—rejection of the usefulness of a distinction between tolerance and

What’s in a Name?  27 toleration, see Grell and Scribner, Tolerance and Intolerance in the European Reformation. 11. See Kaplan, Divided by Faith, p. 8. 12. The basis for the topography that lies at the basis of my work was transcribed, not without errors, transl. into Lithuanian (the original was in Polish), and provided with invaluable notes, much from the Lithuanian Metryka, in Mindaugas Paknys, Vilniaus ir miestiečiai 1636  m: Namai, gyventjai, svečiai, Vilnius: Vilniaus dailės akademijos leidykla, 2006. The original manuscripts are to be found in the Library of the Jagiellonian University in Cracow: Biblioteka Jagiellońska, sygn. B Slav F 12 as well as (for 1639) B Slav F 15. 13. Cf. 1 Tim. 4:3. 14. See Bernd Roeck, Eine Stadt in Krieg und Frieden: Studien zur Geschichte er Reichstadt Augsburg zwischen Kalenderstreit un Parität, 1 vols., Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1989 and Etienne François, Die Unsichtbare Grenze: Protestanten und Katholiken in Augsburg 1648–1806, Sigmaringen: Jan Thorbecke Verlag, 1991. 15. See Kaspar von Greyerz, The Late City Reformation in Germany: The Case of Colmar, 1522–1628. Veröffentlichungen des Instituts für Europäische Geschichte Mainz, vol. 98, Abteilung für Abendländische Religionsgeschichte, ed. Peter Meinhold, Wiesbaden: Verlag Philipp von Zabern in Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 1980 and Peter Wallace, Communities and Conflict in Early Modern Colmar: 1575–1730, Atlantic Highlands, NJ: Brill, 1995. 16. In general, on the available sources, see Frick, Kith, Kin, and Neighbors, pp. 9–15. 17. See, in English translation, Carlo Ginzburg and Carlo Ponti, ‘The Name and the Game: Unequal Exchange and the Historiographic Marketplace’, transl. Eren Branch, in Edward Muir and Guido Ruggiero (eds.), Microhistory and the Lost Peoples of Europe, Baltimore, MD and London: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1991, pp. 1–10. 18. I am thinking of Aivas Ragauskas, Vilnius miesto valdantysis elitas XVIIa: Antrojoje pusėje (1662–1702 m.), Vilnius: Diemedžio leidykla, 2002; Jakub Niedźwiedź, Kultura Literacka Wilna (1323–1655), Cracow: Universitas, 2012; and Tomasz Kempa, Konflikty wyznaniowe w Wilnie od początku reformacji do końca XVII wieku, Toruń: Wydawnictwo Naukowe Uniwersytetu Mikołaja Kopernika, 2016. But there are still many more specifically focused monographs (such as the Muscovite occupation of 1655–61): Irina Gerasimova, Pod vlast'iu russkogo caria: Sociokul'turnaia sreda Vil'ny v seredine XVII veka, St Petersburg: Evropejskij universitet v SanktPeterburge, 2015.

2 A History of One House The Microcosm of the Jurydyka of the Vilna Cathedral Chapter in the Sixteenth and Early Seventeenth Centuries1 Wioletta Pawlikowska In the harsh climate of the Grand Duchy of Lithuania a roof and a hearth were conditions of survival. The northern climate certainly affected the conditions of residence. It is hard to dispute this generalization, so let us turn our attention to the details. Some believe that God is in the details,2 others might locate the Devil therein. Either way, the image of the past which emerges through the details contained in sources is usually full of colours and shades, rather than one-dimensional and monochrome. Just like the present. The right of members of the Cathedral Chapter of Vilna (Vilnius) to their own home (called a canonical curia) was a necessary consequence of the statutes which required them to reside in the vicinity of the cathedral.3 However, the Chapter faced a shortage of accommodation, initially having only several properties at its disposal, but twelve canons and six prelates (the provost, dean, archdeacon, custodian, scholar and cantor) to house. This was despite the fact that in the sixteenth century, the Chapter’s jurydyka (a legal term which essentially means the plots of land within the city limits subject to capitular jurisdiction) held about sixty-four houses, most of which were rented out to lay persons.4 This situation gave rise to much tension. It also led to canons residing temporarily in inns, something which—as the Chapter itself recognized—harmed the reputation of the clergy.5 The consequences were not restricted only to the kind of excess which typically amuses readers, such as carousing in female company, playing cards or wine-fueled feasting. These things went on not only in taverns, but in capitular residences as well.6 At this point it is worth recalling a meeting which had an altogether different character and which is even cited sometimes as a symbol of religious toleration in the Grand Duchy of Lithuania.7 The matter is quite well known, thanks mainly to the Calvinist convert from Orthodoxy and client of the arch-Catholic Mikołaj Krzysztof Radziwiłł, Fiodor Jewłaszewski, who recorded his sojourn in the capital of the Grand Duchy of Lithuania.8 His memoir has been repeatedly published,9 and from among the several translations into various languages I quote that of the late Father Alexander Nadson, with only minor modifications:

A History of One House  29 During the year 1565 I resided in the city of Vilna, collecting the socalled poll-taxes. There I received great consolation, listening to the word of God preached to the Christian congregation by the learned ministers Wędrogowski and Kościeniecki. On the other hand I found great favour with a man worthy of memory, Father John Makaviecki [Joannes Makowiecki], the Archdeacon of Warsaw, Custodian and Canon of Vilna, Secretary in the Treasury of His Majesty, who made me more skilled in figures and did me a great service by giving my name and recommending me to several people. For at that time difference of religion was no obstacle to friendship, for which reason that age seems to me golden in comparison with the present day, when even among people of the same faith hypocrisy reigns, but when it comes to different religions, then it is useless to look for love, sincerity and good manners, especially amongst lay people. I  remember well from times not long ago, when the present Pope Clement was still a Cardinal at the court of His Majesty King Stephen in Vilna, I was sitting together with some of his foremost Italian servants at table in the house of Father Bartholomew Niadźviedzki [Bartolomeus Niedźwiedzki], Canon of Vilna. On learning that I was an Evangelical they were astonished that the Canon dared to invite me to dinner, and when he explained that there was no hate among us and that we loved one another like good friends, the Italians were filled with praise and said that God Himself dwelt here, while at the same time they complained of their own domestic customs and disorders. May God grant even now the return of gentler times, that all Christians—who, even though they differ in some articles of faith, are Christians nevertheless—may show greater respect for the supreme and greatest Christian monarch the Pope: and may he, like a wise and kind father, love and suffer them all, in the likeness of the father of a family who knows and suffers all his sons, even if they differ from him and the other brothers in their opinions. In the autumn of the year 1566 there was a plague in the city of Vilna; I lived there for some time, frequently seeing Doctor Saprez [Sierpc], the Canons and other people who also remained alive during the plague. From this doctor I received advice to beware of fright, for there were temptations in the air, but if I saw anything, I  should seize a weapon and walk towards the apparition and it would disappear.10 The memoirist records here, that in Vilna in 1565 he met many good people of various religions, including members of the Cathedral Chapter such as Joannes Makowiecki, who went on to recommend him to other noble persons. Jewłaszewski was also hosted for dinner by Canon Bartolomeus Niedźwiecki. In 1566 Canon Albertus Grabowski of Sierpc (known as Doctor Sierpc) worked out his horoscope.11 Perhaps this task lay behind the rumours coursing the Vilna streets about Grabowski,

30  W. Pawlikowska namely that he was said to indulge in necromancy,12 that is, a form of forbidden magical practices in which the sorcerer calls on the souls of the dead in order to discover the future.13 Moreover, no known source actually proves that Grabowski was awarded a doctorate in medicine,14 although he is titled as such several times in capitular sources.15 A doctoral degree was a condition for receiving a doctoral canonry. Perhaps Grabowski merely declared that he held the requisite degree. Was it for this reason that he was so emphatically and contrarily called Doctor Sierpc by persons of his acquaintance? A great deal happened behind the doors of capitular houses as well as in the taverns of Vilna. Perhaps Jewłaszewski also crossed the threshold of the house—a canonical curia—to whose history the present text is devoted. Henceforth we shall be dealing with the possessors and, whenever possible over a period of seven decades, with the fabric of a house located on Bernardine Street (ulica Bernardyńska, Bernardinų gatvė). We do know that during Jewłaszewski’s stay in Vilna this house was the residence of Archdeacon Joannes’s brother, Canon Thomas Makowiecki.16 I have discussed the state of research on the jurydyka of the Cathedral Chapter, along with the sources that relate to it, in another publication.17 Similarly, I have also discussed the term jurydyka at greater length elsewhere. Nevertheless, it is worth recalling that in early modern Vilna we are not dealing with a consolidated or continuous area, and that its inhabitants were subject to a separate court.18 The source material for what follows comes from the archive of the Cathedral Chapter of Vilna, including the volumes of protocols currently preserved in the Wróblewski Library of the Lithuanian Academy of Sciences in Vilnius.19 At this point some attention must also be paid to the method. In accordance with the premises of socio-topography (inclining towards microhistory), which I would like to apply in this chapter, one of the basic problems is the capture of the relationship between social structure, particular persons and space at a given moment in time, accentuating the problems of daily life—in this case from a capitular perspective.20 Fuller understanding of the details preserved in the sources for this micro-study can come with their contextualization, according to the obligation on every historian to make use of all the sources necessary to understand the subject and elucidate the problem in question. However, in a brief text, it is not possible to make use of all the accessible archival material. It is also appropriate here to draw on the techniques of collective biography—prosopography—which I have employed elsewhere to present the functioning of the Chapter of Vilna and its members. For the Chapter, like many other early modern corporations, comprised people from various backgrounds, circles and territories.21 In the case of the jurydyka of the Vilna Chapter, the task carries the risk—as with any retrospective—associated with the incompleteness of the sources and the imprecision of some of the entries. The risk increases

A History of One House  31 along with the detail of the narrative. Carelessly attempted microhistory can become simply storytelling which, however entertaining, contributes little of lasting significance to historical knowledge and understanding.22 However, micro-historical socio-topography might also yield a more or less successful study of the streets of Vilna. Scholars who try to locate buildings from the fourteenth, fifteenth or even sixteenth centuries on the basis of maps from the eighteenth or even the seventeenth centuries run a high risk of error. The known plans of Vilna from the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries—however beautiful and interesting in their own right—are for these purposes imprecise.23 Alas, even the excellent works of Kęstutis Katalynas and Gediminas Vaitkevičius are of limited use here.24 As Jerzy Ochmański noted in the case of the episcopal jurydyka in Vilna, ‘at the end of the fourteenth century the picture [. . .] was completely different to that in the year 1553 at the time of Vilna’s greatest prosperity, ruined by the Muscovite invasion of 1655’.25 In the case of the capitular jurydyka, the verdict must be analogous. Nevertheless, the contributions made in this regard by Józef Maroszek, Mindaugas Paknys and David Frick, when combined with close attention to the sources, stimulate the posing of new research questions and hypotheses.26 The system for taking possession of a canonical curia—via the option iuxta vocacionem (according to the length of service as a member of the Chapter)27—forced clergymen into micro-mobility, at least within the confines of the jurydyka, and encouraged them to participate in the general sessions of the Chapter, during which the allocation of houses was decided. Moreover, the procedure of options had a domino effect on the capitular community, as the vacating of one property on the acquisition of another created an opportunity for another clergyman to do likewise, and so on, until the granting of a house to a newcomer who had not previously resided in a curia brought the sequence to a halt.28 This principle also applied in most Chapters in the Polish Crown. Both prestimonial estates (landed properties belonging to the Chapter) and houses were assigned to the temporary care of particular canons.29 Such clergymen received a document allocating the particular curia and house for their residence. One such provision, drawn up by the famous Polish Renaissance poet Jan Kochanowski for the archdeacon of Śrem, Jan Kąkolewski, has survived to this day.30 Things were different, however, for the six Vilnan prelates, whose properties were attached to their particular benefices. Apart from the prelates, canons and lower clergy, the capitular jurydyka was filled with burghers and other inhabitants of the city who were subject to the Chapter’s jurisdiction. They represented the most diverse professions and trades: apothecaries, carpenters, hatters, tailors, furniture makers, saddlers, swordsmiths, cobblers, glazers, locksmiths, carters, brewers, masons, blacksmiths, weavers, bakers, potters, salters, traders of bread and hides, and washerwomen.31 Some of these lived in

32  W. Pawlikowska capitular houses or in their basements and cellars, naturally in exchange for rent, although not always to the approval of the Chapter. Not every trade was equally welcome. On 5 October 1583 the Chapter reminded its members that some of them were sheltering tenants who practised ‘dirty’ trades: cobblers, saddlers, locksmiths and herring sellers. All for miserable gain at the expense of the good name of the corporation. It was then resolved to forbid the receiving of representatives of such groups in canonical houses, on pain of the loss of the daily allowance (the refectio) for an entire month.32 We know from later sources that despite these sanctions—or perhaps from their not being applied—the practice continued. Thanks to their residence in these properties, cathedral clergymen could not only reduce their expenses but also earn a few groats from letting out rooms. So it is no surprise that some priests continually sought the Chapter’s approval to live in canonical curiæ. Until the 1560s the right to ask for a capitular house belonged only to the canons although there were cases of prelates enjoying the privilege as well. This changed when the canonical and prelatical properties were united into one capitular estate. This process, which was intended to equalize the right of clergymen to a house, lasted a long time. One fragment of this complex past which still casts a shadow in the surviving sources is the wooden house, situated on a plot adjoining Bernardine Street in Vilna.33 In the sixteenth century Bernardine Street was one of the main throughfares of the city. It was so named because it led to the large church and friary of the Observant Franciscans, who in Poland-Lithuania were known as Bernardines after St  Bernardino of Siena. In 1636 as many as eight houses located on this street were subject to the Chapter’s jurisdiction, including two tenements inhabited by Canons Martinus Szulc Wolfowicz and Franciscus Dołmat-Isajkowski respectively, as well as the tenement containing the St Ambrose dormitory.34 We are concerned with one of the houses of Bernardine Street which might have been numbered 3, or perhaps 6, according to later and unconfirmed identifications.35 In the sixteenth century, curiæ had neither names nor numbers. For this reason the protocols only locate them by reference to topography, or to the names of the neighbours, if they are located at all.36 In order to establish the names of the residents of the house on Bernardine Street it is necessary to follow the chain of the options exercised on its possession. The first known inhabitant of this house is Canon Erasmus Eustachius de Cracovia (de Czas?) (who bore the Łodzia coat of arms and therefore had noble status).37 He lived here from at least 11 September 153338 until 8 June 1537.39 Canon Erasmus, who died in or after 1544,40 may have been the person inscribed in the metrica of Cracow University as Erasmusem Szolcz Eustachii Scholcz

A History of One House  33 de Cracouia,41 who held positions at the royal court as notary and secretary.42 It is worth adding, bearing in mind the earlier passage on the horoscopes and almanacs of Canon Albertus Grabowski, that to Canon Erasmus was dedicated an almanac published in Cracow in 1537 by Michael a Viślica,43 the head of the chair of astrology and the dean of the philosophical faculty of Cracow University, as well as the custodian (later dean) of the Chapter of the Church of St Florian in Cracow.44 On 8 June 1537,45 Canon Bartolomeus of Kowno (Kaunas), who was of burgher origin, exercised his option and acquired the right to the house. The Chapter obliged him—in accordance with the letter of the statutes—46to raise the standard of the building. This house turned out to be Bartolomeus’s last home on earth before he moved to his eternal dwelling place. However, he was in no hurry to embark on that last journey. He resided in the house—probably with some breaks—for almost a quarter of a century. In the meantime he had to sub-let the property to the suffragan bishop (and also the cantor) of Vilna, Prelate Georgius Albinus, who, not being a canon of the cathedral, had no automatic right to a curia. On 7 November 1550 Canon Bartolomeus made a complaint against the suffragan bishop, that Albinus disturbed him in his own home.47 From the entry dated 9 May  1551 it transpires that Georgius Albinus had submitted a request for taking possession of the house from Bartolomeus of Kowno. The latter immediately contested this, underlining that Albinus had neither any right to the house nor any proofs that the Chapter had leased him the house either in whole or in part. Even if he had lived in the house for several years, that was no proof for any legal title to possession. Given that Albinus had not presented any convincing arguments, he was commanded forever to remain silent on the matter by the Chapter. By the same token, the right to the house of Canon Bartolomeus was confirmed.48 Leaving the Chapter, whether through death or resignation, gave the other members an opportunity to improve their living conditions. Along with the vacancy of the prebend, the Chapter announced the vacancy of the house and/or prestimonial estate which the former member had possessed. This usually sparked a flurry of interest among the cathedral clergymen, who gathered in Vilna in order to participate in the option. Canons who obtained a new curia and/or prestimonial estate were expected to give up the property or properties they had hitherto enjoyed. It is notable that Canon Bartolomeus did not choose to move to a new house when opportunities to do so arose. Perhaps he was simply lazy? Or perhaps the alternatives to his existing residence were insufficiently attractive? Perhaps he was genuinely attached to his house on Bernardine Street? Whatever may have been the case, on 26 August  1552, following the death of Canon Joannes Kunicki, the late

34  W. Pawlikowska clergyman’s house and prestimonial estate became vacant. The then procurator of the Chapter, Canon Joannes Wirbkowski announced that the right to them fell by option to Canon Bartolomeus of Kowno, as the most senior member of the Chapter present at the session. Bartolomeus was duly offered the house, on condition, however, that he raise the standard of this curia within three years. Bartolomeus did not wish to meet this condition, and so declared his refusal of the offer of the new house. He took care, however, to reserve his rights to participate in future options. This was in accordance with the accepted principle that such resignations needed to be explicitly declared to be on a one-off basis, that is, without setting a precedent. In the end the canonical house formerly occupied by Canon Kunicki was given to Joannes Wirbkowski, who duly moved out of the house he had previously occupied.49 So Bartolomeus remained in his house on Bernardine Street. Canon Bartolomeus’s next chance to move home presented itself in 1556. This time a brick-built house on Castle Street (Ulica Zamkowa, Pilies gatvė), the city’s principal throughfare, fell vacant. Bartolomeus of Kowno swiftly asked to be granted possession, appealing to his seniority. Although the Chapter did not forbid him from participating in the option, it did set conditions which he either could or would not fulfil, and so withdrew his request. Again, he reserved his right to exercise his option in future. It is notable that this brick-built house, presumably of higher than average standard, situated on prestigious Castle Street, was then given to a canon and prelate in one person, Bartolomeus Sabinka. Sabinka was then reputed to be the best of the royal medics.50 It would seem that in this case, connections at the royal court were the decisive factor in the decision. Indeed, it can even be stated that it was in Sabinka’s interests sometimes, as he himself put it in a letter to Stanislaus Hosius, to stay ‘in the desert, whence he and the king were led to be tempted, probably by the Devil himself’.51 In contrast, when another prelate, the aforementioned Cantor Georgius Albinus, requested yet another house, the Chapter again refused him. This time Albinus decided to appeal, first to the bishop of Vilna, and then threatened to take his case to the archbishop of Gniezno (in whose metropolitan province lay the bishopric of Vilna). Moreover, he continued, if that appeal was also refused, he would go to the Holy Apostolic See.52 On top of all this, on 6 March 1556 Albinus declared to the Chapter that if the bishopordinary, Valerianus Protasewicz, would not support and help him, he would no longer wish to assist him as his suffragan.53 Two weeks later, the capitular procurator—Canon Wirbkowski—made a formal complaint against the cantor, recalling that he had for several years fallen behind with the repayments on a loan.54 Georgius Albinus paid back half the sum—fifty Hungarian ducats— just as another option was held for a further vacant house. The Chapter

A History of One House  35 accepted the money, but did not award this further house to Albinus. It justified its decision thus: the house in question was a canonical curia and prelates could not live in it. At this the cantor riposted that since he had no house in which to live, he no longer felt obliged to reside permanently near the cathedral and to carry out his ecclesiastical duties.55 Unjust applications of different standards in similar situations are therefore no monopoly of corporations, including academic corporations, in the present day. This example testifies to the canons’ interested, indeed arbitrary application of the regulations of the statutes depending on the needs of the moment. And so Bartolomeus of Kowno lived in the house on Bernardine Street from 1537 until his death, early in 1560. On 20 February  1560 the Chapter considered the request made by the bishop-ordinary of the neighbouring diocese of Samogitia, Joannes Domanowski, for the house vacated by the late Canon Bartolomeus. The reason given for refusal was that on a previous occasion the bishop, who was also a prelate (the provost, no less) of Vilna Cathedral, had not reserved his right to participate in future options.56 Domanowski repeated his request on 5 March  1560. However, he achieved nothing.57 The Chapter also refused a similar request from another prelate, Archdeacon Josephus Jasiński, on the grounds that he had not improved the house already in his possession. Jasiński stated his intention to appeal the decision. At this point the vacant house on Bernardine Street was asked for by the royal physician, Canon Petrus of Poznań. The group of applicants was soon joined by the custodian, Prelate Joannes Makowiecki, who offered to invest one hundred schocks of Lithuanian groats in the building and pay an ‘entry fee’ of thirty Polish złotys. This proposition suggests, inter alia, that after twenty-three years in the possession of Canon Bartolomeus, the fabric of the house needed serious attention. The remaining clergymen in the Chapter house, considering these propositions, taking into account the current needs of the Chapter, including the shabby state of the garments in the sacristry, proposed that Petrus of Poznań reach an understanding with Joannes Makowiecki. At this Canon Petrus protested that the Chapter’s decision was unjust and even indecent, testifying to the venality of the corporation, and so he would not yield, and insisted on his right to request the house. Finally the Chapter resolved to postpone the decision.58 The Chapter reprised the question of the house left by Bartolomeus of Kowno on 11 March. Petrus of Poznań and Joannes Makowiecki were joined as candidates by the cathedral preacher, Canon Isaiah. According to the principle of seniority, priority belonged to Canon Petrus. However, it was decided to resolve the question by a majority vote. Bishop and Prelate Joannes Domanowski voted for Makowiecki, who for his part promised to air the ecclesiastical wardrobe frequently (whatever that might have meant). In addition, Domanowski argued that Canon

36  W. Pawlikowska Petrus had already received a prestimonial estate. In his view, two properties should not be allocated to the same person during a single option. Canon Joannes Wirbkowski initially resigned from participation in the option on behalf of Archdeacon Jasiński, but in the end he voted for Makowiecki. Canon Stanislaus Narkuski, citing the capitular statutes and a royal privilege establishing that during options on houses a prelate should not be preferred to a canon, voted for Petrus of Poznań. He also expressed his surprise that before the uniting of the prelatical and canonical properties had taken place, prelates were seeking canonical houses. Nevertheless Canon Albertus Grabowski voted to grant the house to Prelate Makowiecki. In turn Canon Petrus Arciechowski proposed that the clergymen reach an agreement between themselves. Because of the different opinions, the decision was postponed until the following Friday.59 On 18 March Petrus of Poznań declared that if he received the house, he would invest a hundred schocks of Lithuanian groats in it. This made a difference, but now he and Makowiecki had three votes each and the community was still divided by opinion. Finally, the house once occupied by Bartolomeus of Kowno went to the royal medic, Canon Petrus of Poznań. The latter factor clearly weighed more than his birth as a burgher. The wooden house thus vacated by Petrus was immediately sought by Canon Isaiah, who said he wished to live closer to the cathedral church.60 The ceremonial entry of the new possessor of the house on Bernardine Street took place on 21 March. Arciechowski inducted him on behalf of Procurator Wirbkowski. However, despite the provision of statute number 25,61 the obligatory visitation and compilation of an inventory were not carried out.62 However, Petrus of Poznań did not intend to reside long in the house he had taken over from the late Bartolomeus of Kowno. On 17 May 1560 the canons commenced the option on the houses vacated by Canon Albertus Narbutt († 23 March63/ 24 March  1560)64 and Archdeacon Josephus Jasiński († 14 April  1560).65 The house in which Narbutt had resided was requested by Arciechowski, who in exchange offered to invest a hundred schocks of Lithuanian groats in the necessary repairs and refurbishment. This was accepted by all the clergymen participating in the session, except for the royal medic Petrus of Poznań who laid down the condition that if in future the king should wish that one of his courtiers should live in a capitular house allocated by option, then the Chapter should agree. Arciechowski did not wish to accept this condition and so announced he would appeal to the bishop of Vilna. The option continued.66 This house—formerly Narbutt’s—was then requested by Petrus of Poznań, accepting the condition rejected by Arciechowski, that is, the condition which he had proposed himself. He obtained this property. At the same time he resigned his rights to the house on Bernardine Street. This house, formerly occupied by Bartolomeus of Kowno, was now

A History of One House  37 awarded to Prelate Joannes Makowiecki (a noble, bearing the Dołęga coat of arms).67 He voluntarily promised to carry out repairs costing one hundred shocks of Lithuanian groats.68 Makowiecki kept his word. This is attested by the entry in the capitular acts for 22 May  1562. It also illuminates the system of values held by the early modern clergy. In exchange for the investments he had made, Custodian Makowiecki requested that the income generated by this house be used to establish an anniversarius, that is, a liturgy on the anniversary of his death, for the sake of his soul. The Chapter liked the idea, and it then decided that in future each prelate or canon taking possession of a house should make a payment of six schocks of Lithuanian groats. Of this sum, two schocks would go towards an eternal anniversarius for the soul of Bartolomeus of Kowno, whereas four—for the soul of Custodian Makowiecki.69 A few months later—on 6 November 1562—Makowiecki took possession of yet another house on Bernardine Street, one that was next to the house of Canon Alexander de Pessenti. In exchange for an additional wooden house he promised to pay an annual rent of seven schocks of Lithuanian groats, payable at Martinmas that is on 11 November. The last inhabitant of this wooden house had been a burgher, subject of course to capitular jurisdiction—the barber Iwanek.70 Iwanek had acquired the right to reside in this house—for the same annual rent of seven schocks of Lithuanian groats—as recently as 10 July  1562. He had also been obliged to carry out the necessary repairs.71 Soon afterwards, on 25 August, he moved in.72 The previous resident, Marcin Polikowski, had been removed from the house because of far-reaching neglect. He had also sub-let the property to third persons.73 By 4 February  1563, this additional wooden house—acquired by Makowiecki— was in such poor condition that it was apparently impossible to live in. For this reason Makowiecki asked for yet another house in which Iwanek the barber had once lived. He received this further house for twelve years in exchange for the same annual rent of seven schocks of Lithuanian groats, also payable at Martinmas. In return for maintaining the house in good order and carrying out the necessary repairs, he was granted the Chapter’s consent to live in the property, to rent out rooms, sell goods and distil liquor. After the end of the lease the house would return to the Chapter.74 The question of the residences of Prelate Makowiecki was again raised at the session of 25 May  1563. The clergymen present listened to the claims of the custodian regarding the house in which Iwanek the barber had lived. According to the entry, Iwanek had paid an annual rent of just five schocks of Lithuanian groats. The custodian proposed that the Chapter should guarantee him a lifetime rent of seven schocks per annum. The Chapter, given the small number of houses at its disposal, and that

38  W. Pawlikowska many of its members were not in possession of a house, decided to double the length of Makowiecki’s lease to twenty-four years. The prelate was pleased with this solution.75 So in a short time, Makowiecki had leased two houses on Bernardine Street. This state of affairs lasted for a few years. On 15 February 1565 Prelate Makowiecki made a request to the Chapter for consent to the cession of the house in his possession (the one in which Bartolomeus of Kowno had once lived) to his brother, Canon Thomas Makowiecki. Joannes Makowiecki argued that he had invested substantial sums in its finishing and partial rebuilding in brick.76 Almost the entire Chapter, except for Suffragan Bishop Albinus, who appealed,77 expressed approval and resolved to transfer the right of residence to Canon Thomas Makowiecki (who like his brother bore the Dołęga coat of arms).78 Common sense and pragmatism prevailed. Joannes Makowiecki died on 26 April 1569.79 He was survived by his brother Thomas, who died sometime between 6 October80 and 14 November 1586.81 The next option on the house on Bernardine Street began on 2 January 1587. Given his services to the Chapter, the house was awarded to the custodian, Prelate Benedictus Woyna (the future bishop of Vilna). Unlike most members of the Chapter in the sixteenth century, Woyna came from a wealthy noble family native to the Grand Duchy of Lithuania; he bore the Trąby coat of arms.82 The Chapter took note, among other things, of the expenses he had incurred in maintaining his previous capitular residence. However, given that the late brothers Makowiecki had left the house in very good condition, and no further investments were needed for the moment, Woyna was expected to pay an ‘entry fee’ of forty schocks of Lithuanian groats. The Chapter was also counting on Woyna sorting out matters outstanding on another house. According to the Chapter the so-called custodian’s residence had been illegally inhabited, first by one Stanisław Małachowski, and then by a Stanisław Łoknicki.83 Woyna lived in the house on Bernardine Street until he became bishop of Vilna in 1600. We can therefore suppose that within its walls more than one meeting and dispute took place regarding his efforts first to manage and then to take possession of the see of Vilna, which fell vacant in 1591 when Bishop Georgius Radziwiłł was controversially translated to Cracow by King Sigismund III.84 After Woyna had vacated the house, the option on it commenced on 6 October 1600.85 The operation was accomplished at the session of 27 November, when the lease was assigned to the Cantor—later the Custodian—Prelate Eustachius Wołłowicz, despite the fact that he was by no means the senior member of the Chapter in terms of length of service. He was, however, another native of the Grand Duchy of Lithuania, of a wellconnected noble family, bearing the Bogoria coat of arms.86 Perhaps

A History of One House  39 this is why his elder colleagues benevolently resigned their priority in the option. They did, however, oblige him to look after the house well, and to continue to pursue the case with Łoknicki regarding the so-called custodian’s residence.87 This house returned to the disposal of the Chapter before 28 May 1604, thanks, it was recorded, to the efforts of the entire corporation. It was swiftly granted to a new possessor—Canon Martinus Żagiel (another nobleman, bearing the Trąby coat of arms).88 He too was obliged to look after this house with suitable diligence, under pain of losing both the property and his right to participate in future options.89 Wołłowicz enjoyed the right to live in the house on Bernardine Street until 7 February  1603. From the tax register of 1602 we know that in the house of Reverend Custodian Wołłowicz lived a swordsmith, Greger Rnkowd.90 It is possible that Wołłowicz could have resided here longer, given that from the beginning of the year he departed from Vilna as the Chapter’s envoy to the sejm of the Commonwealth. So he could not be present during the option. However, thanks to his authorization of Canon Andreas Jurgiewicz to represent him in his absence, he obtained the house vacated by the deceased Canon Ambrosius Beynart. Because Wołłowicz had not carried out significant repairs and improvements in the house on Bernardine Street, he was obliged to hand over to his successor in that house twenty schocks of Lithuanian groats, together with the bricks purchased for its repair. The happy successor turned out to be Canon Stanislaus Szydłowski, who may well have been a burgher.91 He remained in possession until his death. On 7 February 1620 a new option commenced for this brick-built house. In the end, because none of the longer-serving canons wanted the house formerly possessed by the late Canon Szydłowski, it was given to Canon Michael Skorulski (of the Kościesza coat of arms92).93 The foregoing account of the house on Bernardine Street and its ­inhabitants, framed in a capitular microcosm, allows us to pose some questions and reach some conclusions. Who were the residents of the house? (Table 2.1) During a period of eighty-seven years the lease on this house was granted by the Vilna Chapter to nine clergymen. Of these, two or perhaps three were of burgher origin; the others were noblemen. Six were canons, three were prelates; two of the latter took possession of the house after the merging of canonical and prelatical properties. Of the residents, five were natives of the Polish Crown, four of the Grand Duchy of Lithuania. For three of these nine clergymen, whom I  would count among the ‘permanent’ residents of Vilna, the house was their last refuge in the earthly vale of tears. For the others— more mobile men—it seems that it was only a temporary resting place before they embarked on further journeys. Some of these clergymen did their bit to improve the condition and standard of the property—in

40  W. Pawlikowska accordance with the letter of the statute of the Chapter, and perhaps also as a result of conditions set by the Chapter for some of the incoming possessors. The house on Bernardine Street should be reckoned among the better maintained capitular residences. It could therefore be a desirable property for members of the Chapter. Beyond these general conclusions it is difficult to identify clear correlations, trends or dynamics. The fact that in 1603 the house was given to a canon, originating in the Polish Crown and probably of burgher origin should caution against too readily identifying a trend towards noble, Lithuanian- or Ruthenian-born prelates. But it is precisely this lack of a regular pattern that helps to illuminate the way in which the Chapter functioned and interpreted its own normative acts, notably the statutes. It is significant that the conduct of options and even the date of their commencement could vary according to the requirements of the moment. These decisions were affected by the collective interests of the Chapter, including the motivation to win the favour of influential persons. The Chapter’s elastic approach to the interpretation of the letter of the law is striking. Theoretically, during options on capitular houses the Chapter should have been guided by the aspirants’ length of service in the corporation. The senior canon should have been preferred, as they were considered—at least in principle—to be the men who had given the Church the greatest service. We know, however, that exceptions were made for clergymen who had joined the Chapter more recently, especially if they had connections to the royal court.94 This was not the only factor, however. Another example, relating to another capitular house, is revealing. During the session of 4 December  1570 the Vilnan clergymen faced the dilemma of whom to give priority for a house: Nicolaus Koryzna or Stanislaus Gorecki. Koryzna had entered the Chapter before Gorecki, and so he enjoyed seniority. On the other hand Gorecki was an ordained priest and on that basis argued, according to a provision of the statute giving privileges to clergymen in higher orders, that he enjoyed priority. However, following discussion the Chapter resolved to grant the house to Koryzna, justifying the decision with the comment that among the members of the Chapter, he was the only son of the lands of the Grand Duchy of Lithuania.95 This reflected a resolution of 1564 for the preferment—in just such a case—of the clergyman born in the Grand Duchy over a ‘foreigner’. Moreover, in the entry recording the decision taken in 1570, the other members of the Chapter were described as ‘foreigners’, and evidently did not consider themselves compatriots of Nicolaus Koryzna.96 It transpires, therefore, that seniority did not always apply. Not all canons of Vilna had an equal chance of obtaining their preferred curia. They could be leapfrogged by a junior colleague who had connections at the royal court.

A History of One House  41 Table 2.1  Possessors of the house on Bernardine Street, Vilna, 1533–1620 Possessors of the House on Bernardine Street, Vilna, 1533–1620 Name and estate Canon Erasmus Eustachius (noble, Łodzia coat of arms)

Geographical origin

Dates of possession

Condition of the house

Cracow, Polish Crown

11 September 1533– 8 June 1537, resigned?

Unknown

Canon Bartolomeus of Kowno, Grand Kowno (burgher) Duchy of Lithuania

8 June 1537–before Probably 10 January 1560 (†) a little improved.

Canon Petrus of Poznań (burgher)

21 March 1560–11 Unknown May 1560, resigned

Poznań, Polish Crown

Prelate Joannes Makowiec, 11 May 1560–15 Makowiecki (noble, Polish Crown February 1565, Dołęga coat of arms) resigned

Improved

Canon Thomas Makowiec, 15 February 1565– Improved Makowiecki (noble, Polish Crown October/November Dołęga coat of arms) 1586 (†) Prelate Benedictus Grodno 2 January 1587–c. Woyna (noble, Trąby (Hrodna), 6 October 1600, coat of arms) Grand Duchy resigned of Lithuania

Unknown

Prelate Eustachius Grodno, Grand 27 November 1600–7 Not Wołłowicz (noble, Duchy of February 1603, improved Bogoria coat of arms) Lithuania resigned Canon Stanislaus Szydłowiec, 7 February 1603– Szydłowski (burgher) Polish Crown before 7 February 1620 (†) Canon Michael Skorulski (noble, Kościesza coat of arms)

Grand Duchy of 7 February 1620–? Lithuania

Unknown

Unknown

Notes 1. A Polish-language version of this chapter was published as Wioletta Pawlikowska-Butterwick, ‘Historia jednego domu: mikroświat(ek) jurydyki kapituły katedralnej w Wilnie w XVI i na początku XVII wieku’, Wschodni Rocznik Humanistyczny, 15, 2018, 2, pp. 53–71. 2. István Szijártó, ‘Four Arguments for Microhistory’, Rethinking History, 6, 2002, 2, pp. 209–15 (p. 209). 3. Wioletta Pawlikowska-Butterwick and Liudas Jovaiša, The Statutes of the Chapters of Vilna and Samogitia / Vilniaus ir Žemaičių katedrų kapitulų statutai, Vilnius: LKMA, 2015. 4. Wioletta Pawlikowska-Butterwick, ‘Property and Personal Relations in the Jurydyka of the Vilna Cathedral Chapter in the Sixteenth and Early

42  W. Pawlikowska Seventeenth Century (with Particular Reference to the Scandalous and Suspicious Misdeeds of Canon Isaac Fechtinus)’, Wschodni Rocznik Humanistyczny, 13, 2016, pp. 53–82 (p. 55). 5. Acta Capituli Vilnensis, vols I-XIII, [hereafter ACV], manuscripts in The Wróblewski Library of the Lithuanian Academy of Sciences in Vilnius, ACV, vol. VIII, fol. 44v, § 175. 6. See Wioletta Pawlikowska, ‘Sex, Violence and Alcohol in Sixteenth-Century Vilnius: Cases from the Acts of the Cathedral Chapter’, Tiltas: Journal of the British-Lithuanian Society, 11, 2011, 2, pp. 20–4; Pawlikowska-Butterwick, ‘Property and Personal Relations’. 7. Jerzy Ochmański, Historia Litwy, Wrocław: Ossolineum, 1982, pp. 144–5; Janusz Tazbir, Dzieje polskiej tolerancji, Warsaw: Wydawnictwo Interpress, 1973, pp. 76–7; idem, ‘Teodor (Fedor) Jewłaszewski, i jego Pamiętnik’, in Aere perennius: profesorowi Gerardowi Labudzie dnia 28 XII 2001 roku w hołdzie, ed. Antoni Czubiński, Marceli Kosman et  al., Poznań: Wyższa Szkoła Zarządzania i Bankowości—J. U. w Poznaniu: Instytut Historii Politycznej, 2001, pp.  83–99 (pp.  88–9); Marceli Kosman, Protestanci i kontrreformacja: Z dziejów tolerancji w Rzeczypospolitej XVI-XVIII wieku, Wrocław: Ossolineum, 1978, pp. 76–8. Studies of the question of religious toleration in the Grand Duchy of Lithuania continue to furnish new and important findings, e.g. Tomasz Kempa, ‘Próba interpretacji wydarzeń wileńskich z 1581 roku—pierwszego poważnego konfliktu wyznaniowego w Wielkim Księstwie Litewskim w okresie kontrreformacji’, in Jacek Krochmal (ed.), Rola Kościoła w dziejach Polski: Kościoły w Rzeczypospolitej, Warsaw: Archiwum Główne Akt Dawnych, Naczelna Dyrekcja Archiwów Państwowych, 2017, pp. 106–20 (p. 109). 8. See Maciej Siekierski, ‘Theodore Jeulasheuski and His Memoirs’, Journal of Belarusian Studies, 4, 1977, pp. 5–8; idem, ‘Pamiętnikarz Fedor Jewłaszewski (1546—po 1614 [1616]) w świetle nowych źródeł’, Studia Źródłoznawcze, 24, 1979, pp.  177–80. Cf. Maciej Siekierski, ‘Zbyszek—kompan, kolega, inspirator’, in ‘No, co się śmiejesz?’ Wspominki dla Profesora Zbysława Wojtkowiaka, Poznań: publikacja wydana nakładem przyjaciół, 7 listopada 2013 roku, pp.  33–4. See also Zbysław Wojtkowiak, ‘Omówienie Literatury’, Lituano-Slavica Posnaniensia: Studia Historica, 1, 1985, pp.  208– 10; Tomasz Kempa, Mikołaj Krzysztof Radziwiłł Sierotka (1549–1616), Warsaw: Semper, 2000, p. 139; idem, Konflikty wyznaniowe w Wilnie od początku reformacji do końca XVII wieku, Toruń: Wydawnictwo Naukowe Uniwersytetu Mikołaja Kopernika, 2016, pp.  94–5; Urszula ŚwiderskaWłodarczyk, Mentalność szlachty polskiej XV i XVI wieku, Poznań: Księgarnia Św. Wojciecha, 2003, pp.  98–9; David Frick, Kith, Kin, and Neighbors: Communities and Confessions in Seventeenth-Century Wilno, Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 2013, pp. 3–4; Robert E. Alvis, White Eagle, Black Madonna: One Thousand Years of the Polish Catholic Tradition, New York: Fordham University Press, 2016, pp.  86–7; Marzena Liedke, ‘Szlachta ruska Wielkiego Księstwa Litewskiego a reformacja. Część II: Przyczyny przyjmowania nowych wyznań, aktywność reformacyjna oraz motywy porzucania konfesji protestanckich’, Białoruskie Zeszyty Historyczne, 19, 2003, pp. 54–76 (pp. 56–62, 66). 9. Pamiętnik Teodora Jewłaszewskiego nowogrodzkiego podsędka 1546–1604, ed. Tadeusz Jan Lubomirski, Warsaw: W księgarni R. Friedlejna, 1860; U. M. Swiazinski, Histarycznyja zapiski. F. Jeułaszouskaha, Minsk: Navuka i technika, 1990; Teodoras Jevlašauskis atsiminimai, ed. Darius Vilimas, Vilnius: Lietuvių literatūros ir tautosakos institutas, 1998.

A History of One House  43 10. ‘The Memoirs of Theodore Jeŭłašeŭski, Assessor of Navahrudak (1546– 1604)’, transl. and annotated by Alexander Nadson, The Journal of Belarusian Studies, 1, 1968, 4, pp. 269–348 (p. 285). 11. Wioletta Pawlikowska, ‘Kanonik Wojciech Grabowski z Sierpca—zapoznana postać szesnastowiecznego Krakowa i Wilna’, Lituano-Slavica Posnaniensia. Studia Historica, 11, 2005, pp.  165–240 (pp.  219–21). Cf. Tazbir, ‘Teodor (Fedor) Jewłaszewski, i jego Pamiętnik’. For a bibliography of Grabowski’s printed works, see Mieczysław Markowski, Astronomica et astrologica Cracoviensia ante annum 1550. Istituto nazionale di studi sul Rinascimento— Studi e testi, vol. 20, 1990, Florence: Leo S. Olschki editore, 1992, pp. 18–19, no 7. 12. ‘Testament kanonika wileńskiego Wojciecha Grabowskiego z Sierpca’, ed. Wioletta Pawlikowska, Studia Pedagogiczno—Artystyczne, 4, 2004, pp. 116–31. Cf. Zbysław Wojtkowiak, Maciej Stryjkowski—dziejopis Wielkiego Księstwa Litewskiego. Kalendarium życia i działalności, Poznań: Wydawnictwo Naukowe Uniwersytetu im. Adama Mickiewicza, 1990, p. 107. 13. See Roman Bugaj, Nauki tajemne w Polsce w dobie odrodzenia, Wrocław: Ossolineum, 1976, pp. 105–15. 14. Pawlikowska, ‘Kanonik Wojciech Grabowski z Sierpca’, p.  177. Cf. Raimonda Ragauskienė, Mirties nugalėti nepavyko: Biržų ir Dubingių kunigaikščių Radvilų biologinė istorija (XV a. pabaiga—XVII a.), Vilnius: Lietuvos edukologijos universiteto leidykla, 2017, p. 273. 15. ACV, vol. III, fol. 30–30v, § 93. Pawlikowska, ‘Kanonik Wojciech Grabowski z Sierpca’, p. 177. 16. See below, p. 38. 17. Wioletta Pawlikowska, ‘Wileńska kapituła katedralna w drugiej połowie XVI wieku’, unpublished doctoral dissertation, Adam Mickiewicz University, Poznań, 2011. The need to continue research on Vilnan jurydyki is emphasized by Andrzej Zakrzewski, ‘Testament Bartłomieja Wobolewicza— mieszczanina wileńskiej jurydyki biskupiej’, in Michał Zwierzykowski et al (eds.), Wokół Wielkiego Księstwa Litewskiego i jego tradycji, Poznań: Instytut Historii UAM, 2016, pp. 153–7 (p. 153). 18. See Pawlikowska-Butterwick, ‘Property and Personal Relations’ (n. 3 above), passim; for Cracovian comparisons, see Wacław Kolak, ‘Jurydyki krakowskie’, Archeion, 38, 1962, pp. 218–40. 19. ACV, vols. I-XIII. 20. Socio-topography is exemplified by Jacek Wiesiołowski, Socjotopografia późnośredniowiecznego Poznania, Poznań: Wydawnictwo Poznańskiego Towarzystwa Przyjaciół Nauk, 1997; microhistory by Emmanuel Le Roy Ladurie, Montaillou: Cathars and Catholics in a French Village 1294–1324, Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1980; Carlo Ginzburg, The Cheese and The Worms: The Cosmos of a Sixteenth-Century Miller, Baltimore, MD: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1976. 21. Wioletta Pawlikowska-Butterwick, ‘The Prelates and Canons of Vilnius in the Second Half of the Sixteenth Century: A  Prosopographical Study of Selected Questions’, in Bažnyčios Istorijos Studijos/Studies in Church History, 5, Vilnius, 2012, pp. 25–45. 22. See the thought-provoking discussion of the works of Robert Darnton (including the The Great Cat Massacre and Other Episodes in French Cultural History, New York: Basic Books, 1984) in The Darnton Debate: Books and Revolution in the Eighteenth Century, ed. Haydn T. Mason, Oxford: Voltaire Foundation, 1999.

44  W. Pawlikowska 23. Vilniaus miesto planai, ed. Birutė Rūta Vitkauskienė et al., Vilnius: Lietuvos Nacionalinis Muziejus, 2016, pp. 26–9, 32–3. 24. Kęstutis Katalynas and Gediminas Vaitkevičius, ‘Rozwój Wilna w XIV wieku w świetle badań archeologicznych’, Kwartalnik Historii Kultury Materialnej, 50, 2002, pp. 3–10; Kęstutis Katalynas, Vilniaus plėtra XIV—XVII a., Vilnius: Diemedžio leidykla, 2006. 25. Jerzy Ochmański, Powstanie i rozwój latyfundium biskupstwa wileńskiego (1387–1550). Ze studiów nad rozwojem wielkiej własności na Litwie i Białorusi w średniowieczu, Poznań: Wydawnictwo Uniwersytetu im. Adama Mickiewicza w Poznaniu, 1963, p. 18. 26. Józef Maroszek, ‘Ulice Wilna w XIV-XVIII wieku’, Kwartalnik Historii Kultury Materialnej, 47, 1999, 1–2, pp.  163–86; Mindaugas Paknys, ‘Wilno roku 1636 według ‘Rewizji gospód’, Lituano-Slavica Posnaniensia. Studia Historica, 12, 2007, pp. 87–107; David Frick, ‘The Bells of Vilnius: Keeping Time in a City of Many Calendars’, in Glenn Burger, Lesley B. Cormack, Jonathan Hart and Natalia Pylypiuk (eds.), Making Contact: Maps, Identity, and Travel, Edmonton: University of Alberta Press, 2003, pp. 23–59 (p. 26); idem, ‘According to the Confession in Which I  Die: Taking the Measure of Allegiances in Seventeenth-Century Wilno’, Central Europe’, 8, 2010, 2, pp. 107–122; idem, Kith, Kin, and Neighbors (n. 7 above). 27. Pawlikowska-Butterwick and Jovaiša, The Statutes of the Chapters, p. 312. 28. See Wioletta Pawlikowska, ‘Zarządzanie domami kanoniczymi w XVI stuleciu na przykładzie kapituły wileńskiej—przepisy i praktyka’, in Krzysztof Pietkiewicz (ed.), Litwini—historia i kultura, Szreniawa: Muzeum Narodowe Rolnictwa i Przemysłu Rolno-Spożywczego w Szreniawie, 2009, pp. 134–40. 29. See, e.g., Marek Daniel Kowalski, Uposażenie krakowskiej kapituły katedralnej w średniowieczu, Cracow: Societas Vistulana, 2000, pp. 180–94. 30. Biblioteka Kórnicka, MS  113, no 19, fols 140–1. See Konrad Lutyński, ‘Prokuratorzy Jana Kochanowskiego jako prepozyta poznańskiego (1564– 1574)’, Pamię tnik Literacki, 72, 1981, 1, pp. 209–22 (p. 211). 31. These are recorded in the register of the collection of the extraordinary tax of 1602 (‘Rejestr wybierania poboru z 1602 roku’, published in PawlikowskaButterwick, ‘Property and Personal Relations’, pp. 68–78. 32. ACV, vol. VI, pp.  313–14, § 237. See also Akta cechów wileńskich 1495–1759, ed. Henryk Łowmiański, Maria Łowmiańska and Stanisław Kościałkowski, Poznań: Wydawnictwo Poznańskie, 2006, no. 72, pp. 97–8. Nb. the division into ‘clean’ and ‘dirty’ trades still requires research. See Józef Morzy, ‘Geneza i rozwój cechów wileńskich do końca XVII wieku’, Zeszyty Naukowe UAM. Historia, 4, 1959, pp. 3‑93 (p. 47). 33. I have been unable to find any information that clearly relates to this house in Vilniaus namai archyvų fonduose, 13 vols, ed. Vladas Drėma, Vilnius: Savastis, 1995–2007. For the sake of clarity the names of successive possessors and technical information regarding the house on Bernardine Street will be given in bold. 34. Vilniaus miestas ir miestiečiai 1636 m: Namai, gyventojai, svečiai, ed. Mindaugas Paknys, Vilnius: Vilniaus dailės akademijos leidykla, 2006, pp. 268–9. 35. Ibid., p. 179. 36. See, e.g., ACV, vol. IV, fols 7v-8, § 26. 37. Wróblewski Library, F[ondas] 256–2144; F266–474, fol. 2. Cf. Jerzy Ochmański, Biskupstwo wileńskie w średniowieczu: Ustrój i uposażenie, Poznań: Wydawnictwo Uniwersytetu im. Adama Mickiewicza w Poznaniu, 1972, p.  44, and Lietuvos katalikų dvasininkai XIV–XVI a, ed. Vytautas

A History of One House  45 Ališauskas, Tomasz Jaszczołt, Liudas Jovaiša and Mindaugas Paknys, Vilnius: Aidai, 2009, no. 421, pp. 86–7, who describe him as a burgher. 38. ACV, vol. II, fol. 17, § 34. 39. ACV, vol. II, fol. 58, § 136. 40. He was mentioned in the capitular acts for the last time on 8 October 1544. ACV, vol. II, fol. 183, § 440. 41. Metryka Uniwersytetu Krakowskiego z lat 1400–1508, vol. 1, ed. Antoni Gąsiorowski, Tomasz Jurek and Izabela Skierska with Ryszard Grzesik, Cracow: Societas Vistulana, 2004, p. 558. 42. Ochmański, Biskupstwo wileńskie, p.  44; Lietuvos katalikų dvasininkai XIV–XVI a, pp. 86–7; Wacław Urban, ‘Litwini w Krakowie od końca XIV wieku do roku 1579’, Teki Krakowskie, 10, 1999, pp. 131–52 (p. 141). 43. Judicium astrologicum in celebri Studio Cracoviensi per magistrum Michaelem a Vislicza editum pro anno Domini 1537. Lune Eclipsis Lune. See Józef Seruga, ‘Dwa nieznane kalendarze krakowskie z r. 1536 i 1537’, Przewodnik Bibliograficzny, 36, 1913, p. 133. Cf. Markowski, Astronomica et astrologica, p. 134, no 24, with a reference to Kazimierz Piekarski, Polonika XVI wieku: Biuletyn Przybytków Biblioteki Narodowej, 3/4, 1938, p. 102, and Biblioteka Narodowa, cim 8250. 44. Sylwia Konarska-Zimnicka, ‘Astrologica Michała z Wiślicy. Przeglą d twórczości’, Rocznik Oddziału PTH w Skarż ysku-Kamiennej, Z dziejów regionu i miasta, 3, 2012, pp. 79–92 (pp. 79–81). 45. ACV, vol. II, fol. 58, § 136. 46. Pawlikowska-Butterwick and Jovaiša, The Statutes of the Chapters, p. 313. 47. ACV, vol. III, fol. 2v, § 4. 48. ACV, vol. III, fol. 10v, § 22. 49. ACV, vol. III, fol. 32–2v, § 99. 50. ACV, vol. III, fols 126v–28, § 318. 51. Quoted after Anna Sucheni-Grabowska, Zygmunt August: Król polski i wielki książę litewski: 1520–1562, Warsaw: Wydawnictwo Krupski i S-ka, 1996, p. 285. 52. ACV, vol. III, fols 130–1, § 325. 53. ACV, vol. III, fol. 131, § 326. 54. ACV, vol. III, fol. 131v, § 328. 55. ACV, vol. III, fols 149v–50v, § 374. 56. ACV, vol. III, fols 246v–47, § 733. 57. ACV, vol. III, fol. 247v, § 736–7. 58. ACV, vol. III, fol. 248, § 738–38v. 59. ACV, vol. III, fols 249–50, § 742. 60. ACV, vol. III, fol. 251–51v, § 747. 61. Pawlikowska-Butterwick and Jovaiša, The Statutes of the Chapters, p. 313. 62. ACV, vol. III, fols 251v–52, § 749. 63. Wróblewski Library, F. 43–20221. 64. ‘Dziennik biskupa Piotra Myszkowskiego 1555–1568’, ed. Łukasz Kurdybacha, Kwartalnik Historyczny, 47, 1933, no. 1, p. 456. 65. Urban, ‘Litwini w Krakowie’, p. 144. 66. ACV, vol. III, fols 265v–66, § 794. 67. Herby rycerstwa polskiego przez Bartosza Paprockiego zebrane i wydane r. p.  1584, Cracow: Nakładem Wydawnictwa Biblioteki Polskiej, 1858, p. 402. See also Album armorum nobilium Regni Poloniae XV-XVIII saec: Herby nobilitacji i indygenatów XV-XVIII w., ed. Barbara Trelińska, Lublin: Wydawnictwo Uniwersytetu Marii Curie-Skłodowskiej, 2001, p.  154, no 294; pp. 159–60, nos 334–6.

46  W. Pawlikowska 8. ACV, vol. III, fol. 266–66v, § 795. 6 69. ACV, vol. IV, fols 57v–58, § 211. 70. ACV, vol. IV, fol. 77v, § 286. 71. ACV, vol. IV, fol. 64–64v, § 234. 72. ACV, vol. IV, fol. 66v, § 244. 73. ACV, vol. IV, fol. 64–64v, § 234. 74. ACV, vol. IV, fols 82v–83, § 307. 75. ACV, vol. IV, fols 95v–96, § 350. 76. ACV, vol. IV, fols 129v–30, § 457. 77. ACV, vol. IV, fol. 130–30v, § 458. 78. ACV, vol. IV, fols 129v–30, § 457. For the coat of arms, see Herby rycerstwa polskiego, p. 402; Album armorum, p. 154, no 294; pp. 159–60, no 334–6. A document dated 4 February 1568 (Vilniaus universiteto biblioteka, F57—B55–18, fascicule no 29) is signed by Makowiecki, with a signet seal attached, imprinted with the Dołęga coat of arms and the letters TM. 79. Jan Ambroży Wadowski, Kościoły lubelskie: na podstawie źródeł archiwalnych, Cracow: Nakładem Akademii Umiejętności. Skład główny w Księgarni Spółki Wydawniczej Polskiej, 1907, p. 201. 80. ACV, vol. VII, fol. 39, § 72. 81. ACV, vol. VII, fol. 41, § 77. 82. Herbarz polski Kaspra Niesieckiego S. J.: powiększony dodatkami z późniejszych autorów, rękopismów, dowodów urzędowych i wydany przez Jana Nep. Bobrowicza, vol. 1, Leipzig: nakł. i dr. Breitkopfa i Haertela, 1839, p. 45. 83. ACV, vol. VII, fols 46v–48, § 88. 84. See Wioletta Pawlikowska-Butterwick, ‘ “Lithuanians”, “Foreigners” and Ecclesiastical Office: Law and Practice in the Sixteenth-Century Grand Duchy Of Lithuania’, Journal of Ecclesiastical History, 68, 2017, 2, pp. 285–305. 85. ACV, vol. VII, fol. 360v, § 1079. 86. Inscriptiones ecclesiarum Vilnensium, eds. Eugenija Ulčinaitė and Włodzimierz Appel, Vilnius: Aidai, 2005, p. 80, no 31. 87. ACV, vol. VII, fol. 363, § 1086. 88. Herbarz polski Kaspra Niesieckiego, vol. 10, p. 21. 89. ACV, vol. VIII, fol. 44v, § 175. 90. Pawlikowska-Butterwick, ‘Property and Personal Relations’, p. 72. 91. ACV, vol. VIII, fol. 20, § 76. 92. Herbarz polski Kaspra Niesieckiego, vol. 8, pp. 386–7. 93. ACV, vol. VIII, fols 380v–81v, § 1238. 94. Wioletta Pawlikowska-Butterwick, ‘Równi i równiejsi, czyli jak koneksje na dworze królewskim pomagały duchownym w XVI wieku’, in Bożena Czwojdrak, Jerzy Sperka and Piotr Węcowski (eds.), Jagiellonowie i ich świat: Centrum a peryferie w systemie władzy Jagiellonów, Studia Jagiellonica 3, Cracow: Societas Vistulana, 2018, pp. 221–47. 95. ACV, vol. V, fols 15–16, § 53. 96. ‘in eorum congregatione sunt, homines non istius patrie Magni Ducatus Lithuaniae, sed extranei [my emphasis—W.P.], et venerabilis dominus Nicolaus Korizna est huius Magni Ducatus Lithuaniae terre filius’. Quoted and discussed in Wioletta Pawlikowska-Butterwick, ‘A “Foreign” Élite? The Territorial Origins of the Canons and Prelates of the Cathedral Chapter of Vilna in the Second Half of the Sixteenth Century’, Slavonic and East European Review, 92, 2014, 1, pp. 44–80 (pp. 56–7). Cf. eadem, ‘Równi i równiejsi’.

3 The Poor and the Community The Lutheran Charitable System in Eighteenth-Century Wilna Martynas Jakulis

On 20 February  1737, Regina Seyterin appealed to her community’s superior, the seniors, the Thirty Men and overseers, and pleaded for a place in the widows’ home, because her husband’s death ‘left her in extreme poverty’.1 Soon, Regina was accepted into the institution and spent the last half-year of her life there.2 Such a detailed case, very rare in the records of the Lutheran charitable institutions in Wilna (as Germanophones called the city called Vilne in Yiddish, Viln’ia in Ruthenian, Vilnius in Lithuanian and Wilno in Polish), reveals how some destitute members of the community relied on a multifunctional charitable system, which had developed over more than 150 years. The questions related to poor relief in the capital city of the Grand Duchy of Lithuania still require more scrutiny, although, in recent years, more research has been conducted on the topic from various perspectives.3 Nevertheless, it should be considered that, by the end of the sixteenth century, the city was multiconfessional with five Christian confessions (Latin-rite Catholics, Uniates, Orthodox, Lutherans and Calvinists) as well as Jewish and Tatar communities, and that, unlike many western European cities, it did not experience the centralization of poor relief institutions. Thus, more detailed case studies at the community level could reveal varying perceptions of charity, and differences in the provision of relief, characterized by a distinct role of the community or organizational features of charitable institutions. Certainly, institutional relief is always just one side of the story, because people tended to look to their family, relatives and neighbours for help in the first place. These networks of mutual support, however, are difficult to trace in historical sources. Therefore, this chapter focuses on the Lutheran charitable system, which I define as a whole, comprised of institutions, as well as individuals – the receivers and givers of poor relief. The chapter aims to explore the elements of the charitable system, with a particular focus on the receivers of charity. The Lutheran charitable system seems suitable for a more detailed case study (limited, however, by the space available) not only because it has not yet been thoroughly studied, but also because of the hitherto virtually

48  M. Jakulis unexamined corpus of sources. Surviving registers of charitable institutions,4 the records of baptism, marriage and burial,5 as well as other sources, allow for investigation of the topic employing the nominative approach, common in micro-historical studies, which helps to reconstruct family structure or life-cycle, thus providing additional explanations for the impoverishment of certain individuals.

The Institutions The network of Vilnan poor relief institutions developed most intensively from the end of the sixteenth century to the mid-seventeenth century in connection with the Protestant and Catholic Reformations and the Union of Brest. Seven Catholic, seven Uniate, as well as separate Orthodox, Calvinist, Lutheran and Jewish charitable institutions functioned in the city before the Muscovite occupation of 1655–61.6 It remains unknown when Lutheran charitable institutions were established. However, a multifunctional charitable system was already operating by the beginning of the eighteenth century. The system was comprised of five institutions, providing relief in various forms. The indoor relief institutions were located inside as well as outside the city walls. Beyond the Wilia gate, in the ‘Saxon garden’, near the cemetery and a small church, known as the Oratorium, stood the almshouse (das Hospital) and the hospital (die Brüder-Herberge), whereas in the heart of the city, near the Lutheran church on German Street (Vokiečių gatvė), stood the widows’ home (der Wittwen-Stift). There were also the outdoor relief institutions – the fund for the shame-faced poor, widows and orphans (die Hausarmen, Wittwen und Waysen Cassa), which provided small payments for the impoverished members of the community who still had an opportunity to live independently in their own homes. In contrast, the Lutheran public loan office, a kind of mons pietatis, known as der Brüder-Kasten, provided individual relief through cheap loans. However, besides the regulations, there are no records of aforesaid institution’s activity, therefore it remains unknown what sums, and how many Lutherans, borrowed from the ‘brother chest’. The organization of these institutions differed noticeably from that which was introduced in the cities where the Reformation was successful and where, ultimately, the responsibility for poor relief was transferred to the municipalities.7 For instance, in Danzig (Gdańsk), the patronage of the majority of almshouses and hospitals belonged to the municipality, which elected officials responsible for particular spheres of poor relief.8 The features of the Lutheran charitable system were also determined by the fact that poor relief remained decentralized in Wilna. Thus, the local Lutherans were able to form a distinct charitable system at the community level, although, considering the terminology, they also followed examples from Protestant-dominated cities.

The Poor and the Community  49 The overseers of particular institutions were elected from the office of Thirty Men (Dreißigmann), whereas the accounts were approved by the elders of the community (Seniores). The majority of charitable institutions were managed by two overseers (Vorsteher), except the almshouse, which was managed by four to five persons. The overseers had a variety of responsibilities: from keeping the books, registering new poor or patients and paying the weekly alms, to overseeing the buildings, collecting the fines and auctioning off the bequeathed belongings. Internal order was ensured by the elders, known as Beht-Vater /-Mutter, elected from the persons living in the almshouse. As was usual in Wilna, medical specialists arrived at the hospital only when strictly necessary, whereas the inmates were nursed on a daily basis by a Krankenmutter. The regulations of the institutions do not provide any information on the duration of the overseers’ terms. Nonetheless, it does seem that there were some rules. The overseers of the almshouse rotated every two years and the same individuals very rarely held office two terms consecutively, whereas the overseers of the hospital, the widows’ home and the Cassa held office without breaks for more than two terms and sometimes even for decades. For example, Michael Rewell managed the widows’ home for fifteen years (1733–48)9 and the hospital was supervised by Friedrich Bachmünch and David Mullach for more than two decades (1776–98).10 It is hard to tell what could have been the reason for such differences. Although economic motivations could have been important, considering the capacities of each institution, there were no distinct differences in income. On the other hand, this possibly demonstrates the importance of the almshouse to the Lutheran community and the aspiration to maintain an exemplary institution, at the same time giving the opportunity to more of the community’s members to act as guardians of the poor. There are no reliable data on the size of the Lutheran community in eighteenth-century Wilna, but one can presume that these institutions were sufficient for its poor and the sick. Administrative records show that a more or less steady number of paupers resided in the almshouse, while the hospital with twelve beds was never overflowing with patients. The numbers increased in the second half of the century, when these institutions were rebuilt after the great fire (see Figure 3.1).11 Such an increase in the number of patients is also observable, although to a much higher degree, in Catholic hospitals.12 Maybe this could be attributed to the general growth of the city which presented new challenges to the various communities. Despite clear indications that some women were living in the widows’ home, it is difficult to tell exactly how many of them resided there and how many only received alms from the Cassa while living in their own homes. Thus, the Lutheran charitable system, considering its intended functions, resembled a smaller scale elaboration of the Catholic model of

50  M. Jakulis 18 16 14 12 10 8 6 4

0

1723 1725 1727 1729 1731 1733 1735 1737 1739 1741 1743 1745 1747 1749 1751 1753 1755 1757 1759 1761 1763 1765 1767 1769 1771 1773 1775 1777 1779 1781 1783 1785 1787 1789 1791 1793 1795 1797 1799

2

Almshouse

Hospital

Figure 3.1 The number of poor and patients admitted to the almshouse and hospital (1723–99)

poor relief, although the Lutheran institutions were highly secular, even when compared with those run by the Calvinists. However, the establishment of a multifunctional charitable system, which ensured poor relief and medical care, reflects the ability, as well as the need, to provide for distinct categories of the community’s poor, who are the focus of the next section.

The Poor In the early modern period, not only those who could not satisfy their basic needs (food, shelter and clothing), but also those who could not keep up with the standards appropriate to certain social milieus, were considered poor. The overseers of the charitable institutions understood impoverishment perfectly. Probably this is the reason why the community defined poverty in vague terms. However, even such definitions allow for understanding how Vilnan Lutherans perceived those who were deserving assistance from the community. The first clause of the almshouse regulations indicates, that only those ‘people of our Augsburg Confession, who diligently go to church, pray and receive the Lord’s Supper, and have proof of their good behaviour’, and those, who cannot provide for themselves ‘because of old age, disability, and poverty’, were considered deserving of assistance (Kirchen Allmosen).13 An individual applying for a place in the almshouse needed two recommendations. One should be delivered by ‘two good men from the community’, proving that the person in question was in need of assistance. Whereas the other  – an evidence of devotion (Gottesfurcht

The Poor and the Community  51 Zeugniß) – should be presented by the pastors, confirming that the applicant went to church diligently.14 Such a sum of physical, social and moral features was specific to individuals who were considered by both Protestants and Catholics as the deserving poor. This category included old, disabled or ailing individuals, as well as victims of circumstances – widows, orphans and foundlings.15 Most probably, similar requirements were applied to the women asking for a place in the widows’ home. In addition they would have had to have proved that they were widows and not married. The overseers of the hospital were to make certain, that no ‘malingerer (Müsiggänger) or simulator (Faul-Kranker) stayed in the hospital’.16 It remains unknown what requirements were applied to the shame-faced poor (Hausarmen), because they still lived in their own homes (hence, the German name of this category) and required only partial assistance from the community. Therefore, the Lutherans, as well as other confessional communities, were first of all concerned, that the poor were deserving of relief or medical provision because of genuine, justifiable reasons. The collected data, at least partly, demonstrate the status of individuals who received relief or medical assistance in the Lutheran charitable institutions (see Table 3.1). Although the status of many women living in the widows’ home or the Hausarmen receiving weekly payments remains unknown, it must have resembled the social composition of the almshouse and hospital clientele. The majority of the poor and patients were artisans and their wives or widows (their number is indicated in the parentheses). Although artisans comprised a significant segment in the Catholic almshouses and hospitals, the latter institutions were also filled with unskilled workers, peasants and nobles.17 Thus, the collected data also reflect the distinctive social composition of the Lutheran community in general. Although the sources reflect the activity of the three Lutheran institutions during most of the eighteenth century, the data are insufficient for attempting to describe the causes of the impoverishment of their clients. The records do not reveal age or state of health, therefore it is difficult to assess the circumstances which could have led to impoverishment. However, the data on the clientele’s marital status, gender, time spent in the institutions, and mortality, make it partially possible to analyse some accidental (illnesses, epidemics, wars) as well as structural causes, which might have led certain Lutherans to impoverishment.18 After the disastrous ‘Deluge’ in the middle of the seventeenth century, the Great Northern War and the last great epidemic of bubonic plague in 1709–11, the Grand Duchy of Lithuania, as well as its capital city, enjoyed a period of relative calm and even prosperity at the demographic level. However, common diseases, if not as pestilential as the plague, still posed a threat to the welfare at the individual level. Considering the varying levels of severity and other factors, illnesses affected individuals and

52  M. Jakulis Table 3.1  The clientele of Lutheran charitable institutions Status

Almshouse (1723–99)

Hospital (1723– 36, 1765–98)

Artisans

Shoemakers Tailors Smiths Goldsmiths Papermakers Carpenters Casters Bakers Butchers Masons Millers Saddlers Curriers Haberdashers Glovers Other crafts

8 (3) 7 (0) 5 (3) 5 (1) 4 (1) 3 (1) 3 (0) 2 (1) 2 (2) 2 (2) 2 (1) – 1 (0) 1 (0) 1 (1) –

44 (5) 21 (1) 20 (2) 10 (1) – 37 (1) 9 (1) 19 (2) 2 (0) 1 (0) 6 (1) 9 (0) 3 (0) – 5 (0) 25 (0)

Other occupations

Soldiers Servants Gardeners Medics Merchants

7 (1) – 2 (1) 1 (1) –

25 (1) 19 (8) – 10 (1) 9 (0)

Others

Peasants Nobles

– –

11 (1) 3 (0)

their families differently. Temporary and common diseases, such as fevers, did not pose a major threat to the individual and could incapacitate him or her for one or two weeks, thus causing only limited hardship; the records of the hospital reveal that the majority of patients left the institution having recovered (gesund), after staying up to two weeks. On the other hand, a prolonged illness, which could have progressed into a permanent disability or result in death, affected not only the sick person, but the whole family as well. The case of Olof Weströhm, a tailor, reveals how a prolonged illness could affect an individual. After spending almost half a year (25 March– 11 September 1765) at the hospital as a patient,19 Olof was accepted into the almshouse, where he died two years later.20 Although the specifics of his illness remain unknown, it seems possible that he was suffering from some kind of chronic illness, which left him debilitated physically, and unable to work and provide for himself. Another example, that of the Jochem family, reveals how a household unit could be affected when the illness of the breadwinner resulted in death. Jochem spent only twenty

The Poor and the Community  53 days in the hospital and died of an unknown illness on 5 April 1732.21 It seems that his wife and daughter were not immediately affected by the aftermath of his death, however, after less than a year they had been accepted into the almshouse.22 Although such examples are not abundant, they reveal the hardships caused by sudden or prolonged illnesses. On the other hand, the rarity of such cases probably demonstrates that the aftermath of the breadwinner’s death could be relieved not only by indoor or outdoor relief institutions, but also by broader networks of mutual aid. Besides illnesses, structural causes, such as the life-cycle and the specifics of certain occupations, also could have influenced the status of certain Lutherans. Surviving registers of baptisms, marriages and burials, as well as other sources, make it possible to reconstruct the life-cycles of at least several Lutherans who ended up in charitable institutions. The concept of life-cycle poverty, proposed by the sociologist Benjamin Seebohm Rowntree, rests on the idea that individuals, especially from the lower classes, experience greater risks of poverty at certain periods of life (childhood, marriage and birth of children, and old age).23 Despite the criticisms, such as those expressed by Marco van Leeuwen,24 this concept nonetheless allows us to explain some of the causes that could have led to impoverishment in the long-term perspective. Although young children could appear to have been a burden to the labouring people, the sources of the Vilnan Lutheran community do not provide any explicit examples of this phenomenon. There are no mentions either of young impoverished children, who were usually overrepresented among the poor in other European cities, or of couples experiencing hardships caused by the birth of children. Even the few mothers of illegitimate children, or young widows, who were the most vulnerable, do not emerge as the recipients of poor relief. This could be interpreted in two ways. It could show that the birth of children did not cause significant hardships; otherwise, it is possible that after the children were born, poorer families were assisted by community, kin or neighbours, thus making it unnecessary to apply for institutional relief. Certain cases confirm that the offspring of the institutionalized poor were already adults when their parents were accepted into the indoor relief institutions. For instance, Benjamin and Anna Euphrosina Kutzer were accepted to the almshouse respectively in 176225 and 1765,26 when their third (of six) child, Benjamin Ludwich, born in 1741,27 was in his early twenties. One of the features of the second critical period – ages thirty-five to fifty – as Robert Jütte noted, was a ‘rather high proportion of widows’.28 Despite the fact that the sex ratio of the poor living in the almshouse was almost equal (seventy-four females, sixty-seven males), which was unusual for charitable institutions of other confessions, it should be noted that out of the four to eight individuals receiving relief from the Cassa,

54  M. Jakulis most were females. Without doubt, many women maintained their usual way of living after the death of their husbands, and, in general, as noted by Janine Marie Lanza, they ‘were not predestined to become destitute’.29 However, institutional records reveal another possible outcome of such an event. After the demise of the male breadwinner, some women were left destitute and at the mercy of the community; therefore, the majority of individuals receiving relief in any form, as in many other European cities,30 were widows. It is difficult to assess how much time passed until a widow was forced to ask for assistance, and what proportion of them took that route, but it is evident that some women, even without young children, experienced acute hardships after the death of their spouses. It also demonstrates the limited possibilities of widows to provide for themselves, especially when they had reached old age without the possibility of remarrying. The aforementioned Regina Seyterin, who was accepted to the widows’ home, died in the institution six months later, on 7 June 1737,31 which suggests that by the time of her husband’s death she had already reached old age. The case of Concordia Redwichin demonstrates a different scenario: after her husband Christian died in February 1752,32 she immediately started receiving alms from the Cassa.33 Although Concordia was relatively young  – she gave birth to Johann Christian in December 175034 – she remained unmarried and depended on relief until her death in 1778.35 The records also provide seven cases – unusual in the Vilnan context – of spouses living in the same institution at the same time. For instance, Johann Simon Wolffram, a tailor, and his wife Rachel Sophia were admitted to the almshouse in the spring of 1788, and remained there until their deaths.36 Cases like these not only confirm the dependence of the household on the male breadwinner, but also reveal the limited opportunities of some women to provide for themselves and their family. Although there are no accurate data on the age of the poor, undoubtedly, many were accepted to the almshouse or the widows’ home in their old age. This phase, described by Rowntree as the final period of need, caused not only inability to work, but also acute ailments. Unsurprisingly, the sources show that a considerable part of the poor died during the first three years of their stay. It seems likely that old age had a different impact on male and female paupers. Old age and related physical ailments primarily caused the impoverishment of males. For instance, the aforementioned Benjamin Kutzer, a goldsmith, became a Vilnan citizen in 1736;37 that same year, being most probably in his late twenties or early thirties, he married Anna Euphrosina.38 Benjamin was accepted to the almshouse twenty-six years later, being in his late fifties or early sixties, and probably unable to work because of failing health (for example, poor eyesight). However, considering the number of females, mostly widows, who lived in the almshouse for more than a decade (ten out of thirteen), it seems possible that they reached this phase while living in the institution.

The Poor and the Community  55 Therefore, it is safe to suppose that not old age, but changes in marital status had more impact on their welfare. Thus, the analysis of some paupers’ life-cycles demonstrates that in many respects Lutherans became impoverished just like individuals in other cities. It confirms that males and females were exposed to poverty because of similar circumstances, but different causes. The analysis also shows that the clientele of the almshouse and the widows’ home was comprised of individuals who had been living, working and raising families in Wilna for decades, and were well-known in the community. Thus, they were the Lutherans’ ‘own’ poor not only because of their confession, but also because they had long been members of the same community. Another structural cause of poverty could be linked to the specifics of certain crafts. Although this topic needs further research, the collected data give a glimpse of potential economic factors that caused the impoverishment of some artisans. As is shown in Table 3.1, artisans of certain trades were admitted to the institutions more often than others. This phenomenon is especially visible considering the social composition of the hospital’s clientele, although the regulations do not reveal a specific focus on members of certain guilds. Jütte,39 as well as other scholars,40 pointed out the prevalence of certain trades in the lists of relief recipients. It most likely occured because of overcrowding of certain crafts, primarily textile and leather (shoemakers), which resulted in earnings insufficient to pay for treatment at home or to accumulate enough savings. The statistics of guild membership in the city partially reflect the same tendencies: in 1795, the five most numerous guilds were shoemakers (158 members), curriers (fifty-six), smiths (fifty-two), butchers (forty-nine) and tailors (forty-eight).41 The individuals depending on relief were usually defined as simply ‘the poor’, however, this was a rather diverse group considering not only the different age, state of health or social background, but also the varying degree of impoverishment, which is revealed by the registers of belongings to be sold after the death of the pauper. For example, the possessions of the late Elisabeth Dietrichin – many clothes and various other things, including a chest and five books – were sold for more than 116 złotys,42 whereas the value of Jakob Olański’s ‘poor legacy’ (wenige Verlassenschaft) was a little more than nine złotys.43 Moreover, some resided in separate rooms in the almshouse, possibly for a modest fee. For instance, Maria Elisabeth Banaschen, a mason’s widow, had been living in a separate room for four years from 1786.44 Despite these differences, all paupers were equally paid one złoty every Sunday, except the superior, who was paid one and a half. This meant that the Lutheran poor were much better-off than, for example, the inmates of Catholic or Uniate almshouses. Although early modern poor relief usually also served as a tool to discipline the poor (hence Foucault’s famous ‘Great Confinement’), it seems

56  M. Jakulis that Lutheran paupers in Wilna did not experience too many restrictions to their daily lives. They were able to go out to the city under the condition that they came back before the gate was closed at seven o’clock in the winter and nine in the summer.45 Moreover, the poor were allowed to leave the almshouse or the widows’ home if they had the opportunity to get back on their feet. Nineteen individuals did leave the almshouse, mostly in the first few years. Andreas Truchlau is a good example of an individual using his personal agency to seek for employment elsewhere and avoid being institutionalized. He and his wife Maria were admitted to the almshouse on 28 June 1787. After less than a fortnight, Andreas exited the institution and left for Königsberg (now Kaliningrad) without his spouse, who died two weeks later.46 However, some of them, like Jakob Pott or Regina Domska, failed to start a new life outside the almshouse and were readmitted.47

The Community The primal incentive for a Protestant community to care for their sisters and brethren in need and maintain charitable institutions was the obligation of neighbourly love, based on the Biblical precept ‘Thou shalt love thy neighbour as thyself’.48 This responsibility towards the unfortunate was expressed in several ways: by supporting them financially, maintaining institutions, and defending their interests in various circumstances. Adequate material support, which was clearly more than ‘enough that they do not die of hunger and cold’, as Martin Luther recommended,49 prevented the poor from begging in public, as well as other risks related to poverty. In the case of Vilnan Lutherans, the financial support of the community was especially important, as, in contrast to many Catholic almshouses and hospitals, none of the Lutheran institutions owned any real estate, except for one house, which ensured only a modest income. Therefore, a significant part of funding came from individual donations that were regularly collected in the ‘poor plates’ (Armen Schaale) during the divine service, or ‘Lazarus’ chests’ (Lazarus Büchse), which were attached to the buildings (see Figure 3.2). Considerable funds were also raised through irregular bequests, interests of loans or voluntary gifts ‘from pious hearts’. In 1722, Friedrich Voschke, a barber-surgeon, left thirty-four thalers ‘to the chest of poor widows for the improvement of the almshouse and for the distribution among the poor’.50 Similarly, the widows’ home received one-time payments on the occasion of marriage. For instance, in the years 1736–38, the institution received more than 118 złotys. One of the donors was the above-mentioned Benjamin Kutzer, who paid sixteen złotys and twentyfive groats (grosze).51

The Poor and the Community  57 3500 3000 2500 2000 1500 1000 500

General income

1790‒92

1788‒90

1786‒88

1784‒86

1782‒84

1780‒82

1778‒80

1776‒78

1774‒76

1772‒74

1770‒72

1768‒70

1766‒68

1764‒66

1762‒64

1760‒62

1758‒60

1756‒58

1754‒56

1752‒54

1750‒52

0

Donations

Figure 3.2 General income of the almshouse and the donations of the community (1750–92)

One of the motivations for the Lutheran community to provide for their poor could have been the confessional background of the city. By the eighteenth century, Wilno was a predominantly Latin-rite Catholic city with four other Christian communities. If the seven Roman Catholic almshouses were dedicated exceptionally to the poor of the same faith, the three hospitals, managed by religious orders, were open to patients of various confessions. The records of the Fatebenefratelli, or Brothers of Mercy, and the Sisters of Charity hospitals reveal that among thousands of Latin-rite Catholic and Uniate patients there were also many Protestants, Orthodox and Jews. On most occasions, medical care was the only point at issue. However, some cases had a different outcome: eight Lutherans converted to Catholicism at the Fatebenefratelli hospital in 1709–99, and fourteen at the Sisters of Charity in 1748–80.52 For instance, on 16 March 1723 the brother overseer recorded that Reinhold Fogel, a Lutheran originally from Königsberg, ‘converted from Lutheran to Catholic faith here, in our infirmary’.53 Such proselytizing, characteristic for the age of Counter-Reformation,54 may have been another incentive for the Lutheran community to establish a charitable system and provide almost every possible kind of relief, thus reducing the risk, however minimal, of their poor converting to Catholicism in the hope of a better life or afterlife, and thereby enforcing confessional boundaries. Moreover, maintaining the charitable institutions could have benefited certain individuals in the community in other ways. Van Leeuwen

58  M. Jakulis pointed out that the exercise of control over poor relief brought various advantages to elites. It could have helped them regulate the labour market, stabilize the existing social order, maintain public order, as well as reduce the danger of infection and in general, ‘discipline’ the poor.55 Of course, the elite of such a small community probably had no particular cause for achieving any of these goals. However, the overseers profited in one way or another from their duties: acting as a guardian of the poor affirmed the individual’s social status and privileged position.56 It also helped the creation of informal interpersonal networks, which in certain ways benefited both sides. Moreover, the institutions, while not lavishly endowed with houses or land, probably functioned as a source of revenue for the overseers. It is possible that some Lutherans, just like Catholics and Uniates in the magistrature, as Aivas Ragauskas has demonstrated,57 used the charity funds for their own personal gain. For example, the aforementioned Michael Rewell validated the accounts of the almshouse for almost two decades (1730–48), serving one term as an overseer. In that time, he repeatedly borrowed from its funds. Although Rewell clearly paid a part of the interest (Interessgelder) a few times, it remains unknown whether or not he ultimately returned the whole sum.58 Besides the above incentives to provide for the poor and maintain charitable institutions, the Catholics, Uniates and the Orthodox were also motivated by the reward for the giver in the afterlife. Therefore, their poor were expected to fulfil specific religious obligations in exchange for alms. Although the poor comprised an integral part of the Lutheran community and were required to participate regularly in the divine service, they had no specific religious function. This demonstrates the diligent observance of fundamental Lutheran attitudes towards poverty as a primarily social problem and the ‘civic’ commitment to assist the impoverished members of the community. Although, as Ole Peter Grell remarked, ‘the reward motive in connection with good works continued to play a part in Protestant charity, [. . .] their hope of reward could never be more than a pious hope’.59

*** The elaborate Lutheran charitable system reflects not only the actual needs of the community, but also the obligation to provide various kinds of relief and health care to their sisters and brethren in need. It also demonstrates the ability to organize a distinct and confessionalized segment of a city’s decentralized network of poor relief institutions. The reconstructed individual stories reveal the variety of interrelated causes of impoverishment, as well as the importance of the communal institutions in providing a ‘safety net’ when the networks of mutual aid, on which individuals usually relied, failed to ensure their welfare in hard times. The analysis of life-cycles also raises additional questions about the obligations of children towards ageing parents, as well as the status of

The Poor and the Community  59 women and their individual strategies of solving problems, which sometimes, as the research shows, were overwhelming. The active involvement of the community in ensuring provision for ‘their’ poor, expressed by rather lavish and regular donations, was motivated by various social and confessional factors. For the communal elite, acting as guardians of the poor was a means to confirm their social status. Considering the confessional situation in early modern Vilna/Vilne/Viln’ia/Vilnius/Wilna/ Wilno, the Lutheran charitable system helped to strengthen confessional boundaries and prevent some of the destitute members of the community from converting to other faiths. However, the communal elite, as well as every other member were primarily motivated by their faith, which conditioned the attitudes towards charity and neighbourly love.

Notes 1. Lietuvos valstybės istorijos archyvas, Vilnius (hereafter LVIA), F[ondas] 1008, ap. 1, b. 238, fol. 11. 2. LVIA F. 1008, ap. 1, b. 50, fol. 10v. 3. For the most recent contributions to the topic, see Aivas Ragauskas, Vilniaus miesto valdantysis elitas XVII a. antrojoje pusėje (1662–1702 m.), Vilnius: Lietuvos istorijos institutas, 2002, pp.  332–7; Józef Maroszek, ‘Wileńskie przytułki-szpitale w XVI–XVIII w.’, in Cezary Kuklo and Piotr Guzowski (eds.), Cała historia to dzieje ludzi  .  .  .: Studia z historii społecznej ofiarowane profesorowi Andrzejowi Wyczańskiemu w 80-tą rocznicę urodzin i 55-lecie pracy naukowej, Białystok: Wydawnictwo Uniwersytetu w Białymstoku, 2004, pp. 191–218; David Frick, ‘ “Since All Remain Subject to Chance”: Poor Relief in Seventeenth—Century Wilno’, Zeitschrift für Ostmitteleuropa—Forschung, 55, 2006, 1, pp.  1–55. S. C. Rowell, ‘The Role of Charitable Activity in the Formation of Vilnius Society in the 14th to mid-16th Centuries’, Lithuanian Historical Studies, 17, 2012, pp. 39–69; David Frick, Kith, Kin, and Neighbors: Communities and Confessions in Seventeenth-Century Wilno, Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 2013, pp. 322–55. 4. Almshouse: LVIA F. 1008, ap. 1, b. 48 (hereafter, Almshouse, 1723–50); LVIA F. 1008, ap. 1, b. 31 (hereafter, Almshouse, 1750–92); LVIA F. 1008, ap. 1, b. 35 (hereafter, Almshouse, 1792–1818). Hospital: Lietuvos dailės muziejaus archyvas [without signature number] (hereafter, Hospital, 1709– 35); LVIA F. 1008, ap. 1, b. 30 (hereafter, Hospital, 1748–98). Widows’ home and the fund for the shame-faced poor, widows and orphans: LVIA F. 1008, ap. 1, b. 50 (hereafter, Widows’ Home, 1733–68); LVIA F. 1008, ap. 1, b. 32 (hereafter, Widows’ Home, 1768–98). 5. LVIA F. 1218, ap. 1, b. 14 (hereafter, RBMB), partly published in Vladas Drėma, Vilniaus amatininkai XVI–XIX a. Iš Vlado Drėmos archyvų, Vilnius: Versus aureus, 2015. 6. Martynas Jakulis, ‘Špitolės Vilniuje XVI–XVIII a.’, unpublished doctoral dissertation, Vilnius University, 2016, p. 77. 7. Bronisław Geremek, Poverty: A  History, transl. Agnieszka Kolakowska, Oxford: Wiley Blackwell, 1997, pp. 181–2. 8. Zdzisław Kropidłowski, ‘Organizacja dzieł miłosierdzia chrześcijańskiego w Gdańsku w XVI–XVIII w.’, in Urszula Augustyniak and Andrzej Karpiński

60  M. Jakulis (eds.), Charitas. Miłosierdzie i opieka społeczna w ideologii, normach postępowania i praktyce społeczności wyznaniowych w Rzeczypospolitej XVI–XVIII wieku, Warsaw: Semper, 1999, pp. 139–60 (pp. 146, 148–9). 9. Widows’ Home, 1733–68, fols. 1–36. 10. Hospital, 1748–98, fols. 77–144. 11. Martynas Jakulis, ‘Vilniaus liuteronų špitolės globotiniai XVIII a.’, Lituanistica, 100, 2015, 2, pp. 102–14 (at p. 105). 12. For the number of patients at the hospitals of the Fatebenefratelli and the Sisters of Charity see Martynas Jakulis, ‘ “Advenit, et susceptus est ad nostram infirmariam”: Vilniaus bonifratrų špitolės ligoniai XVIII amžiuje’, Lietuvos istorijos studijos, 34, 2014, pp. 48–61 (at p. 50); Jakulis, ‘Špitolės’, pp. 217–18. 13. LVIA F. 1008, ap. 1, b. 7, fol. 4. 14. Loc. cit. 15. Geremek, Poverty, pp. 25–6; Brian Pullan, ‘Catholics, Protestants, and the Poor in Early Modern Europe’, Journal of Interdisciplinary History, 35, 2005, 3, pp. 441–56 (p. 445). 16. Hospital, 1748–98, fol. 5. 17. Jakulis, ‘Špitolės’, pp. 149, 153. 18. On classification of the causes of poverty, see Robert Jütte, Poverty and Deviance in Early Modern Europe, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1994, pp. 21–44. 19. Hospital, 1748–98, fols. 19–22v. 20. Almshouse, 1750–92, fols. 82v, 94v. Other similar examples: Jakob Pott (Hospital, 1709–35, fol. 62), Anna Spitzerin (Hospital, 1748–98, fol. 19) and Feisingerin (ibid., fol. 105v). 21. Hospital, 1709–35, fol. 63v. 22. Almshouse, 1723–50, fol. 82. 23. Benjamin Seebohm Rowntree, Poverty: A Study of Town Life, 4th edn, London: Palgrave Macmillan, 1908, pp. 136–7. 24. Marco van Leeuwen, ‘Histories of Risk and Welfare in Europe during the 18th and 19th Centuries’, in Ole Peter Grell, Andrew Cunningham and Robert Jütte (eds.), Health Care and Poor Relief in 18th and 19th Century Northern Europe, Aldershot: Ashgate, 2002, pp. 32–66 (p. 53). 25. Almshouse, 1750–92, fol. 71v. 26. Loc. cit., fol. 82v. 27. RBMB, fol. 35. 28. Jütte, Poverty, p. 40. 29. Janine Marie Lanza, From Wives to Widows in Early Modern Paris: Gender, Economy, and Law, Aldershot: Ashgate, 2007, p. 183. 30. For Poland, see Cezary Kuklo, Kobieta samotna w społeczeństwie miejskim u schyłku Rzeczypospolitej szlacheckiej: Studium demograficzno-społeczne, Białystok: Wydawnictwo Uniwersytetu w Białymstoku, 1998, pp. 184–7. 31. Widows’ Home, 1733–68, fol. 10v. 32. Drėma, Vilniaus amatininkai, p. 265. 33. Widows’ Home, 1733–68, fol. 44. 34. RBMB, fol. 54v. 35. Widows’ Home, 1768–98, fol. 41. 36. Almshouse, 1792–1818, fols. 7, 41, 58. 37. Agnius Urbanavičius, Vilniaus naujieji miestiečiai 1661–1795 metais. Sąrašas, Vilnius: Lietuvos istorijos institutas, 2009, p. 219, no. 1997. 38. Widows’ Home, 1733–68, fol. 12. 39. Jütte, Poverty, p. 43.

The Poor and the Community  61 40. For example, Olwen Hufton, ‘Women Without Men: Widows and Spinsters in Britain and France in the Eighteenth Century’, in Jan Bremmer and Lourens van den Bosch (eds.), Between Poverty and the Pyre: Moments in the History of Widowhood, London and New York: Routledge, 1995, pp. 122– 51 (p. 135). 41. LVIA F. SA, b. 5152, fols. 487–490v. 42. Almshouse, 1750–92, fol. 65v. 43. Loc. cit., fol. 11v. 44. Loc. cit., fol. 255. 45. LVIA F. 1008, ap. 1, b. 7, fol. 5v. 46. Almshouse, 1750–92, fol. 221. 47. Jakulis, ‘Vilniaus liuteronų’, p. 106. 48. Ole Peter Grell, ‘The Protestant Imperative of Christian Care and Neighbourly Love’, in Ole Peter Grell, Andrew Cunningham and Jon Arrizabalaga (eds.), Health Care and Poor Relief in Reformation Europe, London and New York: Routledge, 1999, pp. 42–63 (p. 49); Carter Lindberg, The European Reformations, 2nd edn, Oxford: Wiley Blackwell, 2010, pp. 111–14. 49. Cited in Geremek, Poverty, p. 180. 50. LVIA F. SA, b. 5344, fol. 350v. 51. Widows’ Home, 1733–68, fol. 12. 52. Jakulis, ‘Advenit’, pp. 59–60. 53. Vilniaus universiteto bibliotekos, Manuscript department, F. 5-F-32428, fol. 93. 54. For example, see Colin Jones, ‘Perspectives on Poor Relief, Health Care and the Counter-Reformation in France’, in Ole Peter Grell, Andrew Cunningham and Jon Arrizabalaga (eds.), Health Care and Poor Relief, pp. 215–38 (p. 229). 55. van Leeuwen, ‘Histories of Risk’, pp. 35–6. 56. Ibid., p. 37. 57. Ragauskas, Vilniaus miesto, pp. 332–7. 58. Drėma, Vilniaus amatininkai, pp. 497–8. 59. Grell, ‘The Protestant Imperative’, p. 49.

4 A Town After a Fire Losses and Behaviour of Jewish Communities Jurgita Šiaučiūnaitė-Verbickienė

The population of a city or a town is made up of people of differing social and material status, religious beliefs and legal subordination. Their actions and decisions can be examined and assessed under the conditions either of the undisturbed routine of everyday life or cataclysms (natural disasters, plague, famine, war and the like). The latter are brought about by a variety of reasons and affect the whole community of a town or a sizeable part of it. Their scale and impact can be very different. This chapter focuses on a specific type of disaster: fires and natural local disasters, which affect the community (or part of it) and the property of urban residents. The local nature of such cataclysms, which were extremely frequent in early modern cities and towns, is always exceptional, no matter which European region is discussed: losses are incurred in a specific community, thus disturbing the rhythm of its everyday life, its wellbeing and its economy.1 Meanwhile, the social and economic eco-system of the residents in the surrounding areas or in other regions of the country remains largely unchanged. In a situation like this, the population of a particular city or a town affected by a disaster has to assess the losses, the surviving property, and other factors; people have to make decisions (determining behaviour) as to whether they should rebuild their own future and that of their families in the affected settlement (and how), or else look for an unaffected economic space and attempt to integrate into a new living environment. From the social, economic or historical demographic point of view, this situation differs from large-scale, country-wide cataclysms such as wars, plagues or famines, when human or material losses are characteristic, to a greater or lesser extent, of the whole country, which then has to mobilize itself to restore or repair the situation. In this chapter attention is drawn to an under-researched problem2 in the history of everyday life of the early modern period in eastern Europe: the behaviour of the residents in some towns and small towns3 of the Grand Duchy of Lithuania of the second half of the eighteenth century in the wake of a natural disaster. It is approached through the discussion and comparison of the actions of the Christian and Jewish

A Town After a Fire  63 residents regarding the structure of the losses they had incurred. It should be noted that on the basis of the records of fire losses incurred by the residents of towns in Samogitia (Žemaitija), Elmantas Meilus has attempted to compare the differences4 between the property (wealth) owned by the Jewish and Christians residents, but he did not analyse the structure of the property in greater detail. In this particular case, the components of the property owned and property lost during a fire and their proportions are of special importance for the assessment and comparison of the nature of the economic activity and financial potential of the Jews and the Christians of the town in question (that is, in the same economic system and space). Here the focus will be on the losses experienced by Jews and especially on their behaviour in the wake of disasters in the second half of the eighteenth century. This decision has been taken for two main reasons. First, the existence of the additional sources—the censuses of the Jewish population, implemented in the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth in 1764–65 and in 1784, which provide data on the number of Jews in a particular community, town, or a small town, and help to identify quantitative changes in the Jewish population before and after the disaster. Although it has been proven that the 1784 data are inaccurate and unsuitable for historical demography,5 in this case they are used as a source whose data are assessed in the context of the first Jewish census of 1764–65. In addition, use has been made of auxiliary data on natural disasters and of explanatory inscriptions6 in the records of the losses. These fairly often point to the declarations by the community members about the changes in the population numbers and/or decisions regarding the residents’ future life. Second, Jews formed a considerable part of the urban population; their main income was derived from crafts and other economic activity, which in turn was directly related to the financial capability of the local population and had less to do with an agricultural lifestyle. Although recent research has shown that overall, almost half the Jews of the Grand Duchy of Lithuania lived in rural settlements (in inns and on estates),7 the research object of this study are those Jews who resided in towns and small towns. An assumption should be made that their agricultural activity was of a smaller scale and therefore less important in the structure of household revenue. However, we do not possess comparative data on the relationship between the agricultural activity of the Christians and the Jews under ordinary conditions of everyday life. This chapter is based on what the scholars refer to as ‘fire lustrations’ (‘lustracya szkod’ or ‘raport’) of the towns and small towns in the Grand Duchy of Lithuania implemented at the end of the eighteenth century.8 Even if historians are aware of this type of source, the potential and value of the information they contain have not yet been discovered by

64  J. Šiaučiūnaitė-Verbickienė historians. Elmantas Meilus, who has researched the spread of small towns and the confessional and professional structure of their inhabitants, has discussed the circumstances of the appearance of this type of source. He has presented annotations of fire lustrations of the small towns of Samogitia, discussed the content of some of these sources, and revealed some of their characteristic features.9 This type of source has also been used for research on urbanization and local history of towns where fire lustrations have been used to identify the fact of a fire and the impact of losses on the urban development of the settlement.10 The fact that these sources, preserved in the State Historical Archive of Lithuania, in the collection of the Treasury Commission of the Grand Duchy of Lithuania,11 have never been systematically researched, is illustrated by the title ‘fire lustrations’, although they also contain information about losses caused by storms. Moreover, in the existing historiography sources are usually treated by a bureaucratic criterion—according to the given title. Yet these sources do not record the direct losses of a town or a small town; instead they document the losses of the property and belongings of local inhabitants. They testify to personal and family tragedies that had a long-term effect on people’s futures and the decisions they made. For this reason, this study will not concentrate on the local history of particular settlements, but on microhistories of their inhabitants: the scale of the losses sustained, decisions made by the victims in the wake of the cataclysm, and the possible reasons for these decisions. The analysis is based on the documentation evaluating the losses suffered by local populations in towns and small towns from 1760 to 1780. The sources provide data on about ninety places, which cover, albeit unevenly, the whole territory of the Grand Duchy of Lithuania. The information is given on 103 disasters in these places, so some of them were struck by misfortune more than once.

Trends in Jewish Settlement The aforementioned characteristics are applicable to the part of a Jewish community that actually lived in a town or a small town, rather than in the surrounding countryside. Since the location inhabited by the members of a specific community is an important factor when assessing the behaviour of the Jews in the wake of a catastrophe, the point must be elucidated. A very important question has to be answered before including the data of Jewish censuses in the research and attempting to identify the part of the community that incurred losses from a disaster: what proportion of the community’s members actually resided in the location that coincided with the place (a town or a small town) of community activity? This allows a better assessment of the Jews’ decisions and their demographic impact on the population of a town or a small town, and on the locally functioning Jewish community. In the later eighteenth-century

A Town After a Fire  65 Grand Duchy of Lithuania, about half of the Jewish population lived in rural settlements and were engaged in the leasing (arenda) of estates or part of them (primarily of inns).12 In different regions of the Grand Duchy of Lithuania, the proportion of Jews living in urban and rural areas depended on the size of the town, the surrounding infrastructure, and the total number of local inhabitants, in other words, the number of potential clients and buyers. Urban settlements with low population density and poor infrastructure did not attract Jews. The exception was the palatinate of Minsk, where, contrary to other parts of the Grand Duchy, the number of towns was low but the network of small towns with well-developed infrastructure was dense. Thus the attractiveness of a place depended on a combination of many variables. Changes in these variables could induce radical decisions by locals: by Christian burghers and inhabitants of small towns to concentrate on agricultural activities, and by the Jewish population to move elsewhere. The latter communicated internally within the wider Jewish community of the Grand Duchy of Lithuania, and even beyond it. They exchanged information about places suitable for settlement, and this facilitated their mobility. It is also possible that self-identification with the migrating nation punished by God for its sins could have had an effect on Jews’ mobility.

Declaration of Losses Caused by a Disaster The declaration of people’s fire losses was implemented according to schemes that were quite similar, although not unified everywhere. For this reason the comprehensiveness of these sources differs. The aim of this practice was to achieve the delay for several years of the due payment of the podymne or hearth tax (so named after the Polish word for smoke: dym; initially the tax was collected from each building, but after new tax legislation in 1775, the chimney of the building became the taxable unit)13 and to regulate fiscal relations among the population of the town or small town. Due to this, alongside the podymne, other taxes are indicated—the czopowe (liquor excise) and the Jewish poll tax (pogłówne). The latter could not be postponed: although after the 1764 reform of Jewish taxation individual payment of the poll tax was instituted, responsibility for collecting the whole amount was placed on the community. This rule was repeated in the parliamentary legislation of 1766 and was directly addressed to the case of a disaster (the Polish title of the law was ‘Ucalenie pogłownego Żydowskiego w przypadku konflagraty Żydów’). This laid down that if a fire damaged the whole or a significant part of a town (in the law: ‘iż gdy by połowa większa miasta, lub całe zgorzał’), the Treasury Commission had to redistribute the share of the poll tax of the Jews who suffered from the fire to all the Jews living in the palatinate; if several houses suffered from a fire, the owner of

66  J. Šiaučiūnaitė-Verbickienė the town or a small town was obliged to redistribute the share of the victims’ poll tax to the rest of the Jews in the settlement.14 Although this decree was addressed to the Polish Crown, the sources discussed (and the adjusted sums of the poll tax in them) indicate that it was applied in the Grand Duchy of Lithuania.15 From the micro-historical perspective, the declarations of the losses sustained by the inhabitants due to a disaster are revealing sources. They provide information about the owned property, its composition, and the losses experienced; they help to localize the fire and to understand the situation of the local inhabitants several months, but not later than a year, after the fire. In the context of historical demography, they provide data on the number of inhabitants in a particular town or small town, and the size and composition of households. In the case of the Jews, the poll tax data provided in these sources help to identify the actual (or approximate) number of affected Jews. Using the aggregated data of the eighteenth-century Jewish censuses, one can determine the affected part of the community. The podymne tax indicated in the source for both Jews and non-Jews can be used to evaluate the characteristics of the damaged houses and to indicate whether people living in these buildings were owners or tenants. It is interesting to note that real estate of Jews and non-Jews is described in a different manner: Christian property is denominated as a house (dom) and farm buildings (gummno), whereas that of the Jews is called a house (dom) and a distillery or brewery (browar). Sometimes the source provides more accurate information, and stores and warehouses can be found as well. In the documents of some settlements, the comparison of Jewish and non-Jewish property is difficult because the most important data about the affected Christians was the value of the house and the size of the podymne tax. In the case of the Jews, this information was additional. The main focus was on the number of inhabitants in a house and the size of the poll tax they had to pay. The fire lustration in the private town of Kiejdany (Kėdainiai) in 1774 provides a wide range of descriptions of the type and use of buildings: dom—house, domek—small house, kamenica—masonry house or tenement, dworek—small manor house, or dom szynkowy—distillery.16 Although in the case of Kiejdany both Jews and Christians were most often characterized as living in houses,17 the absence of a unified scheme of property evaluation makes it difficult to estimate and compare the value of Jewish and non-Jewish real estate and the structure of their property. The main objective of the records compiled by the officials of the Treasury Commission was the decision regarding the postponement of taxes or possible adjustment of their amounts. In Kiejdany, which has already been mentioned and where fires recurred (in 1774, 1776 and 1781), the officials singled out three groups of state tax payers: (1) Christian residents, (2) the Carmelite monastery as a payer of the podymne tax and

A Town After a Fire  67 (3) the Jews of Kiejdany paying the poll tax of 480 złotys.18 Although it was not indicated whether the amount payable by the Jews was a full annual or a half-year sum, from the fact that the Catholics’ pogłówne was entered as a half-year instalment (rata) one can assume that the Jewish poll tax was also identified as one half-year instalment paid to the treasury (from 1775, in the Grand Duchy of Lithuania the amount payable was 2.5 złotys per year or 1.25 złotys per half a year).19 It is then not difficult to calculate that when the records of fire losses were compiled in 1781, about 384 Jews must have lived in Kiejdany. Fires struck Kiejdany during the period between the Jewish censuses of the Grand Duchy of Lithuania: in 1764–65, 501 Jews of both sexes older than one year of age lived in the town (when 2,048 people, or four times more, were recorded as members of the Jewish community), and in 1784 there were 338 Jews (of 709 people recorded as members of the community).20 This case is representative and not only shows the numbers of the population affected by disasters, but demonstrates that when one is working with the Jewish censuses of the Grand Duchy of Lithuania, it is very important to know which part of the Jewish community the data represent. When the area of functioning in a community does not coincide with the boundaries of the town, the Jews residing in the town are part of the community that functions in the town. Going back to Kiejdany, we will see that from 1764–65 to 1784 the number of Jews in the town was shrinking, and not only in the wake of the fires of 1774 and 1775 but also after the fire of 1781 and the records of its losses (instead of 384 Jews who lived in Kiejdany and had to pay the poll tax in 1781, the 1784 Jewish census, even if its data was not accurate in all instances, recorded 338 Jews). It seems that a fair number of families arrived at the same decision after the fires: they made up their minds to move from the fire-ravaged town which would not recover soon enough.

Behaviour of Jews after the Disaster and the Factors that Prompted it Although the data of the censuses are not very accurate (the 1784 census was particularly inaccurate), analysis of lustrations of losses from ninety settlements show that a fire or a major storm was one of the most important factors causing Jews to leave towns. The scale of migration differed from just several per cent to the massive migration of local Jews. For some small towns this meant the complete disappearance of the Jewish community. For example, in the small towns of Sucha Wolia and Przerośl (the latter suffered from three fires at different times, and as the sources record, ‘after one fire, and then after another, the residents were impoverished’)21 in the district of Grodno (Hrodna), the Jewish population decreased by 60–66 per cent. In the same district, only onethird of the Jewish community remained in Korycin (which experienced

68  J. Šiaučiūnaitė-Verbickienė a fire in 1782).22 After a fire in 1776 the same happened in the Narowlia (Naroŭl"ia) settlement in the district of Mozyrz (Mazyr).23 After a fire in the private town of Druia, 500 Jews out of the 958 residing in the town moved to other places (note that in the 1764–65 survey, 1305 Jews were recorded as members of the Druia community).24 It should be noted that by 1784, the number of Jews in Druia had gone up to 62425: it is possible that some Jews returned to the town, or new settlers from the ­neighbouring areas26 or more remote communities moved in. These ­examples illustrate the general trend, but there were exceptions as well. In spite of devastating fires, the ­numerous Jewish community of Minsk and the community of the medium-sized settlement of Koidanów (now ­Djarzhynsk) continued to grow by 28 per  cent and 19 per cent, ­respectively, between the censuses of 1764–65 and 1784.27 Such extraordinary cases raise the questions: what prompted the behaviour of the Jews and had an impact on migration trends? And to what extent was the migration of Jews after a disaster determined by the economic particularities of the town in question? The aforementioned cases of Koidanów and Minsk (although the total of the Jewish population in the district remained unchanged), as well as that of Grodno, which was devastated by a fire in the 1770s but whose Jewish community nevertheless grew by 5 per cent (despite a drop in the total number of Jews in the Grodno district of 41 per cent) show that Jews from small places devastated by a fire or a storm not only migrated beyond their former place of residence, but moved to bigger, economically more capable, and rapidly developing markets where the consequences of a crisis, even after a disaster, were less palpable and the prospects of economic growth more promising. At the same time, the inhabitants of smaller urban settlements, who possessed limited resources for their economic recovery, turned to agricultural occupations, which led to an even swifter shrinking of the market and forced the Jews to search for other places to settle. In August 1785, a storm in small town of Kryńki devastated 113 houses out of 229; thirty-six of these houses belonged to Christians and seventy-seven to Jews.28 After some time the officers evaluated the damage caused by the disaster and recorded changes in the occupation of local inhabitants: The Christians or heads of families/men- farmers are engaged exclusively in agriculture [. . .] having lost their goods and stores, Jews are left with huge debts and their existence can be described as extremely miserable. We could find a considerably bigger number of paupers among them [than among the Christians] who depend on the charity of the better-off [. . .] their fate is rather grim not only because of their losses [. . .] they are heavily in debt because they had paid advance for rent or goods [and the latter burnt in the fire].

A Town After a Fire  69 The ability of a place to recover from a disaster also depended to a large extent on the scale of the damage inflicted. For example, in the Samogitian town of Kroże (Kražiai), the community of nearly a thousand people shrank by more than half. The officers who were to estimate the losses described the circumstances of the calamity and Jewish behaviour in the face of adversity. The house of the tailor Jankel Judeliowicz, situated in the outskirts of the town, caught fire. The wind fanned the fire uncontrollably to the nearby gunpowder and firewater stores. Only two streets, containing thirteen houses belonging to poor Jews and twelve belonging to Christian burghers, as well as the jurydyka of the dean of Kroże, a Benedictine monastery and one inn remained unscathed. The described Jewish household owners and tenants, who lived in fourteen houses, were left without any income and moved away to other small towns, others are living dozens to a house or illegally in the surviving yet damaged houses.29 The situation was further complicated by the fact that neither in Kroże nor in the surrounding woods was there enough wood suitable for building. The decision to leave the place was taken promptly by some of the Jews. The officers who had to evaluate the losses were often informed about the number of absent Jews by the remaining members of the kahal, although they would come to assess the losses within a year after the disaster. For example, when the losses were registered in Kupiszki (Kupiškis) in 1781, the kahal complained that sixty Jews—payers of the poll tax—had left the place immediately after the fire.30 It is very difficult to describe such a mobile group as Jews, who decided to change their living place instead of trying to restore their life after a disaster because of the lack of consistency in the surviving sources—the lustrations of losses—especially where occupations and the amount of taxes are concerned. Most often the disaster devastated the most densely inhabited part of a town or a small town, but the community members lived across a much wider area—in villages, inns and even newly colonized settlements. The proportion of Jews living in towns or small towns and other places assigned to them differed significantly across administrative units, regions and even between particular cases, but this factor could be important in making a decision whether or not to leave after a fire or a storm. According to the tax law of 1775, Jews, like other inhabitants of the Grand Duchy of Lithuania, had to pay the podymne tax, the amount of which depended on the visual characteristics and location of the house. This tax was imposed on the owners of real estate. When Jews’ losses after a disaster were registered, the poll tax was indicated more often than the podymne (as analysed in the case of Kiejdany above). This fact is very important when the type of property of migrating Jews is

70  J. Šiaučiūnaitė-Verbickienė concerned—were they the owners of the demolished house, or tenants that were free to leave at any time? Very representative in this respect is the case of Wasiliszki (Vasilishki) in the district of Lida. Twenty-two Jewish houses suffered from a fire in this town. Their owners each paid a podymne tax of six złotys, except for three owners who each paid nine złotys. The amount of the poll tax imposed on these Jews indicates that one family lived in none of these houses—they were densely inhabited by tenants and servants. The largest number of people—twenty-seven— lived in the house of merchant Eliziej Mejerowicz. The average number of inhabitants in one house reached nearly twelve people, which is almost twice the average number of Jews per household in the Grand Duchy of Lithuania. Those who did not possess their own real estate and sustained losses after the fire (46 per cent of the urban population) migrated from Wasiliszki afterwards. The others, who belonged to this community but lived in the surrounding areas not affected by the fire, remained.31 In contrast to what happened in Wasiliszki, in the small town of Skidel (Skidzel)32 where the houses damaged by the fire were each inhabited by approximately 4.3 people, which corresponds to the average size of a nuclear Jewish family in the Grand Duchy of Lithuania, some of the Jews left the settlement after the fire anyway. The lustrations of losses reveal that not all the Jews paid the podymne tax. In some places there was not a single Jew who did this, whereas in other places the hearth-taxpayers made up only part of the community. It seems that we can observe a correlation between the ownership of buildings and land, and a decision to change the location of residence and economic activity in the case of a cataclysm and a slow-down in the economic development of a particular town. It is natural that a slackening and stagnating local economy was the main obstacle in coping with business debts when all one’s goods were lost in a fire.

Conclusions It is less a firm conclusion, than a reasonable presumption that the Jews who did not pay the podymne tax rented rather than owned the houses they inhabited. After these houses were damaged by a fire, these people simply left. This could be the main reason why the behaviour of Jews and Christians differed dramatically in the wake of disasters. In the case of Przerośl, the loss assessors aptly observed in summary: ‘the Jews are the poorest . . . most of them do not own their homes . . . after the recent fire they walked away in different directions’.33 Another important point to note is that Jews preferred economically thriving places or at least those where the proportion between the trading market and agricultural economy was balanced. Settlements with a mainly agricultural economy and an unbalanced relation between the demand and supply of goods did not measure up to Jews’ economic

A Town After a Fire  71 activity. They left such places without delay. The cases analysed above show that in the wake of a disaster, local Christians turned to agricultural activities, whereas large numbers of Jews not bound by real estate ownership looked for different solutions to the situation. In many cases they chose to search for a new place of residence and left the area where they used to live. Another important reason that motivated the Jews to abandon devastated towns or small towns was the structure of the losses incurred. The lustrations demonstrate that the losses sustained by the Jews because of a fire or a storm were greater than those of the Christian burghers and townspeople, because they included not only the existing property but also investment and advances. It meant that the Jews not only were left without property, but were also heavily in debt. Due to this, the lustrations should be considered a very accurate source that specifies both personal and business losses. Up until now, historians have not been taking the structure of the losses into account—all objects and property recorded in lustrations were treated as personal or family property. These sometimes were declared with great accuracy. Each bagel was recorded and the final amount was larger than the price of an inhabited house.

Notes 1. There is unequivocal agreement in the historiography that in the Middle Ages and the early modern period, fire was the most frequent cataclysm with the greatest impact on the wellbeing and economic opportunities of cities, towns and their residents. The infrastructural problems of medieval towns are usually analysed on the basis of western European cities. Three components, which are necessary for the growth of both economy and the population, and also create prerequisites for the development of a city community (community spirit) are distinguished in this context: first, water supply, second and linked, control of the hygiene situation, and third, fire prevention. See Ulf Christian Ewert, ‘Water, Public Hygiene and Fire Control in Medieval Towns: Facing Collective Goods Problems while Ensuring the Quality of Life’, Historical Social Research, 32, 2007, 4, pp. 222–51. On the fear of fire among French burghers and the consequences of the disaster, see Penny Roberts, ‘Agencies Human and Divine: Fire in French Cities, 1520–1720,’ in William G. Naphy and Penny Roberts (eds.), Fear in Early Modern Society, Manchester: Manchester University Press, 1997, pp. 9–27. 2. In pre-industrial European cities, fire prevention measures dictated construction regulations, gradually changing from prevailing wooden structures to brick or stone ones, but these processes were uneven. Algimantas Miškinis conducted an exhaustive analysis of fire as one of the causes of the change in urban development in the context of the history and urban development of Lithuanian cities and towns. His works are based on case studies (in the context of research into the local history of cities and towns), but not on a comprehensive approach to the phenomenon of fires. For instances of fires in the context of the history of cities and towns, see Algimantas Miškinis’s collected work: Lietuvos urbanistikos paveldas ir jo vertybės. Vakarų Lietuvos miestai ir miesteliai, in Lietuvos urbanistikos paveldas ir jo vertybės, vol. 3, book 2, Vilnius: Savastis, 2007; Užnemunės miestai ir miesteliai, in

72  J. Šiaučiūnaitė-Verbickienė Lietuvos urbanistikos paveldas ir jo vertybės, vol. 1, Vilnius: Savastis, 1999; Rytų Lietuvos miestai ir miesteliai, in Lietuvos urbanistikos paveldas ir jo vertybės, vol. 2, book 1, Vilnius: Savastis, 2002; Rytų Lietuvos miestai ir miesteliai, in Lietuvos urbanistikos paveldas ir jo vertybės, vol. 2, book 2, Vilnius: Savastis, 2005. 3. The urban situation in central and eastern Europe differed fom that in western Europe. Large cities were rare, and the predominant form of urbanization was the town (miasto in Polish) and the small towns (miasteczko, the diminutive form of miasto). It is not easy to distinguish these two types of urban settlement. Although not all scholars agree, a town is usually recognized as an urban place whose owner has granted it the right of self-goverment. In the Grand Duchy of Lithuania, this was most often under Magdeburg Law. On the other hand some towns (miasta) had similar numbers of inhabitants to miasteczka—smaller urban settlements organized without Magdeburg law. In most cases the main indication of the difference could be the tendency of the latter to be dominated by agricultural economic activities rather than by urban commerce and crafts. 4. Elmantas Meilus used the description of losses sustained by the residents of Kroże (Kražiai) during the fire of 1780. On the basis of this description, he drew a conclusion about considerable differences in wealth (the wealthiest Christian in the town, a book merchant, could compare with Jews who were as low as in the 26th-28th position in the town by wealth). At the same time he emphasized in each case that the differences in wealth were not that great: Elmantas Meilus, Žemaitijos Kunigaikštystės miesteliai XVII a. II pusėje— XVIII a. Raida, gyventojai, amatai, prekyba, Vilnius: Lietuvos istorijos instituto leidykla, 1997, pp. 50–1. 5. The census of 1784 was undoubtedly less accurate: the number of Jews counted across the whole territory of the Grand Duchy of Lithuania was approximately 30 per cent less than in 1764–65. Although about 14 per cent of the Jewish population were lost together with the territories annexed by the Russian Empire after the First Partition of the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth (1772), such a decline during a relatively peaceful period is demographically impossible. For further arguments and comparisons of the data of the censuses of 1764–65 and of 1784, see Jurgita Šiaučiūnaitė-Verbickienė, ‘XVIII a. pabaigos Lietuvos Didžiosios Kunigiakštystės žydų surašymai: jų patikimumas ir duomenų interpretavimo klausimai’, in Olga Mastianica, Virgilijus Pugačiauskas and Vilma Žaltauskaitė (eds.), Kintančios Lietuvos visuomenė: struktūros, veikėjai, idėjos. Mokslinių straipsnių rinkinys, skirtas prof. habil. dr. Tamaros Bairašauskaitės 65-mečio sukakčiai, Vilnius: Lietuvos istorijos instituto leidykla, 2015, pp. 60–79. 6. Specific examples given in the sources will be discussed below. 7. Maria Cieśla, ‘Żydzi wiejscy w Wielkim Księstwie Litewskim w drugiej połowie XVIII wieku’, Kwartalnik Historii Żydów, 2015, 2/254, pp. 231– 46. The life of the Jews in rural areas and activities cultivated therein are also discussed in Hanna Węgrzynek, ‘Zajęcia rolnicze Żydów w Rzeczypospolitej w XVI-XVIII wieku’, in Marcin Wodziński and Anna MichałowskaMycielska (eds.), Małżeństwo z rozsądku? Żydzi w społeczeństwie dawnej Rzeczypospolitej, Wrocław: Wydawnictwo Uniwersytetu Wrocławskiego, 2007, pp. 87–104. 8. Elmantas Meilus has reconstructed the bureaucratic process of the production of this source, see ‘Žemaitijos Kunigaikštystės miestų ir miestelių gaisrų liustracijos (XVIII a. antroji pusė)’, in Zigmantas Kiaupa and Edmundas Rimša (eds.), Lietuvos miestų istorijos šaltiniai, vol. 2, Vilnius: Lietuvos istorijos institutas, 1992, pp. 168–77.

A Town After a Fire  73 9. Meilus, ‘Žemaitijos Kunigaikštystės miestų ir miestelių gaisrų liustracijos (XVIII a. antroji pusė)’ pp. 168–88. 10. Meilus, Žemaitijos Kunigaikštystės miesteliai XVII a; Grzegorz Błaszczyk, ‘Liczebność Żydów na Żmudzi w XVI-XVIII wieku’, Biuletyn Żydowskiego Instytutu Historycznego w Polsce, 1, 1987, 1/2, 1988, pp. 23–33, and 3/4, 1988, pp. 29–56; the works of Algimantas Miškinis mentioned in note 1 are also important for the topic. 11. Lietuvos valstybės istorijos archyvas (hereafter LVIA), Senieji Aktai [Old Acts] (hereafter SA) (F11 - Collection of Treasury Commission), F. 3939. 12. Research on Jewish economic activity, especially in the private towns of the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth, focuses on the phenomena of inns and leaseholding (arenda) which were very important over the longue durée, from the second half of the sixteenth century even into the nineteenth century. On the arenda institution see Adam Teller, Money, Power, and Influence in Eighteenth-Century Lithuania: The Jews on the Radziwiłł Estates, Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 2016. On Jews’ economic activities in inns and inns as a social phenomenon, see Glenn Dynner, Yankel’s Tavern: Jews, Liquor and Life in the Kingdom of Poland, Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2015. 13. In the tax laws of 1775, the chimney (komin) and the hearth (dym) were interchangeable. When determining taxation of low-value buildings and in the absence of a chimney, the whole building was taxed. For more on the 1775 changes to the tax system, see Zigmantas Kiaupa, ‘1775 m. Lietuvos mokesčių įstatymas’, Lituanistica, 54, 2008, 3 (75), pp. 1–11, http://mokslo zurnalai.lmaleidykla.lt/publ/0235-716X/2008/3/1-11.pdf. 14. Volumina legum, vol. 7, St Petersburg: Jozafat Ohryzko, 1860, p. 196. 15. Meilus (‘Žemaitijos Kunigaikštystės miestų ir miestelių gaisrų liustracijos’, p. 172) arrived at the same conclusion when analysing legal regulation and the process of the description of losses. 16. Records of the losses incurred after the fires in Kiejdany on 29 August 1774, 27 October 1776, and 17 March 1781. The document was compiled on 17 July 1781: LVIA SA, F. 3939, fols 917–26. 17. ‘Kėdainiuose kilusių gaisrų nuostolių’, in Antanas Tyla (ed.), Lietuvos magdeburginių miestų privilegijos ir aktai, vol. 3, Kėdainiai, Vilnius: LII leidykla, 2002, No. 174. It should be pointed out that the publication of this source does not include the aggregate data of the records of losses, the fundamental aim of which was the adjustment of the podymne tax and the Jewish poll tax, with regard to incurred losses and their scale. For this part of the source, see: LVIA SA, F. 3939, fol. 926. 18. LVIA SA, F. 3939, fol. 926. 19. On the basis of the 1775 law that raised the poll tax in the Polish Crown and the Grand Duchy of Lithuania, Jews in the Grand Duchy each had to pay 2.5 złotys, and those in the Crown 3 złotys each. Volumina legum, vol. 8, p. 95. 20. Compared with the census of 1764–65, this change was brought about by the changes in the territory assigned to the Jews outside the borders of Kiejdany. 21. A list of fire losses in Przerośl, LVIA SA, F. 3939, fols 736–38v. 22. A list of fire losses in Koryciń in1782, LVIA SA, F. 3939, fols 1002–05. 23. A list of fire losses in Narowlia in 1776, LVIA SA, F. 3939, fol. 805–v. 24. The Brasław (Braslaŭ) district in Appendix IV, ‘Jewish Living Space in the Grand Duchy of Lithuania According to the 1764–65 Census Data’, in Jurgita Šiaučiūnaitė-Verbickienė (eds.), The Census of Lithuanian Jewry in 1764–65 and Historical Family Demography: Structure, Categories and Context, Cracow and Budapest: Austeria, 2015.

74  J. Šiaučiūnaitė-Verbickienė 25. The Brasław district in Appendix V, ‘Jewish Living Space in the Grand Duchy of Lithuania According to the 1764–65 Census Data’, in The Census of Lithuanian Jewry in 1764–65. 26. The First Partition of the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth, when part of the territory of the Brasław district was lost, is important in the analysis of the Druia case. This nuance was taken into account by the loss assessors. They singled out a separate group of people ‘głow zakordonnych’ or ‘dusz odpadłych kordonem Russkim’—‘people beyond the border’. LVIA SA, F. 3939, fols 858, 859. 27. Data from Appendix III, ‘Jewish Censuses (1764–65 and 1784) in the Grand Duchy of Lithuania: Data Comparison’, in The Census of Lithuanian Jewry in 1764–65. 28. A list of fire losses in Kryńki, 1785, LVIA SA, F. 3939, fol. 1108–v. 29. Fire in the town of Kroże in 1780, LVIA SA, F. 3939, fols 944v–45. 30. A list of fire losses in Kupiszki in 1781, LVIA SA, F. 3939, fols 954–56v. 31. List of fire losses of Wasiliszki in 1781, LVIA SA, F. 3939, fols 1012–14. 32. List of fire losses of Skidel in 1781, LVIA SA, F. 3939 33. List of fire losses of Przerośl, LVIA SA, F. 3939, fol. 738v.

5 The Attempts of the Bernardines to Influence the Society of Kowno in the Second Half of the Seventeenth Century The Case of a Miraculous Image Vaida Kamuntavičienė The city of Kowno (Kaunas), situated at the confluence of the Niemen (Nemunas) and Wilia (Neris) rivers, was one of the largest cities of the Grand Duchy of Lithuania, an important regional centre of crafts and trade. In the second half of the sixteenth century Kowno had about 7,000 inhabitants.1 Although research is lacking, it can be surmised that, given general levels of growth in the Grand Duchy, the population could have doubled by the middle of the seventeenth century. The city was multicultural. Besides groups of Lithuanian, Ruthenian and Polish speakers comprising Catholic and Orthodox believers, there was an influential group of German speakers who had become Lutheran in the time of the Protestant Reformation. Jews had also settled in Kowno, as they did in every city of the Grand Duchy. Two Catholic churches were founded in Kowno in the early fifteenth century—the Parish Church of St Peter and the Franciscan Order’s Church of the Assumption of the Blessed Virgin Mary. Churches dedicated to St  Nicholas and St  Gertrude were established in the suburbs of Kowno at the end of the fifteenth century. The Observant Franciscans, known in the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth as the Bernardine Order of Friars, or simply the Bernardines, emerged out of a reform of the Franciscan Order by St Bernardino of Siena (1380–1444).2 With the permission of the pope and support from King Casimir IV Jagiellon, who was also Grand Duke of Lithuania, the Polish Chapter of the order began settling Bernardine friars in the Grand Duchy. They set up their first monasteries in Vilna (Vilnius, Viln'ia, Wilno) and Cauna (Kaunas, Kovno, Kowno), which were strategically important cities.3 The official founding act for the Bernardine monastery in Cauna is dated 4 April 1471. Stanisław Sandziwojowicz, grand marshal of Casimir Jagiellon and the starosta of Hrodna (Grodno), granted the Bernardines a privilege for use of his inherited manor and garden near the castle, on the banks of the Wilia (Neris) and Niemen (Nemunas).4 The Bernardines settled at the prestigious location, and as of 1522 the monastery housed twenty-two Bernardine friars. During the Protestant Reformation the number of Bernardines at the site decreased, with only one friar mentioned in 1571.5 But the monastery was never abandoned.

76  V. Kamuntavičienė After the Council of Trent, the Catholic Church strengthened its position in the Grand Duchy of Lithuania and the Bernardines of Kowno began to flourish. The Bernardine Nunnery and Holy Trinity Church was established at the turn of the sixteenth century. The Bernardine Church of St George was completed at the beginning of the sixteenth century in the Gothic style. At the time it was the largest in the city and had the largest number of altars—between twelve and sixteen of them.6 By the second half of the seventeenth century the Bernardines were the strongest and best supported monastic order in Kowno. In the middle of the seventeenth century two new religious orders, the Dominicans and the Jesuits, also settled in the city, becoming competitors to the Bernardine monastery. The Jesuits established a school in 1649, which in 1653 became a college. That and their missionary work helped them become very popular throughout the region. Meanwhile a new Benedictine nunnery began to compete with the Bernardine nunnery in Kowno. The Commonwealth’s wars with Muscovy and Sweden in 1654–67 were tragic both for the city and for the entire Grand Duchy of Lithuania. The Muscovites occupied Kowno from 18 August 1655 to 2 December 1661, devastating and razing the city. Almost half of the city’s population perished amid famine and plague.7 Catholic churches suffered as well. The Bernardine monastery and church were ruined, with rebuilding lasting until 1668. The war changed the worldview of those left alive, giving birth to the emotional and anxious believer of the Baroque era. The new Baroque piety was promoted by the state and ecclesiastical institutions, but it also grew out of people’s need for piety ‘from below’8—it gave them hope of overcoming the hardships caused by the war and brightened their dismal day-to-day life. One of the mainstays for fostering peace of mind was increasing veneration of images that were considered miraculous, though officially unapproved by the authorities.9 Kamil Kantak, the author of a history of the Bernardine Order in the Commonwealth, writes that the realm had more miraculous paintings than any other country.10 At that time the Bernardines of Kowno began to spread the word about a miraculous image of the Mother of God that was at the Church of St George. The Bernardines inspired many people in the city to hope for miracles which they could experience in their everyday life. This helped the Bernardines retain and increase their social influence in relation to rival religious orders, especially the Jesuits. There is some resemblance to the account by Italian historian Giovanni Levi of an exorcist in Northern Italy, Giovanni Battista Chiesa, whose purported magical healings earned him influence in the rural society of Piedmont.11 The miraculous image at the Church of St George12 was an imitation of the miraculous image of the Mother of God from the Pauline church in Częstochowa in the Kingdom of Poland. The circumstances and time of its appearance in Kowno are unknown. Copies of the Częstochowa image have long been common in Poland and Lithuania13 and are often

The Bernardines Influence the Society of Kowno  77 famed for miracles. There seems to be a sense that some of the holiness of the original image has been transferred to the imitations. The image portrays the Mother of God holding the Christ-child in her hands. It hung in the Church of St George on the wall of the chapel on the left side, not at the main altar. It was customary to decorate miraculous images with precious metals and jewels. According to an account from 1670, the image was embellished with a silver raiment covering the bodies of Mary and Christ, as well as with two crowns and twenty-three silver plates.14 The

Figure 5.1 Supposedly miraculous painting of the Mother of God. From Laima Šinkūnaitė, Kauno pranciškonų (bernardinų) Šv. Jurgio bažnyčia, Kaunas: Kauno arkivyskupijos muziejus, 2008, p. 26 By kind permission of St George’s Convent, Kaunas.

78  V. Kamuntavičienė latter were ex-voto—votive offerings or symbols of gratitude for favours received. They bore witness to the uniqueness of the image. A miracle was understood to be an extraordinary event which did not follow the laws of nature and took place by divine will. Usually saints interceded for people (regardless of their descent or estate) so they might experience such high expressions of God’s grace. Images considered to be miraculous were one of the ways people of the seventeenth century sought to obtain miracles.15 Images were like mediators, helping a person to connect with God in heaven and channelling the manifestation of God’s will. Researchers have noted a pattern of relations between a miraculous image and a person who believes it has miraculous properties: request for intercession while making a promise—miraculous occurrence—gratitude and fulfilment of the promise.16 The people of Kowno followed this same pattern of behaviour during the second half of the seventeenth century, encouraged by the Bernardine friars. The goal of this chapter is (1) to establish how the notion began and ceased that the image at the Bernardine Church of St George in Kowno was miraculous, and (2) to detail the types of everyday problems that residents of Kowno tried to solve with the help of miracles. Microhistory has been selected as the methodology for this study. The approach involves intensive historical investigation of a chosen source, focusing on the details and ordinary people that are often ignored in broad historical research.17 The main source for this study is a document called ‘A sure and true relation of respectable persons regarding the miraculous image of the Most Holy Virgin, which is in our church’ (Relacia pewna y prawdziwa, żacnych osob, o cudownym obrazie Panny Przenaswiętszey, ktory iest w naszym kosciele), which was created by the Bernardines of Kowno. Written in Polish with some Latin insertions, the Relation consists of four pages with writing on both sides. It is part of the chronicle of the Caunan Bernardines, a veritable silva rerum of the monastery which is kept at the Manuscript Department of Vilnius University Library. A photocopy of the Relation made by the archivist of the Kaunas Archdiocese, Petras Veblaitis is kept in the archdiocese’s archive.18 The Relation has been used as a source by the art critic Laima Šinkūnaitė for her research on artistic aspects of the miraculous image.19 The document, however, is also a perfect instrument for exploring the everyday life and religious habits of a micro-community. The historian Mindaugas Paknys lists and uses the Relation as one of several written or printed accounts of graces experienced before sacred images in the Grand Duchy of Lithuania in the seventeenth century. Paknys notes that the first such accounts in the Grand Duchy of Lithuania appeared only in the seventeenth century.20 Another historian, Tojana Račiūnaitė, has explored this source, helping her to reconstruct a certain model of the concept of miraculous images and analyse the specific features of their

The Bernardines Influence the Society of Kowno  79 perception.21 In any case, this research is of a general nature and takes no interest in the details of the Relation. It was Guardian Alexius Macyna, the superior of the Bernardine monastery in Kowno, who began to write the Relation. He was effectively the main promoter of the idea that the image was miraculous. The guardian followed up on reported miracles and registered them in the Relation. Generally, for a miraculous painting’s popularity to grow, it is important to have a patron, someone who looks after the image and convinces people to believe in its miraculous qualities. For example, the painting of Our Lady of Sorrows kept in the Ejsymonty (Eismanty) parish in the Grodno deanery of the Wilno diocese was considered miraculous only during the time when Reverend Nicolaus Karaś served as priest there.22 For the Bernardine painting of the Mother of God, Guardian Macyna was just such a patron. It was only thanks to his attention and thoroughness that the Relation about this miraculous image was composed and that the miraculous accounts have survived until today. Macyna was assisted by another Bernardine, Friar Leonardus Bolcewicz, who directly participated in and was a witness to several miraculous events. But it is possible Bolcewicz took part only because of Macyna’s influence. The Relation describes twenty-six miracles in the period 1655–1706, all related to the aforementioned image of the Mother of God. Accounts of the earliest miracles, those that had occurred before 1670, rely on the memory of those who witnessed them. The first record is dated 25 August 1670 but describes a miracle which occurred in 1655. Details of two more miracles—one which occurred in 1655 and the other in the period 1655–68 (it is not dated)—were written on 4 March  1671. Five miracles occurred in 1669 but were written about only in 1670. The largest number of miracles, nine, were experienced in 1670. That was the very first year in which miracles were registered and, from this point of view, it was very successful. In 1671, however, only one miracle is recorded as having occurred. During that year Macyna left the post of guardian of the Kowno Bernardines. It seems that the new guardian, Benedictus Rondomański, was not interested in miracles. No additional miracles were registered in the Relation for four years, until 1675. That year three miracles occurred. The new entries coincide with the return of Macyna to the post of guardian. The one recorded miracle that occurred in the times of Guardian Rondomański was registered in the Relation by Macyna. The next year, 1676, Guardian Macyna registered four miracles. In total, Macyna recorded twenty-five miracles in the Relation. His aim probably was to collect as many miracles as possible in order to begin the process for official approval of the painting as miraculous. Examination of written testimonies was part of the process, which had to be conducted by a special commission appointed by the local bishop.23 While there is no information about such a commission functioning in Kowno, Macyna

80  V. Kamuntavičienė worked intensively as a representative of the local clergy and encouraged the faithful to provide testimony about miracles. It would have been a great success for the Bernardines to have an officially approved miraculous image. The registration of miracles followed a fixed structure of a description followed by identification of the witnesses. The Relation was written in a very good, figurative style, using rich language. Indeed, Macyna was an excellent writer. The very last miracle was recorded after a long lapse of thirty years, in 1706, by another Bernardine friar whose identity remains unclear. The data thus show that interest in and efforts to prove the miraculous character of the image peaked in the period 1670–76. The 1670s were years of rapid recovery for the Catholic Church after the war. During this period churches were rebuilt, worship was strengthened, and visitations of parishes in the diocese of Wilno took place (between 1673 and 1677).24 Analysis of the Relation suggests that the war with Muscovy was the factor that ‘made’ this Bernardine image of the Mother of God miraculous. Before the occupation of Kowno, the image was sent for safekeeping to Raudany (Raudonė) Manor, about sixty-three kilometres from the city. The estate belonged to the noble family of Kryszpin-Kirszensztein. At that time it was owned by the treasurer of Grand Duchy of Lithuania, Hieronym Kryszpin-Kirszenstein. This family was an important supporter of the Bernardine monastery, so it is no surprise that they safeguarded the friars’ belongings during the war. The image was hung in the chapel at Raudany, where hitherto unprecedented miracles began. The first entry in the Relation states that the image, hanging in the chapel of the manor, began to cry at the exact hour that the Muscovites conquered Wilno (the occupation of the capital of the Grand Duchy of Lithuania began on 8 August 1655). The image’s tears were seen by the residents of Raudany Manor, who were taking part in a religious service. They included the entire Kryszpin family and Macyna himself. Several other miracles were attributed to the image while it was at Raudany Manor. Macyna first learned of these only in 1671 while gathering information about all the miracles. On 4 March he took part in a dinner, probably to mark the feast day of St Casimir, the patron saint of Lithuania. The lunch party to celebrate the name-day of the syndic, Piotr Kazimierz Lowrynowicz, who administered the friars’ property, and was held at his house in Kowno. During the meal, a sister of Lowrynowicz’s wife named Magdalena Wędziagolska told Macyna that she had heard the wife of Treasurer Kryszpin saying that Muscovite soldiers had tried to wrench the silver crown off the image of the Mother of God while it was at Raudany, but the image resisted. The soldier only managed to tear off a small piece of silver, and on doing so his hand withered and shrank. After that, the frightened soldiers did not even try to touch the image. Thus the image had the ability to defend itself. Of course, coming from a third person, the account of this miraculous event was not very reliable as

The Bernardines Influence the Society of Kowno  81 some details may have been changed during the repeated oral transmission. But Macyna did not care about that. He trusted the witness. Similar miracles were popularly said to have occurred in many churches of the Grand Duchy of Lithuania during the war years. Even today a story circulates about the painting of ‘Jesus’s Removal from the Cross’ at the parish church of St Peter in Kowno. When the Muscovites occupied the city and the soldiers wanted to tear the painting down, the painting itself spoke and said: ‘Do not move me from this place’. The scared solders left the painting in the church.25 After that the painting did not work any further miracles. Or perhaps it simply did not have its own recorder of miracles, its own Macyna. During the same dinner, Wędziagolska told Macyna that she herself had also experienced a special grace in the presence of the image of the Mother of God. The woman had a terrible headache that persisted day and night. Weakened from lack of sleep, she could hardly rise from her bed. Then she remembered the miraculous image and decided to go to Raudany to hang a votive offering by it. The chapel contained not only this image, but also two other miraculous images brought for safekeeping from nunneries in Orsha (Orsza)26 and Sapiezyszki (Zapyškis).27 The woman was confused, she did not know which one was the image from Kowno. Then her finger miraculously pointed itself at the Bernardine image—this miracle had helped her identify the ‘local’ miraculous image. Note that Wędziagolska did not trust in the other miraculous paintings. She wanted to receive God’s grace precisely from the painting in question. And after hanging a votive offering by the Bernardine image, she miraculously recovered from her ailment. Thus the image could cure illnesses. In the course of this dinnertime conversation, the hostess, Lowrynowicz’s wife, found that an illness she was suffering from had passed. It seems that just hearing the image mentioned had sufficed to heal her. Note that miracles were a common topic for table talk in Kowno society. The participants, especially the women, were keen on miracle stories and greatly enjoyed talking with Macyna about the painting. After the war the miraculous image was returned to the Church of St George. The exact date is not known. Possibly the image’s return came after a fire that ravaged the Bernardine monastery and church, for which rebuilding was completed in 1668.28 Macyna registered miracles that occurred in Kowno starting from the year 1669. The Relation regarding the miracles states that in 1669 Barbara Saurymowiczowa recovered from a terminal illness, and her daughter Konstancja’s chronic nose bleeding ceased, after she made an offering before the image. Additionally, her youngest daughter Hanna was cured of epilepsy (morbo caduco) after visiting the image and dreaming of it during the night. This may be the same Saurymowiczowa who in 1676 recovered from terrible heart pains after praying before the image.

82  V. Kamuntavičienė In 1669, the Bernardine friar Leonardus Bolcewicz experienced God’s grace. The poor fellow ate a half-cooked sausage, provoking abdominal pain so terrible that he rolled on the ground like an eel. After praying by the image, he visited the Bernardine confessor, Father Augustinus Zawlicki, who wrapped the man’s stomach in scarves and plates and then heated it by the stove. After these procedures the sufferer vomited violently and lay unconscious for several days, white as a corpse. But then he got better and thanked the Mother of God’s image for his recovery. The image also helped with difficulties in childbirth. In 1669 Macyna was invited to the house of a burgher who lived near the monastery to hear the confession of his wife and prepare her for death. She had been unable to give birth for several days. Macyna advised the woman to seek intercession through the image of the Mother of God, and she soon gave birth to a child and got better. Another difficult childbirth took place in 1670 during Advent. This time Macyna himself offered a Mass before the miraculous image; the woman in labour, who lived in the ‘King’s Manor’ (na Krolewskim dworze) was no longer able to speak. During the Mass, while he held the Blessed Sacrament aloft, the woman miraculously gave birth. The Bernardine painting also saved people from drowning. This function was important for a city situated at the confluence of two rivers. The Relation states that in 1670 a Bernardine preacher was walking down the street when he met a poor woman. She was weeping, convinced that her husband had drowned, because the dog who always followed him had returned home alone. The man had fallen out of a wooden boat as he tried to cross the river. The Bernardine, in order to comfort the woman, told her to approach the image of the Mother of God in prayer and deeply believe that her husband would return. She did as she was told. Within a quarter of an hour the man returned—wet, but healthy and happy. He had been saved by a Ruthenian named Jakub Hayduk, who lived in the Markowa house on the Wilia River. Friar Leonardus Bolcewicz was a witness to this event. He and Macyna were also witnesses for another water-related event. Jan Dąbrowski Skurka, the son of a member of the skippers’ guild, nearly drowned while manoeuvring his boat to avoid a dangerous ice floe. Only after praying to the image of the Mother of God, and after receiving her grace, did the floe luckily miss  the boat. Dąbrowski nearly drowned a second time, again surviving after praying for Mary’s grace, and pledged never more to set foot on water. After these events, although he lived near a parish church, at the house of a nobleman, Dowgiała, he would come to St George’s in order to attend Mass and thank the Mother of God. Thus the image helped bring more people to St George’s church. In 1676 it also saved an anonymous person who fearfully tried to cross the Niemen. Grace experienced through the image also helped against diseases of the eyes. In 1670, after making an offering asking for help for her aching,

The Bernardines Influence the Society of Kowno  83 infected eyes, Agnieszka Alexandrowa Szymonowiczowa recovered. To show her gratitude, the woman added a silver plate to the image. Another anonymous woman with aching eyes made a votive offering and promised to attend Mass before the image every Wednesday. The pain in her eyes ceased after she made this vow. Before Christmas 1670, Michał Rudziawski was cured of toothache and commemorated it with a silver plate to be attached to the image. In 1675 Jacek Wróblewski recovered from the same ailment. Pain in the feet disappeared for the Kowno councillor Kazimierz Winogrodzki after he made a votive offering, and attended Mass every Saturday before the image of the Mother of God. Prayer by the image during Lent in 1676 helped a Dominican friar, who had come to Kowno from the Cytowiany (Tytuvėnai) monastery, to recover from exhaustion. The friar was terribly pale, with swollen legs and abdominal pain, and was short of breath. He was unable to sleep day or night and could barely swallow food. Medicine from a local pharmacist did not help him, but prayer together with another priest by the miraculous image helped him return to health. There are several instances of recoveries from mental illnesses or madness. In 1670 prayers by the image of the Mother of God saved the son of the Kowno magistrate Jan Dębkowski, who was possessed by the devil. A Bernardine priest prayed for the poor child by the image, not expecting much, but a miracle occurred. In June 1675, the ensign (chorąży) of the Grand Duchy of Lithuania, Konstanty Pac, said that prayers helped him to free himself from a spell cast by a witch; he also said that he and his wife had recovered from certain diseases by praying. Out of gratitude, members of Pac family attended Mass held in front of the image, donated a silver lamp, and pledged an annual contribution of sixty gold coins (with an exemption for difficult years) to ensure that the lamp would always be lit. The devotion shown by the inhabitants of Kowno to the supposedly miraculous image may not have gone down well with the authorities at other churches in the city. In 1675, after recovering from a year of madness and desperation (perhaps what today would be called depression), Jerzy Gurski wanted to make a silver votive offering to the image, but a Jesuit talked him out of the idea. The same Jesuit also refused to allow the silversmith Rządnik to make a votive offering. The Bernardines were surprised by the Jesuit’s actions, declaring that ‘only God knows his motives’ (quo motivo Deus scit). It seems that people stopped receiving grace from the image in the wake of the Jesuits’ criticism. In reaction, the image tried to attract renewed attention to itself by going through a sort of metamorphosis, something that had also occurred with other miraculous images. According to the account, during the last Rorate Mass of 1676, the image covered itself in some strange material and then became more vivid, with all the silver decorations starting to

84  V. Kamuntavičienė shine as if they had just been made by a silversmith. But generally people stopped hoping to experience miracles before the image of the Mother of God. The Relation does not mention any new miracles after 1676. One can suppose that the Bernardines conceded the contest, accepting the superiority of the Jesuits. After establishing a college in Kowno, the Jesuits had become highly popular in the city. At the same time, the ecclesiastical authorities in the Grand Duchy of Lithuania were concerned by the proliferation of unapproved miraculous paintings. There was doubt about their miraculous character. A  synod of the diocese of Wilno in 1685 forbade the display for veneration of supposedly miraculous paintings, especially of the Mother of God, until their origin and miraculous character were confirmed and until rules for their veneration had been established.29 The very last entry in the Relation was made in 1706. The wife of a royally appointed administrative official (wójt), Ilewiczowa, learned that she was ill, took comfort before the image and recovered. After consulting with the Bernardines, she decided to relocate the image of miraculous renown to the main altar, and it was placed there over the ciborium. This altar had been built by Andrzey Kryszpin-Kirszensztein at a cost of 2,000 gold coins, according to an account from the year 1755.30 In order to justify moving the image to the main altar, its miraculous qualities were recalled. And thus the image began a new period of life and accolade, one that is no longer described in the Relation. A certain change of mentality can be discerned.31 All these miracles experienced in Raudany and Kowno were related to the Bernardines who registered them and served as caretakers for the image of the Mother of God. The image was a last resort, when other measures failed. The search for security amid wartime and post-war troubles along with human helplessness against the forces of nature (as in the case of drowning) and poor medical standards, forced people to hope for miracles. Kowno residents were miraculously freed from a variety of aches and pains (headaches, heart pain, toothaches, stomach-aches, sore feet), from eye problems, epilepsy and childbirth complications, and from various types of bleeding, exhaustion and mental illness, when medicines from the pharmacy did not help. The recorded miracles are specific reflections of the challenges of everyday life at the time. To be able to experience a miracle, the main condition was faith, involving prayer before the image considered miraculous and participation in Mass. Thus a miracle was a reward for faith. Although these miracles were experienced by individuals, an image could only earn the status of miraculous when a group of people formed who believed in its miraculous character. The Relation shows that the Kowno Bernardines sought to create such a community at the Church of St George. Guardian Alexius Macyna showed special concern for the miracles. He can be considered the patron of the image of the Mother of

The Bernardines Influence the Society of Kowno  85 God. The Bernardines encouraged people to believe and pray for graces. Miracles were experienced by both the nobility, members of Kowno urban elite and also by common folk. The wealthy, by custom, expressed gratitude for divine favours by placing a plate of silver by the image— a votive offering. Having a miraculous image increased the popularity of the church run by the Bernardines. People who experienced graces were committed to visiting the church, praying by the image and attending Mass there. But the popularity of the image was temporary. It dwindled after drawing criticism from the Jesuits. Thus the time of miracles came to an end, and the Bernardines had to find new ways to influence life in the city. At the end of the seventeenth century, the Bernardine monastery became the venue for meetings of the Kowno sejmiks (dietines).32 The Bernardines also followed the example of the Jesuits by establishing a school at the beginning of the eighteenth century. By the 1730s the school had become a main centre for the four-year cycle of philosophical studies in the Lithuanian province of the Bernardines.33 By analysing the Relation in the context of the history of Kowno and the Grand Duchy of Lithuania, it has been possible to reconstruct how the miraculous reputation of this image first came about and later ceased. Descriptions of the miracles have allowed us to experience scenes in the everyday life of seventeenth-century residents of the city, and thus to better grasp their problems and aspirations.

Notes 1. Zigmantas Kiaupa, Kauno istorija, vol. 1, Kauno istorija nuo seniausių laikų iki 1655 m, Vilnius: Versus aureus, 2010, p. 169. 2. Observant Franciscans are called Bernardines only in the territory of the former Commonwealth. Elsewhere it is members of the Cistercian Order who are referred to as Bernardines, after Saint Bernard of Clairvaux (1099– 1153). 3. Viktoras Gidžiūnas, ‘Pranciškonai observantai Lietuvoje XV ir XVI amžiuje’, Aidai, 2, 1970, pp.  71–7; Viktoras Gidžiūnas, ‘Pranciškonų observantųbernardinų gyvenimas ir veikla Lietuvoje XV ir XVI amž’, in Lietuvių katalikų mokslo akademijos Suvažiavimo darbai, vol. 9, Rome: Lietuvių Katalikų Moklso Akademija, 1982, pp. 35–134; Ilona Bučinskytė, ‘Kauno miestiečiai ir Lietuvos bernardinų provincijos įkūrimas XVI a. pradžioje’, Kauno istorijos metraštis, 3, 2002, pp. 233–41 (p. 234). 4. Foundation of Stanisław Sandziwojowicz, Vilna, 4 April 1471, in Jan Fijałek and Władysław Semkowicz (eds.), Kodeks dyplomatyczny katedry i diecezji wileńskiej, Cracow: Polska Akademia Umiejętności, 1948, vol. 1 (1387– 1507), pp. 310–11, entry no. 269. 5. Kiaupa, Kauno istorija, p. 319. 6. Laima Šinkūnaitė, ‘Kauno Šv. Jugio Kankinio bernardinų bažnyčia: interjero įrangos kaita ir raida’, in Lietuvos dailė europiniame kontekste, Vilniaus dailės akademijos darbai nr 5, Vilnius: Vilniaus dailės akademijos leidykla, 1995, pp.  53–77 (p.  56); Rūta Janonienė, ‘Kauno bernardinų vienuolynas ir Šv. Jurgio Kankinio bažnyčia’, in Lietuvos vienuolynai: vadovas, Vilnius: Vilniaus dailė s akademijos leidykla, 1998, pp. 93–8 (p. 95); Algė Jankevičienė,

86  V. Kamuntavičienė ‘Kauno gotikinės bažnyčios’, in Lietuvos Didžiosios Kunigaikštystės gotika: sakralinė architektūra ir dailė, Vilniaus dailės akademijos darbai nr 26, Vilnius: Vilniaus dailė s akademijos leidykla, 2002, pp. 98–149 (p. 128). 7. Antanas Tyla, ‘Kauno strateginė reikšmė ir išvadavimas XVII a. vidurio karų metu’, Lietuvos istorijos metraštis, 1996, Vilnius, 1997, pp. 43–52. 8. See for example: Marc R. Forster, Catholic Revival in the Age of the Baroque: Religious Identity in Southwest Germany, 1550–1750, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2004. 9. Vaida Kamuntavičienė, ‘Stebuklo laukimas Vilniaus vyskupijos parapijose XVII a. antrojoje pusėje—XVIII a. pradžioje’, in Vaida Kamuntavičienė and Aušra Vasiliauskienė (eds.), LDK dvasingumas: tarp tradicijos ir dabarties, Kaunas: Vytauto Didžiojo universitetas, 2010, pp. 105–32. 10. Kamil Kantak, Bernardyni Polscy, Lwów: Prowincja Polska OO. Bernardynów, 1933, p. 266. 11. Giovanni Levi, Inherited Power: The Story of an Exorcist, Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press, 1988. 12. Juozas Vaišnora was the first to describe this image in his Marijos garbinimas Lietuvoje, Rome: Lietuvių katalikų mokslo akademija, 1958, pp. 335–6. 13. Regimanta Stankevičienė, ‘Čenstakavos Švč: Mergelės Marijos paveikslas: kultas ir kartotės Lietuvoje’, in Pirmavaizdis ir kartotė: Vaizdinių transformacijos tyrimai, Vilniaus dailės akademijos darbai nr. 35, Vilnius: Vilniaus dailė s akademijos leidykla, 2004, pp. 61–78. 14. Vilniaus universiteto biblioteka, Vilnius, Manuscript Department (hereafter: VUB) F4–38883 (A-316), Chronicle of the Bernardine monastery, p. 137. 15. Arūnas Sverdiolas, ‘Paveikslas—ne stabas’, in Tojana Račiūnaitė (ed.), Gyvas žodis, gyvas vaizdas: Fabijono Birkowskio pamokslas apie šventuosius atvaizdus, pamokslo faksimilė, vertimas ir studija, Vilnius: Vilniaus dailės akademijos leidykla, 2009, pp. 99–105. 16. Sigita Maslauskaitė and Tojana Račiūnaitė, ‘Šventųjų atvaizdų teologija ir stebuklai’, in Račiūnaitė (ed.), Gyvas žodis, gyvas vaizdas, p. 137. 17. See the works of the pioneers of microhistory, for example: Giovanni Levi, ‘On Microhistory’, in Peter Burke (ed.), New Perspectives on Historical Writing, Philadelphia, PA: Pennsylvania State University Press, 1991, pp. 93–113; Carlo Ginzburg, ‘Microhistory: Two or Three Things That I Know About It’, Critical Inquiry, 20, 1993, pp. 10–35; cf. Sigurður Gylfi Magnússon and István M. Szijártó, What Is Microhistory? Theory and Practice, Abingdon and New York: Routledge, 2013. 18. VUB F4–38883 (A-316), Chronicle of the Bernardine monastery, Relation regarding the miraculous image, pp. 79r-82v; Kauno arkivyskupijos kurijos archyvas, Kaunas, b. 368, pp. 167–76 (photocopy). 19. Laima Šinkūnaitė, ‘Unikalus Čenstakavos Švč. Dievo Motinos ikonos sekinys Kauno arkikatedroje’, Soter, 19, 2006, 47, pp.  205–26; Laima Šinkūnaitė, Kauno pranciškonų (bernardinų) Šv. Jurgio bažnyčia, Kaunas: Kauno arkivyskupijos muziejus, 2008. 20. Mindaugas Paknys, ‘Kasdienybės istorija XVII a. LDK stebuklų aprašymuose’, in Istorinė tikrovė ir iliuzija: Lietuvos dvasinės kultūros šaltinių tyrimai, Vilniaus dailės akademijos darbai nr 31, Vilnius: Vilniaus dailės akademijos leidykla, 2003, pp. 85–94. 21. Tojana Račiūnaitė, Atvaizdo gyvastis. Švč. Mergelės Marijos stebuklingųjų atvaizdų patirtis Lietuvos Didžiojoje Kunigaikštystėje XVII-XVIII a., Vilnius: Vilniaus dailės akademijos leidykla, 2014. 22. Kamuntavičienė, ‘Stebuklo laukimas’, p. 120.

The Bernardines Influence the Society of Kowno  87 23. Tomasz Wiślicz, ‘ “Miraculous Sites” in the Early Modern Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth’, in Thomas Wünsch (ed.), Religion und Magie in Ostmitteleuropa: Spielräume theologischer Normierungsprozesse in Spätmittelalter und Früher Neuzeit, Berlin: LIT Verlag, 2006, pp. 287–99 (pp. 294–5). 24. Waldemar Franciszek Wilczewski, ‘Wizytacja diecezji wileńskiej przeprowadzona przez biskupa Mikołaja Słupskiego: czas trwania i zasięg’, in Alfredas Bumblauskas and Rimvydas Petrauskas (eds.), Tarp istorijos ir būtovės: Studijos prof. Edvardo Gudavičiaus 70-mečiui, Vilnius: Aidai, 1999. 25. Petras Veblaitis, ‘Kauno bazilika’, Naujoji Romuva, 1935, 16/17, pp. 379– 80 (p. 380). 26. The nunnery of St  Benedict in Orsha was founded in 1640. Before the war, in 1653, the nuns fled Orsha and settled near Troki (Trakai). See also Małgorzata Borkowska, ‘Dzieje fundacji benedyktynek w Orszy’, Roczniki humanistyczne. Historia, 23, 1975, 2, pp. 119–31; eadem, Słownik mniszek benedyktyńskich w Polsce, Tyniec: Nakładem Opactwa Benedyktynów w Tyńcu, 1980, pp. 85–6. 27. Sapiezyszki Manor belonged to the Bernardine nuns of Kowno. 28. Motiejus Valančius, Namų užrašai, ed. Aldona Prašmantaitė, Vilnius: Baltos lankos, 2003, p. 691. 29. Acta, constitutiones et decreta synodi diaecesis Vilnensis, praesidente Illustrissimo ac Reverendissimo Domino Domino Alexandro Michaele Kotowicz Sei et Apostolicae sedis Gratia episcopo Vilnensi, Vilnæ, 1685, p. 2; ‘Synod biskupa Aleksandra Kotowicza z 1685 r’, in Andrzej Kakareko (ed.), Rocznik Teologii Katolickiej, 3, 2004, pp. 135–43 (p. 136). 30. VUB, F4–38883 (A-316), Chronicle of the Bernardine monastery, p. 214v. 31. This image of the Mother of God hung in the Church of St George until the church was closed in 1950. It was then stored at the Kaunas seminary, and from 2001 hung in the Kaunas Cathedral Basilica (a former parish church). On 8 November 2001 the image was endowed with the title of Mother of Mercy. In 2013 it was returned to the Church of St George. 32. Monika Jusupović, Prowincjonalna elita litewska w XVIII wieku: Działalność polityczna rodziny Zabiełłów w latach 1733–1795, Warsaw: Neriton, 2014, pp. 212, 238. 33. Rasa Varsackytė, ‘Kauno miesto ir bažnyčios kultūrų sąveika XVI a. pabaigoje— XVIII a. Pabaigoje’, doctoral dissertation, Vytautas Magnus University, Kaunas, 2006, p. 144.

Part II

Families and Networks

6 Noble Names Changes in Lithuanian Aristocratic Name-Giving During the Late Fourteenth and Fifteenth Centuries Rimvydas Petrauskas A name forms an important part of a person’s identity. Usually names are not chosen by an individual but received at birth. On the one hand, a name distinguishes a specific person from his fellows, while on the other it places him within a certain group of people with regard to origin and cultural tradition.1 Changes in a system of name-giving may offer significant data about the development of a social group, especially at a time for which we lack direct sources for studying personal identity. Names allow us to understand better the internal structure of the aristocracy, especially kinship organization. The creation of inherited kin names or surnames is not only a general European onomastic phenomenon, but also an important marker which reveals changes in aristocratic kinship. In medieval Lithuania personal names began to change at the end of the fourteenth century as the pagan population underwent official conversion to Roman Catholicism and the hitherto pagan north-western parts of the Grand Duchy of Lithuania became Christian. It was when baptismal naming traditions became established that Christian names spread alongside the old ‘Lithuanian’ names. Until then Christian names were common only among the Eastern Orthodox community of the Grand Duchy. Admittedly, the Lithuanian ruler Mindaugas (Mendog) was baptized in 1251 and was crowned king in a Catholic ceremony two years later. We do not know whether he received a new name at baptism, but in any case sources refer to him (unlike his wife Martha (Morta)) and other Lithuanian noblemen of his day only by their old pre-Christian names. Only Lithuanian nobles who withdrew to Ruthenian (Rus'ian) or Livonian lands such as Prince Daumantas of Nalsen (Nalšia),2 who moved with his warrior band to Pskov, where he became the Orthodox Prince Dovmont-Timofei, took Christian names.3 Another nobleman from Nalsen named Suxe became a vassal of the archbishop of Riga and was baptized Nicolaus.4 After King Mindaugas’s assassination in 1263 the Lithuanian core of the Grand Duchy reverted to paganism, and the greater part of the Lithuanian elite remained heathen until the fateful events of the end of the fourteenth century, despite the country’s

92  R. Petrauskas continued territorial expansion into Orthodox Christian Ruthenian lands throughout the fourteenth century.5

One Name As in many other early European monarchies, in pagan Lithuania until the end of the fourteenth century mononominal name-giving was predominant, whereby a person would receive one name which was not handed down from generation to generation. This presents scholars with great problems when they try to reconstruct the genealogy of ancient aristocratic families. Thus it is only from a fortunate combination of surviving records that we know that a Lithuanian noble named Busko (Buškys), who lived in the mid-fourteenth century, had a son called Walimund Buschkenson (Valmantas), whose sons in turn were named Rumbold (Rumbaudas), Kesgaylo (Kęsgaila), Jawnus (Jaunius), Sudywoy (Sudivojus) and Schedibor (Šedbaras). The first known member of the aristocratic Holshansky (Alšėniškiai, Holszański) clan was known as Algeminne, Angemunt, Augemunt, Olgemont, Olgimunt or Ongemund (Algimantas); the first Radziwiłł (Radvila) as Ostyk (Astikas); Sudymont (Sudimantas) as Dorgy (Dargis) and so forth. This name-giving tradition was determined by archaic kinship organization on the basis of clans, which connected diverse kin of a given generation, regardless of their paternal or maternal lineage.6 This broad kinship structure was very important at a time when state institutions were still only forming and only kinsmen could maintain the security of individuals and preserve their social status. Ancient aristocrats belonged to a wide, but constantly changing kindred which recorded its roots lightly. The lack of inherited names offers important indications of kinship structures and consciousness. Genealogy functioned weakly in this kinship consciousness. Thus kindred in the earliest period not only had no inherited names but also no genealogical accounts of longer kinship traditions. The scope of names given to pre-Christian Lithuanian rulers and nobles is remarkable for its huge variety. Names usually comprise two roots, but there are no grounds for asserting that they were chosen or composed according to any given rules (such as a combination of the names of an individual’s father and mother). There are no data that lead us to think that the sharing of a name by certain persons, which we encounter on occasion, reflected any close personal kinship: for example Manvydas (Moniwid, d. 1348), a son of Grand Duke Gediminas (Giedymin), had no connection with the nobleman Albertus Moniwid (Albertas Manvydas), who was active at the turn of the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries, nor was an early fifteenth-century Giedroyć (Giedraitis) duke named Jogaila related to the man who ruled Poland and Lithuania at that time. As later material shows, representatives of different social classes might have the same name.7 Thus in thirteenth- or fourteenth-century Lithuania

Noble Names  93 we do not see the custom of passing down a particular name or part of a name within a dynasty which was typical of certain other early European monarchies (such as the German Ottos, the Norwegian Haralds, the Václavs of Bohemia or the Bolesławs of Poland, and so on). It is interesting that the only example known to us of a pagan Lithuanian father’s name being handed down in this period happened in the maternal line beyond the borders of the Grand Duchy. In 1279 Gaudemunda (Gaudemantė), daughter of Grand Duke Traidenis of Lithuania (baptized into the Catholic church as Sophia, d. 1282), married the Polish duke of Mazovia, Bolesław (Boleslaus) II. One of their sons, who later ruled the duchy of Czersk and Warsaw, was named Trojden for his maternal grandfather. Perhaps this choice of name was determined by claims to the legacy of the grand duke who died without a male heir.8 However, in Lithuania itself the name Traidenis is not known among later rulers or aristocrats. From the end of the thirteenth century a new ruling family became established in the Grand Duchy of Lithuania. This dynasty had its own particular treasury of personal names—Grand Dukes Butigeidis (Butegeyde), Pukuveras Butvydas (Pucuwerus), Vytenis (Witenes), Gediminas (Gedeminne), Algirdas (Algerde, Olgerd), Kęstutis (Kenstutte), Jogaila (Jagal) and Vytautas (Wytowdus). The names of fourteenth-century Lithuanian nobles are also distinguished for their individual creation—Dirsune (Dirsūnas), Eginthe (Eigintas), Stirpeyke (Stirpeikis), Woyswylth (Vaišviltas), Waydelo (Vaidila), and so forth. As we have noted, these names were not inherited by the next generation and their fathers and sons are known by different names.

Breakthrough: Christian Names and the Development of Surnames After Grand Duke Jogaila of Lithuania was baptized, married to the queen regnant of Poland, Jadwiga (Hedwig), and then crowned king of Poland in 1386, the process of Christianizing Lithuanian society began in earnest.9 Therefore representatives of the ruling elite of the day— members of the stirps regia and the aristocracy—had a chance to obtain a new name through baptism.10 In the case of the monarch and his kin the choice of a new Christian name was marked by a clear political tradition. Jogaila took the name of one of the most important kings of the Polish Piast dynasty (Władysław I Łokietek, r. 1320–33) to become Władysław II, thereby associating himself with the royal line of previous monarchs.11 Such a choice was informed also by the fact that St Ladislaus (Władysław) was the dynastic patron of his wife, Jadwiga of Anjou. Thenceforth the new king of Poland styled himself in official documents issued for both the Kingdom and the Grand Duchy of Lithuania only by his new Christian name. Admittedly, in narrative texts created in the Grand Duchy of Lithuania he continued to be known as Jogaila

94  R. Petrauskas (Jagyelo, Jagiełło).12 For political reasons the leaders of the Teutonic Order avoided referring to Jogaila by his Christian name for some time, for which the king of Poland criticized them explicitly as early as 1388.13 Several of Jogaila’s brothers who were baptized alongside him were also given traditional Piast names, such as Kazimierz Korygiełło (Kazimieras Karigaila), and Bolesław Świdrygiełło (Boleslovas Švitrigaila). It is worth noting that the sons of Grand Duke Algirdas and Jogaila’s brothers who had gone to rule the Ruthenian lands of the Grand Duchy of Lithuania and to that end had adopted the eastern Orthodox Faith already had Eastern Christian names such as Fedor, Andrei, Dmitrii, Vladimir and so on. In this case we are struck by the fact that we do not know their previous pagan names.14 The same is typical of Lithuanian princesses who went abroad to marry and be baptized15—they appear in contemporary sources solely by their new Christian names, as a rule, while their alleged old ‘pagan’ names often come to light only in texts composed in the sixteenth century and later.16 The choice of Christian name for other members of the ruling dynasty and the aristocracy may have been determined by various factors, such as the names of their godparents,17 the early development of the cult of saints in Lithuania,18 or later family tradition. For example, in 1383 Jogaila’s cousin and arch-rival, Vytautas, fled to the territory of the Teutonic Order where he was baptized Wigand because his godfather was the commander of Ragnit, Wigand von Baldersheim, an official of the Teutonic Order.19 Even so, when Vytautas was baptized again sometime later he changed his name to become forever Allexander alias Wytowdus (Aleksandras Vytautas, Aleksander Witold). In this case the choice of name may have been influenced by the spread of the name Alexander, especially in the Orthodox territories of the Grand Duchy of Lithuania and the cult of the heroic Alexander of Macedon in Catholic and Orthodox circles during the late Middle Ages.20 Meanwhile the names of Lithuanian noblemen who converted to Christianity in 1386/87 match Christian names common in neighbouring countries at the time. A  certain influence of the aristocracy of the Kingdom of Poland is illustrated by the example of Ostyk, later castellan of Vilna (Vilnius), who took the rare name Cristinus (Krystyn), a choice which was not repeated by later Lithuanian nobles. This choice was informed most probably by personal relations (whether through baptism or other actions remains hard to say) with the Polish nobleman Krystyn of Ostrów, who played an important role in negotiations over the election of Jogaila as king of Poland and was present in Lithuania during the official conversion. The lord lieutenant (starosta) of Vilna at that time, one of the first noblemen to appear with a Christian name, Andreas alias Gastold (Andriejus Goštautas, Andrzej Gasztold, Andrei Gastovt),21 may have taken his name from a cleric close to Jogaila and Jadwiga, Andrzej Jastrzębiec, who was appointed the first bishop of

Noble Names  95 Vilna in 1388. It may well be that the traditional cult of the Polish patron saint, Stanislaus (Stanisław), lies behind the name taken by an influential Lithuanian noblemen and later Grand Marshal of Lithuania, Czupurna (Čupurna). However, in other cases it is impossible or hardly worth the effort to look for direct connections behind the choice of noble baptismal names. Johannes, Georgius, Albertus, Nicolaus and other names chosen by neophyte Lithuanian nobles were popular in all neighbouring lands. At the same time it should be noted that typically ‘Polish’ names do not feature in the new Lithuanian noble list of names (for example at that time the leading names of Polish noblemen were Dobiesław, Krzesław, Gniewosz, Spytek, Zawisza and Hińcza). Perhaps only Sudywoy Wolimuntowicz (Sudivojus Valmantaitis), who had not yet reached his majority when Lithuania was converted officially, received a traditional Polish name, perhaps because of family connections with the palatine of Kalisz, Sędziwoj of Szubin, who was active in Jogaila’s entourage.22 It must be stressed, that unlike King Władysław of Poland, all other Lithuanian princes and noblemen preserved their old names when they took new Christian ones.23 Therefore, at the turn of the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries princes and nobles appear regularly in sources with two names:24 Allexander alias Wytowdus, Boleslaus alias Swydrigal, Albertus alias Moniwid, Georgius alias Gedigold, Michael alias Keszgal, Michael alias Minigail, Stanislaus alias Czupurna, Cristinus alias Ostyk, Andreas alias Gastold, Johannes alias Sungal, Johannes alias Dawgerd and so on. At baptism they did not change their names but added new ones. The old name was an important part of their identity, which distinguished them from other Alexanders and Michaels. Their contemporaries knew them by their special names, and so noblemen continued to be so named in correspondence and chronicles. Meanwhile, the new Christian name would be recorded alongside the old pagan one in official documents (in witness lists, for example). Understandably they continued to be known by their old names in family memory, which formed a new tradition, and this we shall discuss later. In this context we should note that during the fifteenth century the names of Lithuanian rulers were not adopted by members of the nobility (Vladislovas Jogaila/Władysław Jagiełło, Aleksandras Vytautas/Aleksander Witold, Boleslovas Švitrigaila/Bolesław Świdrygiełło, Žygimantas Kęstutaitis/Zygmunt Kiejstutowicz, Kazimieras Jogailaitis/Kazimierz Jagiellończyk and Aleksandras Jogailaitis/Aleksander Jagiellończyk): we encounter only two Alexanders—Muntholt (Mantautas, Montowt) and Sołtan (Soltanas, Sołtan Aleksandrowicz). It may be that the diminutive form of the name Alexander, Alekna (Olechno), was adopted by noblemen. We should note the appearance of only one noble named Sigismundus (Žygimantas), namely the son of Michael Golgynovycz (Mykolas Galiginaitis, Michał Goliginowicz)—bearing in mind the close relations between this family and Grand Duke Žygimantas Kęstutaitis, which may

96  R. Petrauskas reflect the tradition among European feudal lords of senioris sui nomine (whereby a vassal’s son would be given the name of his liege lord).25

Paternal Memory: Name and Patronymic From the beginning of the fifteenth century we find another form of dual name: name and patronymic. The new noble generation born after the official conversion of Lithuania appears most commonly with Christian names. However, pagan names do not disappear, but remain as part of a patronymic—Petrus Montigerdowicz (Petras Mantigirdaitis), Radiwil Ostikowicz (Radvila Astikaitis), Johannes Moniwidowicz vel Johannes filius Monividi (Jonas Manvydaitis), Petrus Senko Gedigoldowicz (Petras Simonas Gedgaudaitis), Andreas Dowgyrdowycz (Andriejus Daugirdaitis) and so on. Patronymics also create a personal identity and complement a Christian name with a reference to an important father, while forming a memory to that forebear. Thus a name which forms part of a patronymic fulfils a double role—as a sign of continuity of power and a form of memory preservation. While all new-generation nobles had a Christian name, some of them for uncertain reasons still had a pagan name too. In this case the forefather of the later illustrious Radziwiłł (Radvila) clan, Radiwil Ostikowicz, was exceptional. Throughout his long life from his first appearance in the records in 1411 until his death in 1477 he was known by his traditional Lithuanian name, usually transcribed as Radiwil. We only know he was baptized as Nicolaus from his 1451 supplications to the Sacred Penitentiary.26 The case of his cousin Sudimund Dorgewicz (Sudimantas Dargaitis) was similar. This is certainly not some kind of ‘pagan reaction’ but rather individual decisions made concerning personal names, the motives for which are difficult to discern. Moreover such separate, albeit rare uses of ‘pagan’ names are known from later periods:27 Thautwil Muntholtowicz (Tautvilas Mantautaitis), Butrim Nyemyerowicz (Butrimas Nemiraitis), Schemyoth Nyemoykowycz (Šemeta Nemeikaitis), Jundzil Raczkowicz (Jundilas Račkaitis). In all cases records also reveal their Christian names (for example, Johannes alias Thautwil Muntholtowicz), but we should note that they were referred to most commonly by their ‘Lithuanian’ names. There is no evidence to show that the choice of such exceptional names was determined by any genealogical memory of these people’s ancestors. The coincidence of names was quite a usual matter in Lithuanian name collections during the early monarchical period. The same name might be used by people living at the same or different times such as King Mindaugas’ mid-thirteenth-century brother Tautvilas and a son of Grand Duke Kęstutis, who lived during the second half of the fourteenth century and the son of the above-mentioned nobleman Muntholt, who thrived during

Noble Names  97 the latter half of the fifteenth century. Thus there is neither the need nor indeed grounds to theorize about possible kinship connections between these men who bore the same name. However, the appearance of a new phenomenon among the early sixteenth-century aristocracy, when ‘pagan’ nicknames such as Syrput (Sirputis), Wirszullo (Viršulis), and Rekuc (Rėkutis) were invented. At the beginning of the sixteenth century several members of the Ostyk clan used the nicknames Syrput and Wirszullo alongside their Christian names and family name. Later the compilers of Radiwil and Ostyk genealogies, Solomon Rysinius and Albertus Wiiuk Kojałowicz listed Syrput and Wirszullo as ancestors of these families who lived in the fourteenth century. It is likely in this case that family tradition preserved several ancestral names, although probably their particular history had fallen into oblivion. One name or another may have been retained in clan/family memory for a certain period of time, perhaps in remembrance of some kind of event of significance for the family.28 It may well be that the use of such nicknames in the Ostyk clan was determined by their competition with their Radiwil kin—the Ostyks may have sought to strengthen the prestige of their side of the family as the Radiwil ever increased in power and influence. A  similar case in point is provided by the Keszgal (Kęsgaila, Kieżgajło) family. The castellan of Troki (Trakai) and lord lieutenant (starosta) of Samogitia (Žemaitija) Stanislaus Janowicz (Stanislovas Jonaitis Kęsgaila, Stanisław Janowicz Kieżgajło) who lived at the beginning of the sixteenth century was known as ‘Lord Screecher’ (Pan Rekuc). This name (Rekuc/Rekuciewicz) was used on occasion by his descendants.29 We have no genealogical documents to explain the origin of such a name, but there can be no doubt that it was supposed to refer to a remembered or fictitious, imagined ancestor. As genealogical consciousness became stronger the number of such imagined names increased. The name of the Moniwid (Manvydas) family which became extinct in the fifteenth century became particularly popular and it was used as a nickname or prefix from the middle of the sixteenth century by the Hlebowicz (Glebavičiai), Zabrzeziński (Zaberezinskiai) and Dorohostajski (Dorohostaiskiai) families, who shared the same heraldic device (Leliwa).30 By adopting the name of a once renowned family the image was formed of a direct kinship connection and thereby the tradition of using the Moniwid name was continued. Returning to the subject of patronymics, the memory of a person’s father is also important for another reason. We can discern a clearly visible tendency in the history of the early Lithuanian aristocracy. Although an aristocrat would begin his career at the ruler’s court in early youth, he would achieve higher office only at a mature age, usually after his father’s death.31 For example, our frequently mentioned Radiwil Ostikowicz did not obtain his first high office (as grand marshal) for a long

98  R. Petrauskas time: two decades after the death of his father Cristinus alias Ostyk (Kristinas Astikas) in 1442.32 His own son Nicolaus Radivilowicz (Mikalojus Radvilaitis) (d. 1509) became lord lieutenant of Smolensk in 1482,33 five years after his father’s death. One of the most prominent fifteenthcentury Lithuanian noblemen, the palatine of Vilna Johannes Gasztold (Jonas Goštautas) made his first appearance among representatives of the ruling elite in 1413, but he achieved more important office only in 1440, while his father Andreas alias Gastold (Andriejus Goštautas) died around 1405. After the death of Johannes Gasztold in 1458, his son Martinus Gasztold (Martynas Goštautas) became lord lieutenant of Novogorodok (Navahrudak, Nowogródek, Naugardukas) in 1464, and palatine of Kiev (Kyiv) in 1471. The same tendency is typical of other aristocratic families. On the one hand, this reminds us of the patriarchal family organization which prevailed at that time, whereby a son only took over independent control of patrimonial estates after the death of his father. On the other hand, such a state of affairs reveals the strength and continuity of social structures, whereby the organization of power inherited from the father was transferred relatively smoothly to his heirs, when the family’s main protector was no longer present among the living.

Inherited Family (Sur)names This continuity is reflected also in the final stage of the development of aristocratic anthroponyms, viz. the formation of an inherited family surname. Despite a few exceptions, such a surname would be constructed on the memory of an ancestor who had lived several generations earlier and left behind him a clear footprint. For the most part the surnames of Lithuanian aristocrats which we come across in later times developed during the fifteenth century from the names of noblemen who lived during the reign of Vytautas: Albertus alias Moniwid—the Moniwids (Manvydai), Michael alias Keszgal—the Keszgals (Kęsgailai, Kieżgajłowie), Cristinus alias Ostyk—the Ostyks (Astikai), Andreas alias Gastold—the Gasztolds (Goštautai, Gasztołdowie), Johannes alias Niemir—the Nemiros, Allexander alias Muntholt—the Muntholts (Mantautai, Montowtowie) and so on. However, we should consider what the development of inherited family surnames means.34 Until the turn of the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries, that is the official conversion of Lithuania and the reigns of Jogaila and Vytautas, we know nothing about such families as the Radiwils, Gasztolds, Keszgals, Moniwids, Montigerdowiczes (Mantigirdai), or Holshanskys (Alšėniškiai, Holszańscy), who later became so famous. This is not because rulers raised these families up from the broad mass of the nobility, because we can show conclusively that the fathers and grandfathers of the noblemen who lived at that time had played no less a significant role in the political organization of the country in earlier times. It happened

Noble Names  99 because it was only at that time that the concept of family names inheritable from generation to generation (surnames) began to form. As we have noted, before conversion to Christianity Lithuanians were known by a single individual name which was not handed down from father to son. Of course nobles from the ancient days were convinced strongly of their descent from an honourable and ancient family, but they were unable to record its history. When literacy spread in the wake of Christian conversion noblemen gradually began to take care to record their genealogy in writing, and they were able, albeit very vaguely to recall the name of one ancestor or another as far back as the time of Vytautas.35 When nothing is written down, there is no long-term tradition or name, nor any longterm family memory. Thus we do not know the names of the ancestors of specific ancient nobles or their earlier history. We can only guess that they were descended from the ancient Lithuanian aristocracy, whose names were recorded in fourteenth-century Teutonic-Order or Rusian chronicles and annals and the few documents, mostly international treaties, which survive from that time.36 After the official Lithuanian conversion to Catholic Christianity and the establishment of peaceful relations with neighbouring countries, changes began in the domestic political order. During the fifteenth century the Grand Duchy of Lithuania grew into a state where power rested on the basis of political institutions rather than on personal relationships alone. Central and local government officials were appointed, the chancery and Council of Lords developed. The nobility, the main social group changed along with the state. The previous essential requirement to have as many kinsmen as possible active in a generation was replaced by a desire concentrate power and property in a single pair of hands. The old broad clanlike community of kin was transformed into a structured family where stress was laid on genealogical inheritance via the male line. Socially advanced and consolidated family (kindred) members were loath to share power and wealth with more distant kin, on whose assistance they relied less and less. They realized that only those who managed to conserve their main wealth, namely landed estates, and avoid the constant danger posed to aristocratic wellbeing by the constant need to parcel out landholdings among family members, would remain at the pinnacle of power. Inherited family surnames expressed the consciousness of the new organization of kinship. From henceforth noblemen would be known by the same surname from generation to generation and this identity was confirmed further by family coats of arms which developed at the same time.37 The individual name of a memorable ancestor (Manvydas/Moniwid, Goštautas/Gasztold, Radvila/Radiwil or Kęsgaila/Kieszgal) became their descendants’ surname. It is interesting that traditional names were preserved by some Lithuanian nobles who for various political reasons migrated into the lands of the Teutonic Order. Inherited family names could also be derived from

100  R. Petrauskas the names of these men. For example, the well-known later Prussian von Manstein family might be descended from Mansto, a Lithuanian refugee from the time of Grand Duke Gediminas,38 while Surwille (Survila) who defected to the Teutonic Order around 1365 may be the ancestor of the Prussian aristocratic Surwillen family.39 Speaking of first, that is, baptismal names, the most popular among the Lithuanian aristocracy from the time of the official conversion were Johannes, Georgius, Petrus, Nicolaus, Michael, Stanislaus, Andreas and Albertus, to be joined later by Jacobus, Martinus and Gregorius. This fits in with general tendencies in the spread of the cult of saints in Lithuania.40 More marked new fashions in this area are not noticeable. For example, despite the spread of chivalric culture,41 we do not encounter any specifically ‘knightly’ names.42 Just occasionally established anthroponymic tradition would be supplemented by rarer German or Polish names.43 The spread for a time of diminutive name forms among the aristocracy is a specific fifteenth-century phenomenon (Johannes—Iwaschko, Andreas—Andruschko, Petrus—Petrasch, Allexander—Olechno). In sum we may say that three stages in the development of aristocratic names can be discerned following the official conversion of Lithuania to Catholic Christianity, namely the combination of an old pagan name with a new Christian one, the use of a name and patronymic, and finally the use of a personal name and an inherited family name. Each stage in name development reflects in its own way changes in the aristocracy as a social group, first and foremost the formation of aristocratic genealogical kinship. Individual aristocratic names from the pre-Christian period were resurrected for a second, this time long life as the (sur)names of families who were descended from them. While the first palatine of Vilna who lived at the beginning of the fifteenth century is recorded as having obtained a new coat of arms at Horodło in 1413 as Albertus alias Moniwid, his grandson who took part in the famous 1475 Landshut royal wedding negotiations and was the last of his line and shared his grandfather’s name, is recorded in sources as Albertus Moniwid.44

Notes 1. George T. Beech, Monique Bourin and Pascal Chareille (eds.), Personal Names Studies of Medieval Europe: Social Identity and Familial Structures, Kalamazoo, MI: Medieval Institute Publications, 2002; Christof Rolker and Gabriela Signori (eds.), Konkurrierende Zugehörigkeit(en): Praktiken der Namengebung im europaïschen Vergleich, Konstanz: UvK, 2011; Karl Schmid, ‘Zur Problematik von Familie, Sippe und Geschlecht, Haus und Dynastie beim mittelalterlichen Adel’, Zeitschrift für die Geschichte des Oberrheins, 105, 1957, pp. 1–62; Michael Mitterauer, Ahnen und Heilige: Namengebung in der europäischen Geschichte, Munich: C. H. Beck, 1993; Georg Scheibelreiter, ‘Namengebung und Genealogie im Mittelalter’, in idem, Wappenbild und Verwandschaftsgeflecht: Kultur-und mentalitätsgeschichtliche Forschungen zu Heraldik und Genealogie, Vienna and Munich:

Noble Names  101 Verlag Böhlau, 2009, pp.  245–57. Cf. Mariann Slíz, Personal Names in Medieval Hungary, Hamburg: Baar-Verlag, 2015. 2. The names of places and Lithuanian nobles given in this study are those found most often in the relevant sources—whether Ruthenian, Latin, Polish or German. The modern reconstructions in Lithuanian, sometimes followed by other variants, are provided in brackets on first mention. Exceptions are made for well-known Lithuanian rulers such as the said Daumantas (Dovmont) and King Mindaugas (Mendog). On Nalshchany (the form recorded in a Ruthenian latopis), see Jerzy Ochmański, ‘Nieznany autor “Opisu krajów” z drugiej połowy XIII wieku i jego wiadomości o Bałtach’, LituanoSlavica Posnanienia, 1, 1983, pp. 107–14 (p. 108). [Editors’ note.] 3. S. C. Rowell, ‘Between Lithuania and Rus: Dovmont-Timofey of Pskov, His Life and Cult’, Oxford Slavonic Papers, new series, 25, 1992, pp. 1–33. 4. Max Perlbach, ‘Urkunden des Rigaschen Capitel-Archives in der Fürstlich Czartoryskischen Bibliothek’, Mittheilungen aus dem Gebiete der Geschichte Liv-, Est- und Kurlands, 13, 1886, pp. 17–18. 5. See S. C. Rowell, Lithuania Ascending: A Pagan Empire Within East-Central Europe, 1295–1345, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1994. 6. For further details, see Rimvydas Petrauskas, Lietuvos diduomenė XIV a. pabaigoje—XV a.: sudėtis—struktūra—valdžia, Vilnius: Aidai, 2003; idem, ‘The Lithuanian Nobility in the Late-Fourteenth and Fifteenth Centuries: Composition and Structure’, Lithuanian Historical Studies, 7, 2002, pp. 1–22. 7. Cf. the first surviving extensive list of noblemen from the Grand Duchy of Lithuania, namely the 1528 Muster List. A considerable number of minor nobles had non-Christian names (but this does not mean that they had not been christened) and some names coincide with those of old Lithuanian princes (such as Gediminas or Kęstutis). Lietuvos Metrika: Viešųjų reikalų knyga 1, eds. Algirdas Baliulis and Artūras Dubonis, Vilnius: Lietuvos istorijos institutas, 2006. 8. Janusz Grabowski, Dynastia Piastów mazowieckich: Studia na dziejami politycznymi Mazowsza, intytulacją i genealogią książąt, Cracow: Avalon, 2012, p. 236. Later Prince Trojden II ruled in Mazovia. 9. See most recently Darius Baronas and S. C. Rowell, The Conversion of Lithuania: From Pagan Barbarians to Late Medieval Christians, Vilnius: The Institute of Lithuanian Literature and Folklore, 2015. 10. For the broader European context, see Gertrud Thoma, Namensänderungen in Herrscherfamilien des mittelalterlichen Europa, Kallmünz: Laßleben, 1985. 11. See Thoma, Namensänderungen, pp. 97–101; Piotr Węcowski, ‘Dwa przyczynki do piastowskiej legitymizacji władzy Jagiellonów: Imiona i liczebniki w tytulaturze polskich Jagiellonów’, in Agnieszka Bartoszewicz, Grzegorz Myśliwski, Jerzy Pysiak and Paweł Żmudzki (eds.), Świat średniowiecza: Studia ofiarowane Profesorowi Henrykowi Samsonowiczowi, Warsaw: Wydawnictwa Uniwersytetu Warszawskiego, 2010, pp. 562–76. 12. See the earliest chronicle of the Grand Dukes of Lithuania: ‘Origo regis Jagyelo et Wytholdi ducum Lithuanie’, in Polnoe sobranie russkikh letopisei, vol. 35, Letopisy belorussko-litovskie, Moscow: Nauka, 1980, p. 115–17. 13. Scriptores rerum prussicarum, eds. Theodor Hirsch, Max Töppen and Ernst Strehlke, vol. 2, Leipzig: S. Hirzel Verlag, 1863, p. 715. 14. For the genealogy of the ruling Gediminid dynasty, see Jan Tęgowski, Pierwsze pokolenia Giedyminowiczów, Poznań and Wrocław: Wydawnictwo Historyczne, 1999. 15. S. C. Rowell, ‘Pious Princesses or the Daughters of Belial: Pagan Lithuanian Dynastic Diplomacy 1279–1423’, Medieval Prosopography, 15, 1994, pp. 3–80.

102  R. Petrauskas 16. Rafał Witkowski, ‘Aldona, żona Kazimierza Łokietkowica, królowa “jakiej nie było” ’, in Danuta Zydorek (ed.), Scriptura custos memoriae. Prace historyczne, Poznań: Instytut Historii UAM, 2001, pp. 593–607. 17. On connections between godparents and baptismal names, see Arnold Angenendt, Kaiserherrschaft und Königstaufe: Kaiser, Könige und Päpste als geistliche Patrone in der abendländischen Missionsgeschichte, Berlin and New York: de Gruyter, 1984; Christof Rolker, ‘Patenschaft und Namengebung im späten Mittelalter’, in Christof Rolker und Gabriela Signori (eds.), Konkurrierende Zugehörigkeit(en). Praktiken der Namengebung im europaïschen Vergleich, Konstanz: UvK, 2011, pp. 17–38. 18. S. C. Rowell, ‘Procesy rozwoju i zaniku kultu świętych na Litwie i w Polsce w drugiej połowie XV wieku’, Zapiski Historyczne, 70, 2005, 4, pp. 7–26. 19. Wigand von Marburg, Cronica nova prutenica, in Scriptores rerum prussicarum, eds. Theodor Hirsch, Max Töppen and Ernst Strehlke, Leipzig: S. Hirzel Verlag, 1863, p. 628. 20. George Cary, The Medieval Alexander, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1956. 21. See n. 24 below. 22. We encounter another ‘Polish’ name among the Lithuanian aristocracy (including second-rate nobles) only in 1471 (Dobrogost Narbutowicz), and this would confirm the lack of closer personal relations between Polish and Lithuanian nobles throughout almost the whole fifteenth century (cf. Rimvydas Petrauskas, ‘Związki personalne między możnowładztwem Polski i Litwy od końca XIV do połowy XVI wieku’, in Waldemar Bukowski and Tomasz Jurek (eds.), Narodziny Rzeczypospolitej. Studia z dziejów średniowiecza i czasów wczesnonowożytnych, vol. 1, Cracow: Societas Vistulana, 2012, pp. 479–96. 23. The first cases recorded in the sources: a document issued in Latin by the Polish and Lithuanian ruler Władysław in Vilna on 17 February 1387 mentions the lieutenant (starosta) of Oschmena (Ašmena, Ashmiany, Oszmiana), Michael alias Minigal; a charter issued by the king in Vilna on 1 June 1387 for the church in Oboltsy was witnessed by Michael alias Minigal de Oszmena and the lord lieutenant of Vilna, Andreas alias Gastold (Kodeks dyplomatyczny katedry i diecezji wileńskiej, eds. Jan Fijałek and Władysław Semkowicz, Cracow: Komisja Historyczna Polskiej Akademii Umiejętności, 1932–48, pp. 9, 19). It should be noted that noblemen appear with Christian names more commonly in the records only from the beginning of the fifteenth century. 24. For further aristocratic names from Lithuanian prosopography see Petrauskas, Lietuvos diduomenė (n. 7 above). 25. Michael Mitterauer, ‘ “Senioris sui nomine”: Zur Verbreitung von Fürstennamen durch das Lehenswesen’, Mitteilungen des Instituts für österreichische Geschichtsforschung, 96, 1988, pp. 275–330. 26. Two supplications from ‘Nicolao Radywil domino loci de Upynyki’ to the pope on 16 and 26 January  1451 (Bullarium Poloniae, eds. Irena Sułkowska-Kuraś and Stanisław Kuraś, vol. 6, (1447–1464), Rome and Lublin: Katolicki Uniwersytet Lubelski, Fundacja Jana Pawła II and Polski Instytut Kultury Chrześcijańskiej, 1998, pp. 112–13). We should reject the claim made by some historians that Radiwil’s Christian name was Ludwig, because this is undoubtedly a mistake made by scribe who copied the relevant document at the end of the sixteenth century (see Rimvydas Petrauskas, ‘Vardas Radvila: giminės iškilimas XV a–XVI a. pradžioje’ (forthcoming)).

Noble Names  103 27. Here I  refer only to representatives of the higher aristocracy, since old Lithuanian names survived somewhat longer among the lesser nobility and peasantry. 28. In 1385 the Teutonic Order’s Wegeberichte mention Syrput’s village near Sirputtindorff (Kernavė), and it is thought that the seal of his son Kristyn Ostyk bears the inscription de Kernow (Władysław Semkowicz, Tradycja o kniaziowskiem pochodzeniu Radziwiłłów w świetle krytyki historycznej, Lwów: Drukarnia Jakubowskiego, 1921, pp. 12–15). 29. Krzysztof Pietkiewicz, Kieżgajłowie i ich latyfundium do połowy XVI wieku, Poznań: Wydawnictwo Naukowe UAM, 1982, pp. 34–40, especially at p. 39. 30. Rimvydas Petrauskas, ‘Zaberezinskiai, Glebavičiai, Dorohostaiskiai: bendras herbas ir įsivaizduojama giminystė’, in idem, Galia ir tradicija. Lietuvos Didžiosios Kunigaikštystės giminių istorijos, Vilnius: Baltos Lankos, 2016, pp. 261–76. 31. Petrauskas, Lietuvos diduomenė (n. 7 above). 32. In 1433–34 he was grand marshal, but this appointment did not last long (Urzędnicy centralni i dostojnicy Wielkiego Księstwa Litewskiego XIVXVIII wieku. Spisy, eds. Henryk Lulewicz and Andrzej Rachuba, Kórnik: Biblioteka Kórnicka, 1994, p. 81). 33. Urzędnicy Wielkiego Księstwa Litewskiego. Spisy, vol. 4, Ziemia smoleńska i województwo smoleńskie XIV–XVIII wiek, eds. Henryk Lulewicz, Andrzej Rachuba and Przemysław P. Romaniuk, Warsaw: DiG, 2003, p. 50. 34. For further information, see Petrauskas, Lietuvos diduomenė, pp. 103–52; idem, ‘The Lithuanian Nobility’ (n. 7 above). 35. On early genealogical consciousness, see Rimvydas Petrauskas, ‘Atrandant protėvius: genealoginio mąstymo prielaidos ir užuomazgos Lietuvoje XIV– XVI a. viduryje’, in Zigmantas Kiaupa and Jolita Sarcevičienė (eds.), Ministri historiae: Pagalbiniai istorijos mokslai Lietuvos Didžiosios Kunigaikštystės istorijos tyrimuose. Mokslinių straipsnių rinkinys, skirtas dr. Edmundo Rimšos 65-ečio sukakčiai, edVilnius: Lietuvos istorijos institutas, 2013, pp. 45–63. 36. Rimvydas Petrauskas, ‘Valdovo svainiai ir satrapų palikuonys: Lietuvos diduomenė krikšto išvakarėse’, in Vydas Dolinskas, Rimvydas Petrauskas and Edmundas Rimša (eds.), Lietuvos Didžiosios Kunigaikštystės istorijos atodangos: Profesoriaus Mečislovo Jučo 90-mečio jubiliejui skirtas straipsnių rinkinys, Vilnius: Nacionalinis muziejus Lietuvos Didžiosios Kunigaikštystės valdovų rūmai, 2016, pp. 131–41. 37. Edmundas Rimša, ‘Horodlės aktai ir Lietuvos kilmingųjų heraldika’, in Jūratė Kiaupienė and Lidia Korczak (eds.), 1413 m. Horodlės aktai. Dokumentai ir tyrinėjimai / Akty Horodelskie z 1413 roku. Dokumenty i studia, Vilnius: Lietuvos istorijos institutas, and Cracow: Polska Akademia Umiejętności, 2013, pp. 173–210. 38. Reinhard Wenskus, ‘Studien zur Geschichte der Ritterschaft im Ordensland Preussen. I. Zur mittelalterlichen Geschichte des Geschlechts von Manstein’, in Altpreußische Geschlechterkunde, NF 13, 1982, pp. 51–64. 39. Grzegorz Białuński, ‘Surwiłłowie: Przykład kariery Litwinów w Prusach’, Istorijos šaltinių tyrimai, 4, 2012, pp. 13–44. 40. The names of Eastern Orthodox nobles from the Grand Duchy of Lithuania are a separate topic. This issue is not discussed here because the greater integration of Orthodox and Catholic families and their mutual connections and the opportunities for Orthodox nobles to make a career in the central lands of the Grand Duchy began only in the sixteenth century.

104  R. Petrauskas 41. Rimvydas Petrauskas, ‘Knighthood in the Grand Duchy of Lithuania from the Late-Fourteenth to the Early Sixteenth Centuries’, Lithuanian Historical Studies, 11, 2006, pp. 39–66. 42. On this phenomenon see Michel Pastoureau, Une histoire symbolique du Moyen Âge occidental, Paris: Seuil, 2004; Werner Paravicini, ‘Von Schlesien nach Frankreich, England, Spanien und zurück. Über die Ausbreitung adliger Kultur im späten Mittelalter’, in Jan Harasimowicz and Matthias Weber (eds.), Adel in Schlesien, vol. 1, Herrschaft—Kultur—Selbstdarstellung, Munich: Oldenbourg, 2010, pp. 138–9. 43. See n. 23 above. Noteworthy are the names of two brothers, kinsmen of the Keszgal (Kęsgaila, Kieżgajło) nobles—Conradus and Zawischa Gudigirdowycz (Konradas and Zaviša Gudigirdaičiai). The latter’s sons had perhaps the most extravagant names of all fifteenth-century Lithuanian nobles, Cherubin (Cherubinas) and Seraphin (Serafinas) (Pietkiewicz, Kieżgajłowie i ich latyfundium, p. 25). 44. Cf. Jerzy Ochmański, ‘Moniwid i jego ród’, Lituano—Slavica Posnaniensia: Studia historica, 9, 2003, pp.  13–74; Petrauskas, ‘Knighthood’ (n. 42 above).

7 The Sphragistics and Heraldry of Three Representatives of the Radziwiłł Family Agnė Railaitė-Bardė

Noble heraldry and sphragistics are an important sign of the culture of Europe and the Grand Duchy of Lithuania as well as of prevailing social conditions and personal ambition. Noble heraldry is an area of research which has proved valuable in forming a fuller view of the aristocratic stratum of the Grand Duchy of Lithuania, the unique ways in which its members thought, their genealogy and the posts they held. The noble heraldry of the Grand Duchy often provides a direct view on the dominant cultural facts and political events of a given age. It has not yet been widely investigated by scholars.1 It should be noted that researchers have devoted greater attention to the heraldry and sphragistics of members of the ruling dynasty2 and of cities and towns.3 This article will attempt to analyse the sphragistics and heraldry of three people (one of them legendary) belonging to the same family with a special focus on the seals of the two containing marshalled coats of arms which have not before been subjected to deeper historiographical analysis. This micro-study is not merely a demonstration of the mentality and social status of certain nobles, but is also a mirror on the cultural, political and social trends of the Grand Duchy of Lithuania during seventeenth and eighteenth century. The subjects of the study are from the powerful and famous Radziwiłł (Radvila) family of magnates of the Grand Duchy of Lithuania, which received the title of duke from the Holy Roman Emperor Charles V in 1547.4 It focuses specifically on three members of that family: the palatine of Wilno (Vilnius) and grand hetman of Lithuania, Janusz II Radziwiłł (Jonušas Radvila) (1612–55), the Lithuanian grand chancellor, Karol Stanisław Radziwiłł (Karolis Stanislovas Radvila) (1669–1719) and Voyszundus (Vaišundas) I, vel Christianus Radvila (1346–1412), the legendary progenitor of the family. These two first figures shared a surname, although Janusz hailed from the Birże-Dubinki (Biržai-Dubingiai) branch of the family, while Karol Stanisław came from the NieświeżOłyka (Niasvizh-Olyka) line. Although both men belonged to a powerful and well-known European family, neither of them were strangers, in common with much the Lithuanian nobility of the time, to the cult

106  A. Railaitė-Bardė of ancient and high origins, consolidation of their social positions and aspirations to an even higher status.

Heraldry and Genealogical Identity A marshalled coat of arms went hand in glove with genealogical identity. This is also a reason to discuss genealogical consciousness here. Genealogy is a multifaceted semantic field where the identity of noble families, founded upon history, is crafted and refined using a chess-like strategy. This chapter deals not with the specific genealogy of members of the Radziwiłł family, but with their genealogical identity, that is, nobles’ selfidentification in terms of genealogy within the context of their own lives and times, their knowledge about their ancestors, and how this knowledge served to construct their identity. It is important to survey the way in which coats of arms, multifunctional symbols of nobility, facilitated the explication and manifestation of that identity. In the desire to consolidate or enhance their social status in Lithuanian society, the genealogical manifestation of the nobility was not based always and exclusively on blood ties. In this connection we can speak of blood as a metaphor. Zrinka Stahuljak, the author of a monograph dedicated to French genealogical identity in the Middle Ages, calls this phenomenon ‘bloodless genealogies’.5 According to Gabrielle M. Spiegel, genealogy, as a complex of metaphorical structures, a narrative framework and a social context, demonstrates one of many possible cases of the receptivity of the historical text towards social realities, and shows how the authors of this narrative re-broadcast these realities, using the dominant contemporary literary tradition.6 Lesley Coote argues that genealogy is a discourse between personal and collective memory.7 These descriptions of genealogy also fit the nobility of the early modern Grand Duchy of Lithuania, since they were affected, through cultural and personal ties with the aristocracies of central and western Europe, by a collective pan-European identity. The memory or ‘discovery’ of ancestors, and especially the selection of forefathers according to criteria dictated by personal ambition, paint a genealogical portrait of the family which was hung in the common portrait gallery, so to speak, of groups of nobles. Often biological kinship was exchanged for legendary or material surrogates, emphasizing ancestors with a certain given feature in order to make the past serve the present and aiding in the future acquisition of a higher social status.8 For that reason a study of the genealogical identity of the Radziwiłł family is significant from the regional as well as the local perspective.

The Sphragistics and Heraldry of Janusz and Karol Stanisław Radziwiłł Investigations of rare prints and especially the sources of sphragistics allow us to state that the Radzwiłł family composed quartered coats of

The Sphragistics and Radziwiłł Heraldry  107 arms according to the following principle: paternal and maternal coats of arms were displayed in the first two quarters and paternal and maternal grandmother’s coats of arms were shown in the last two quarters. This is shown in the first scheme (Figure 7.1). Such a tendency is noted from the sixteenth to the eighteenth century. It is maintained for eminent ­members of the family including Mikołaj Krzysztof Radziwiłł ‘the ­ Orphan’ (Mikalojus Kristupas Radvila Našlaitėlis), Cardinal Jerzy Radziwiłł ­ (Jurgis Radvila), Krzysztof Radziwiłł ‘the Thunderbolt’ (Kristupas ­ ­Radvila Perkūnas) and Janusz Radziwiłł. However, the l­ast-mentioned can raise some obscurities to which the reader will be introduced in the following paragraphs. A number of different seals are known for Janusz and Karol Stanisław Radziwiłł. Janusz, for example, usually used a seal with a late gothic shield9 containing an eagle with a small shield over its chest. This small shield contained the three horns device (this coat of arms is called Trąby in Polish, Trys Ragai in Lithuanian). Above the coat of arms a ducal crown is portrayed, while the shield is supported by a lion and a griffin,10 both well known in European heraldry. Nonetheless, the Radziwiłłs also had marshalled coats of arms, which are the main subject of research here. The seal of Janusz Radziwiłł when he was still the field hetman of Lithuania contains a double-headed eagle11 in the third field of its quartered marshalled coat of arms. This is not a local symbol. Without delving into the heraldic rules for combining coats of arms in force in Lithuania at that time, is it possible that this foreign symbol appeared in connection with his second wife, the Moldavian princess Maria Lupu, and linked aspirations to greater social status, not only within the Grand Duchy of Lithuania? Regarding Karol Stanisław Radziwiłł, two seals with marshalled coats of arms of the chancellor of the Grand Duchy of Lithuania have been discovered so far, one of which deserves greater scrutiny and research by historians.

Figure 7.1  Scheme 1: Typical Radziwiłł coats of arms

108  A. Railaitė-Bardė Until about the middle of seventeenth century, there was a tradition in Lithuania of showing the inherited coat of arms in the first quarter, the mother’s coat of arms in the second, and the paternal and maternal grandmothers’ in the last two quarters. According to Edmundas Rimša, from then onwards attention turned towards the direct family and away from the family bloodline. The front of a two-field or multi-field shield showed the patrimonial coat of arms. Behind it was depicted the wife’s coat of arms.12 Analysis of sources allows us to state that these regulations were not always fulfilled. Any transgression by nobles in creating their coats of arms enables us to sum up their aspirations and reveals something of their genealogical identity. The Puzzle of a Double Eagle in Janusz Radzwiłł’s Marshalled Coat of Arms The seal of Janusz Radziwiłł, dated 1648, displays a marshalled coat of arms whose third quarter shows a double eagle.13 We can see the same coat of arms in a more ornate rendering in a rare print, dated 1653. The quartered shield is over the eagle’s chest. This composition is represented in the shield with two crowned supporters (a lion and a griffin), three barred helmets and with a lion, an eagle and a griffin in the three crests. It is noteworthy that the text describing this marshalled coat of arms is in Lithuanian: ‘Ant herba kunigaykščia jo Milistos’.14 Most such texts were written in Polish or Latin. As mentioned earlier, it is not a local but a very high-ranking symbol. Where did it come from? The two-headed eagle was an unusual symbol in the Lithuanian’s heraldry, unless a family had ties (real or legendary) with the Palaeologus15 and Kantakouzene16 dynasties of Byzantium. One possible explanation for the double eagle of the third quarter was Janusz Radziwiłł’s marriage with the princess from the south-east. According to Tudor-Radu Tiron, there is a mention in Romanian historiography (although one that has to be judged critically) that several Wallachian and Moldavian princes, one of which was Vasile Lupu, used coats of arms decorated with a cartouche in the baroque style. This cartouche had the appearance of a covered two-headed eagle. The use of this high-ranking symbol was justified because the Romanian princes were acting as heirs of the former Byzantine emperors, but using the full image of this eagle was unwelcome to the Ottoman authorities.17 That would be a nice moment for applause at the end of the story. However such an apparently obvious inference has been challenged by a surprise. While searching for origins of the double eagle in the coat of arms of Janusz Radzwiłł it seemed natural to remember Princess Maria Lupu. However despite her roots, the usual two-headed eagle is not displayed in the rare prints dedicated to the wedded pair. Instead an aurochs stands for the symbol of the Lupu family.18 This was exactly the sign used by her father

The Sphragistics and Radziwiłł Heraldry  109 Vasile Lupu. Some seals used by Vasile Lupu in 1634–53 are known. An aurochs is depicted in them; it is usually decorated with a crescent, mullet and sun (but sometimes with a sword, other insignia or even a fleurde-lys).19 The same sign is represented as the coat of arms of Maria Lupu in her engraved portrait by Herszek Leybowicz.20 In this case, the answer to the double-eagle puzzle is based on the discovery of Janusz Radziwiłł’s marshalled coat of arms preserved in the Netherlands (Figure 7.2). It is dated 1629, in other words, sixteen years before his marriage to Maria Lupu.21 There is an eagle with ducal crown in the late gothic escutcheon. The shield is diapered with floral motives. An eagle has an inescutcheon with the quartered coat of arms depicted over its chest. The first quarter demonstrates the device of the Three Horns,

Figure 7.2 Marshalled coat of arms of Janusz Radzwiłł (1629). Albuminscriptie/ van Janusz Radziwill (1612–55), hertog van Birze en Dubinki, voor Johann Alberts (1600–80), Album amicorum van Johann Alberts, Leipzig, 1629. Den  Haag, Koninklijke Bibliotheek: 133 C 14—A, fol. 3.1r. By kind permission of Den Haag, Koninklijke Bibliotheek.

110  A. Railaitė-Bardė which was the inherited coat of arms of all branches of the Radziwiłł family. The second quarter shows a horseshoe with three crosses (the Polish coat of arms Dąbrowa), the third quarter displays a two-headed eagle, and the fourth presents an arrow with two crosspieces (the Polish coat of arms Lis, or Lapinas in Lithuanian). An enlarged drawing shows the third quarter per pale argent and gules, a double eagle displayed per pale gules and sable. On the chest of the eagle there was an escutcheon azure with an azure axe as its heraldic charge (the Polish coat of arms Topór, or Kirvis in Lithuanian). Therefore an idea has entered our heads: that we see a two-headed eagle, that is, an imperial symbol. The quartered coat of arms with the axes and double eagles is shown in Bartosz Paprocki’s armorial published in 1584. According to this heraldist, such a coat of arms was given to the Tęczyński family by the privilege of the Holy Roman Emperor Charles V.22 The paternal grandmother of Janusz Radziwiłł was Katarzyna née Tęczyńska.23 Scheme 1 represents a graphic design of this marshalled coat of arms and data showing to whom each coat of arms belonged.24 It means the use of double eagle could not be the result of this alliance. Consequently the marshalled coat of arms of Janusz Radziwiłł was arranged according to the existing rules. The Seals of Karol Stanisław Radziwiłł The two different seals of Karol Stanisław Radziwiłł are dated 1698 and 1712. The earlier one with the marshalled coat of arms is quite simple but, interestingly, is not marshalled according to the rules. The coat of arms is represented in a round red wax seal stamped on a chancellor’s assurance to the archdeacon of Smolensk (Figure 7.3).25 There is an eagle with a disproportionately large ducal crown above. An eagle has a marshalled coat of arms depicted in a late gothic shield. An inescutcheon represents the family’s Three Horns. A shield (the Polish coat of arms Janina) is in the first quarter, an armed horseman (Vytis in Lithuanian, Pahonia in Belarusian and Pogoń in Polish) in the second quarter, a downward arrow and a crescent accompanied by two mullets on its cusp beneath (the Polish coat of arms Sas) are in the third quarter and two heads of arrows pointing in opposite directions (the Polish coat of arms Bogorya) are in the fourth. The second scheme (Figure 7.4) represents a graphic design of this marshalled coat of arms and data showing to whom which arms belonged.26 Here the mother’s coat of arms is placed in the more honourable part of the coat of arms. Briefly, Janina took the place of the wife’s coat of arms. Janina was used by the Sobieski family. During this period when the chancellor’s seal was in use, John III Sobieski was king of Poland and grand duke of Lithuania. The aforementioned replacements of coats of arms aspired to represent close ties with the reigning family. The other, and much more intriguing, seal is dated 1712 (Figure 7.5).27 It is stamped in round red wax in the foundation and regulation of the

Figure 7.3 Seal of Karol Stanisław Radziwiłł (1698). Wróblewski Library of the Lithuanian Academy of Sciences, MS F273–2106 By kind permission of the Wróblewski Library of the Lithuanian Academy of Sciences, Vilnius.

Figure 7.4  Scheme 2: The marshalled coat of arms of Karol Stanisław Radziwiłł

112  A. Railaitė-Bardė

Figure 7.5 Reconstructed seal of Karol Stanisław Radziwiłł (1712) by Rolandas Rimkūnas By kind permission of Rolandas Rimkūnas.

hospital of Mir.28 There are two marshalled coats of arms in two semicircular shields, surrounded by the cartouche. Two shield supporters hold these coats of arms: a lion rampant and a griffin rampant. The coats of arms are decorated with a ducal mantle, a ducal cap and the order of the White Eagle, instituted by King Augustus II. The chancellor was a knight of this order.29 It is very unusual seal with such a marshalled coat of arms because of its form and content.30 The first semi-circular shield shows a multi-quartered coat of arms: an eagle is in the inescutcheon, the armed horseman is in the first quarter, a centaur in the second, three roses in the third, a crowned column in the fourth, a bear in the fifth and probably the columns of the Gediminid dynasty are in the sixth. The second semi-circular shield also shows a multi-quartered coat of arms: the inescutcheon shows a shield (Janina),

The Sphragistics and Radziwiłł Heraldry  113

Figure 7.6  Scheme 3: The marshalled coat of arms of Karol Stanisław Radziwiłł

two arrowheads pointing in opposite directions are in the first quarter, a downward arrow and a crescent accompanied by two mullets on its cusp beneath are in the second quarter, a cross ending with crosses on an upside-down crescent and a mullet of six points beneath (the Polish coats of arms Korybut) is in the third quarter, a horseshoe with one cross in it and another cross above (the Polish coat of arms Lubicz) are in the fourth quarter, an axe is in the fifth (Topór) and a girl sitting on a bear (the Polish coat of arms Rawa) is probably in the sixth quarter. This is shown in the third scheme (Figure 7.6).31 Five of the aforementioned coats of arms are directly concerned with the theory of Lithuanian Roman origin, namely the centaur, the roses, the column, the bear and the columns of the Gediminids.32 The Vytis could also be partly attributed to this group because it is referred to as the coat of arms of Narimantas in the Lithuanian annals. It is maintained there that the oldest of five brothers, offspring of the Romans who had arrived in Lithuania, became the grand duke of Lithuania, whereupon he decided to leave the centaur coat of arms to his brothers and to use the Vytis himself.33 This story was mentioned in a rare seventeenth-century print dedicated to the Sanguszko family and describing its coat of arms.34 As mentioned above, the chancellor’s wife was of that family. Therefore in this case the Vytis is treated as his wife’s coat of arms. It is noteworthy that the coats of arms of the Sobieski and Korybut Wiśniowiecki families are used in sinister. The latter coat of arms could be especially significant because it belonged to the chancellor’s great-grandmother. Consequently this coat of arms demonstrated not only legendary Roman roots but an important although rather remote kinship tie.

Reflection of Roman Origin in the Coat of Arms of the Legendary Progenitor of the Radziwiłł Family Another family source related to the Roman theory is an example of the copper engravings that were created by the artist of the Niasvizh (Nieśwież) estate, the aforementioned Herszek Leybowicz, in 1745–58.

114  A. Railaitė-Bardė These engravings are portraits of Radziwiłł family members.35 One of them represents the portrait of the Lithuanian duke and imaginary progenitor of the family, Voyszundus I. Christianus Radvila, descended from Narimantas and Lizdeika—characters of the Lithuanian annals. The element of this portrait is a marshalled coat of arms in which the inescutcheon represents a hippocentaur (Figure 7.7). The centaur, and later the hippocentaur, had two semantic meanings as a coat of arms. One was the legendary centaur which existed and was elaborated in the consciousness of the nobility of the Grand Duchy of Lithuania, as described in the Lithuanian annals as an expression of the ancient origins of the famous grand dukes of Lithuania from Roman ancestors, and adored by them. The other significance was the actual function performed by this coat of arms, as a sign of distinction for the nobility, expressing

Figure 7.7 Fragment of Voyszundus I. Christianus Radvila’s portrait by Herszek Leybowicz (1758). Vilnius University Library, sign. LeyH IC-1 By kind permission of Vilnius University Library.

The Sphragistics and Radziwiłł Heraldry  115 their personal aspirations to higher rank. The centaur was used as a coat of arms by a few Lithuanian noble families, but it appears much more widely in Lithuanian heraldry through the use of marshalled coats of arms.36 To put it briefly, the centaur or hippocentaur played a key role in the L ­ ithuanian nobles’ heraldry; indeed this coat of arms was next only to the state coat of arms, the Vytis.37 According to the legendary part of the ­Lithuanian annals, the Roman patrician Dausprungas, newly arrived in L ­ ithuania with Palemonas (Palemon), used the centaur coat of arms.38 The Radziwiłł/Radvila/Radiwil family claimed descent from this patrician.39 The other coats of arms related to the Lithuanian legend of Roman origin are the column and the Vytis. The first quarters of the marshalled coat of arms show a lion and a griffin. As has been mentioned earlier, the lion and griffin—well known symbols in European heraldry— were often used as supporters of Radziwiłł coats of arms. The marshalled coat of arms which was created for the imaginary progenitor of the family was of great significance and reflects the importance of Roman origins in the eighteenth-century history of the family, at a time when this theory was widespread in Lithuanian noble society. This legendary genealogy is a reflection of medieval and early modern European culture. Nobles sought to derive their family tree from ancient roots and use it as propaganda to strengthen or raise their social status. Despite some regional differences, the same traits are characteristic for such a collective genealogical consciousness: the flight from an ancient city, the travel motive, the creation of new cities or states and the refugees becoming the ancestors of the ruling dynasties and other nobles. The legendary origin of the Grand Duchy of Lithuania’s nobility from Palemonas and his associates became a long-lasting political and cultural programme conducted at the national level, and also an expression of nobles’ search for their socio-cultural identity.

*** Summing up, heraldry was one of the best ways to demonstrate a f­ amily’s ancient and patrician origins. This micro-study of certain ­marshalled coats of arms has shown that these nobles in their attempt to display their status did not adhere to prevailing rules for marshalling coats of arms. ­Instead they placed the coat of arms of the family with whom they wanted to emphasize their relationship in the more significant field. The ­marshalled coat of arms of Karol Stanisław Radziwiłł in the ­eighteenth century stands out markedly from the general context of Lithuanian ­nobles’ heraldry, because of the several coats of arms, portrayed in their multiple fields, which were linked to the theory of the Lithuanians’ Roman origins. The use of this sort of heraldry is a demonstration of the extremely strong legendary aspect to the Radziwiłłs’ genealogical i­dentity. It is noteworthy that Janusz was a more famous figure than Karol Stanisław, but it was the latter who used elements of the Roman theory in his heraldry, and he did

116  A. Railaitė-Bardė so quite pompously. The coat of arms of Voyszundus also indicates the popularity of the theory in the eighteenth century. Regarding Janusz Radziwiłł and his intriguing usage of sphragistics and heraldry, one can pose the question: how do two halves of different eagles became one double eagle? Was it a mistake by the seal maker or by the artist? We cannot exclude the possibility that it was the deliberate aspiration of the palatine and hetman to forget to include one vertical line, thereby creating a single two-headed bird and to represent his coat of arms in an inaccurate manner, seeking for the higher value of this symbol, reflecting his own higher status. The search for high status and its display in a seal was also familiar to Karol Stanisław Radziwiłł who did not hesitate usefully to replace the rank of coats of arms when he marshalled his own. This micro-study has also revealed how noblemen sought to express their social status and aspirations using sphragistics and heraldry as ­visual, very informative and forceful propaganda. The cases of Janusz and Karol Stanisław Radziwiłł form a mirror of wider trends in the noble society of the Grand Duchy of Lithuania, where specific rules regulated the quest for fame.

Notes 1. Some examples: Władysław Semkowicz, ‘O litewskich rodach bojarskich zbratanych ze szlachtą polską w Horodle roku 1413’, Lituano-Slavica Posnaniensis: Studia historica, 3, 1989, pp.  7–139; Marcel Antoniewicz, ‘Manifestacja genealogiczna w herbie złożonym biskupa Pawła Olgimunta księcia Holszańskiego’, Zeszyty Historyczne, 1997, 4, pp.  387–434; Jolita Liškievičienė, XVI–XVIII amžiaus knygų grafika: herbai senuosiuose Lietuvos spaudiniuose, Vilnius: Vilniaus dailės akademijos leidykla, 1998; Edmundas Rimša, Heraldry: Past to Present, Vilnius: Versus Aureus, 2005, pp. 117–40; Agnė Railaitė, ‘Kodėl Alberto Goštauto jungtiniame herbe nėra dvigalvio erelio?’ Jaunųjų mokslininkų darbai, Šiauliai, 2007, 3, 14, pp. 13–21; Agnė Railaitė-Bardė, Lietuvos Didžiosios Kunigaikštystės kilmingųjų genealoginė savimonė ir jos atspindžiai heraldikoje XVI–XVIII a., Vilnius: Vilniaus universiteto leidykla, 2013 (doctoral ­dissertation, ­summary: Genealogical Identity Among the Nobility of the Grand Duchy of Lithuania and Its Expression in the Heraldry of the 16th–18th C ­ enturies, ­Vilnius: Vilniaus universiteto leidykla, 2013); Gabrielė Jasiūnienė, ‘Žemaitijos bajorų Bilevičių heraldika XVI–XVII a.’, Lietuvos istorijos metraštis, 2016, 1, pp. 5–20; Oleh Odnorozhenko, Kniazivs´ka heral´dyka Volyni seredenyny XIV–XVIII st., Kharkiv, 2008; Aleksei Shalanda, Hеrby L´va Ivanavicha Sapehi (1580–1633 h.): sklad, lehenda, funktsyi, Mahnatski dvor i sats´´ial'nae ŭzaemadzeianne (XV–XVIII st.), Minsk: Medysont, 2014. 2. Edmundas Rimša, ‘Aleksandro antspaudai—naujas etapas valstybės sfragistikoje’, in Lietuvos didysis kunigaikštis Aleksandras ir jo epocha, Vilnius: Vilniaus pilių rezervato direkcija, 2007, pp. 152–65; idem, Lietuvos didžiojo kunigaikščio Vytauto antspaudai ir žemių heraldika, Vilnius: Lietuvos istorijos institutas, 2016. 3. Edmundas Rimša, Lietuvos Didžiosios Kunigaikštystės miestų antspaudai, Vilnius: Žara, 1999; idem, Pieczęcie miast Wielkiego Księstwa Litewskiego, Warsaw: DiG, 2007.

The Sphragistics and Radziwiłł Heraldry  117 4. Henryk Lulewicz, ‘Radziwiłł Mikołaj zwany Czarnym h. Trąby (1515–65)’, Polski Słownik Biograficzny, vol. 30, Wrocław: Zakład Narodowy im. Ossolińskich, 1987, pp. 335–47 (p. 336). 5. Zrinka Stahuljak, Bloodless Genealogies of the French Middle Ages: Translation, Kinship, and Metaphor, Gainesville, FL: University Press of Florida, 2005, pp. 1–2. 6. Gabrielle M. Spiegel, ‘Genealogy: Form and Function in Medieval Historical Narrative’, History and Theory, 22, 1983, 1, pp. 43–53 (p. 52). 7. Lesley Coote, ‘Prophecy, Genealogy, and History in Medieval English Political Discourse’, in Raluca L. Radulescu and Edward Donald Kennedy (eds.), Broken Lines: Genealogical Literature in Medieval Britain and France, Turnhout: Brepols, 2008, pp. 27–44 (p. 28). 8. Railaitė-Bardė, Lietuvos Didžiosios Kunigaikštystės kilmingųjų, passim. 9. In English-speaking countries better known as a fifteenth-century or Iberian shield. 10. ‘1655 m. Jonušo Radvilos antspaudai’, in Riksarkivet, Stockholm, F. Krigshistoriska Handlingar Karl X Gustafs tid. Polska kriget 1655–60, M 1304, sign. Lithauernas underhandlingar med M. G. De la Gardie och Bengt Skytte. 1655–1656. 11. ‘1648  m. Jonušo Radvilos antspaudas’, in Lietuvos mokslų akademijos Vrublevskių biblioteka, Vilnius, manuscript department (hereafter LMAVB), F[ondas] 273–2074. 12. Rimša, Heraldry, p. 140. 13. ‘1648 m. Jonušo Radvilos antspaudas’, LMAVB F. 273–2074. 14. Kniha nabazhenstwa krystsiianskaha [.  .  .] dlia karystannia tserkvaŭ ­Vialikaha Kniastva Litoŭskaha [. . .], Keydany, 1653. 15. The wife of the Lithuanian grand chancellor Olbracht Gasztołd (­Albertas Goštautas, 1480–1539) was Sofiia Vereiska who originated from the Palaeologus dynasty. Her great-great-grandfather was Manuel II Palaeologus and her grandfather’s sister was Sophia Palaeologus—the second wife of Ivan III of Muscovy. There is a theory that Ivan III took his wife’s double eagle, used as her family sign, into his seal’s reverse in 1497 and thereby laid the foundations for the state coat of arms of Russia: Nadezhda Aleksandrovna Soboleva, Ocherki istorii Rossiiskoi simboliki: Оt tamgi do simbolov gosudarstvennogo suvereniteta, Моscow: Iazyki slavianskikh kul´tur: Znak, 2006; eadem, Rossiiskaia gosudarstvennaia simbolika, Istoriia i sovremennost´, Моscow: Gumanitarnyi izdatel´skii tsentr VLADOS, 2002. 16. The wife of Jan Skorulski, (Jonas Skarulskis), the son of the marshal of Kowno (Kaunas), Ludwika Ciechanowiecka (Liudvika Ciechanoviecka) descended from the Kantakouzene family; her mother was Anna ­Kantakouzene. Her two-headed eagle was displayed in the fourth quarter of ­Skorulski’s marshalled coat of arms. See Agnė Railaitė, ‘Jonas Skarulskis ir jo ryšiai su Kantakuzenais: Kauno maršalaičio vestuvių epitalamijo tyrimas’, Istorijos šaltinių tyrimai, vol. 3, Vilnius: Versus Aureus, 2011, pp. 153–66. 17. I am grateful to Dr Tudor Radu Tiron (Member of the National Committee for Heraldry, Genealogy and Sigillography of the Romanian Academy) for this summary and some examples of Romanian heraldry which he has sent me. One of these shows the seal of Ioan Jacob Heraclid, Despot of Moldavia, with a double eagle with a marshalled coat of arms on its chest. This seal was used in 1555. 18. Filip Bajewski, Choreæ bini solis et lunæ aulæ et ecclesiæ in serenis nuptiis illustrissimorum sponsorum principis Janussii Radivil archicamerarii M. D. L. et Mariæ illustrissimæ Jo. Basilii palatini et despotæ Moldaviæ filiæ applaudente Collegio Mohiliano Kioviensi,1645.

118  A. Railaitė-Bardė 19. Laurenţiu-Ştefan Szemkovics and Maria Dogaru, Tezaur sfragistic românesc. I. Sigiliile emise de cancelaria domnească a Moldovei (1387–1856), Bucharest: Ars Docendi, 2006, pp. 52–5, fig. 131–9. 20. Herszek Leybowicz, ‘Maria Mohylanka princeps palatinis Valachiæ [.  .  .] Basilii Lupulii et Basilissæ Mohylorum principum palatinorum Valachiæ et Moldaviæ filia [. . .] Janussii XI Radivillii [. . .] consors 2-da. Decessit [. . .] 1661’, in Icones familæ ducalis Radivilianæ, Nesvisii, 1758. 21. Albuminscriptie / van Janusz Radziwill (1612–55), hertog van Birze en Dubinki, voor Johann Alberts (1600–1680), Album amicorum van Johann Alberts, Leipzig, 1629. Koninklijke Bibliotheek (National Library of the Netherlands, The Hague): 133 C 14—A, fol. 3.1r. 22. Bartosz Paprocki, Herby rycerstwa Polskiego, Cracow: Nakładem Wydawnictwa Biblioteki Polskiej, 1584, pp. 19–32. 23. Włodzimierz Dworzaczek, Genealogia, Warsaw: PWN, 1959, no 163. 24. F—father Krzysztof Radziwiłł (Kristupas Radvila), M—mother Anna Kiszkówna, GP—Katarzyna Tęczyńska, GM—Elżbieta Sapieżanka. 25. ‘1698 m. LDK kanclerio Karolio Stanislovo Radvilos antspaudas’, LMAVB F. 273–2106. 26. F—father Michał Kazimierz Radziwiłł (Mykolas Kazimieras Radvila), M—mother Katarzyna Sobieska, W—wife Anna Katarzyna Sanguszkówna, maternal grandmother Zofia Teofila Danilowiczówna (Sofija Teofilė Danilavičiūtė), paternal grandmother Tekla Anna Wołłowiczówna (Teklė Ona Valavičiūtė). The same marshalled coat of arms can be seen in the genealogical tree of the Radziwiłł family dated 1742. 27. The seal is damaged. I am grateful to Rolandas Rimkūnas who is the artist of its reconstruction. 28. ‘1712  m. LDK kanclerio Karolio Stanislovo antspaudas’, LMAVB F. 273– 2108. 29. Andrzej Rachuba states that the order of the White Eagle was bestowed on K. S. Radziwiłł only in 1715: Andrzej Rachuba, ‘Radziwiłł Karol Stanisław h. Trąby (1669–1719)’, Polski Słownik Biograficzny, Wrocław: Zakład Narodowy im. Ossolińskich, 1987, pp. 240–8 (p. 245). 30. According to the available material, there is known just one similar coat of arms which belonged to Antoni Kazimierz Sapieha (Antonius Aloysius Misztołt, Historia illustrissimæ Domus Sapiehanæ: ab origine et antiquitate sua genealogico syllabo per gloriosos heroum ejusdem ac connexarum familiarium progressus in præsens sæculum deducta, Vilnæ: Typis Universitatis, Societatis Iesu, 1724). 31. F—father Michał Kazimierz Radziwiłł, M—mother Katarzyna Sobieska, GF— paternal grandmother Tekla Anna Wołłowiczówna, GM—maternal grandmother Zofia Teofila Danilowiczówna, GGP—paternal great-grandmother Halszka Eufemia Wiśniowiecka, W—wife Anna Katarzyna Sanguszkówna, GMHM—husband’s mother of the maternal grandmother Katarzyna Tarło, RL—Roman legend, ?—unidentified coat of arms. 32. In the context of Lithuanian noble heraldry, just one marshalled coat of arms is known where the several coats of arms are linked to the theory of the Roman origins of Lithuanians portrayed in their multiple fields at the moment. The bearer of such coat of arms is a representative of the Sapieha family, namely Antoni Kazimierz Sapieha: Misztołt, Historia illustrissimae Domus Sapiehanae. 33. Lietuvos metraštis: Bychovco kronika, transl. Rimantas Jasas, Vilnius: Vaga, 1971, p. 65. 34. Tomasz Dygon(ia), Przemiana koni poszonycz pod lektyke Jaśnie Oświecone Xiążęcia Jego Mści Simeona Samvela Lvbartowicza Sanguszka z Kowła

The Sphragistics and Radziwiłł Heraldry  119

35. 36. 37. 38. 39.

woiewody Witepskiego starosty Suraszkiego [.  .  .], Zakonu Franciszkas. Deobservantia gvardyana konwentv Orszanskiego, 1639. Herszek Leybowicz, Icones familæ ducalis Radivilianæ, Nesvisii, 1758. Railaitė-Bardė, Lietuvos Didžiosios Kunigaikštystės kilmingųjų, pp. 219–20. Agnė Railaitė, ‘Hipocentauro atsiradimas Lietuvos Didžiosios Kunigaikštystės kilmingųjų heraldikoje’, in Lietuvos istorijos metraštis, 2010, 1, pp. 23–38. Lietuvos metraštis: Bychovco kronika, p. 42. There are many sources which represent the Radziwiłłs’ position on the identity of their progenitor, for example, genealogical trees: from 1666 in the Lietuvos valstybės istorijos archyvas in Vilnius, F. 1280, ap. 2, b. 9; and 1742 in the Archiwum Narodowe in Cracow, Archiwum Sanguszków, sygn. ASang teka 556/6.

8 Noblemen’s Familia The Life of Unfree People on Manors in the Sixteenth Century and the First Half of the Seventeenth Century Neringa Dambrauskaitė The methodology of microhistory, based on the reduction of the scale of observation, on a microscopic analysis and an intensive study of the documentary material,1 creates the possibility to research the history of ‘little people’ and details of their daily life. Unfree people (slaves) were the lowest social group of the Grand Duchy of Lithuania. Under the First Statute of Lithuania in 1529, four groups of unfree people were defined, who had become unfree in different ways: firstly, people who became unfree a long time ago and people who were born into an unfree family; secondly, people brought to manors from enemy territories; thirdly, people sentenced to death who became unfree to evade this sentence and fourthly, people who married an unfree person.2 There were also temporarily unfree people who had lost their freedom because of debts.3 The unfree people on noble manors composed the unfree family (cheliad´ nevol´naia or familia illibera). The members of the unfree family were the master’s property.4 It has to be taken into consideration that from the second half of the sixteenth century there was a reduction in the number of unfree people and the development of manorial employment on the high nobility’s manors. The grand ducal ordinances of the Volok Reform, which began in 1557, stimulated the process whereby unfree people became peasants.5 The greatest nobles followed the example of the grand duke’s manors. Moreover, under the Third Lithuanian Statute of 1588, it was defined that the unfree were limited to the people of an enemy territory. The Statute declared that an unfree family must become a free, employed family, through this new definition (the original term was cheliad´ dvornaia).6 So the ordinance of the Third Statute redefined the status of the unfree and intended to increase the number of employed families. However, data from sources show that unfree families existed on the minor nobility’s manors even in the seventeenth century. A few Lithuanian historians focused on this important problem in the twentieth century. The historians Konstantinas Jablonskis,7 Domas Butėnas,8 Juozas Jurginis9 and Edvardas Gudavičius10 have written about the social status of unfree people in the society of the Grand Duchy of

Noblemen’s Familia 121 Lithuania and their situation in grand ducal and noblemen’s manors. However, a more exhaustive inquiry and a new approach is needed to the history of unfree people, one that will reveal the importance of the unfree family in the daily life of noblemen and the relationship between those two very different social groups. The first chronological starting point of this research—the sixteenth century—is determined by the available sources. Although it is known that the unfree family also existed before that time,11 not enough sources survive from that early period. Only from the sixteenth century can this social group clearly be distinguished in written sources and therefore the analysis of this problem can be more representative. The end point of this research is the middle of the seventeenth century. This period should reveal how effective the ordinance of the Third Statute of Lithuania was in practice, while the middle of the seventeenth century was marked by wars, followed by an economic and demographic crisis.12 The main group of sources for this research is the nobility’s manorial inventories and judicial cases. Additional sources include wills made by nobles, ordinances of the Grand Duke, the Lithuanian Statutes and narrative sources. An important flaw in these sources is their fragmentary nature, meaning we do not have continuous data about unfree family life on the manor for a considerable period. However, there are enough particular details to analyse unfree family life on noble manors more generally. The main questions of this research are: firstly, what was the structure of an unfree family? Secondly, what functions were performed by members of an unfree family? Thirdly, where did unfree people live and what were their living conditions? Fourthly, what were the relationships between nobles and unfree people?

Unfree Family Structure Sources distinguish a number of social categories within unfree families. For instance there were women known using the original term zhonki, and also the woman who supervised livestock or the household—rykunia. There were girls—devki, boys—parobki, and also children—detina. Sources always mention they were unfree (nevol´na, nevol´nyi, nevol´nye). It needs to be highlighted that the structure of the unfree family was complicated. Unfree family composed two different groups: firstly, boys, girls and herders, who lived in the noble’s homestead, performed household chores, had no property, and were entirely dependent on their master; secondly, parobki with their own families, who lived in the small separate homestead, and worked for their master in the manorial fields.13 So the members of unfree family had different position. The historian Domas Butėnas noted that the second group of unfree family—parobki with their own families—cannot be considered as slaves, because the parobok’s position was more similar to a serfs’ position.14

122  N. Dambrauskaitė The unfree family lived in the noble’s homestead, composed of both families and single people. Sources reveal that there were usually oneparent families, just a mother with her children, and also single people; mostly unmarried girls. For example, in 1526 in the manor belonging to Aleksander Tarnowski at Porovy (Parovėja) were five single unfree girls: Darata, Kotryna, Kachna, Romashka and Bubka;15 in 1541 on the manor of Fedor Wardomski (Teodoras Vardomskis) at Zawielski (Užneris) lived the unfree woman Chimica with her son and daughter;16 in 1580 in the manor of the Adamkiewicz family (Adamkevičiai) at Kolaini (Kolainiai) worked an unfree woman, Zapė Kaulelė with her daughter Darata and one other unfree woman (rykunia) Polonina;17 in 1593 on Adam Nadaryński’s (Adomas Nadarinskis) Janowdowa (Jaunodava) manor lived the single unfree woman Gendruta Rudeikovna (Rudeikaitė), with two sons Voitekh (Vaitiekus) and Jakubel (Jokūbėlis), a second woman, Barbora with a daughter Magreta, and third woman Kotryna with two daughters, Kristina and Alzhbeta (Elžbieta);18 in 1604 in the manor at Linkuwa (Linkuva) belonging to Stanisław Wydra (Stanislovas Vidra) there was merely the rykunia Anela and a ‘little child unfree herder Grigutis’.19 It should be noted that the number of unfree people depended on the nobleman’s wealth and the importance of the particular manor, but usually there were only a few (two to four) unfree people living on the noble’s homestead. The possibilities for unfree people to create a family were quite extensive.20 Firstly, they needed permission from their master. Usually the master did not prevent this because, on the one hand, a larger number of unfree descendants meant a larger number of unfree people on the property and on the other hand, it was a sigificant part of the Christian faith at that time. Marriage was very important in society, but in cases when an unfree person got married to another noble’s servant, remuneration had to be made. For example, in 1638 an unfree girl wilfully married a servant who depended on another master and lived with him in the other manor. But the noblewoman decided to not disturb the family and to let her stay in that manor. There was just one condition: that the new master had to pay her remuneration.21 Although unfree children were not usually separated from their parents, it remained a legal possibility. Married unfree persons were housed on a separate small homestead on manorial land. Usually there were only a few families. These families were nuclear so there were parents and their children. For example, in 1547 on the Worniany (Varnioniai) manor belonging to Jan Czyż (Jonas Čižas), the parobok Pilypas lived with his wife and three daughters;22 in 1580 in the Adamkiewicz manor at Kolaini (Kolainiai), there were two separate families: in one, there were Rudelis with his wife Zofija, two sons Stanislav (Stanislovas) and Iank (Jankus), and a daughter Lutsa

Noblemen’s Familia 123 (Liucė), while on the other there were Kieistut (Kasutis) with his wife Alziuta (Alziutė) and a son Iakub (Jokūbas);23 in 1586 on the manor of Jadwiga Borwidowiczowa (Jadvyga Borvydavičienė), on separate homesteads lived three families: Voitekh Milkevich (Vaitiekus Milkevičius) with his wife Dorota (Darata), five sons—Lukash (Lukašas), Grigor (Grigorijus), Ian (Jonas), Stepan (Steponas), Iurii (Jurgis)—and three daughters—Zofiia (Zofija), Barbara (Barbora), Polonyia (Polonėja); Baltromei Simanovich (Baltromėjus Simonavičius) with his wife Agneshka (Agnieška), four sons—Tomash (Tomašas), Kristof (Kristupas), Pavel (Paulius), Martin (Martynas) and two daughters—Liutsia (Liucija) and Nastasiia (Nastasija); the third family comprised Baltromei Lukiianovich (Baltromėjus Lukianavičius) with his wife Helena (Galena), a son Andrii (Andrius) and three daughters Katerina (Kotryna), Zofiia (Zofija) and Agata.24 The data show that the number of children varied. The largest number mentioned in the analysed sources was eight,25 but usually unfree persons had only one to four children and this could be a consequence of high infant mortality. There are only a few mentions of old unfree people in the sources. For example, in 1550 on the Bortkiewicz (Bortkevičiai) manor of Leshchi (Leščiai), on the noble’s homestead lived an old woman Barbusha (Barbuša);26 in 1583 on the homestead in the Giedroyć (Giedraičiai) manor was an unfree old woman with a girl.27 Sources show that ‘old people’ in the sixteenth century meant those who were about fifty years old.28 Unfree people were usually of local origin and arrived at a particular manor in different ways. For example, they were inherited, they were given as part of a dowry or they were bought.29 Michalonis Lituani (Mykolas Lietuvis), secretary of the Grand Duchy of Lithuania, wrote in the middle of the sixteenth century that we keep in perpetual unfreedom the people of our nation and religion, orphans, paupers and those who married unfree persons.30 So Michalonis understood this situation as one of society’s problems. Certainly there were also unfree foreigners living on the nobility’s manors. These people, and their descendants, became unfree when taken from enemy territories. Research indicates that they were mainly Muscovites. This was the result of the wars with Muscovy. For example, in 1547 among the noblewoman Sołłohubowa’s (Sologubienė) unfree family members was a Muscovite girl Ulianitsa;31 in 1584 in the manor belonging to Krzysztof Billewicz (Kristupas Bilevičius) at Roseini (Raseiniai) worked the Muscovite Symon, who was a baker and a cook;32 in a will of 1615, a noblewoman Alena Zaleska (Elena Zaleskienė) left her husband ten unfree Muscovites, whom her sons had brought into unfreedom from the battle of Smolensk.33 There are also a few mentions about unfree Latvians in the noblemen’s manors.34

124  N. Dambrauskaitė

Unfree Family Functions The work of unfree family members was important on the manors of the minor nobility during all of the period under discussion. The functions performed by the unfree family on a noble’s homestead included a wide range of household tasks. They served their masters personally, accompanied on travels, and take care of them in illness. For example, in 1589 the unfree servant accompanied his masters when they travelled to visit a friend.35 In a will of 1592, the noblewoman Jagnieszka Lawrynowiczowa (Agnieška Laurynavičienė) left an unfree woman and her child to her own daughter. Lawrynowiczowa’s daughter was ill, so the unfree servants were required to take care of her.36 Unfree family members also washed dishes, clothes, bedclothes, towels and tablecloths.37 Records from 1545 show that unfree women and girls washed clothes in the manorial dams.38 Women and girls also worked in the kitchen and bakery,39 sometimes an unfree boy (kukhar) cooked for the masters.40 A source from 1584 reveals that in the Roseini (Raseiniai) manor the Muscovite Symon was taught cooking and baking for four years.41 An unfree male task was brewing;42 there is no mention of a woman brewer in the sources. Some women and girls did particular crafts, for example, records from 1586 show that the noblewoman Iwanowiczowa (Ivanavičienė) trained her unfree girl as a tailor.43 Other records yield information that unfree women and girls span,44 wove45 and made carpets.46 There is also mention of men weaving.47 An important function of unfree family members was to handle livestock. Usually a woman called a rykunia supervised cows, sheeps, pigs, poultry, made dairy products and had keys to the storage areas alimentary products.48 It is important to notice, that a rykunia was the most important person among the unfree people on the homestead, because she supervised the entire household.49 A record from 1589 mentions that in the Pavarduvys manor the rykunia ‘had keys’ and managed the household.50 Also, she had to do other different functions: cook for all the unfree family members,51 go to the forest for firewood or berries and mushrooms,52 and even work in the manorial fields, for example, raking hay.53 Unfree girls assisted for rykunia in the handling of livestock. Also, there was a herder (pastuch) in the manor, who pastured livestock and fed them in winter. Small livestock or poultry usually were herded by unfree children. For example in 1549 in the Radoszkowiczy (Raduškevičiai) manor a ‘twelve years old child’ looked after geese and calves.54 Unfree women and girls also worked in the kitchen gardens, threshed corn,55 cut oats56 and buckwheat,57 or chased away stray horses from the field,58 so functions were very different and particular work could be given to an unfree person as a situation required. We need to highlight that usually just a few servants performed all these roles, so consequently one person had many tasks.

Noblemen’s Familia 125 It should be noted that parobki who lived on their own homestead had different tasks, as they usually worked in the fields or forests. Also, they built or repaired buildings, dug dams59 or brought firewood.60 Inventories show that they had to do different, unlimited functions, usually four–five days a week. For example, in 1588 in the Szawkoty (Šaukotas) manor the parobki with their wives and children had to work from Monday to Friday. The inventory mentions that their functions depended on the master’s order (s chim roskazhum).61 Also, in 1646 in the inventory of Zelwie (Želvė) manor it was written that the parobok Anusas had to work four days a week and his wife—three days. It was mentioned in the source that they had to do all kinds of work, whatever the new master Jan Szucki (Jonas Šuckis) told them to do.62

Unfree Family Living Conditions It is known that some unfree people lived on the nobility’s homesteads. At the time, the homesteads of the minor nobility were composed of one or two courtyards with living and farm buildings. An unfree family lived in the main courtyard, along with the master, however there was a separate building dedicated to the unfree family. This was made from wood, similar to other buildings on the homestead, but it was much more ­modest compared to the noble’s residence. The unfree family’s house (cheliadnia, hridnia cheliadnaia, kletka cheliadnaia) was small and low, with windows of linen or oily paper, wooden shutters, a covered straw roof and no chimney. There were just one or two rooms inside with a stove to bake bread, some benches, a table, and different items for work, including a quern, a mortar and pestle.63 Thus, the building was modest and dark. Everything, except benches, was dedicated to work, so unfree people worked, lived and slept in the same place. The master provided food for unfree people, which was mainly grain, especially rye.64 Additionally, there were some vegetables in the rations of unfree people. For example, in an inventory from 1556 it was written that three vats with cabbages and also pigweeds were kept for the unfree servants in the dwelling-house of Jurij Wolczkowicz (Jurgis Volčkavius).65 There is a lack of data about unfree family food. Probably, it was similar to employed servants’ food in the manors of the greatest nobles. For example, in 1623 the servants of Jan Stanisław Sapieha (Jonas Stanislovas Sapiega) were given rye, peas, pork and salt.66 Unfree people wore modest clothes made from linen in the summer and fur in the winter. Clothes were made at home from material given by the master, so they remained the master’s property. For example, in a source from 1595 it was noted that Grigorij Bortkiewicz’s (Grigalius Bortkevičius) parobok Jurgutis had run away and stolen a shirt, two clothes made at home from linen, a sheepskin coat, a cap and shoes.67

126  N. Dambrauskaitė It is important to note that some unfree people, who lived with their own family beyond the noble’s homestead, had better living conditions. They lived in a separate small manorial homestead with two to five buildings. One of these buildings was dedicated to living, the others for keeping livestock and storing grain. These unfree people had some farm animals and a parcel of land where they could grow grain and vegetables. For example, in 1587 in the Pouslei (Pauslajis) manor of the Białłozor (Belozorai) family, the unfree family lived in the homestead with a small dwelling-house, a byre, a barn and two separate buildings for storing straw and corn. They had some livestock: a cow, a mare, three white sheep, two black goats and two black pigs.68 Additionally, unfree people who lived in the separate homestead also had some movable property, such as a quern, a cauldron for cooking,69 scythes and sickles.70

The Relationship Between Nobles and Unfree People Unfree people living on a nobleman’s manor or even on their own homestead, demonstrate a direct relationship between two different social groups. The relationship could be positive or negative. In most cases it depended on people’s temperaments and on specific situations. A negative relationship could arise from an unfree person’s spite towards the noble or to their own social position and they would try to run away, steal or commit other crimes against their master. For example, in 1529 unfree servants murdered their master, the nobleman Pashka (Poška). This case was complicated, because they did it by order of the master’s wife.71 But cruel crimes against masters were rare. Sources show that the negative behaviour of unfree servants was usually limited by running away and stealing. For example, in 1589, an unfree mother with her five children, along with two other girls, ran away from their master. Prior to this, they had stolen some clothes, while the father accompanied their master on his travels. While the master and the unfree man were returning to the manor, the father ran away to join his family.72 This indicates the extent of their planning to escape the master’s control. The consequences of running away or other negative acts involved the master’s anger, displayed through penalties including being locked in chains or even expulsion from the manor. A record from 1595 shows that the nobleman Matys Eigird (Matisas Eigirdas) was ordered to lock up his unfree woman Zofiia in chains, because she had tried to run away and he wanted to discipline her lawless behaviour.73 It should be noted that this penalty, compared to others in the Lithuanian Statutes, was not draconian. However, usually the relationship between unfree people and their masters was positive or even casual in daily life. Sources show that unfree servants defended nobles’ houses. For example, in 1582, in a case of incursion, a noblewoman, with her children and unfree women, kept doors shut so that attackers could not get into a dwelling-house.74 Naturally,

Noblemen’s Familia 127 the reason for this act was fear, because in the cases of incursions unfree servants also became victims, for example, they were abducted.75 In other cases, on the contrary, unfree servants theirselves attacked neighbours together with noblemen. So they became their master’s conspirators.76 The result of a positive relationship was the master’s gratitude for loyal service. This was usually expressed by the grant of freedom to unfree family members in his will. For the unfree person, it was the possibility to choose a new master as a free man. Usually in this case he became a peasant or a member of an employed family in the same or another manor. Cases of granting freedom are present in the first half of the sixteenth century, however the practice became more widespread in the second half of the sixteenth century. There is general agreement with the historian Rimvydas Petrauskas that this process was stimulated by both moral and economic causes.77 Additionally, it was dependent on the relationship between the master and his unfree servant, and the nobleman’s personal mentality and needs. For example, in 1596 the nobleman Piotr Anusiewicz (Petras Anusevičius) gave freedom to an unfree man and his son not only because of Christian morality. The nobleman noted that the man had for a long time served them faithfully and honestly, so Anusiewicz felt the man deserved it. The unfree man was given a parcel of land, where he could move with all his property.78 In other noble’s wills also were noted the long-lasting, fair, faithful and honest service of unfree family members.79 However, there were some cases where the master gave freedom but with several conditions attached. For example, in 1650 the nobleman Stanisław Warpuciański (Stanislovas Varputinskis) gave freedom to his unfree people, but they had to serve his wife until her death and then to serve his brothers and sisters for ten years more. Some of them would serve even twenty years. But one of them—the unfree girl Orszula (Uršulė) had to be liberated from unfreedom soon after the wife’s death.80 An interesting expression of positive relations was the cases when the master took the possibility for unfree servants to leave the manor temporarily and to be employed on other manors. For example, the source of 1616 reveals that nobleman Zygmunt Songailo (Žygimantas Songaila) let his unfree weaver leave his manor temporarily and to go and work for pay.81 That signifies a reduction of the importance of unfree people’s work and an expansion of the system of hired labour in the Grand Duchy of Lithuania, especially in the seventeenth century.

Conclusions To summarize the research, it can be stated that unfree family members’ work was important in the manors of the lower stratum of noblemen during all of the period under discussion. The unfree family living in the noble’s homestead usually composed one-parent families, just a mother

128  N. Dambrauskaitė with her children, and also single people, mostly unmarried girls. The functions of the unfree family living in the nobleman’s homestead included a wide range of household tasks. They served their master personally, cooked, washed dishes and clothes, supervised the property, provided different crafts, handled farm livestock and in addition worked in the fields. Usually, just a few servants were entrusted with all these functions, so consequently one person performed many tasks. The master provided them with shelter, clothes and food. It became very important that the master permitted the possibility for unfree people to create their own families. These families lived on separate small homesteads and had better living conditions. Usually they worked in the fields or forests for four to five days a week. The relationship between master and the unfree servant could be negative, expressed by running away or, on the contrary, it could be positive, expressed through loyalty in the hope of gaining freedom. In both cases it is known that the unfree family was an important part of the noble’s household.

Notes 1. Giovanni Levi, ‘On Microhistory’, in Peter Burke (ed.), New Perspectives on Historical Writing, Cambridge: Polity Press, 1991, pp. 93–113 (p. 95). 2. Pirmasis Lietuvos Statutas (1529) ed. Irena Valikonytė, Stanislovas Lazutka and Edvardas Gudavičius, Vilnius: Vaga, 2001, c. 11, art. 12, p. 240. 3. Edvardas Gudavičius, ‘Lietuvos valstiečių įbaudžiavinimo procesas ir jo atspindėjimas I Lietuvos Statute (1529)’, Vilnius University doctoral dissertation, 1971, p. 286. 4. Domas Butėnas, Dvarų šeimynos Lietuvoje XVI amžiaus pirmojoje pusėje, in Mokslo darbai. Istorijos-filologijos mokslų serija, vol. 5, Vilnius: Valstybinė politinės ir mokslinės literatūros leidykla, 1958, p. 189. 5. Juozas Jurginis, Baudžiavos įsigalėjimas Lietuvoje, Vilnius: Valstybinė politinės ir mokslinės literatūros leidykla, 1962, p. 144. 6. 1588 metų Lietuvos Statutas, vol. 2, Tekstas, ed. Ivan Lappo, Kaunas: Švietimo ministerijos Knygų leidimo komisija, 1938, c. 12, art. 21, p. 461. 7. Konstantinas Jablonskis, XVI amžiaus belaisviai kaimynai Lietuvoje, in Praeitis, vol. 1, Kaunas: Lietuvos istorijos draugija, 1930, pp.  166–213; idem, Istorija ir jos šaltiniai, ed. Vytautas Merkys, Vilnius: Mokslas, 1979. 8. Domas Butėnas, Rykūnė, in Iš lietuvių kultūros istorijos, vol. 1, Vilnius: Valstybinė politinės ir mokslinės literatūros leidykla, 1958, pp. 243–7; idem, Dvarų šeimynos Lietuvoje XVI a. pirmojoje pusėje, pp.  187–209; idem, ‘Dvarų šeimynos Lietuvoje XVII amžiuje’, in Istorija. Mokslo darbai, vol. 15, Vilnius: Mokslas, 1975, pp. 71–82. 9. Jurginis, Baudžiavos įsigalėjimas Lietuvoje. 10. Edvardas Gudavičius, ‘Kaip reikėtų versti I  Lietuvos Statuto žodžius мужик ir жонкa’, in Lietuvos istorijos metraštis, Vilnius: Mokslas, 1984, pp. 113–16. 11. For example, the record about unfree families in Grand Duke Casimir Jagiellon’s statute book of 1468: Kazimiero teisynas (1468 m.), ed. Juozas Jurginis, Vilnius: Mintis, 1967, pp. 18–19. 12. Gintautas Sliesoriūnas, Lietuvos Didžioji Kunigaikštystė XVI a. pabaigoje— XVIII a. pradžioje (1588–1733 metai), vol. 6 of Lietuvos istorija, Vilnius: Lietuvos istorijos instituto leidykla, 2015, p. 119.

Noblemen’s Familia 129 13. Jurginis, Baudžiavos įsigalėjimas Lietuvoje, pp. 144–5. 14. Butėnas, Dvarų šeimynos Lietuvoje XVI a. pirmojoje pusėje, p. 198. 15. Lietuvos Metrika. Knyga Nr. 12 (1522–1529). Ušrašymų knyga 12, eds. Darius Antanavičius and Algirdas Baliulis, Vilnius: Žara, 2001, no. 570, p. 440. 16. Lietuvos Metrika (1528–1547). 6—oji Teismų bylų knyga, eds. Stanislovas Lazutka and Irena Valikonytė, Vilnius: Vilniaus universiteto leidykla, 1995, no. 128, p. 120. 17. Lietuvos mokslų akademijos Vrublevskių biblioteka, Vilnius, manuscript department (hereafter LMAVB), F. 256–3631, p. 3. 18. Istorijos archyvas. XVI amžiaus Lietuvos inventoriai (hereafter IA), ed. Konstantinas Jablonskis, Kaunas: Vytauto Didžiojo universiteto bibliotekos leidinys, 1937, no. 71, p. 350. 19. Lietuvos inventoriai XVII a: dokumentų rinkinys, eds. Konstantinas Jablonskis and Mečislovas Jučas, Vilnius: Valstybinė politinės ir mokslinės literatūros leidykla, 1962, no. 3, p. 16. 20. Butėnas, Dvarų šeimynos Lietuvoje XVI a. pirmojoje pusėje, p. 194. 21. Lietuvos istorijos instituto rankraštynas (hereafter LIIR), F. 4–164, no. 277, pp. 660–1. 22. Lietuvos Metrika (1546–1548). 19—oji Teismų bylų knyga (hereafter LM. TBK 19), eds. Irena Valikonytė, Saulė Viskantaitė-Saviščevienė and Lirija Steponavičienė, Vilnius: Lietuvos istorijos instituto leidykla, 2009, no. 133, p. 166. 23. LMAVB F. 256–3631, p. 3. 24. LMAVB F. 256–4126, p. 1. 25. On Borwidowiczowa’s manor in 1586 Voitekh Milkevich (Vaitiekus Milkevičius) with his wife had five sons and three daugthers: LMAVB F. 256–4126, p. 1. 26. LMAVB F. 256–3667, p. 1. 27. LMAVB F. 256–3328, p. 1. 28. Žemaičių vyskupijos vizitacija (1579), ed. Liudas Jovaiša, Vilnius: Aidai, 1998, pp. 21, 47. 29. Butėnas, Dvarų šeimynos Lietuvoje XVII amžiuje, pp. 74–5. 30. Mykolas Lietuvis, Apie totorių, lietuvių ir maskvėnų papročius, ed. Kostas Korsakas, Vilnius: Vaga, 1966, p. 52. Cf. Jerzy Ochmański, ‘Michalon Litwin i jego traktat “O zwyczajach Tatarów, Litwinów i Moskwicinów” z połowy XVI wieku’, in Dawna Litwa. Studia Historyczne, Olsztyn: Pojezierze, 1986, pp. 134–57. 31. LM TBK 19, no. 11, p. 27. 32. LIIR F. 4–178, no. 126, p. 193. 33. LIIR F. 4–164, no. 256, pp. 610–11. 34. In the manor of Paįstrys belonging to Jan Zarzecki (Jonas Zareckis) in 1585: IA, no. 40, p. 247; in 1590: LIIR F. 4–159, no. 147, p. 271; in the manor of Szczasny Janowicz (Ščastnas Janavičius) in 1610: LIIR F. 4–164, no. 247, p. 577. 35. Akty izdavaemie Vilenskoiu arkheohraficheskoiu komissieiu (hereafter AVAK), vol. 6, Soderzhashchii v" sebe: 1) Akty Brestskago grodskogo suda (potochnye), 2) Akty Brestskago podkomorskogo suda, 3) Akty Brestskoi magdeburgii, 4) Akty Kobrinskoi magdeburgii, 5) Akty Kamenetskoi magdeburgii, Vil'na: v" tipografii Guberiskago Pravleniia, 1872, no. 41, p. 65. 36. LMAVB F. 256–2126, p. 1. 37. Stanisław Kasperczak, Rozwój gospodarki folwarcznej na Litwie i Białorusi do połowy XVI wieku, Poznań: Wydawnictwa Naukowe UAM, 1965, p. 210.

130  N. Dambrauskaitė 8. LMAVB F. 256–1984, p. 1. 3 39. Butėnas, Dvarų šeimynos Lietuvoje XVI amžiaus pirmojoje pusėje, p. 192; see also: in the manor of Daniel Bousław (Danielius Bouslavas) at Giełwany (Gelvonai) in 1624 a Muscovite woman worked as a cook: Lietuvos valstybės istorijos archyvas (hereafter LVIA), F. Senieji aktai (hereafter SA) 4620, p. 344. 40. In Jan Skaszewski’s (Jonas Skaševskis) Kurtowiany (Kurtuvėnai) manor in 1592: IA, no. 64, p. 334. 41. LIIR F. 4–178, no. 126, p. 193. 42. Kasperczak, Rozwój gospodarki folwarcznej, p. 209; cf. the case in 1592, in the Kurtowiany (Kurtuvėnai) manor belonging to Jan Skaszewski (Jonas Skaševskis), of the parobok Urban (Urbanas), pivovar: IA, no. 64, p. 334. 43. LIIR F. 4–178, no. 135, p. 238. 44. In the Serebriszcz (Serebriskas) manor of Andrzej Ciechanowski (Andrius Techanovskis) in 1566: AVAK, vol. 22: Akty Slonimskogo zemskogo suda, Vil'na: v" tipografii A. G. Syrkina, 1895, no. 447, p. 237. 45. In the Iatony (Jotainiai) manor in 1634: Konstantinas Jablonskis, Lietuviški žodžiai senosios Lietuvos raštinių kalboje. Tekstai, Kaunas: Lietuvos istorijos draugija, 1941, p. 196. 46. In Zofia Pietrasiewiczowa’s (Zofija Petraševičienė) manor in 1541: Lietuvos Metrika (1540–1541). 10—oji Teismų bylų knyga, eds. Stanislovas Lazutka, Irena Valikonytė and Saulė Viskantaitė-Saviščevienė, Vilnius: Vilniaus universiteto leidykla, 2003, no. 228, p. 142; in the Andrzej Chrszczonowicz’s (Andrius Chrščonavičius) manor of Merecz (Merkinė) in 1555: LMAVB F. 256–2063, p.  1; in Maciej Czyż’s (Motiejus Čižas) Worniany (Varnioniai) manor in 1579: LIIR F. 4–178, no. 111, p. 153. 47. In the Susłow (Suslovas) manor in 1552: LMAVB F. 256–2261, p. 1; Zygmunt Songailo’s (Žygimantas Songaila) unfree man in 1616: LIIR F. 4–164, no. 259, p. 618. 48. Butėnas, Rykūnė, pp. 243–5. 49. Jurginis, Baudžiavos įsigalėjimas Lietuvoje, p. 98. 50. Jablonskis, Lietuviški žodžiai, p. 201. 51. Butėnas, Rykūnė, pp. 243–5. 52. In the Zazugirsk (Užugiris) manor belonging to Mikołaj Aleksiejewicz (Mikalojus Aleksejavičius) in 1555: LIIR F. 4–178, no. 55, p. 60. 53. In Szymon Bialski’s (Simonas Bialskis) manor in 1596: LIIR, f. 4–159, no. 201, p. 448. 54. Dokumenty Moskovskogo arkhiva Ministerstva Iustitsii, vol. 1, Moscow: v" tipografii A. I. Mamontova, 1897, no. 7, p. 95. 55. Butėnas, Dvarų šeimynos Lietuvoje XVI a. pirmojoje pusėje, pp. 191–2. 56. In the noblewoman Szczasna’s (Ščastnienė) manor in 1529: Lietuvos Metrika (1528–1547). 6—oji Teismų bylų knyga (hereafter LM. TBK 6), eds. Stanislovas Lazutka and Irena Valikonytė, Vilnius: Vilniaus universiteto leidykla, 1995, no. 258, p. 184. 57. In Maciej Chrszczonowicz’s (Motiejus Chroščionavičius) manor in 1585: AVAK, vol. 26, Akty Upitskogo grodskogo suda, Vil'na: v" tipografii A. G. Syrkina, 1899, no. 49, p. 31. 58. In the noblewoman Zygmuntowiczowa’s (Žygimantavičienė) manor in 1582: AVAK, vol. 36, Akty Minskogo grodskogo suda. 1582–1590 g. g., Vil'na: tipografiia “Russkii pochin”, 1912, no. 274, p. 227. 59. Butėnas, Dvarų šeimynos Lietuvoje XVI a. pirmojoje pusėje, pp. 191–2. 60. In 1604: AVAK, vol. 30, Akty Trokskogo podkomorskogo suda za 1585– 1613 gody, Vil'na: tipografiya „Russkiy pochin” i A. G. Syrkina, 1904, no. 54, p. 269.

Noblemen’s Familia 131 1. LMAVB F. 256–4177, p. 1. 6 62. LVIA F. SA–14666, p. 98v. 63. In the Svetičovskas manor belonging to Jan Waganowski (Jonas Vaganovskis) in 1579: AVAK, vol. 14, Inventari imeniy XVI-go stoletiya, Vil'na: v" tipografii A. G. Syrkina, 1887, no. 16, p. 201; in the Rusota manor belonging to Lawrzyniec Woyna (Laurynas Vaina) in 1581: ibid., no. 19, p. 228; in the manor of Kasina belonging to Fedor Szaula (Teodoras Šaula) manor in 1590: ibid., no. 41, p. 371; in the Dubiany (Dubėnai) manor of Halszka Kejstortowna (Halška Kęstartienė) in 1594: ibid., no. 64, p. 500; in Gabriel Winka’s (Gabrielius Vinka) Ilgi (Ilgiai) manor in 1598: IA, no. 132, p. 493. 64. Butėnas, Dvarų šeimynos Lietuvoje XVI a. pirmojoje pusėje, p. 195. 65. AVAK, vol. 14, no. 3, p. 22. 66. Vilniaus universiteto biblioteka, manuscript department, F. 4–A4026, p. 58. 67. LMAVB F. 256–3974, p. 2. 68. LMAVB F. 256–3012, p. 3. 69. In Andrzej Piotrowicz’s (Andrius Petravičius) manor in 1579: LIIR F. 4–178, no. 110, p. 151. 70. In Michał Dowsinowicz’s (Mykolas Dausinavičius) Shliazhy (Šležai) manor in 1584: LIIR, F. 4–178, no. 123, p. 181. 71. Lietuvos Metrika (1522–1530). 4—oji Teismų bylų knyga, ed. Stanislovas Lazutka, Irena Valikonytė, Saulė Viskantaitė, Edvardas Gudavičius, Genutė Kirkienė and Jolanta Karpavičienė, Vilnius: Vilniaus universiteto leidykla, 1997, no. 340, p. 282. 72. LIIR F. 4–178, no. 18, p. 401. 73. LIIR. F. 4–159, no. 19, p. 432. 74. AVAK, vol. 36, no. 368, p. 316. 75. Lietuvos Metrika. Knyga Nr. 15 (1528–1538). Užrašymų knyga 15, ed. Artūras Dubonis, Vilnius: Žara, 2002, no. 115, p.  146; LM. TBK 6, No. 103, p. 82; LM. TBK 10, no. 243, p. 153; Lietuvos Metrika (1555–1558). 37—oji Teismų bylų knyga, eds. Irena Valikonytė and Lirija Steponavičienė, Vilnius: Lietuvos istorijos instituto leidykla, 2010, no. 67, p. 86; AVAK, vol. 36, no. 41, p. 42f. 76. Eugenijus Saviščevas, Apie bajorų gyvenimą, aistras ir mirties bausmę XVI a. Žemaitijoje, in Istorijos šaltinių tyrimai, vol. 2, Vilnius: Lietuvos istorijos instituto leidykla, 2010, p. 203. 77. Rimvydas Petrauskas, ‘Laisvi valstiečiai, laisvi bajorai, laisvas valdovas: laisvės sąvoka Lietuvos Didžiosios Kunigaikštystės šaltiniuose XIV–XVI a. pradžioje’, in Ramunė Šmigelskytė-Stukienė (ed.), Lietuvos Didžiosios Kunigakštystės istorijos kraštovaizdis: Mokslinių straipsnių rinkinys. Skiriama profesorės Jūratės Kiaupienės 65-mečiui, Vilnius: Lietuvos istorijos instituto leidykla, 2012, pp. 65–86 (at p. 74). 78. LIIR F. 4–159, no. 200, p. 444. 79. In Wasilisa Ilgowska’s (Vasilisa Ilgovskienė) will from 1566: LIIR F. 4–178, no. 92, p. 114; in Mikołaj Gedwił’s (Mikalojus Gedvilas) will from 1597: LIIR F. 4–159, no. 205, p. 468; in Jadwiga Janowiczowa’s (Jadvyga Jonavičienė) will from 1598: LIIR F. 4–164, no. 212, p. 486; in Jurij Daszkiewicz’s (Jurgis Daškevičius) will from 1600: LIIR F. 4–164, no. 223, p. 517. 80. LVIA F. SA–14672, p. 488. 81. LIIR F. 4–164, no. 259, p. 618.

9 Noble Community and Local Politics in the Wiłkomierz District During the Reign of Sigismund Vasa (1587–1632) Artūras Vasiliauskas Research on the participation of the nobility in the politics of the Grand Duchy of Lithuania after the Union of Lublin has long been focused on the political history of events and decisions, the wider political attitudes of the nobility, or the institutional and legal history of how sejmiks (dietines) and other institutions related to the operation of the system sometimes called noble or nobiliary democracy.1 Much less attention has been devoted to what could be termed the sociology of politics, that is, not only establishing the ‘when’, ‘what’ and ‘how’ of events, but investigating exactly ‘who’ was involved in them.2 To a large extent, this can be explained by the well-established view that Lithuanian politics was dominated by magnates who are held to have been the only genuinely independent actors in the political process.3 The vaguely defined lesser or broader nobility did not receive much attention, since at best it was portrayed as a target for influence by competing magnate factions and at worst as the subservient instrument of magnates in local politics. In the last couple of decades, however, these lesser nobles have gained more attention in the growing body of historical literature about clientage. Much research has been done on clientage as a lopsided friendship of unequal partners in which the chances for social advance of a weaker ‘noble friend’ are dependent on the favour and the brokering powers of a magnate.4 Researchers of clientage benefit from a huge advantage here. Most of the politics in the Grand Duchy of Lithuania can be reconstructed from archives left by magnate families, at least as far as the seventeenth century is concerned. But this advantage can also be their weakness—it is always tempting to (mis)take the realities of a magnate faction for the realities of political life as a whole. This chapter is an attempt at micro-historical history of politics in the Grand Duchy that scrutinizes the Wiłkomierz (Vilkmergė, Ukmergė) district (powiat) as a case study. It seeks to explore who were the members of local political class, how far one can go in establishing their commitment to participation in local politics, and how this political class interacted with a magnate. The Wiłkomierz district offers a rare, convenient combination of different sources from the period. The 1616 tax-roll, the only surviving

Noble Community and Local Politics in Wiłkomierz  133 fiscal record of this sort for any district of the Grand Duchy from the beginning of the seventeenth century, provides a uniquely detailed view of landownership structure and information about families and individuals.5 The number of surviving signed sejmik session documents and the records on the district representatives elected in sejmiks—envoys to the Commonwealth’s sejm, the convocations of the Lithuanian Estates at Wilno (Vilnius), and deputies (judges) annually elected to the Lithuanian tribunal, brings us enough data to trace back some patterns of participation in local politics by individuals and families. Important information on the formal hierarchy of power in the district is provided by comprehensive data on district office-holders,6 while surviving last wills of some participants in political life permit the exploration of their familial and social networks. Some extant correspondence provides insights into their relations to the principal magnate. Wiłkomierz also serves the purpose of a case study in two other important aspects. Firstly, it was a typical Grand Duchy district of an average size without a major urban centre. Secondly, a prominent magnate—Krzysztof II Radziwiłł, the field hetman, and later grand hetman and the palatine of Wilno—had considerable landed property and a political network in the district, so one has the opportunity of examining the important question of a magnate’s relationship with the broader nobility in a locality where he had considerable means of impact. In order to demonstrate how larger trends are reflected by individuals pursuing their own routines of engagement into local politics I shall zoom in on three active members of the local political community: Aleksander Rajecki, the marshal of Wiłkomierz, Hieronim Podlecki, the deputy land court judge and Jerzy Komorowski, the chamberlain (podkomorzy) of Wiłkomierz. The surviving source material on them is richer and more diverse, thus enabling a closer look at a typical noble politician, his aspirations and his social network. The 1616 tax-roll containing entries on 673 landed properties provides an idea of the size of the noble population in the district. By aggregating data on households, 372 noble families with one or more taxpaying households were identified as landowners in the district. The tax-roll also reveals the proprietary divisions within the district noble population— only sixty noble families, that is 16 per cent of the total had at least one household that owned ten or more włóki (in the Grand Duchy of Lithuania at this time a włóka was around twenty-one hectares). The group of landowners that owned between five and ten włóki included forty-six families, that is, 12 per cent of the total. Thus the relatively well-off and wealthy landowners comprised a clear minority—less than one-third of the district noble population. How many noble families of the district left any trace of participation in local politics? In total 161 families were identified whose members participated in sejmik sessions or were elected in them to represent the

134  A. Vasiliauskas district at least once. Out of these 161 families, 117 appear in the tax-roll and thirty-one in the notarial records of the district as landowners.7 The first conclusion is that despite very incomplete data—only sixteen signed sejmik documents that have survived for the period 1596–1632 and very incomplete data on elections of envoys or judges during the reign of Sigismund Vasa—the participation in politics of roughly one-third of noble population in terms of families appearing in the 1616 tax-roll was confirmed in the Wiłkomierz district. This group is very broad—it ranges from the office-holding and landowning elite of the district to smallholders who in some cases were eager enough to sign sejmik documents to show that they were probably quite regular sejmik participants. Importantly, the huge majority of well-off (recorded in the tax-roll as owning ten or more włóki) and wealthy landowners (owning fifty or more włóki) were participants in local politics. Out of sixty families, fifty-one such (that is, 85 per cent) have been identified. To capture the true ‘political class’, that is, the members of the district noble population who showed a higher level of involvement in local politics, the method of increasingly strict shortlisting criteria was applied. Election by others assembled at a session of the sejmik to functions involving the representation of the district suggests not only a higher level of political aspiration, but also the trust of the local community. Therefore this was the first or minimum criterion for shortlisting the membership of the political class, as distinguished from sporadic participation. The research established forty-four families whose members participated in sejmik sessions and were elected at least once to represent the district. This group includes ninety-five individuals, who—with a degree of caution—can be included in the district political class. To single out the group of noble families that left a trace of more continuous participation in local politics the criterion of at least five attendances at sejmik sessions and one election to represent the district was applied. This established a result of twenty-four such families. This group, which can be included in the political class with greater certainty, comprises sixty-eight individuals. Many families in this group belonged to the category of well-to-do or wealthy landowners and only two had no track record of holding at least minor district offices. To single out the most consistent participants in local politics who also enjoyed a higher level of trust from the noble community, the criterion of at least ten recorded attendances at sejmik sessions and at least two elections was applied. Only fourteen such families, comprising forty-nine politically active individuals, were identified. These families were strongly committed to local politics: some of their members were regularly involved in the work of sejmiks and enjoyed a high and permanent level of trust from their political community by being elected to represent the district on multiple occasions. Thus the second conclusion is that even the patchy surviving data allows us to show different degrees of involvement in local politics and capture a substantial group of political activists

Noble Community and Local Politics in Wiłkomierz  135 who can be safely labelled the local political class—committed to regular participation in local politics and trusted to represent the district. For convenience we shall call these three groups Group 44, Group 24 and Group 14. As we move from Group 44 through Group 24 to Group 14, the increasing trend is that a commitment to participate in local politics tends to correlate with larger landownership and office holding, although the smaller landowners, especially a particular group of castle court officials are not entirely excluded. In Group 14 this trend is fully fulfilled:

Table 9.1  Group 14 (ten sejmik attendances and two elections) Noble families

Number Number Number Office holding of family of sejmik of elections members attendances in local politics

Dawidowicz

4

6

6

Giedroyc

6

10

2

Golejewski Hołubicki Kamieński Komorowski

1 2 2 4

6 5 6 8

6 9 11 3

Podlecki

4

14

6

Radziwiłł

2

9

9

Rajecki

2

11

5

Siesicki

10

24

10

Sumorok

1

9

4

Szuńko

4

7

5

Towiański

6

15

9

Unikowski

1

9

2

Minor castle court offices One minor senatorial office, elective court offices None none none Elective court offices

Landownership category

Less than 5 włóki Large landed estate (over 50 włóki) Over 10 włóki 5 włóki Over 10 włóki Large landed estate (over 50 włóki) Over 10 włóki

From minor castle court office to elective district office Top national Large landed offices estate (over 50 włóki) High district Over 10 włóki office (marshal) Elective and Large landed estate (over other highest 50 włóki) district offices Elective district Over 10 włóki offices Minor castle Less than 5 court office włóki Minor castle Over 10 włóki court offices Minor castle Less than 5 court offices włóki

136  A. Vasiliauskas In Group 14 one can discern four types of local political leaders:

• A magnate for whom the district is a safe constituency used to ac-

• • •

cess national (Lithuanian or Polish-Lithuanian) politics: Krzysztof II Radziwiłł, the Lithuanian field hetman, was elected to represent the Wiłkomierz district at least eight times between 1606 and 1629;8 Well-off (ten or more włóki) and wealthy landowners (fifty or more włóki) with a track record of achieving top elective or appointed district offices (Giedroyc, Komorowski, Podlecki, Rajecki, Siesicki, Sumorok);9 Active and extremely active individuals—less wealthy or welloff landowners, but non-office holders (Dawidowicz, Golejewski, Hołubicki, Kamieński);10 Modest landowners who were castle court officials; their active engagement in local politics was to a large degree related to their work organizing sejmiks; they were often elected as envoys from the district most probably due to their professionalism as legal practitioners (Szuńko, Towiański, Unikowski).11

It is time to focus more closely on Podlecki, Rajecki and Komorowski. These men belong to the kind of minor historical actors who do not receive separate entries in biographical dictionaries, but who in a less spectacular way constituted the backbone of local politics. All three of them are in Group 14 as active members of the local political class: Table 9.2  Rajecki, Podlecki and Komorowski in local politics

Aleksander Rajecki between 1606 and 1618 Hieronim Podlecki between 1595 and 1618 Jerzy Komorowski between 1606 and 1620

Attended sejmik sessions

Elected for the district

10

5

9

6

5

2

In fact in all five recorded cases of Komorowski’s participation in sejmik sessions he attended them and co-signed documents with the other two. The surviving last wills of these three political activists not only provide an insight into their material wealth but also shed some light on their social networks and their anxiousness to emphasize their social status properly.12 Each of them displayed a measure of confessional identity. This was expressed by the requested mode and place of burial, donations to their churches and investment in the liturgical commemoration of their souls, all highly reminiscent of self-memorialization practices characteristic of members of magnate houses. These men combined the typical baroque posturing about a humble funeral with personalized burial arrangements clearly intended to project their higher social standing.

Noble Community and Local Politics in Wiłkomierz  137 Podlecki requested that ‘my body shall be buried without any pomp, expensive ceremonies and horses led by unmounted men, only sons shall carry it and the coffin shall be covered only with a simple mourning cloth and neither velvet nor fine wool fabrics shall cover it’. However, he also arranged the construction of the stone church with a sepulchre as his family mausoleum (asking for his body to remain in the barn on his estate until it was built) and allocated for its construction the considerable sum of 2000 schocks of Lithuanian groats (kopy groszy litewskich). He bequeathed a further 2000 schocks to fund the acquisition of a landed estate for the new parsonage, and also issued detailed as well as financially precise instructions for the liturgical commemoration of his soul. Another Catholic—Rajecki, who wrote his last will himself (not a widespread practice at the time) in a highly personal style—ordered his own burial in a similar manner: ‘in a Christian Catholic way without any pomp, only the paupers shall carry my body’. He even prohibited the washing of his body for the funeral, because ‘wise heathens avoided it as well, except for those who chased after luxury and those who are in love with apothecary shops, because they knew that this benefited neither soul nor body’. However, his wish to be buried in the church near the altar is a far better indicator of his self-awareness in terms of social status. Komorowski—a Calvinist—also asked to be buried ‘without pomp’ next to an Evangelical Church where his deceased parents and brothers lay; he strictly ordered his sons to ensure that the bodies of the buried were not removed from the churchyard so that they could rest in peace until the Resurrection. He also ordered the fencing of the churchyard and restoration of the church building and established an annual fee for an Evangelical minister. Notwithstanding confessional differences, all three were related by familial connections, economic transactions and ties of amity. The Calvinist Komorowski was the Catholic Rajecki’s brother-in-law. In their wills both the Catholic Podlecki and the Calvinist Komorowski asked Roman Sumorok (another Catholic and a Group 14 member) to be one of the protectors of their families, and Sumorok was also Komorowski’s brother-in-law. Komorowski was Podlecki’s creditor; in the latter’s will he is recorded as having lent him the significant sum of 600 schocks of Lithuanian groats. Both Rajecki and Podlecki asked Komorowski to be a protector of their families in their wills. Komorowski’s other two nominations in his last will to be protectors of his wife Marusza née Sapieżanka, daughter of Lew Sapieha’s cousin Mikołaj Sapieha—Krzysztof II Radziwiłł and his own Catholic brother-in-law Fridrich Sapieha (chamberlain of Witebsk (Vitsebsk))—not only attested to his inter-confessional flexibility, but also indicated that he had maintained stable links of trust with magnate houses that were rivals to each other. Thus confessional differences did not prevent cooperation and trust. Moreover, it seems that the confessionalization of national politics was not eroding local alliances. In 1613, Podlecki together with another Group 14 member Zygmunt Kamieński (a Calvinist) was elected by the sejmik as envoy to the sejm with a written

138  A. Vasiliauskas instruction to demand the punishment of those who had destroyed the Evangelical church in Wilno in 1611.13 All this indicates that the leaders of the district’s political class were building their consensus and collaboration in local politics by relying on more complex and wider social interrelations among themselves than on simply cooperating with a magnate or on confessional divisions. The Komorowskis, Rajeckis and Podleckis showed their engagement in local politics in terms of inter-generational continuity with some other Group 14 families. Hieronim Podlecki’s son Piotr started to participate in local politics alongside his father—in 1618 they both signed the sejmik instruction to its envoys to the sejm together with Hieronim’s brother Andrzej (the brothers had also attended the Wiłkomierz sejmik earlier—in 1606). Piotr also attended a sejmik in 1629. His brother Jan surfaced in local politics not long after Hieronim’s death, when he attended the Wiłkomierz sejmik in 1625. Jerzy Komorowski's son Samuel was elected to the sejm in 1631 and the next year he, together with his brother ­Heliasz, attended the Wiłkomierz sejmik preceding the sejm that elected King Władysław IV Vasa. Aleksander Rajecki most probably had no male descendants at the time when he drafted his last will—it mentions only a ­daughter—but the political continuity of the Rajecki family was assured by his brothers and nephews. In the Wiłkomierz district his nephew Gedeon attended the sejmik in 1617 and was elected to the tribunal in 1627. More importantly these three families demonstrated a remarkable ability to maintain their social positions in the district over a much longer period of time. This can be shown by collating data of 1690 tax-roll and office-holding data from that period:14

Table 9.3  Group 14 continuity in the Wiłkomierz district Family

Around the year 1690

Dawidowicz Giedroyc Golejewski Hołubicki Kamieński Komorowski Podlecki Radziwiłł

none Small landowners and minor district office-holders none none none Large landed estate, high district offices Large landed estate, elective district offices Large landed estate, Ludwika Karolina—the last in the Birże (Biržai) and Dubinki (Dubingiai) line Well-off landowners, elective district office Large landed estate, elective and other district offices, senatorial office none none Small landowners and minor district office-holders Small landowner

Rajecki Siesicki Sumorok Szuńko Towiański Unikowski

Noble Community and Local Politics in Wiłkomierz  139 Thus, approximately two generations later, eight Group 14 families, including the Komorowskis, Rajeckis and Podleckis, survived as landowners in the district and six of them still belonged to the district elite. For comparison—only fourteen Group 44 families resurface in the 1690 tax-roll. This indicates that all three families not only maintained stability in producing male descendants, but also found ways to consolidate or even expand their material status and high positions within formal hierachies apparently going far beyond one or two lucky political alliances or cliental relationships. Rajecki’s and Komorowski’s surviving correspondence with Krzysztof II Radziwiłł15 shows that they were his trusted political associates also connected to him by economic cooperation: leases and gages of landed property, cash lending and borrowing. They not only supported his line at sejmiks but also shared with him their political opinions, acted as mediators in such delicate situations as conflict resolution. However they were never in a relationship of service to Radziwiłł; that is to say they were not servants on his payroll. This applies to almost all Group 44, 24 and 14 families whose members engaged in some sort of collaboration, including support in sejmiks, with Radziwiłł. This is not to say that Radziwiłł’s servants were not present in local politics, they were routinely canvassing support for him and attending sejmik sessions, but the sejmiks were not electing them for the district. This means that to attain a real impact on local politics a magnate had to collaborate with the established local elites who had built their positions independently, although in cooperation with more powerful political partners. Since longterm relationships were not based on command, but on mutual consent, Radziwiłł’s allies were free to negotiate their commitments with him at all times. This was demonstrated by Komorowski who was approached by one of Radziwiłł’s servants with a request to put himself forward for the function of the judge of the tribunal in the forthcoming elections at the Candlemas sejmik. According to the servant’s report ‘the lord judge promises to attend the sejmik session for sure, but excuses himself from being elected due to ill health, but actually, as he says, more due to the lack of subsistence, because of the creditors who are nagging him about his debts. He hinted to me though that he would allow himself to be elected if he had a way of getting some money (not foodstuff) free of charge and it really would be good to have him, because he could attract many by his kindness’.16 Hieronim Podlecki presents us with a particularly revealing case of an active individual who not only expended much effort to expand his landed wealth by numerous acquisitions and investments in landed property, but combined this with an aspiration for an office-holding career through consistent engagement in local politics. That enabled him to cross a particularly important threshold. He managed to leave behind the social status of small landowner pursuing a career of a minor, appointed castle court official in which Tyszkas, Towiańskis or Unikowskis from

140  A. Vasiliauskas Group 14 seemed to have been stuck. He joined the ranks of the wealthy landowners and the office-holding elite of the district. He started humbly as the deputy starosta of the castle court, then worked to obtain his father’s-in-law office of steward of the Wiłkomierz district in 1608 and, finally, in 1609 achieved the elective office of the deputy land judge. In the 1610s Hieronim was one of the most active participants in district politics. In 1616 when he has reached the peak of his office-holding career and engagement in local politics, he paid a tax for more than twentythree włóki. Eight years later just the landed properties alone that are mentioned and assessed in his last will add up to approximately ninety cultivated włóki! This is what enabled him to afford the huge cost of the aforementioned construction of a stone church as his own personal mausoleum; such a monument was for Hieronim a kind of celebration of his own social advance, and it imitated on a smaller scale the prestige spending of a magnate. Podlecki was never as close to Krzysztof II Radziwiłł as either Rajecki or Komorowski, although he approached Radziwiłł with a request to assist him in acquiring the office of deputy land judge. Radziwiłł did indeed help him, and was adamant to demonstrate how instrumental was his brokering by sharing with Hieronim the content of his confidential correspondence with other influential brokers.17 This episode rather indicates how anxious Radziwiłł was to recruit for political services an active member of district political class than Podlecki’s commitment to anything. While Rajecki and Komorowski were in regular contact with Radziwiłł as his trusted political allies, no direct correspondence or any substantial indirect evidence (apart from the donation of a grey horse from Radziwiłł mentioned in Hieronim’s last will) shows that he was a regular associate of Radziwiłł. One of his sons mentioned in the will (Piotr whom he equipped for a professional military career at the great cost of 3000 Polish złotys) served in the army commanded by Radziwiłł during the Livonian campaign in 1617–18,18 and also under a different hetman in the ‘Wallachian’ campaign (most probably Hieronim refers to the war with the Ottomans in 1620 that ended disastrously for the Polish army at the battle of Cecora (Ţuţora) in Moldavia). Hieronim’s last will suggests that he was also in some trusted relationship with Lew Sapieha in a legal matter, and this shows that he was able to establish and maintain connections with more than one magnate. Finally, unlike Rajecki and Komorowski—who in a fashion much appreciated by researchers of clientage requested Radziwiłł to accept the duty to protect their wives and children in their wills—Podlecki in the fashion of the self-made man sought this favour not from someone of higher social rank, but from his equals—Komorowski, who was then a land court judge, another land court official, the scribe Roman Sumorok, Maurycy Kazimierz Giedroyc and his wife’s relative—the Catholic priest Mikołaj Samson Podbereski. Moreover Hieronim did not thank anyone

Noble Community and Local Politics in Wiłkomierz  141 in his last will for being his ‘master and benefactor’ as was usual when one was implicated in long-term relationship of clientage. Thus Podlecki does not fit the standard portrait of the enterprising local politician who was dependent on a magnate. He seems to have built his own social network that included some degree of cooperation with magnates when required. A  few surviving wills of other Group 14 members (from the Giedroyc and the Siesicki families)—which lack declarations of gratitude and submission to a more powerful patron, confirm that Hieronim was not a maverick.19 Incidentally, neither of the two latter families, unlike the majority of the Group 14 members, was in close economic or political association with Krzysztof II Radziwiłł. This is evident both from the absence of their significant correspondence with him and the absence of references to them as allies and supporters in the correspondence of his associates in the district. Even a magnate who had at his disposal significant material and networking resources in the pursuit of district-level goals operated in the thick of participatory politics. The politically active local noble elite was linked by multiple and intricate interrelationships that could not always be bent to the magnate’s advantage as he wished. Indeed, he often could legitimately expect deference, but as the powerful political actor whose influence could best serve the promotion of the interests and views of the district community. Radziwiłł was elected by the Wiłkomierz sejmik at least eight times between 1606 and 1629. The complete trust in him of the district nobility was demonstrated in 1614 and 1615 when Radziwiłł was elected envoy to the Wilno convocation in his absence. Furthermore, in 1615 the sejmik gave him the authority to make changes to the instruction dispatched to him.20 Declarations of loyalty to Radziwiłł in the name of the district elite could be as uninhibited as relayed to his servant by Roman Sumorok, Komorowski’s brother-in-law, in 1626: His Grace our Master has forgotten us . . . not taking an interest in us any more. However, we are steady servants and friends of His Grace and we could serve him in our district conceding nothing to the opposing side, if only His Grace would like to mention in a letter to his trusted friend what he wished to have in our district. Now, we shall delay the report of envoys from this Sejm until the land court session when we shall want to hear it, too, in case His Grace writes or mentions something needful to us trusted friends.  .  .  . He also recalled that Your Grace wished to have good friends as deputies for the next year. . . . Your Grace should contact his trusted friends in all these matters.21 However, when Krzysztof II Radziwiłł’s interest was in contradiction to or insufficiently overlapped with the interest of the politically active district nobility, compliance with his expectations was far from assured.

142  A. Vasiliauskas Thus during the Livonian military campaign of 1617, the Wiłkomierz district hindered the field hetman’s efforts to recruit soldiers for his army, since it was one of the districts where the sejmiks passed a motion to distribute tax revenues to their elected captains instead of sending money to the Treasury which would pay Radziwiłł’s captains.22 Nor was he absolved from trouble himself as a taxpayer owning one of the largest landed estates in the district (according to the 1616 tax-roll he paid a tax for the equivalent of 274 włóki equalling approximately 5860 hectares). Abram Siesicki, an active Group 14 member (three elections, five recorded attendances at the Wiłkomierz sejmik) as a tax-collector sued Radziwiłł over unpaid taxes from all his properties in the district in 1629.23 In 1630 Radziwiłł’s political agents failed to secure the approval of the Wiłkomierz dietine for the adjournment of the last session of the Lithuanian tribunal, which was due to be held in Nowogródek (Navahrudak) because of the plague. This was vital to the hetman, since he was anxious to prevent the tribunal from ruling on his dispute with Lew Sapieha, who presided over the tribunal that year. The sejmik of Wiłkomierz did include in its written instruction clauses proposed by Radziwiłł concerning the tribunal, but apparently the nobility assembled at the dietine deemed it to be a matter of principle not to meddle with the work of this highly prized institution of noble judicial autonomy.24 Wiłkomierz was not among the districts which wholeheartedly backed two of Radziwiłł’s major political campaigns. In 1626, as the leader of the opposition to the royal court in Lithuania, with twenty years’ experience of participation in public life and as a military commander who had already earned wide recognition for his role in the defence of Livonia, he tried to organize a boycott of that year’s sejm by Lithuanian envoys. However, despite all his influence and authority, he largely failed, since representatives of twenty Lithuanian districts out of twenty-four, including Wiłkomierz, attended the sejm held in Thorn (Toruń).25 The political campaign launched by Radziwiłł in 1632 before the sejmiks preceding the electoral sejm was perhaps the most significant and ambitious enterprise he had yet undertaken. His energetic activities during the interregnum26 reached a climax in his plan to secure for himself a leading political position before this crucial sejm by arranging the election (viritim, that by all noblemen who turned up in person) of Prince Władysław, the eldest son of the late King Sigismund III. Between July and early August his chancery dispatched a large number of letters to at least nineteen of the twenty-four Lithuanian districts,27 appealing for nobles to support his propositions during the sejmik proceedings and to join him in his journey to the sejm.28 In Wiłkomierz twenty-nine ­individuals were addressed, including nine individuals from Group 14. Despite these efforts, as in other thirteen districts out of the sixteen from which the reaction is known, the Wiłkomierz district failed to endorse Radziwiłł’s

Noble Community and Local Politics in Wiłkomierz  143 plan. Although according to the sejmik’s instruction to its eighteen elected envoys (including eight of Radziwiłł’s addressees) it was the district nobility’s duty to follow ‘the ancestors’’ way and to attend the King’s election viritim, and the instruction prohibited nobody from attending it on his own so long as everyone was ready to support the clauses agreed by the sejmik, the risk of causing confusion by multitudinous participation in the election was given as the principal reason for shying away from the idea.29 Thus it is fair to conclude that while Krzysztof II Radziwiłł was indeed very influential in Wiłkomierz district, his influence neither excluded other influences nor suppressed the will and interests of the politically active nobility in the district. This brief close focus on the noble community of a single district and on three of its active members has yielded a sketch of a local political class. At least some of the members of this class routinely attended district sejmik sessions and attained the level of trust from the local community expressed in their regular election for the district. It seems that the majority of local landowning elite, not only the magnate Krzysztof II Radziwiłł, were committed to participation in local politics. The most consistent of its participants were well-off and wealthy landowners with a strong track record of achieving district offices in their families. Perhaps it would be an exaggeration to call them almost a little local oligarchy, but some families were able to create for themselves durable positions of wealth and influence. For local politicians like the Komorowskis, Podleckis and Rajeckis, clientage was not a matter of survival; exchanging services and support with a magnate was a part of their strategy for social advance. They were entangled into complex interrelationships of neighbourhood, kinship, friendship, economic and political cooperation within their local community; their relationship with a magnate was just one, although an important aspect of their life. For the magnate, who was not creating the district’s political elite, but collaborating with some of its members, the loyalty of these local politicians was a highly appreciated asset.

Notes 1. See more recent synthetic accounts of institutional and legal history of politics in the Grand Duchy that capture the main historiographical trends and provide extensive bibliographies (including numerous publications by Henryk Wisner) of the subject matter: Andrzej Rachuba, Wielkie Księstwo litewskie w systemie parlamentarnym Rzeczypospolitej w latach 1569–1763, Warsaw: Wydawnictwo Sejmowe, 2002; Andrzej B. Zakrzewski, Wielkie Księstwo Litewskie (XVI—XVIII w.) Prawo—Ustrój—Społeczeństwo, Warsaw: Campidoglio, 2013; cf. an attempt to capture the peculiar nature of political culture in the Grand Duchy: Jūratė Kiaupienė, Tarp Romos ir Bizantijos: Lietuvos didžiosios kunigaikštystės politinės kultūros aukso amžius (XVa. Antroji pusė—XVII a. pirmoji pusė), Vilnius: Lietuvos istorijos institutas, 2016. The typical approach of institutional and legal history towards local politics characteristic of the research on sejmiks located in the

144  A. Vasiliauskas Polish Crown has been reproduced in the study on the Brześć (Brest) sejmik by Diana Konieczna, Ustrój i funkcjonowanie sejmiku Brzesko-Litewskiego w latach 1565–1763, Warsaw: DiG, 2013. 2. However, the situation is changing; see for instance Andrzej B. ­Zakrzewski, Sejmiki Wielkiego Księstwa Litewskiego XVI–XVIII w. Ustrój i funkcjonowanie: sejmik trocki, Warsaw: Liber, 2000, especially pp. 38–56; Andrei Radaman’s research on public life in the Nowogródek (Navahrudak) palatinate at the end of the sixteenth and beginning of the seventeenth century deals with hitherto underestimated aspects of the operation of the district parliamentary and judiciary institutions and indicates that a broader section of the nobility was aspiring to become a significant actor co-shaping politics; among his numerous publications see Andrej Radaman, ‘Samorząd ­sejmikowy w powiatach województwa Nowogródzkiego ­Wielkiego Księstwa Litewskiego w latach 1565–1632’, in Urszula Augustyniak and Andrzej B. Zakrzewski (eds.), Praktyka życia publicznego Rzeczypospolitej Obojga Narodów w XVI-XVIII wieku: Materiały XVIII konferencji Komisji Lituanistycznej przy Komitecie Nauk Historycznych PAN w dniach 22–23 września 2009 roku, Warsaw: Neriton, 2010, pp. 55–103; Andrei Radaman, ‘Patranal´na-kliental´nia adnosiny ŭ Novaharodskim pavetse i ikh uplyŭ na palityku i dzeinasts´ orhanaŭ shliakhetskaha samakiravannia ŭ druhoi palove XVI–pachatku XVII st.’, in Andrei M. Ianushkevich (ed.), Magnatski dvor i satsyial´noe ŭzaemadzeianne (XV—XVIII stst.), Mensk: Medysont, 2014 pp.  252–94; For Vital´ Halubovich’s analysis of how the nobility of Połock (Polatsk) was involved in political life see: Vital´ Halubovich, Polatskaia Shliakhta i dynastyia Vazaŭ, Mensk: A. M. Ianushkevich, 2016. 3. For instance Gintautas Sliesoriūnas describes the political system of the Grand Duchy in the seventeenth century as ‘factual oligarchy’. The old Lithuanian magnate houses—the Sapiehas (Sapiegos), the Chodkiewiczes (Chodkevičiai) and the Radziwiłłs (Radvilos) competing with each other for top offices, royal estates and power—were ‘organizational centres and initiators of the shaping of the political structure of the noble estate’; see his volume: Lietuvos istorija VI tomas: Lietuvos didžioji kunigaikštystė XVIa. Pabaigoje—XVIII a. pradžioje (1588–1733 metais), Vilnius: Lietuvos istorijos institutas, 2015, p. 219. For an emerging challenge to the well-established concept of ‘magnate oligarchy’ in the Grand Duchy after the Union of Lublin see Zakrzewski, Wielkie Księstwo Litewskie (n. 1 above), pp. 33–5. 4. The literature on clientage in the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth and in the Grand Duchy is huge, but the most relevant to the subject matter and persons mentioned in this chapter are two books by Urszula Augustyniak, Dwór i klientela Krzysztofa Radziwiłła (1585–1640). Mechanizmy patronatu, Warsaw: Semper, 2001, and W służbie hetmana i Rzeczypospolitej, Warsaw: Semper, 2004, including a chapter on ‘Radziwiłł’s’ sejmiks, at pp. 194–204. 5. The 1616 district tax-roll submitted for recording to the Wiłkomierz Castle Court Book (księga grodzka) on 9 October 1617 by the tax-collector Abram Dowmont Siesicki, pantler (podstoli) of Wiłkomierz is in Vilniaus universiteto biblioteka (hereafter: VUB): Castle Court Book of the Wiłkomierz district 1617–19: F[ondas] 7–13/13890, fols 97–121. 6. Information about the envoys of Wiłkomierz district to the sejms of the Commonwealth, the convocations and the tribunal of the Grand Duchy has been drawn from publications of aggregated data: Jan Seredyka, Parlamentaryści drugiej połowy panowania Zygmunta III Wazy, Opole: Wyższa Szkoła Pedagogiczna im. Powstańców Śląskich w Opolu, 1989; idem, ‘Posłowie wybrani na sejmy w latach 1611–1623’, Zeszyty Naukowe WSP Opole Historia, 30,

Noble Community and Local Politics in Wiłkomierz  145 1994, pp. 105–23; Andrzej Rachuba (ed.), Deputaci Trybunału Głównego Wielkiego Księstwa Litewskiego (1582–1696) Spis, Warsaw: DiG, 2007; from published research of other historians and supplemented by archival research. For detailed information on the signed Wiłkomierz sejmik records used to identify their participants see Artūras Vasiliauskas, ‘The Practice of Citizenship Among the Lithuanian Nobility, ca. 1580–1630’, in Karin Friedrich and Barbara M. Pendzich (eds.), Citizenship and Identity in a Multinational Commonwealth. Poland—Lithuania in Context, 1550–1772, Leiden and Boston, MA: Brill, 2009, pp. 71–102 (at p. 89). For a list of the Wiłkomierz district office-holders, see Henryk Lulewicz, Andrzej Rachuba and Przemysław P. Romaniuk (eds.), Urzędnicy Wielkiego Księstwa Litewskiego. Spisy, vol. 1, Województwo Wileńskie XIV–XVIII wiek, Warsaw: DiG, 2004, pp. 403–512. 7. The significant number of landowners who surface in the notarial records of district court books from 1596 to 1624, but do not appear in the 1616 tax-roll indicates that the latter is just a snapshot of a very dynamic landed estate market. Presumably the further investigation of surviving unpublished district courts’ records would identify most if not all of the thirteen families whose representatives were confirmed as participants in local politics in Wiłkomierz, but whose landownership status in the district was not established. The aforementioned 31 families were traced back in the published short descriptions of district notarial records, see Opis´ dokumentov' Vilenskago tsentral´nago archiva drevnich´ aktovykh´ knig’. Akty Vilkomirskago grodskago suda za 1596–1607 gody. Vypusk´ 6, Vil´na: Tipografiia Br. i Kh. Ialovtser', 1908, and Akty Vilkomirskago grodskago suda za 1609–1621 gg. Vypusk´ 9, Vil´na: Tipografiia ‘Artel´ Pechatnago Dela´, 1912. However, unlike the 1616 tax-roll, these records do not provide information about the size of their landed estates. 8. His uncle Janusz I Radziwiłł, cupbearer (podczaszy) of the Grand Duchy and later castellan of Wilno, attended the Wiłkomierz sejmik and was elected to represent the district in the sejm in 1618. 9. Komorowski, Podlecki and Rajecki are discussed from the next paragraph onwards. The largest landowner in the district from the Giedroyc family— Marcin, starosta of Wiłkomierz and palatine of Mścisław (Mstsislaŭ, Mstislav) (in 1616 he paid tax for approximately 82 włóki of his private landed estate and for approximately 171 włóki in two starosties he held in Wiłkomierz) twice appears in sejmik documents from the 1610s. His son Maurycy also left a trace of three recorded sejmik attendances in 1610s and one election in 1622. The 1616 tax-roll records three politically active Siesickis: Abram, pantler (podstoli) of Wiłkomierz, who owned more than nine włóki and attended five sejmiks as well as was elected to represent the district thrice between 1613 and 1629; Jan, the ensign (chorąży) of Wiłkomierz, who owned a huge landed estate equivalent to approximately 170 włóki appeared in sejmik records five times and was elected to represent the district once between 1593 and 1617; Kasper, first the castle court scribe (pisarz grodzki), then the pantler and finally the chamberlain (podkomorzy) of Wiłkomierz owned 20 włóki: a Crown estate (królewszczyzna) of eight włóki and 12 włóki of his own landed property. Between 1595 and 1618 Kasper attended five sejmiks and was elected twice. Roman Sumorok who owned 18 włóki in 1616, seems to have been one of the most politically active nobles in the district—between 1614 and 1629 he attended nine sejmiks and was elected four times. He also made a fully fledged district office-holding career: starting from pantler of Kowno (Kaunas) and steward (stolnik) of Wiłkomierz and climbing all the steps of the Wiłkomierz land court ladder: scribe, deputy judge and judge.

146  A. Vasiliauskas 10. According to the 1616 tax-roll Andrzej Dawidowicz owned four włóki. Between 1598 and 1617 he attended four sejmiks and was elected once. He was also elected, most probably by the Wiłkomierz district, in 1589 and 1593. Jan Golejewski owned approximately 11 włóki. Between 1614 and 1629 he attended six sejmiks and was elected six times. Piotr Hołubicki owned five włóki. Between 1594 and 1618 he attended four sejmiks and was elected nine times. Zygmunt Kamieński owned approximately 26 włóki. Between 1600 and 1632 he left a record of attending six sejmiks and was elected ten times. In 1634 after a long career as an envoy of the district to the sejms of the Polish-Lithuanian Commowealth and deputy to the tribunal of the Grand Duchy he became chamberlain of Wiłkomierz. 11. The representative of the Szuńko family—Jan, Wiłkomierz castle court judge, who has left the biggest trace of political activism in the district, does not appear in the 1616 tax-roll. Between 1597 and 1625 he attended at least three sejmiks and was elected thrice. Mikołaj Szuńko, who never held an office and who according to the tax-roll owned approximately four and a half włóki attended two dietines and was elected twice between 1591 and 1606. The most active Towiański—Jakób, the castle court scribe and the deputy starosta of the castle court owned approx. 10 włóki. Between 1606 and 1618 he attended eight sejmiks and was elected once. Between 1598 and 1617 Andrzej Unikowski, castle court judge and later deputy starosta of the Wiłkomierz castle court, who according to the tax-roll owned just over two włóki, attended at least nine sejmiks and was elected twice. 12. The last will of Aleksander Rajecki, Rakiszki, 28 September  1622; Archiwum Główne Akt Dawnych w Warszawie, Warsaw (hereafter: AGAD) Archiwum Piłsudskich Giniatowiczów, no. sygn. X B.a; The last will of Hieronim Podlecki, Skoczuny, 28 December  1628; VUB Wiłkomierz castle court book 1622–24, F7–15/13892, fols 307–17; The last will of Jerzy Komorowski, Suwiek, 16 June 1634; VUB F7–18/13895, Wiłkomierz castle court book 1629–34, fols 896–99. The 1616 tax-roll gives a precise landholding status of the three men: Rajecki paid a tax for the equivalent of 13 włóki of his own landed estate and for the equivalent of around 16 włóki of his starosty—Crown estate—which he held for life. Podlecki paid a tax for the equivalent of around 23 and a half włóki, while Komorowski paid for an equivalent of around 57 włóki. Thus if Rajecki and Podlecki were well-to-do proprietors, Komorowski can be called a wealthy landowner. 13. In fact the sejmik instruction authorized them to deliberate on any other matters in the sejm only after the case of the destruction of the Evangelical Church in Wilno had been resolved in order to ensure ‘internal peace’ in the country: Wiłkomierz district instruction, 31 January  1613; AGAD, Archiwum Radziwiłłów (hereafter: AR) II, no. 922. 14. The 1690 Wiłkomierz tax-roll has been published by Andrzej Rachuba, Rejestry podymnego Wielkiego Księstwa Litewskiego. Województwo Wileńskie 1690 r., Warsaw: PWN, 1989, pp. 236–70. 15. See Rajecki’s correspondence from years 1606–19: AGAD AR V, no. 12831; and Komorowski’s from the years 1616–33: AGAD AR V, no. 7050. 16. Aleksandr Sawgowicz to Krzysztof II Radziwiłł, Owanta, 20 October 1630; AGAD AR V, vol. 344, no. 13969. 17. Radziwiłł shared with Hieronim copies of letters to him from Lew Sapieha, then the grand chancellor of Lithuania, Krzysztof Monwid Dorohostajski, the grand marshal of Lithuania, and Andrzej Bobola, the chamberlain of Polish Crown. Hieronim Podlecki to Krzysztof II Radziwiłł, Wiłkomierz 4 October 1609, AGAD AR V, vol. 275, no. 11971. Urszula Augustyniak assumes that in this case Radziwiłł has helped Hieronim not in exchange for

Noble Community and Local Politics in Wiłkomierz  147 the latter’s services, but as a part of a patron’s protectionist routine in the terrain traditionally dominated by his house; see her Dwór i Klientela, p. 208. 18. Piotr and his brother Jan also served in the Grand Duchy’s army commanded by Radziwiłł during the war with Sweden in 1625–26, see Augustyniak, W służbie hetmana, p. 241. 19. The last will of Paweł Stanisławowicz Dowmont Siesicki, Wiłkomierz, 4 July 1606, VUB F 7–13886, Wiłkomierz Castle Court Book 1605–07 fols 281–3; The last will of Maurycy Kazimierz Marcinowicz Giedroyc, Inkietry, 29 September 1632, VUB F 7–18/13895, Wiłkomierz castle court book 1629–37 fols 556–7; The last will of Jerzy Michałowicz Giedroyc, Ilgie, 5 February  1617, VUB F 7 13/13890, Records of the Wiłkomierz Castle Court 1617–19, fols 4–6. 20. Letter of the Wiłkomierz sejmik to Krzysztof Radziwiłł, 10 September 1614, AGAD AR II, no. 612. Wiłkomierz sejmik to Krzysztof Radziwiłł, 28 April 1615; AGAD AR II, no. 629. 21. Dawid Borzymowski to Krzysztof Radziwiłł, Naszlany, 26 December 1626; AGAD AR V, no. 1268. These same ‘steady servants and friends’ had apparently failed to obstruct the departure of the Wiłkomierz envoys to the sejm which Radziwiłł wanted to boycott (see footnote 25) and from which they were now returning to report to the relational sejmik. 22. Jarosz Wołłowicz, the treasurer of the Grand Duchy of Lithuania, to Krzysztof II Radziwiłł, Szawle, 11 October 1617, AGAD AR V, no. 17 966. 23. Mikołaj Pioro to Krzysztof II Radziwiłł, Sołomieść, 26 April 1629, AGAD AR V, vol. 269 no. 11728. 24. Aleksander Sawgowicz to Krzysztof II Radziwiłł, Dziewiałtow, 6 September 1630; AGAD AR V, no. 13969. 25. Jan Seredyka, Sejm w Toruniu w 1626 r, Wrocław: Zakład Narodowy im. Ossolińskich, 1966, pp.  54–5; idem, ‘Radziwiłłowski plan zbojkotowania przez Litwę w 1626 roku sejmu nadzwyczajnego w Toruniu’, Zeszyty Naukowe WSP Opole, 8, 1971, pp. 35–59. 26. Włodzimierz Kaczorowski, ‘Rola Krzysztofa II Radziwiłła na sejmach konwokacyjnym i elekcyjnym w okresie bezkrólewia 1632 roku’, Miscellanea Historico-Archivistica, 3, 1989, pp. 35–50; Henryk Wisner, ‘Litwa po zgonie Zygmunta III od zjazdu Wileńskiego do konwokacji Warzawskiej’, Rocznik Białostocki, 15, 1987, pp. 43–53; idem, ‘Litwa wobec elekcji Władysława Wazy’, Rocznik Białostocki, 17, 1991, pp. 9–36. 27. A list of addressees by district, undated (1632): Otdel rukopisei Rossi iskoi Natsional'noi Biblioteki, Sobranie avtografov P. P. Dubrovskogo 242, no. 117, fols 168–73. 28. Most probably two types of letters were dispatched. The first contained a request to back Radziwiłł’s line in the dietines and the invitation to accompany him to the sejm, whereas the second contains only the invitation. See: twenty copies of the first type dated 9, 10 and 11 August 1632 and one copy of the second type 10 August 1632; AGAD AR IV, vol. 24, Kop. 321. 29. Wiłkomierz district instruction to the envoys to the electoral sejm, 6 August 1632: AR II, no. 1059.

10 From Clientage Structure to a New Social Group The Formation of the Group of Public Servants in the Grand Duchy of Lithuania in the Late Eighteenth Century Ramunė Šmigelskytė-Stukienė During the early modern period, it became increasingly difficult for European nobles to uphold their traditional medieval role as defenders of society: they farmed landed estates, resided in towns, served other nobles or took up public service (for instance as judges). This tendency affected the Grand Duchy of Lithuania as early as the sixteenth century. Educated persons, who can be referred to as civil or public servants, formed the pillar of the developing system of judicial, political, diplomatic and educational administration through the eighteenth century. Their importance increased gradually at the expense of traditional patron-client relations. The reforms of public administration in the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth in the second half of the eighteenth century were related to these wider social changes. The establishment in 1764 of permanent fiscal and military administrative commissions in both the Polish Crown and the Grand Duchy of Lithuania opened the ladder of public service to nobles of middling fortune, while the creation of the Permanent Council of the Commonwealth in 1775 facilitated the formation of a group of public servants within the nobility. Further reforms during the Four Years Sejm included the opening of some offices to townsmen. This chapter asks: can the emergent community of public servants in the Grand Duchy of Lithuania be considered a separate social group? It is addressed on the basis of prosopographical research, using the criteria of interaction, membership and identity. The administrative apparatus of the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth was formed in the period of formation of estate-based monarchy and did not undergo any significant reforms up to the second half of the eighteenth century. It therefore lagged behind the structures of government of other European states. The first real steps towards improvement and focus of government structures were taken only in 1764, after the establishment by the Commonwealth’s sejm (parliament) of financial and military administrative institutions—the Treasury and Military

From Clientage Structure to New Social Group  149 Commissions of the Polish Crown and the Grand Duchy of Lithuania. The centralization of government and development of government branches was demonstrated through the founding of the Commission of National Education in 1773—the institution tasked with the organization and oversight of the system of education. The foundation of the Permanent Council in 1775—the central governing institution of Poland and Lithuania—meant that precepts of integrated governance and hierarchical order, common to the administrative structure of the modern state, were finally implemented. Each of the five departments of the Permanent Council (Foreign Affairs, Treasury, Military, Justice and Police) was responsible for the work of the executive branch of government in its respective areas, and could as required take full charge of its operations. In the last quarter of the eighteenth century the rapidly developing structure of institutions under the Permanent Council gradually established itself in the framework of institutional pragmatism: regulation of the system of payments, advances and rewards was introduced as well as a new concept of a position-based differentiation of compensation. In the course of the Four Years Sejm (1788–92) the reform of governance also reached the local level: the ratification of the law on new administrative divisions also included the concept of territorialization, which meant that each administrative unit of the state—the district (powiat)—had its own local institution of self-governance, the so-called Civil-Military Commission of the Peace (Komisja Porządkowa Cywilno-Wojskowa). All these changes were accompanied by an increase in the number of civil servants in state institutions. The size of the developing bureaucratic apparatus in Poland and Lithuania remained significantly smaller than in the absolute monarchies of the time; for example, in the Russian Empire the number of officials in the bureaucracy increased from 16,500 in 1763 to 380,000 in 1800, their ration to the entire population being 1:1000;1 Spain had 36,485 empleados del rey in 1787, with a ratio of 1:350; while pre-revolutionary France had up to 100,000 public officials, that is, one official per 270 citizens.2 Nevertheless, the administrative apparatus of the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth still experienced significant changes in the second half of the eighteenth century. In his analysis of the work of the Permanent Council in 1786–89, Aleksander Czaja emphasized the rapid growth of its office and clerical staff, needed for paperwork and the preparation of resolutions on various matters, and linked to changes in institutional relationships between central government and its lower levels. Czaja considered these changes part of the process of creation of a new type of administration, and even suggested the formation of a new governing elite on the basis of these new offices, bringing balance to the aristocratic and noble opposition to the monarch within the Commonwealth.3 It is obvious that holding an office could often mean a higher position in society than a pedigree or inherited wealth could offer, therefore in the

150  R. Šmigelskytė-Stukienė states of this period competition among various groups for the right to hold an office was thriving.4 As M. L. Bush notes: Throughout the modern period state service and nobility were closely connected. This was due not only to the ennoblement of state servitors but also to the aspirations of the noblemen-born to hold royal office. As landless younger sons, some sought in this way to avoid ignobility. But nobles as a group were strongly inclined to royal service because of the power and patronage flowing from it, and also out of respect for the society of orders. [.  .  .] The nobility’s keen subscription to the ideal of political service was catered for in the absolute monarchies by the expansion of the military and bureaucratic apparatus and in constitutional monarchies by the development of representative assemblies.5 Did the development of administration and the formation of the bureaucratic apparatus influence the social structure of Polish and Lithuanian nobi­lity, and if it did, to what extent? Was holding an office and career in public service still determined by traditional patron-client relationships, or was the concept of official competition to hold an office able to dismantle such relationships, creating environment for development of the group of state officials within the estate of nobility with no personal ties to each other? These questions have not yet been answered unambiguously by historians. In the opinion of Stanisław Kościałkowski, who researched the work of Lithuanian Court Treasurer Antoni Tyzenhauz in the area of financial management in 1765–80, the election of Treasury commissioners by the sejm was only theoretical. In practice the most important role in this process was played by the king.6 If one of the commissioners was to leave his post (for example to become a member of the senate) or was to die during his term, the right to nominate a new commissioner was reserved to the king. Also, from 1766 onwards it was common practice, due to the lack of time to arrange election procedures in the sejm, that the right to nominate both Polish and Lithuanian commissioners was granted to the monarch. In this way the king’s influence on the nobility was amplified. Significant influence on nominating officials was also exercised by the treasurer charged with implementing royal policies in Lithuania. In fifteen years of state service Tyzenhauz nominated only individuals personally loyal to himself to offices in the Lithuanian Treasury administration, thus creating a network of loyal public servants which permitted him unrestricted use of state finances,7 and which in turn created public discontent about such licence and eventually brought his impeachment by the sejm of 1780. Kościałkowski’s research included only the years between 1765 and 1780, and was only partially concerned with lower-level state officials. However, the opportunity to take a broader look at the development of the corpus of Polish-Lithuanian officials in the last quarter of the eighteenth century has now been presented by the research of a team of

From Clientage Structure to New Social Group  151 authors in 2014, exploring the development of modern administration in the Grand Duchy of Lithuania in 1764–94.8 By engaging with new archival sources, these researchers have been able to discover the dynamics in the numbers of officials in central and local institutions of government, and the hierarchy of offices. They discuss the legal premises for relationships of subordination and coordination, as well as the structure of work compensation in the government institutions of the Grand Duchy. However, their findings do not include a more detailed account of the composition of the staff of government institutions, and their interrelationships. The scope of the topic and the state of research do not permit a comprehensive analysis here of the corpus of officials in the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth as a whole, therefore this chapter focuses only on the administrative structure of the Lithuanian Treasury Commission. This body is well documented by archival sources, which permit an investigation of the community attributed to the secondary type of social groups—the ‘lowerlevel’ officials of this institution. The scope of analysis will not include higher-level officials of the Treasury Commission, nominated for two-year terms in the Sejm—the commissioners and the members of the Lithuanian Treasury Company, which in essence was a military structure. Based on the premise that in a specific social group interaction between members is structured by their positions and roles, and that membership becomes a part of every member’s social identity,9 in defining our social group we shall employ the criteria of membership, regular interaction and identity. The aim of this chapter is, after having conducted a qualitative analysis of the body of officials at the Treasury Commission of the Grand Duchy of Lithuania, and using data from prosopographical research, to answer the question of whether, in the last quarter of the eighteenth century, the administrative structure of the Lithuanian Treasury saw any visible signs of the formation of a specific social sub-group of state officials. The backbone of sources for this research comprises documentation containing regulations of the work of the Treasury of the Grand Duchy of Lithuania, issued by the sejm of the Commonwealth, supplemented by an anonymous description of the situation in the administration of the Lithuanian Treasury (Opisanie administracji skarbu W[ielkiego] X[ięstwa] Lit[ewskiego], 1790–91),10 and documents produced by the Treasury of the Grand Duchy deposited in the Lithuanian State Historical Archive. Among these sources the most pertinent to this analysis are the catalogues of treasury officials and issued surety bonds, which provided data on patron-client relationships among state officials.11

The Administrative Structure and Public Servants of the Treasury of the Grand Duchy of Lithuania In order to define the group of treasury officials we shall first survey the administrative structure of the Lithuanian Treasury in 1764–95 and esta­ blish the occupational composition of its employees.

152  R. Šmigelskytė-Stukienė In the reformed treasury administration of 1764 we can single out four major units: 1. the Central Board of the Lithuanian Treasury (Zarząd centralny skarbowy litewski), comprised of higher rank officials such as the treasurer and the court treasurer, the Lithuanian Treasury Commission elected for a two-year term, and also assistants in the Commission’s chancellery; 2. the Lithuanian Treasury Company (Polish: Chorągiew piesza Komisji Skarbowej Litewskiej), a military unit of the Grand Duchy’s armed forces, directly reporting to the Lithuanian Treasury Commission and charged with ensuring the safety of transported treasury cash and other treasury valuables, also to execute pressure on tax-evading individuals; 3. the Lithuanian Board of Customs (Zarząd cłowy litewski), an institution to administer the entire border and inland customs network; 4. the Treasury Board for the Provinces (Zarząd skarbowy prowincjonalny), comprised of: a) the Department of Tariffs, administering and controlling tax collection in the provinces, b) the Department of Tobacco, administering collection of duties on tobacco, c) the Building Inspectorate for the Muchawiec Canal and d) Treasury Courtiers (dworzanie).12 The Chancellery of the Central Board of the Lithuanian Treasury—the ‘office of assistants’ (biuro przyboczny)—was responsible for preparing materials required for board meetings, distributing incoming correspondence among the commissioners, record-keeping, writing minutes and maintaining the archive. The office of assistants to the Lithuanian Treasury Commission was managed by the custodian (skarbny or custos) of the Grand Duchy of Lithuania. His duties were to help the treasurer in executing the administrative functions of the Treasury. With the expansion of duties of the custodian, the office of the Treasury regent (regent skarbowy), responsible for assembly, maintenance and record-keeping of archives in a permanent office of the Treasury Commission in Grodno.13 The office of assistants also included the notary of the Lithuanian Treasury (pisarz skarbowy), the secretary of the Treasury Commission (sekretarz) and a manualist of the economic archive (manualista ad archiwum œconomicum). Safety and order in the course of the court sessions was ensured by the Treasury court instigator. The cashier of the Commission (kasjer) paid out money from the cash held by the Commission and was responsible for the accounting. From 1766 the treasury administration had two regents: of economic-administrative (regent ekonomiczny) and judicial affairs (regent sądowy) and two chancelleries: economic and judicial. Among the paid assistants to the Treasury Commission were a Treasury representative, charged with a variety of tasks, and a court runner

From Clientage Structure to New Social Group  153 (woźny, or ministerialis generalis), whose duties were to carry out tasks related to Treasury court cases. In 1777 some assistants were assigned to both regents, the secretary and the cashier: two vice-regents, one vice-secretary and one vice-cashier respectively. In the same year another position was introduced, that of the comptroller of the Treasury Commission.14 The comptroller’s duties were to audit financial reports and accounts submitted by customs department and other units of the Treasury, as well as to oversee regulation of the levy on imported and exported goods. In 1778 the number of treasury employees was increased by two office clerks. Every official at the chancellery of the Lithuanian Treasury Commission had one or more assistants—subalterns, applicants (trainees) and aspirants. Their duties included keeping of the accounting books and presenting expenses accounts for the bi-annual reports to the Sejm. In 1764–66 the Central Board of the Lithuanian Treasury employed eighteen public servants. The number grew to twenty-one in 1768 and thirty in 1778–80.15 The Board of Lithuanian Customs was the administrative structure of the Treasury, built on a new concept and used by King Stanisław August to implement customs reforms, which had to help increase the state revenue.16 According to the new legislation, the Lithuanian customs system was to be divided into fourteen districts (komory) governed by superintendents and linked together into four territorial offices of the customs network. After this legislation was passed by the sejm of 1766, the network of customs was divided into five territorial offices: the Lithuanian, Samogitian, Livonian, White Ruthenian and Ruthenian offices. The Lithuanian office included five districts while the other divisions had three districts each.17 Territorial customs offices were managed by inspector-registrars (kontraregistranty), districts by superintendents and smaller units by intendants and customs guards. Every unit employed clerks and lower-rank officials. In 1766 the territorial-administrative structure of control in the Grand Duchy of Lithuania was composed of seventeen inland customs offices (komory lądowe), eighty-one customs branches (przykomorki), seventy-five guard posts (straży) and four inland port customs (komory spławne) each with one customs branch. So, altogether there were 178 customs offices in the Grand Duchy, each employing several officials of the customs system: intendants, clerks, senior guards (oberstrażnicy) and guards (strażnicy). A  preliminary calculation (counting a minimum of four officials per customs unit) suggests that the entire customs system employed over 700 civil servants.18 When the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth lost some of its territories after the first partition, the number of customs offices also decreased. According to data from 1791, the inland customs network of the Grand Duchy of Lithuania employed 392 full-time officials (in the Lithuanian

154  R. Šmigelskytė-Stukienė office 140, in the Samogitian 121, in the White Ruthenian 72, and in the Ruthenian 59).19 Inland port customs employed 86 officials (51 at Jurbork (Jurbarkas, Yurburg, Georgenburg), 31 at Druja (Druia) and 4 at Brześć Litewski (Brest) before closing down on 26 December 1791).20 This ­number of customs officials was joined by the intendants (Polish: ­komory pakamerowe) from customs offices that were opened in four major Lithuanian towns in 1788. Customs offices in Wilno (Vilnius), Grodno (Hrodna), Kowno (Kaunas) and Minsk were intended for the control of imported levied goods and inspection of import levy records, whereas intendants of border customs were tasked with maintaining direct communication with customs posts regarding information on certain imported goods that for some particular reason would remain unpacked.21 The daily work of customs and composition of personnel is reflected in this description of activities within the customs system from 1791: In the customs offices along with intendants also work clerks, senior guards and guards, who have a duty to accompany merchants who paid their customs levy. Some customs offices that deal with items of haberdashery also employ paid packers who unpack and repack inspected items so that merchants would not incur any damages during inspection. All officials, including senior guards and guards who are managed by the superintendents, bear material liability before the Treasury.22 Preliminary calculations show that in the period between the founding of the Board of Customs and the second partition in 1793, the number of employees in the administrative structure of Lithuanian customs underwent significant changes. The number of public servants decreased from more than 700 officials to 482 customs officers receiving standard wages from the state budget in 1791. The Treasury Board of Provinces, named in the sources the ‘Department of Tariffs’, was responsible for the administration of ongoing (tariffbased) taxes. In 1764–78 only the tax collection on drinks, the so-called exaction (egzakcja), was organized as a territorial-administrative province of the Treasury. This territorial tax-collecting institute was tasked with tax collection on drinks and the control of the production and sale of alcoholic drinks in towns. Exactors were assisted by their subordinate employees of the treasury—clerks, guards and representatives (intermediaries). In 1788–90 the administrative system of customs and exactions employed 583 full-time civil servants: inspector-registrars, superintendents, intendants, customs clerks, guards, and such like. The wages paid each year from the budget of the Grand Duchy of Lithuania amounted to 240,165 Polish złotys at this time.23 In 1775 the administrative structure of the Treasury also included the inspectorate for the administration and control of the construction work

From Clientage Structure to New Social Group  155 on the Pina-Muchawiec (Mukhavets) canal, named in the sources as the ‘Factory of Muchawiec Canal’ (Fabryka Kanału Muchawieckiego). This unit employed a state-paid inspector, an engineer and a customs officer.24 In 1780 the Treasury Commission established a Department of Tobacco to administer taxes on tobacco and to control growth and sales of tobacco in Lithuania.25 Using the territorial concept there were four territorial tobacco control offices founded: the Lithuanian, Samogitian, White Ruthenian and Ruthenian, which involved the creation of new positions. The work of offices was controlled by inspectors (lustratorzy), whose number was set by the Commission. The Department of Tobacco gradually introduced the positions of department regent, controller, tobacco auditor, Grodno tobacco factory inspector, tobacco warehouse clerk and warehouse inspector.26 Tobacco warehouses were built in Brześć Litewski, Petryków (Petrykaŭ), Grodno, Kowno, Minsk, Orany (Varėna), Pińsk, Postawy (Pastavy), Słonim (Slonim), Słuck (Slutsk), Szawle (Šiauliai), Wilno, Krewo (Kreva) and Druja. Every warehouse had a clerk and a guard. From the catalogue of treasury officials, we can see that the Department of Tobacco also employed a subaltern, a position in 1791 occupied by Antoni Potrykowski with the salary of 700 złotys.27 In 1791 the list of officials in the Department of Tobacco also mentions currency the exchange cashier (kasjer kantoru) and currency exchange clerk (pisarz kantoru).28 The Department of Tobacco in different periods employed between twenty and twenty-seven state-paid civil servants or officials: a departmental regent, a controller, four tobacco auditors, two inspectors of tobacco factories (later called directors), twelve to fourteen tobacco warehouse clerks, a currency exchange cashier, a clerk and a subaltern. To keep records and to carry out other tasks the Department of Tobacco employed some lower-level officials as well, although we do not have any data about them in the sources. The work of these employees was compensated from the revenue earned by their respective units. In 1764–95 the administrative structure of the Lithuanian Treasury also included the working institute of the Treasury Courtiers (dworzanie skarbowi). The number of employed courtiers was not constant and depended on the scope of inspections and other activities by the Treasury Commission. For instance, in 1785 the number of courtiers registered in the catalogue of the Lithuanian Treasury employees was 124.29 In 1789, to administer collection of a new duty on leather, the administration of the Lithuanian Treasury opened a new department—the so-called Department of Leather.30 At this time the Grand Duchy of Lithuania was divided into ten territorial tax offices, each employing a superintendent responsible for a territorial office comprised of one county that included two to three districts, also local intendants, visiting intendants, clerks, unit and local guards, and so on. In total there were 476 employees.

156  R. Šmigelskytė-Stukienė The group of public servants at the Treasury administration discussed here, in different periods of activities of the Treasury Commission was composed of 1000 to 2000 employees in total. Employees at all levels, except for junior officials at the Tobacco Department, received salaries from the state budget. Legislated standard wages depended on the specific circumstances of particular positions.

Interactions Between Employees of the Treasury Administration: Positions and Roles Interactions between employees of the Treasury administration were governed by the system of subordination and coordination, regulated by law. Lower-level officials were obliged to report in timely fashion to higher-level staff members; the latter—to oversee the work of their subordinates. Different reports, messages, accounts and other documentation received by the Treasury Commission from various officials and public employees, deposited in the archives of the Lithuanian Treasury Commission, show that from the very day the Commission was founded, lower-level officials maintained certain rules of management and subordination regarding higher-level officials, and all of them were controlled by the Commission. The system of common interactions between employees is reflected in the description of work in administration of the Treasury in 1791: Interpersonal communication among state employees (oficjalistów), both between lower-level and higher-level officials and within their own jurisdiction [that is, subject to the Treasury Commission— R.Š.-S.] is as follows: the clerk of a customs branch is obliged at least once a week to visit all customs posts (guards), to check on their vigilance and inspect if records in the customs books match the collected amount of duty, then pick up the cash and bring it to their customs branch, issuing a proper receipt. An intendant must at least once a month visit all customs branches, all posts, to inspect financial books, maintain proper accounting and inform the Treasury Commission about every situation, executed confiscations, and misdemeanours by customs officers, although he has a right only to suspend them, and further decisions are made only by the Treasury Commission. Activity reports by the intendant must be sent monthly to the Commission, the Treasurer and his line manager—the superintendent. A superintendent must visit the entire territorial office every quarter to make sure that every employee is attending to his duties, and also to check the cash, to resolve any issues, addressing most important ones to the Commission, and to record his visit in the books of every customs office.31

From Clientage Structure to New Social Group  157 The administration of tobacco production and sales and work of other departments of the Treasury was organized in the same way: on the basis of the principles of the chain of command, subordination and control. The archive of the Treasury Commission contains many documents demonstrating that lower-level officials were not afraid to report to the Commission about cases of corruption or damage to treasury interests. For instance, on 16 December  1768 the superintendent of the Newel (Nevel) customs office, Ignacy Michałowski, reported to the Lithuanian Treasury Commission on the inspector-registrar of the territorial customs office of Livonia, Stanisław Kołłb, whose ‘damage committed against the treasury he could simply not cover up’, since the latter ignored the instructions from the Treasury Commission about nominating superintendents. Kołłb arbitrarily selected clerks and guards for the Newel customs office and other customs posts; they in turn, having no regard for the superintendent, not only did not carry his orders, but were not even concerned with their duties regarding the registration and accounting of revenue. Kołłb would order such accounting to be done by the superintendent even though this was not listed among his responsibilities.32 Despite these accusations Kołłb was able to prove to the Treasury Commission that he was properly attending to his duties. He was not only able to save his job but even to climb the career ladder further. In more than ten years in treasury administration he was able to rise to the position of superintendent of the territorial office of White Ruthenia. He resigned on 28 November 1778, receiving 2000 złotys as a reward from the Treasury Commission for his ‘long years of service and merits to the Treasury’.33 However, such complaints were not always groundless. For example, at the end of 1778 on the basis of reports about problems in the Jurbork inland customs office, the intendant, Rylski lost his job. He was replaced by the Treasury Commission with Kazimierz Jan Zawadzki who successfully continued his career in the customs administration office. Licentiousness among customs intendants in nominating lower-rank officials was also revealed by the audit of the Połąga (Palanga) and Jurbork customs offices carried out by the Treasury commissioner Michał Kleofas Ogiński. Any violations uncovered during that inspection were presented in a report to the sejm, which subsequently passed legislation regulating the employment of lower-level officials through a clear selection process.34 Along with formal and job-description-defined relationships, employees of the Treasury Commission, especially those that worked in this institution for several or more years, interacted not only in a competitive, but also in a collegial way. For instance, the Treasury employee Adam Szukiewicz, on resigning from the position of regent of the Treasury Commission court due to the extraordinary pressure of business, addressed

158  R. Šmigelskytė-Stukienė the Commission with a letter expressing sincere gratitude to the commissioners of the Commission for their consideration of his person.35 Interaction between the groups of civil servants at the Treasury is reflected in the plenitude of recommendations to the Treasury Commission for increasing wages paid to certain officials or groups thereof. For example, at the beginning of 1791 the superintendent of the Samogitian territorial office, Felicjan Rutkowski addressed the Treasury Commission with a request to increase compensation for long and outstanding services to some employees of the customs offices under his management: the intendants and mounted guards of the customs offices of Szkudy (Skuodas), Kwietki (Kvetkai), Żagory (Žagarė) and Bielany. On 18 June 1791 the Lithuanian Treasury Commission looked favourably at this request by the superintendent and increased salaries to those ‘with the longest work experience’ to 1800 złotys, and to 360 złotys for the mounted guards.36 Looking at the civil servants who worked in the system of the Treasury Commission for a decade or more, we can see a pattern of family dynasties of officials taking shape. For instance, in the Customs Board of Brześć Litewski we can find four representatives of the Laskowski family: 1) the clerk of the Board of Lithuania Customs Ignacy Laskowski who worked at the Treasury Commission from its founding day; 2) Jan Laskowski, the Brześć port customs intendant, who started his service in the customs in 1782 after Ignacy Laskowski became the cupbearer (podczaszy) and castle court judge (sędzia grodzki) of Brześć and provided surety for his relative and successor; 3) Daniel Laskowski, the Brześć port customs intendant, who started his service in the customs in 1780, after the same Ignacy Laskowski provided his surety; 4) Tadeusz Laskowski, who took over the position of his relative Daniel after the latter’s resignation in 1787.37 In this group of the Treasury employees we can also find four members of the Zawadzki family. These are: 1) Kazimierz Jan Zawadzki who worked as the intendant of the Jurbork customs office from 1779 and in 1780 became the intendant of the Połąga customs office; 2) Jakub Zawadzki, clerk of the Jurowo (Iurovo) customs branch, employed in this position since 1789; 3) Franciszek Zawadzki, employed in 1784 as clerk of Grodno tobacco warehouse; 4) Stanisław Zawadzki, Lithuanian Treasury courtier in the Upita (Upytė) district, who was employed as the Łojów (Loieŭ) customs office intendant in 1780.38

Identity: People Belonging to the Group, and Those Who Were Considered Members of the Group by Others The laws of the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth defined requirements for individuals who could be employed as civil servants or officials. In 1768 legislation was limited to the requirement that such officials had to be ‘of decent pedigree, landowning nobles, trustworthy and necessarily

From Clientage Structure to New Social Group  159 loyal to the Commission’,39 yet in 1775 the law said that the officials must: 1) be Polish nobles, 2) have sufficient surety, 3) not have any prior convictions and 4) be able to write and count. If any employee would prove not to meet these requirements, he had to be relieved of the employment by a resolution of the Commission. In the course of implementing the legislation on the work of the Treasury Commission essentially a new corpus of public servants was formed, since all employees of the Treasury administration had to be accepted for the job following a certain procedure. Selection of employees, nomination for positions and firing poor performers and those unable properly to carry out their duties were all responsibilities of the Commission. The 1764 founding legislation of the Treasury Commission also enabled the commissioners to end the employment of unnecessary and poorly performing officials.40 Therefore, it was only natural that in the first year of the Commission there were some tensions between new and previous employees in the Treasury administration. There were some members of staff who intended to continue in their current duties in spite of the new procedure of employment. For instance, on 21 March  1765 the intendant of the Wierzbołów (Virbalis) customs office, Kazimierz Sadowski informed the Treasury Commission that the former customs intendant, Aramowicz had arrived in Wierzbołów and demanded that Sadowski give him some of the collected customs duty. Later he travelled to one of the customs posts and, having no permission and seizing the opportunity of Sadowski’s absence from the post, appropriated all of the cash from the collected taxes. Sadowski not only asked the Commission to explain if such a demand to hand over cash to higher-level officials was legal, but also requested a written confirmation that he was the rightful intendant of the customs office.41 It is important to note that individuals desiring to work in treasury administration had to have some real estate property as collateral, in case their activities damaged state interests; any losses would have to be compensated. Having no property, or not having sufficient amount thereof, a person would have to find a surety from an individual with adequate social status and wealth.42 Also, the corpus of officials was formed by the way of ‘competition’, that is, decisions on who would occupy certain positions had to be reached collectively by the Treasury Commission after analysis of documents submitted by the applicants’ and assessment of their suitability for the post. If the Commission decided to employ a person, such an individual had to take an oath in front of the Commission or in front of the respective district court officials. Only after such process was a public servant able to assume his duties. Sources show that nominations for more prestigious and better paid positions were more formal. As Kościałkowski’s research reveals, especially during Antoni Tyzenhauz’s leadership, the appointment of superintendents, intendants and comptrollers by the Commission shows clear

160  R. Šmigelskytė-Stukienė signs of clientage relationships. Being dependent on the Lithuanian court treasurer, commissioners had a formal attitude regarding their duty to maintain competition, providing the court treasurer with the power to ‘select a person suitable for this position’, just as occurred in May of 1777 when nominating the intendant for the newly founded customs ­office of Strust.43 The situation changed significantly after Tyzenhauz’s fall. In 1781 the procedures for the selection of individuals applying for positions were tightened up, inspection of paperwork on surety bonds became more thorough, and the catalogues of Treasury employees were introduced which contained data on details of their employment procedures (nomination date, date of induction to the position—which involved taking an oath, submitted surety bonds). Surety bonds (sponsja, kaucja), as we can see from the remaining sources, was a rather sensitive topic. Often those providing sureties would give their guarantees only for a certain period of time, at the end of which the documents had to be submitted again. For example, on 12 March 1785 Stanisław Zaleski who took an oath in front of the Grodno court, issued his surety bond to the clerk of the Kowno tobacco warehouse Tadeusz Kuczborski only for a period of two months. The clerk had to rush to find another surety, and on 28 April of the same year he produced a long-term surety bond, provided by the starosta of Riekiecie (Rekečiai) Ignacy Siwicki.44 Sometimes the Commission after inspecting surety bonds would find them unsatisfactory. In such a case, a Treasury employee would have swiftly to find another surety, since otherwise he could be relieved of his position. For instance, in 1785 the Treasury Commission, after inspecting a surety bond issued by Major-General Michał Aleksander Ronikier, who vouched for the regent of Tobacco department, Bobiński, requested the return of the surety bond to the issuer because ‘his surety bond did not involve any collateral’.45 In 1787 the tobacco auditor Jan Kropiński was also required to provide a new surety bond.46 After an audit, the surety bond issued by the Vilnan canon, Reverend Ignacy Oskierka, to his relative Józef Oskierka was also considered invalid.47 Examples could be multiplied. Surety bonds reflect a certain identity of the Treasury officials as a social group, recognized by other members of society. A  surety would not only attribute the principal to a specific group of Treasury employees, but would also involve personal responsibility for the actions of the member of this group. Most probably surety bonds and recommendations were issued responsibly and only to the individuals trusted by the provider of the surety. For instance, the pantler (podstoli) of the Lida district, Tadeusz Narbutt, in his recommendation letter to the Treasury Commission dated 30 March 1775, on behalf of Colonel Szóstak in his application for position of a customs official in Tołoczyn (Talachyn), notes that Szóstak’s ‘character and respectability are enough to vouch for

From Clientage Structure to New Social Group  161 him’, however, since Treasury legislation required that such assurances be given in writing, such a document was willingly granted to him, ‘knowing the aptitude, skills and great features of character of this gentleman, which make him fit for the faithful performance of services required by the Treasury of the Grand Duchy of Lithuania’.48 The judge of the Brześć castle court, Bogusław Wereszczak, in a recommendation for a longstanding clerk of the Board of Lithuanian Customs, Ignacy Laskowski in his application for a higher position in the administrative structure of the Treasury expressed his conviction that this civil servant would remain a good and upstanding official, and will be useful to the Treasury of the Commonwealth. Also, an officer of the Lithuanian army, Prince Tomasz Massalski, in his recommendation for Michał Olszewski, who sought to become an exactor of the Treasury Commission, noted not only the great personal qualities of this applicant to become an employee of the Treasury, but also his readiness to work on behalf of the nation, assuring that this candidate will never damage the Lithuanian Treasury.49 Together with formal criteria defining this group, the identity of civil servants as a social group is best revealed through the documents of the Treasury audit. Analysis of reports by the deputations of the sejm show that in eighteenth century society civil servants of the Lithuanian Treasury—the officials—were considered a separate and, in comparison to their counterparts in the Polish Crown, a rather poorly paid group. For instance, the deputation that audited the work of the Commission in 1786–88 stated: It is true that all Treasury officials in Lithuania are poorly paid, and cannot survive on their standard wages. It is also true that the Treasury needs to open new positions  .  .  ., therefore it is necessary to increase the number of staff members as required by the Treasury Commission, and officials must receive sufficient salaries so they can sustain themselves and survive.50 Documents of the Lithuanian Treasury Commission, and the personal data they offer, permit us to establish the length of service in the Treasury administration and investigate the careers of different officials in the Treasury administration. These sources show that some officials served in the Treasury from its founding day in 1764 until the annihilation of the state in 1795. Among them was the clerk of the Gorżdy (Gargždai) customs branch, Ignacy Markiewicz: records show him ‘installed’ in this position in 1764 and his surety papers were renewed in 1781.51 In terms of personnel turnover, we can notice a clear tendency that once nominated for a certain position a person would keep working for a long time. Staff turnover was minimal, and usually occurred either because of death or advancement to a higher position. For instance, Marcin Tur, employed as clerk in the Słonim customs branch in 1775, continued his career for

162  R. Šmigelskytė-Stukienė eighteen years.52 The Bielany customs superintendent Ignacy Malinowski also made a career in this institution: employed in 1775 he worked as clerk until 1791, and after fifteen years of service he became intendant with three times the salary.53 In summary, when talking about the structure, chain of command and subordination links among lower-level staff in the institutional units of the Treasury of the Grand Duchy of Lithuania, we can argue that employees of the Lithuanian Treasury administration in charge of specific tasks assigned to that professional group, such as the collection of taxes and customs duties, carrying out financial operations, financial accounting in different areas of activities, preparing financial documents, arranging and archiving them, recording data and calculations, and so on, in addition to being linked among themselves with ties of dependency and daily interaction, and being recognized by others as members of this particular group, can also be considered a budding social sub-group of civil servants within the noble estate. During the three decades in which the Treasury Commission was active this group included around 2000 representatives of the middling and poorer nobility from various parts of the Grand Duchy of Lithuania. These were individuals that prior to employment with the Treasury Commission would most likely not occupy any positions at district level or in the military. On the basis of surety bonds it seems likely that the greatest portion of such employees were landless nobles. If for higher-level officials civil service was not their only occupation, for lower- and base-level officials state employment was often their only source of income. Records of surety bonds show that many of them would not have been able to find a surety with collateral among their family and relatives. On the other hand, the work of state employees was not sufficiently remunerated. The low level of wages is recorded in the sources from that period through the statements like ‘a very modest salary, not reflecting the amount of work done and the merits’. Employment in certain positions in the Lithuanian Treasury was only partially implemented through passing the process of competition. ­Patron-client relationships still played an important role when applying for ­prestigious and well remunerated positions. However, only a small fraction of lower-level officials were linked by kinship ties to families from the political elite of the district.

Notes 1. Jerzy Lukowski, The European Nobility in Eighteenth Century, London: Palgrave Macmillan, 2003, p. 33; Walter McKenzie Pinter, ‘The Evolution of Civil Officialdom, 1755–1855’, in W. M. Pinter and Don Karl Rowney (eds.), Russian Officialdom: The Bureaucratization of Russian Society from the Seventeenth Century to the Twentieth Century, London: M ­ acmillan, 1980, pp. 190–226.

From Clientage Structure to New Social Group  163 2. Carlo Capra, ‘The Functionary’, in Michel Vovelle (ed.), Enlightenment Portraits, Chicago, IL and London: University of Chicago Press, 1997, pp. 320–32. 3. Aleksander Czaja, Między tronem, buławą a dworem petersburskim. Z dziejów Rady Nieustającej 1786–1789, Warsaw: PWN, 1988, pp. 361–2. 4. Antoni Mączak, Rządzący i rządzeni. Władza i społeczeństwo w Europie wczesnonowożytnej, Warsaw: Semper, 2002, p. 191. 5. M. L. Bush, ‘An Anatomy of Nobility’, in M. L. Bush (ed.), Social Orders and Social Classes in Europe Since 1500: Studies in Social Stratification, London and New York: Longman, 1992, pp. 31–2. 6. Stanisław Kościałkowski, Antoni Tyzenhauz. Podskarbi nadworny Wielkiego Księstwa Litewskiego, 2 vols, London: Wydawnictwo Społeczności Uniwersytetu Stefana Batorego w Londynie, 1970–71, vol. 2, pp. 133–4. 7. Ibid., vol. 2, pp. 151–3. 8. Ramunė Šmigelskytė-Stukienė, Eduardas Brusokas, Liudas Glemža, Robertas Jurgaitis and Valdas Rakutis, Modernios administracijos tapsmas Lietuvoje: valstybės institucijų raida 1764–1794 metais. Kolektyvinė monografija, Vilnius: Lietuvos istorijos institutas, 2014, p. 692. 9. Jan Turowski, Socjologia: Małe struktury społeczne, Lublin: Towarzystwo Naukowe Katolickiego Uniwersytetu Lubelskiego, 1993, p. 73. 10. Based on Jerzy Gordziejew, ʻMateriały źródłowe do dziejów Wielk iego Księstwa Litewskiego. Cz. 2. Z zagadnień skarbowości w dobie stanisławowskiej’, Rocznik Biblioteki Naukowej PAU i PAN w Krakowie, 49, 2004, pp.  127–66; idem, ‘Cz. 3. Z zagadnień skarbowości w dobie Stanisławowskiej’, Rocznik Biblioteki Naukowej PAU i PAN w Krakowie, 50, 2005, pp. 97–128. 11. The documents are held in the Lietuvos valstybės istorijos archyvas (hereafter LVIA), F[ondas] 11 (Lietuvos iždo komisija]), and F. SA (Senieji aktai). 12. See Šmigelskytė-Stukienė, Brusokas, Glemža, Jurgaitis and Rakutis, Modernios administracijos tapsmas Lietuvoje: valstybės institucijų raida 1764–1794 metais, pp. 104–5; Kościałkowski, Antoni Tyzenhauz, vol. 2, p. 201. 13. ‘Komisja Skarbu W. X. Litt.’, in Volumina legum, vol. 7, St  Petersburg: Nakładem i drukiem Jozafata Ohryzki, 1860, p. 76. 14. Kościałkowski, Antoni Tyzenhauz, vol. 2, p. 416. 15. Ramunė Šmigelskytė-Stukienė, ‘Oficjaliści Komisji Skarbowej jako grupa społeczna Wielkiego Księstwa Litewskiego (1764–95)’, in Tamara Bairašauskaitė (ed.), Sotsal'nye gruppy i ikh vliianie na pazvitie obshchestva v XVI-XIX vekakh / Grupy społeczne i ich wpływ na rozwój społeczeństwa w XVI—XIX wieku, Vilnius: Lietuvos istorijos instituto leidykla, 2015, pp. 67–85. 16. Zofia Zielińska, ʻNowe świata polskiego tworzenie. Stanisław August— reformator 1764–1767’, in Angela Sołtys and Zofia Zielińska (eds.), Stanisław August i jego Rzeczpospolita. Dramat państwa, odrodzenie narodu, Warsaw: Zamek Królewski w Warszawie, 2013, pp. 24–5. 17. Kościałkowski, Antoni Tyzenhauz, vol. 2, pp. 197–213. 18. The total figure of 530 cited in older literature does not include senior guards. See Šmigelskytė-Stukienė, ‘Oficjaliści Komisji Skarbowej’, p. 72. 19. Gordziejew, ʻMateriały źródłowe do dziejów Wielkiego Księstwa Litewskiego. Cz. 2.’, pp. 146–8. 20. Ibid., pp. 149–50. 21. Ibid., p. 150. 22. Ibid., p. 152.

164  R. Šmigelskytė-Stukienė 23. Šmigelskytė-Stukienė, Brusokas, Glemža, Jurgaitis and Rakutis, Modernios administracijos tapsmas Lietuvoje, pp. 278–9. 24. Catalogue of Treasury Officials (1785), LVIA, F. 11, ap. 1, b. 848, fols. 38v-39. 25. Ramunė Šmigelskytė-Stukienė, ‘Lietuvos Didžiosios Kunigaikštystės Iždo komisijos Tabako departamentas. Struktūra ir tarnautojai’, in Olga Mastianica, Virgilijus Pugačiauskas and Vilma Žaltauskaitė (eds.), Kintančios Lietuvos visuomenė: struktūros, veikėjai, idėjos, Vilnius: Lietuvos istorijos instituto leidykla, 2015, pp. 219–36. 26. Catalogue of Treasury Officials (1780?—1793), LVIA, F. 11, ap. 1, b. 841, fols 3, 8v, 70v–71, 109v–128; Catalogue of Treasury Officials (1785), LVIA, F. 11, ap. 1, b. 848, fols 5v–6, 20–1, 55–9, 90. 27. Catalogue of Treasury Officials (1780?—93), LVIA, F. 11, ap. 1, b. 841, fol. 8v. 28. Catalogue of Tobacco Department Officials (1791), LVIA, F. SA, b. 4021, fols 235–36. 29. Catalogue of Treasury Officials (1785), LVIA, F. 11, ap. 1, b. 848, fols 85–7. 30. In 1789, the sejm passed a law whereby a tax was levied on all the cattle slaughtered for sale. The skins of slaughtered oxen, cows, calves had to be supplied to the State Treasury in natura. A certain amount was also levied on the skins of goats, sheep, pigs. The revenue collected from this tax was to be used for the increase of the armed forces. The duty to administer the collection of the tax was assigned to the Treasury Commission, Volumina legum, vol. 9, p. 134. 31. Gordziejew, ‘Materiały źródłowe do dziejów Wielkiego Księstwa Litewskiego. Cz. 2’, pp. 152–3. 32. LVIA, F. SA, b. 3938, fol. 40–40v. 33. Šmigelskytė-Stukienė, ‘Oficjaliści Komisji Skarbowej’, p. 76. 34. See: Ramunė Šmigelskytė-Stukienė, Michał Kleofas Ogiński: Politician, Diplomat and Minister (1786–1794), transl. Linas Andronovas, Vilnius: Petro ofsetas, 2015, pp. 67–78. 35. Letter from Adam Szukiewicz to the Treasury Commission, 5 May  1777, LVIA, F. SA, b. 4138, fol. 131. 36. Šmigelskytė-Stukienė, ‘Oficjaliści Komisji Skarbowej’, p. 77. 37. Ibid. 38. Catalogue of Treasury Officials (1785), LVIA F. 11, ap. 1, b. 848, fols 27v– 28; 31v–32, 48v–49, 86; Catalogue of Treasury Officials (1780?—1793), LVIA F. 11, ap. 1, b. 841, fols 24v–25, 63v–64, 80v–81, 121v–22. 39. ‘Bene possessionati, szlachta wiarygodna, y od dyspozycyi Kommissyi dependować powinni’, ‘Komissye Skarbowe oboyga narodow’, in Volumina legum, vol. 7, p. 312. 40. Volumina legum, vol. 7, p. 76. 41. Kazimierz Sadowski to the Treasury Commission, 21 March 1765, LVIA, F. SA, b. 3938, fol. 2–2v. 42. Volumina legum, vol. 8, pp. 76–7. 43. Kościałkowski, Antoni Tyzenhauz, vol. 2, pp. 150–1. 44. Catalogue of Treasury Officials (1785), LVIA F. 11, ap. 1, b. 848, fols 49v–50. 45. Loc. cit., fol. 6. 46. Loc. cit., fol. 41. 47. Loc. cit., fol. 42. 48. Šmigelskytė-Stukienė, ‘Oficjaliści Komisji Skarbowej’, p. 79.

From Clientage Structure to New Social Group  165 49. Tomasz Massalski to the Treasury Commission, 11 March 1770, LVIA, F. SA, b. 3938, fol. 325. 50. Relacya z examinu Kommissyi Skarbu WXLitt z dwoch lat od Raty 7browey 1786 R. do Raty Marcowey 1788, Warsaw, 1791, pp. 53–4. 51. See the Catalogue of Treasury Officials (1780?—93), LVIA F. 11, ap. 1, b. 841, fols 29v–30. 52. He worked in this institution from 1775, see also loc. cit, fols 75v–76. 53. Loc. cit, fols. 52–3.

Part III

Texts and Travels

11 ‘An Earnest Gospeller’ and ‘A Dignified Martyr’ Networks of Textual Exchange Between the Grand Duchy of Lithuania and England, 1560s–1580s Hanna Mazheika In a letter dated 10 October 1580 to Secretary Francis Walsingham, the English agent in Poland John Rogers reported that in pursuit of J­ esuits James Bosgrave, Adam Broke and others he had enlisted the support of Mikołaj Radziwiłł ‘the Red’, noting that ‘this Voywoda is an ernest ­Gospeller, and an frende Unto the English nation’.1 Nine years later ­Jerome Horsey, England’s ambassador to Muscovy, visited Mikołaj’s son Krzysztof Mikołaj Radziwiłł ‘the Thunderbolt’ in Wilno (Vilnius, Viln´ia) and recounted in his travelogue his sumptuous reception by the Lithuanian magnate. Horsey spoke very highly of the palatine of Wilno: according to his account, Radziwiłł was ‘a prince of great excelencie, prowes and power, and religious protestant’ who much honoured and admired the virtues and graces of Elizabeth I.2 Such mutual respect and recognition between the Radziwiłłs and the Englishmen are surprising because it has been accepted that until the eighteenth century the Grand Duchy of Lithuania did not participate in the principal network of cultural exchanges.3 Even though instances of interaction between the Grand Duchy of Lithuania and England are anything but new to historians, the place of Lithuania within wider early modern networks still remains unknown in contrast to Poland, whose international contacts have come under close scrutiny. In fact, a study of Anglo-Lithuanian relations can not only expose notable interactions between the countries, but also reveals ways in which the confessional identity of the Grand Duchy of Lithuania was formed at the international level. In the mid-sixteenth century the reform movement in the Grand Duchy of Lithuania experienced a boost. In February  1555 Jean Calvin, disquieted by the slow progress of the Reformation in Poland, appealed to Mikołaj Radziwiłł ‘the Black’ to persuade the hesitant King Sigismund II Augustus to proceed more quickly with the introduction of the Reformation or to take up the position of leadership himself.4 Two years later Jan Łaski, who had returned from a long exile in Germany and England, was called to Radziwiłł’s court to further the development of the Reformed

170  H. Mazheika Church in Lithuania. Around that time the Protestant printing press took off in Lithuania when the first Protestant printing office was founded in Brześć (Brest), where the Protestant Bible in Polish was published in 1563.5 Printing activities in Brześć, and very soon in Wilno, Nieśwież (Niasvizh) and other places, not only played an important role in religious life of the Grand Duchy but also gave impetus to the development of publishing culture. Mikołaj Radziwiłł ‘the Black’ was a generous patron, sparing no expenses in printing Protestant books. His enthusiasm was very much reinforced by the support of the Swiss reformers Jean Calvin and Heinrich Bullinger, who encouraged it by sending book gifts to him.6 In 1557, the Dutch theologian Jan Utenhove, Łaski’s campaigner for the foundation of the Strangers’ Church in London and his travelling companion to Lithuania, suggested to Bullinger and the Italian theologian Peter Martyr Vermigli, a significant contributor to the Edwardian Reformation in England, that they should dedicate some of their books to Radziwiłł.7 In 1558, Bullinger published Festorum dierum Domini et Servatoris, &c. sermones ecclesiastici with a dedication to the magnate. In 1560, Calvin dedicated to him a second edition of his commentary on Acts, translated into English and printed in London in 1585.8 All the ardour with which printing houses were founded across the Grand Duchy of Lithuania indicates that the Protestant leaders saw print as an important instrument of the Reformation movement, especially within the multiconfessional environment of the Grand Duchy of Lithuania, characterized by the competition between the leaders of the religious denominations in their struggle to have more influence on the population. The ensuing effects from the efforts of the Protestant nobility were not long in coming. Two decades later, in 1575, Cardinal Stanisław Hozjusz became particularly disturbed by the strengthening of the Protestant movement in some provinces of the Commonwealth and neighbouring countries. He asked Pope Gregory XIII to send a Jesuit mission specifically to Lithuania and Sweden to make converts to the Catholic faith.9 It is quite problematic to examine the circulation of English texts within the Grand Duchy of Lithuania or to assess the level of their popularity in the sixteenth century due to the lack of sources such as inventories of booksellers or library catalogues. However, there was a tendency among Polish and Lithuanian writers to utilize various texts for their own aims, particularly in the debates with their religious rivals. The analysis of the use of these writings can cast a light on the impact the textual flow from England had on the religious milieu of the Grand Duchy of Lithuania. In 1567 in Brześć, Cyprian Bazylik—a Calvinist writer, translator and composer—published Historya o srogiem przesladowaniu Kościoła Bożego [History of the fierce persecution of the Church of God],10 a patchwork of the Polish translation of the martyrologies by the English martyrologist John Foxe, the Genevan martyrologist Jean Crespin, and the Swiss theologian and physician Heinrich Pantaleon. The main body

‘Earnest Gospeller’ and ‘Dignified Martyr’  171 of the Historya was followed by an account of the foundation of the Strangers’ Church in London, authored by Jan Utenhove, in which Jan Łaski had played one of the leading roles. Thus, by incorporating the depiction of Łaski’s engagement in establishing the church for exiles in England into his publication, Bazylik united the Reformations in England and Poland-Lithuania within a broader European Protestant movement. Bazylik mainly emulated Foxe’s Rerum in Ecclesia gestarum [. . .] commentarii (1559) as the preeminent model for his martyrology. Even the frontispiece of the Historya, featuring the martyrdom of four people (Jan Hus and the English martyrs John Hooper, Thomas Cranmer and William Gardiner), was inspired by similar illustrations from the Rerum. A fascinating fact is that the English edition of 1570 of Foxe’s Acts and Monuments carries some evidence of the links between Englishmen and Lithuanians. It contains a tale about the Duchess of Suffolk, Catherine Brandon, a Reformation heroine who escaped persecution with her family in the reign of Mary Tudor and took shelter in the Lithuanian province of Samogitia under the protection of the Radziwiłł family.11 It has been argued in recent English scholarship that either Foxe or his source gave the story a romance-like shape with ‘a comedic conclusion in which the king of Poland entertains them’ and elevates the Duchess’s husband Richard Bertie to the ‘earldom’ of Kroże (Kražiai).12 Sigismund Augustus’s charter of 1 June  1568 from the Lithuanian Metrica—which granted the town of Kroże to Mikołaj Krzysztof ­ Radziwiłł ‘the Orphan’, the son of Mikołaj Radziwiłł ‘the Black’—sheds more light on the story than is revealed in Foxe’s narrative.13 It d ­ iscloses that the Duchess of Suffolk, when in Poland, offered her jewellery (amounting to 3666 thalers) to the Polish king in exchange for p ­ roviding her and her family with refuge in the country. Her contribution was accepted by the Treasury, and she obtained outright possession of the town of Kroże. When she was leaving Lithuania, Radziwiłł ‘the Black’ returned the money to her, thus gaining the possession of Kroże. From both sources it appears that the Polish king played the most important part in the a­ ffair. Before religious toleration was written into legal codes, Sigismund ­Augustus must have often acted as a guarantor of religious freedom in the country. He remained loyal to the Catholic cause in spite of some manifestation of his sympathizing with the Calvinist doctrine.14 At first glance, it seems unlikely that both Protestants and Catholics of Poland-Lithuania could seize upon martyrs and martyrologies. The Commonwealth did not endure periods of religious persecution due to the system of consensus which helped to maintain the co-existence of a great variety of religious groups. In Poland-Lithuania, at least in the sixteenth century, in contrast to other European countries that underwent periods of religious warfare, there was almost no religious confrontation which would have turned into mass persecution. Despite the conditions of religious peacefulness and security, martyrologies found receptive audiences

172  H. Mazheika in the country. In his moralizing book for women, Sprawy abo Historyje znacznych niewiast [Affairs or histories of important women] of 1589, the Antitrinitarian poet Erazm Otwinowski composed poems devoted to the English female martyr Anne Askew and the de facto queen, Jane Grey, taking his inspiration from Bazylik’s compilations.15 In Cracow, the Historya influenced the mindset of the pastor of the Evangelical community Wojciech Węgierski who was able to read some parts of it from the pulpit.16 The indication of the popularity of Foxe’s Rerum was that its copies circulated within the country long after it was first printed in Basel—they could be found in the libraries of the Reformed Churches in Słuck (Slutsk) and Wilno even as late as in the nineteenth century.17 The most famous tribute paid to the English martyrologist came from the Lithuanian radical reformer Szymon Budny. In 1574, he dispatched a letter addressed to John Foxe.18 Besides highly praising Foxe’s work Budny outlined his Antitrinitarian concepts which condemned the divine nature of Christ, his pre-existence and the baptism of infants. At the end of the letter Budny promised to send Foxe his two latest works detailing ideas concerning Christ and infant baptism. In the letter Budny displayed a clear awareness of the Marian persecution and the religious reality of England in general. This was not Budny’s first attempt to establish contacts with Protestants abroad. Ten years earlier, in 1563, he had sent a letter to Bullinger, accompanied by a treatise in Latin. Although in this letter he presented himself mainly as an orthodox Protestant, he did not restrain from imbuing its content with Antitrinitarian theology and calling into question the Doctrine of the Trinity.19 This letter however met with no response, nor did the epistle sent to Foxe. Very likely, Foxe did not reply because of the radicalism of Budny’s views (which to Foxe would have bordered on heresy). Around that time Foxe became involved in a controversy with a group of Anabaptists at home; commencing a polemic against Budny could only reinvigorate radical believers. In the spring of 1574, the threat of spreading radical beliefs across England became urgent. Edmund Grindal, then archbishop of York and a close friend of Foxe, who helped him with collecting materials for various editions of Act and Monuments, expressed concern over the rumours that new sects and heresies of Judaism and Arianism had appeared in and around London. He decided to persecute severely some of their representatives as a preventive measure.20 In the following year another twenty-five Anabaptists were arrested. Five of them were accused of heresy and condemned to death by burning. As a well-known opponent of the death penalty, Foxe launched a campaign by sending letters to the queen, the Lord Treasurer, the Privy Council and Chief Justice, in which he advocated milder measures for the prisoners, arguing that burning heretics was ‘a popish practice incompatible with Protestant clemency, and that it was of dubious legality’.21 He clearly claimed the

‘Earnest Gospeller’ and ‘Dignified Martyr’  173 teaching of Anabaptists to be an error but suggested alternative modes of punishment. Not having succeeded in persuading the officials, Foxe took to reasoning with the Anabaptists about their erroneous doctrine, hoping they would renounce their beliefs. According to Foxe, their doctrine offended not only the Church of God, but also God himself, because they followed not the Word of God and the Scripture, but their own fanatical conceptions.22 Trying to avert the execution, Foxe nevertheless unambiguously conveyed his total disapproval of teachings that contradicted the established doctrine of the Church of England. It is well known that Budny’s translation of the Old Testament, printed in Nieśwież in 1572, was highly praised by contemporary Jewish scholars. In addition to his contacts with a German Judaizer Matias VeheGlirius, for his radical theology Budny was often suspected of being one of the propagators of Judaizing.23 He even published O urzędzie miecz używającem [Of the office using a sword] in an attempt to distance himself from the Judaizers.24 Foxe, on the other hand, attacked Judaism in his 1577 sermon De oliva evangelica by paralleling it with Catholicism.25 He vigorously accused both Jews and Catholics of their adherence to the old Law, their rejection of the Gospel and their following the leadership of castes of priests.26 Hence, he could have considered Budny’s proclivity for the Mosaic Law in the same vein. Even Budny’s and Foxe’s shared aspiration for religious toleration could not smooth over so many discrepancies in other aspects of their theological concepts.27 It is not quite clear which goals Budny pursued when writing to the most prominent Protestants abroad. His initiative to draw their attention seems to have been too ambitious and unrealistic from the very beginning. Antitrinitarian sympathizers were held in low esteem among the European reformers. In the late 1550s, Calvin was strongly discontented with the arrival of the Antitrinitarian polemicist Giorgio Biandrata in Poland-Lithuania, expressing his regret to Bullinger.28 Biandrata soon left for Transylvania, but Antitrinitarianism took root and started flourishing in the country. The spread of it was very much conditioned by favourable attitudes of the magnates towards exiles of different persuasions. From the 1550s onwards Poland and Lithuania attracted dissidents who enjoyed the patronage of the local nobility.29 Budny did not manage to enter the network of European reformers. Nor did his correspondence with Foxe become a channel for cultural exchange with England. What is important here is that his letter proves a keen interest in Foxe’s martyrology and, more broadly, the English Church. Despite Budny’s failure to establish contacts with Foxe, this case study brings to the fore that cultural exchange engaged many different social groups and was not just an intellectual pursuit. Around 1574, a certain Ralph Rutter visited Szymon Budny in Lithuania. After discussing religious affairs in England, he encouraged Budny to write to the English martyrologist. Before coming to Lithuania Rutter was a member

174  H. Mazheika of the Muscovy Company. In 1567, he arrived in Muscovy from London as an interpreter for the English ambassador Antony Jenkinson. There he met Thomas Glover, a former chief agent of the company, with whom he engaged in a trading venture on their own account and joined a group of Dutchmen at Narva. Their activities were supported by Tsar Ivan IV, whereas Elizabeth I requested the tsar to deprive the interlopers, who were ‘seriously defrauding’ her subjects, of all privileges.30 In 1570, the English ambassador received instructions that the interlopers should be sent to England. In May 1571, the Crimean Tatars burnt part of Moscow, including the English house which had accommodated some servants of the Muscovy Company.31 Among those who survived were Thomas Glover and Ralph Rutter with his wife, though the children of the latter perished in the fire.32 Three months later, in 1571, the tsar confirmed that he could send Rutter back to England, but Rutter and Glover had already escaped to Poland-Lithuania, which had the largest share of England’s Baltic trade and provided the economic liberties and privileges, guaranteed by Magdeburg Law in towns and the Union of Lublin within the whole Commonwealth.33 Shortly thereafter, Rutter met Budny in Łosk (Losk) and played an important intermediary role between the Lithuanian reformer and Foxe. The known facts of Rutter’s biography do not fully correlate with the influence he had on Budny, who was ‘one of the most accomplished biblical philologists of the Reformation and the Counter-Reformation in the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth’.34 However, it transpires that he was sufficiently well educated to impress the Lithuanian writer. As an interpreter he must have spoken several languages. From Budny’s letter it is evident that Rutter had read Foxe’s martyrology: during the visit he read to Budny some satirical verses on Edmund Bonner, bishop of London under the reign of Mary Tudor, which first appeared in the English edition of Acts and Monuments in 1563.35 Rutter’s accomplice Thomas Glover would have become the carrier of the reply, in case Foxe had written something back. Budny had never met Glover, who was in London at that time, but knew that he was going to come to Lithuania and assured in the letter to Foxe that he could easily find him through relatives residing in the country. Glover may have been one of those English merchants in Muscovy who triggered the ­resentment of the English queen. In a letter to the ambassador dated 10 February 1568, she complained about the English traders who had contracted marriages with Polish women without informing their masters in England and could therefore take refuge in Poland.36 As these events suggest, Rutter saw himself not only as a mediator between England and Lithuania but also as a messenger of Budny’s theology. He soon moved to Ducal Prussia to become very active in dispersing Antitrinitarian ideas among the youth of Königsberg (now Kaliningrad). This principal town of the Eastland Company with a significant English

‘Earnest Gospeller’ and ‘Dignified Martyr’  175 community37 could have served as a good jumping-off point for spreading Antitrinitarianism further west to England. Without any official permission, he began preaching against the Holy Trinity and distributing a small Arian treatise entitled Brevis demonstratio quod non sit ipse Deus Christ, qui pater, nec ei aequalis, which had come from Budny’s pen.38 The bishop of Pomerania, Johannes Wigand, a Lutheran theologian, immediately opposed the spread of this theology by publishing a polemic refutation Nebulae Arianae per D. Raphaelem Ritterum Londinensem sparsae, luce veritatis divinae discussae per D. Johannem Wigandum Episcopum Pomezaniensem in 1575. The Brevis Demonstratio had a very limited circulation and the copies neither passed beyond the borders of Ducal Prussia nor gained any popularity. As for Rutter, he soon disappeared from the radical Protestant landscape. The popularity of Protestant martyrologies abroad and the circulation of the texts within the country compelled Polish-Lithuanian Catholics to turn to the same genre. In 1579, the Jesuit Piotr Skarga, then Rector of the Academy of Wilno, published Żywoty Swiętych starego y nowego zakonu [Lives of the saints of the old and new covenant]. After the death of Mikołaj Radziwiłł ‘the Black’, his son Mikołaj Radziwiłł ‘the Orphan’, a convert to Catholicism, transferred the printing equipment from Brześć (Brest) to Wilno in order to set up a Catholic printing office in the capital of the Grand Duchy. It was in this very place that Żywoty Swiętych was first printed. Radziwiłł contributed the immense sum of 1000 złotys towards the publishing costs.39 In the dedication to Queen Anna Jagiellonka, Skarga lavishly lauded Radziwiłł along with Bishop Walerian Protasewicz, the founder of Wilno Academy—a stronghold of the Counter-Reformation in Lithuania. Skarga’s intention was to reach the widest possible audience. In the preface he deplored the decline of piety among the people of the Commonwealth who were engulfed by heresy and therefore distanced from the Bible. The main body of the work contained the calendars filled with saints and early Christian and medieval martyrs. In the hagiographies of the calendars, natives of the British Isles prevailed over any other nation. This can be explained by the influence of Cardinal Hozjusz, who had established close ties with the circle of Elizabethan recusants in Central Europe.40 The significance of Żywoty Swiętych for the religious culture of Poland-Lithuania may be comparable with that of Foxe’s Acts and Monuments for the English Reformation. It reappeared in new editions at the height of Protestant-Catholic polemics in the late sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries with considerable changes and additions from other English sources.41 Following the presentation of the lives of the saints, there was a supplement, which Skarga called ‘A supplement about those lives of the holy martyrs who suffered for Christ, the truth and the Church during our ages’. It focused on the massacres and atrocities inflicted by Protestant

176  H. Mazheika regimes on English and French Catholics and on Jesuits worldwide.42 Skarga drew the information about contemporary English martyrs from De visibili monarchia ecclesiae (1571), a work by the English religious controversialist Nicholas Sander (an employee of Hozjusz in the 1550s) that was dedicated to the Cardinal among others.43 It was the earliest Catholic text that presented those who had been executed in consequence of their support for the papal bull that excommunicated Queen Elizabeth as martyrs.44 In a separate preface to the supplement, Skarga attacked Protestantism by drawing a firm distinction between innocent Catholic martyrs and Protestant heretics led by false prophets, questioning the possibility for heretics to suffer martyrdom. The supplement focused on the sixteenthcentury martyrs with particular attention to those of the English Reformation. In general, in his references to heresy, Skarga followed the strategy of Marian authors and theologians who defended English Catholic martyrs and vilified Protestant ones.45 The author reminded the reader of the horrors of heresy by enriching his work with the stories of contemporary Catholic martyrs and thus disclosed the negative sides of the Reformation. However, he avoided attacking the leading Protestants of PolandLithuania. His book mainly addressed points of theological controversy rather than engaged in direct political confrontation but served as a useful means to resist the potential damage posed by the popularity of western European martyrologies. What is peculiar about Skarga’s text, making it similar to Bazylik’s martyrology, is that they both chose to frame and memorialize the sufferings of foreigners due to the absence of local martyrs. The only difference was that Skarga managed to integrate his material into a genuine historical narrative. In western Europe the execution of either Protestants or Catholics signalled that they had died for their beliefs. Their deaths were therefore commemorated in the writings of their compatriots. After the Confederacy of Warsaw had been agreed in 1573, persecution of heterodoxy was not permitted in Poland-Lithuania. Due to this legislation local martyrdom stories did not exist. The 1585 edition of Skarga’s lives of the saints printed in Cracow was expanded with the account of the martyrdom of the Jesuit priest Edmund Campion, who had been executed by the Elizabethan regime on 1 December  1581. In the same year De persecutione Anglicana epistola by Robert Persons—the first account of Campion’s public trial, torture and execution—was printed in Rouen. The text rapidly spread among and across Catholic communities on the Continent. The Catholics of Poland-Lithuania enthusiastically translated the recorded testimony of Campion’s final minutes on the scaffold. The Polish edition was printed in Poznań a few months after the original work was released. In the 1585 edition of Żywoty Swiętych Skarga also acclaimed the suffering of the English Jesuit James Bosgrave, professor of mathematics at Wilno Academy in the 1570s and whom Skarga knew

‘Earnest Gospeller’ and ‘Dignified Martyr’  177 personally.46 In 1580, Bosgrave was sent from the Commonwealth to England. Hardly had he landed on the Suffolk coast, when he was arrested. He was imprisoned and taken to trial with Edmund Campion and seven other prisoners.47 Bosgrave’s name was included in the final indictment accusing Campion and other papists of a plot to overthrow and kill the queen.48 He was sentenced to be quartered. When Campion and others were taken for execution Bosgrave was reprieved, presumably for denying the papal power to depose rulers and acknowledging the temporal authority of the queen during interrogation.49 He remained incarcerated for the next five years. In 1583, King Stephen Báthory exerted his influence to release him by asking Elizabeth I to return a Jesuit imprisoned for professing the Roman Catholic faith to Poland so that he could resume his position at Wilno Academy.50 Bosgrave lingered in captivity two more years before he was eventually freed. He returned to Wilno only to move very soon to Poland.51 To all appearances Skarga was unaware of Bosgrave’s reprieve when he was composing the part on the English Jesuits, assuming his execution. Nevertheless, his story was of great value for Skarga’s narrative in the later editions. Bosgrave’s ties with Poland-Lithuania and his relations with Edmund Campion made it possible to connect Campion with the Commonwealth. Skarga retained the account but interpolated in the text the information about Báthory’s request to Elizabeth. This connectivity facilitated better deliberation of Campion’s martyrdom in a PolishLithuanian context. The figure of Edmund Campion and his writings upturned controversies in the 1580s. In 1583, the Latin edition of Rationes Decem, created by Campion before his imprisonment in 1581, was printed in Wilno. The following year its two Polish translations extolling Campion and referring to him as a dignified martyr were produced at the same printing house of Mikołaj Radziwiłł ‘the Orphan’ in Wilno. One translation was made by Skarga at the request of the Polish king; the other by Kasper Wilkowski, a Catholic convert from Antitrinitarianism, at the ­insistence of the Polish queen. Both versions had many similarities but more ­importantly they prove that both Skarga and Wilkowski had Campion’s letters at their disposal and were well aware of the English Protestant and Catholic polemics surrounding Campion’s work.52 The main difference between the translations was the targeted audiences. Wilkowski used his Dziesięć mocnych dowodow [Ten strong proofs] as a polemical tool to involve himself in dispute with his former co-religionists—the Antitrinitarians.53 Skarga pursued a different aim.54 His Dziesięć wywodów [Ten reasons], addressed to the academic elite, was meant to encourage Catholic belief and settle the business of the Counter-Reformation. The translation fulfilled an obvious martyrological function. He broadened it into a martyrological discourse by describing Campion’s martyrdom in detail. In the afterword Skarga appealed

178  H. Mazheika for the reader to pray for the Catholics of England. This time he connected Campion with Poland-Lithuania by presenting the Catholics of both countries as one spiritually bound community. All this shows that the aspiration was to develop a premise for adopting Campion as the local martyr so that the prospect of martyrdom would not be too remote for the laity. This would entail a more effective use of other martyrological histories in Żywoty Swiętych through which people could understand religious change. The evidence of the reuse of the accounts of English martyrs has provided grounds for some historians to assume that in the early modern period England was predominantly perceived as a kingdom of ­religious oppression.55 However, the Protestant perspective undermines the ­assumption. On this side of the confessional divide England was seen as a mainstay of the reform movement. Attempting to rebut Jesuits’ ­arguments, the eminent polemicist and leader of Lithuanian Calvinists, Andrzej Wolan, in his Apologia, printed in Wilno in 1587, relied on the refutation of Campion’s Rationes Decem undertaken by the English Protestant controversialists William Whitaker and Laurence Humphrey.56 Not only did he involve himself in polemics with English Jesuits such as Arthur Laurence Faunt, vice-rector of Jesuit College in Poznań and later professor at Wilno Academy, but also extensively employed writings of English Protestants in his dispute with Polish Jesuits.57 In another polemical work against Jesuits, Ad scurilem et famosum labellum, Wolan placed Elizabeth I alongside Martin Luther, Jean Calvin and Theodore Beza.58 Contesting views on religious life in England did not hinder the theologians in their desire to utilize English texts as tools in cross-confessional debates. On the contrary, this divergence was stimulating, and encompassed a wide variety of polemical literature. A complex approach to the study of textual exchange, embracing both Catholic and Protestant dimensions, reveals another important aspect of Anglo-Lithuanian relations at this time. The second half of the sixteenth century was the period when the Protestant identity of the Grand Duchy of Lithuania was emerging in opposition to the Catholic ­identity of the Kingdom of Poland, at least in the eyes of Englishmen. In a ­letter sent to the rector of the English college in Rome in 1580, ­William Shepreve, a Catholic priest and scholar, wrote about Radziwiłł ‘the Orphan's’ stay in Bologna: ‘This man what with the good diligence of the Jesuites [. . .] and other good instructions, hath so profited herein, that he resolved with him self to renounce all the errors, the Schismatical and Diabolical and Paganical acts and opinions of that of his corrupted country’.59 In the other camp, amicable encounters between the Calvinist members of the Radziwiłł family with the English diplomats demonstrate that English Protestants considered the Lithuanian magnates as reliable allies in confrontation with the papists. This reputation was anchored in the early seventeenth century when Janusz I Radziwiłł established a

‘Earnest Gospeller’ and ‘Dignified Martyr’  179 correspondence network with the English authorities, thereby inducing other members of the family to enliven and strengthen their contacts with England.

Notes 1. Elementa ad Fontium Editiones, vol. 4, Res Polonicæ Elisabetha I Angliæ regnante conscriptæ ex Archivis Publicis Londoniarum, ed. Charles H. Talbot, Rome: Institutum Historicum Polonicum Romæ, 1962, p. 19. 2. Russia at the Close of the Sixteenth Century Comprising the Treatise of the Russe Common Wealth by Giles Fletcher, and the Travels of Sir Jerome Horsey: Now for the First Time Printed Entire from His Own Manuscript, ed. Edward A. Bond, London: The Hakluyt Society, 1856, p. 251. 3. Francisco Bethencourt and Florike Egmond, ‘Introduction’, in Francisco Bethencourt and Florike Egmond (eds.), Cultural Exchange in Early Modern Europe: Correspondence and Cultural Exchange in Europe, 1400–1700, vol. 3, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2007, pp. 1–31 (p. 17). 4. Joannis Calvini opera quæsupersunt Omnia, vol. 15, eds. Edouard Cunitz, Johann-Wilhelm Baum and Eduard W. E. Reuss, Brunswick: C.A. Schwetschke, 1876, p. 429. 5. Mikalaj Nikalayeu, Historyia belaruskai knihi, vol. 1, Knizhnaia kultura Vialikaha Kniastva Litouskaha, Minsk: Belaruskaia Encyklapedyia imia Piatrusia Brouki, 2009, p. 176. 6. Tobias Budke, ‘A Network and Its Book Gifts: The Case of Mikołaj Radziwiłł “Czarny” ’, in Anna-Maria Rimm, Stefan Kiedroń and Patrycja Poniatowska (eds.), Early Modern Print Culture in Central Europe: Proceedings of the Young Scholars Section of the Wrocław Seminars, September 2013, Wrocław: Wydawnictwo Uniwersytetu Wrocławskiego, 2014, pp.  79–92 (pp. 87–8). 7. Original Letters Relative to the English Reformation, Written During the Reigns of King Henry VIII., King Edward VI., and Queen Mary: Chiefly from the Archives of Zurich, vol. 2, ed. Hastings Robinson, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1846, p. 599. 8. Jean Calvin, The Commentaries of M. Iohn Caluin vpon the Actes of the Apostles, Faithfully Translated out of Latine into English for the Great Profite of our Countrie-men, by Christopher Fetherstone student in diuinitie, London: Thomas Dawson, 1585. 9. Calendar of State Papers Relating to English Affairs in the Vatican Archives, vol. 2, 1572–1578, ed. J. M. Rigg, London: His Majesty’s Stationery Office, 1926, p. 212. 10. Historya o srogiem przesladowaniu Kościoła Bożego, w ktorey są wypisane sprawy onych Męczennikow, ktorzy począwszy od Wiklefa y Husa aż do tego naszego wieku [.  .  .] prawdę Ewanyeliiey Swiętey krwią swą zapieczętowali. Przydana iest ktemu Historya o postanowieniu y potym rosproszeniu Kościołow cudzoziemskich w Londynie nad ktorymi był Biskupem Jan Łaski, ed. Cyprian Bazylik, Brześć: Cyprian Bazylik, 1567. 11. John Foxe, The First Volume of the Ecclesiasticall History Contaynyng the Actes and Monumentes of Thynges Passed in Euery Kynges Tyme in this Realme, Especially in the Church of England Principally to Be Noted, 2nd edn, London: John Daye, pp. 2323–6. 12. John King, ‘Fiction and Fact in Foxe’s Book of Martyrs’, in David Loades (ed.), John Foxe and the English Reformation, Aldershot and Brookfield, VT: Scholar Press, 1997, pp. 12–35 (p. 34).

180  H. Mazheika 13. Lietuvos Metrika, Knyga Nr. 51 (1566–1574), eds. Algirdas Baliulis, Aivas Ragauskas and Raimonda Ragauskienė, Vilnius: Žara, 2000, pp. 143–7. 14. Wojciech Kriegseisen, Between State and Church: Confessional Relations from Reformation to Enlightenment: Poland—Lithuania—Germany— Netherlands, Frankfurt am Main: Peter Lang Edition, 2016, pp. 363, 424; Williston Walker, John Calvin: The Organizer of Reformed Protestantism, 1509–1564, Eugene: Wipf and Stock, 2004, p. 394. 15. Piotr Wilczek, Erazm Otwinowski: pisarz ariański, Katowice: Gnome Books, 1994, pp. 82–3. 16. Waldemar Kowalski, The Great Immigration: Scots in Cracow and Little Poland, circa 1500–1660, Leiden and Boston, MA: Brill, 2015, p. 172. 17. There was still a copy of Foxe’s Rerum at the library of the EvangelicalReformed Church in Słuck in 1840. The same edition was among the titles of the nineteenth-century catalogue of the library of Wilno Synod. Besides, the library held Foxe’s, Eicasmi, seu Meditationes in sacram Apocalypsim (1596) Lietuvos mokslų akademijos Vrublevskių biblioteka, Vilnius, manuscript department (hereafter LMAVB), F[ondas] 40–782, fol. 2v; LMAVB, F. 40–375, fol. 139r. 18. The letter was discovered by the Polish historian Stanisław Kot who conducted research on Polish manuscripts in British archival repositories in the 1930s. Stanisław Kot, ‘Anglo-Polonica: angielskie źródła rękopiśmienne do dziejów stosunków kulturalnych Polski z Anglją’, Nauka Polska, 20, 1935, pp. 49–140; idem, ‘Źrόdła do historji propagandy Braci Polskich w Anglji’, Reformacja w Polsce: Organ Towarzystwa do Badania Dziejów Reformacji w Polsce, 7–8, 1935–36, pp. 25–32, 316–40 (pp. 316–23). 19. Stefan Fleischmann, Szymon Budny: ein theologisches Portrait des polnischweißrussischen Humanisten und Unitariers (ca. 1530–1593), Cologne: Böhlau Verlag, 2006, pp. 92–3. 20. Robert Wallace, Antitrinitarian Biography: Or, Sketches of the Lives and Writings of Distinguished Antitrinitarians, Exhibiting a View of the State of the Unitarian Doctrine and Worship in the Principal Nations of Europe, from the Reformation to the Close of the Seventeenth Century, to Which Is Prefixed a History of Unitarianism in England During the Same Period, vol. 1, London: E. T. Whitfield, 1850, pp. 34–5. 21. Josiah Pratt, The Church Historians of England: Reformation Period, vol. 1, part 1, London: George Beeley, 1855, appendices XI–XIII, pp. 28–32; John Coffey, Persecution and Toleration in Protestant England, 1558–1689, Harlow: Longman, 2000, p. 99. 22. Pratt, The Church Historians, p. 78. 23. Earl Morse Wilbur, A History of Unitarianism in Transylvania, England, and America, vol. 1, Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1952, p. 370. 24. Zdzisław Pietrzyk, ‘Judaizers in Poland in the Second Half of the Sixteenth Century’, in Antony Polonsky, Jakub Basista and Andrzej Link-Lenczowski (eds.), The Jews in Old Poland, 1000–1795, London and New York: I. B. Tauris, 1993, pp. 32–3. 25. John Foxe, A Sermon Preached at the Christening of a Certaine Iew at London by Iohn Foxe. Conteining an Exposition of the XI. Chapter of S. Paul to the Romanes. Translated Out of Latine into English by Iames Bell, London: Christopher Barker, 1578. 26. Elizabeth Evenden and Thomas S. Freeman, Religion and the Book in Early Modern England: The Making of Foxe’s “Book of Martyrs”, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2011, p. 279. 27. For Budny’s concept of toleration see George Huntston Williams, The Radical Reformation, 3rd edn, Kirksville, MO: Truman State University Press,

‘Earnest Gospeller’ and ‘Dignified Martyr’  181 1995, p. 1150; Bodleian Library, Oxford MS Rawl. letters 107 fol. 100r; for Foxe’s see Viggo Norskov Olsen, ‘Foxe’s Concept of Toleration’, Andrews University Seminar Studies, 5, January  1967, 1, pp.  28–45 (p.  43); idem, John Foxe and the Elizabethan Church, Berkeley and Los Angeles, CA and London: University of California Press, 1974, pp. 197–219. 28. Maciej Ptaszyński, ‘The Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth’, in Howard Louthan and Graeme Murdock (eds.), A Companion to the Reformation in Central Europe, Leiden and Boston, MA: Brill, 2015, pp. 40–67 (p. 51). 29. Joanna Kostylo, ‘Commonwealth of All Faiths: Republican Myth and the Italian Diaspora in Sixteenth-Century Poland—Lithuania’, in Karin Friedrich and Barbara M. Pendzich (eds.), Citizenship and Identity in a Multinational Commonwealth: Poland-Lithuania in Context, 1552–1772, Leiden and Boston, MA: Brill, 2009, pp. 171–205 (pp. 180, 183–5). 30. For the details of Rutter’s and Glover’s activities in Russia and negotiations between the Russian tsar and Elizabeth I see The Principal Navigations, Voyages, Traffiques and Discoveries of the English Nation, vol. 3, eds. Richard Hakluyt and Edmund Goldsmid, Glasgow: J. MacLehose and Sons, 1903; J. De Hamel, England and Russia: Comprising the Voyages of John Tradescant the Elder, Sir Hugh Willoughby, Richard Chancellor, Nelson, and Others, to the White Sea, etc., London: R. Bentley, 1854, p. 186. 31. Thomas Stuart Willan, The Early History of the Russia Company, Manchester: Manchester University Press, 1956, p. 130. 32. Ibid., p. 132; The Principal Navigations, pp. 169–70. 33. The Principal Navigations, p. 302; Henryk Zins, England and the Baltic in the Elizabethan Era, Manchester: Manchester University Press, 1972, p. 7. 34. David Frick, Polish Sacred Philology in the Reformation and the CounterReformation: Chapters in the History of Controversies (1551–1632), Berkeley and Los Angeles, CA and London: University of California Press, 1989, p. 81. 35. Foxe, Actes and Monuments, pp. 1689–90. 36. Hamel, Russia and England, p. 186. 37. The Acts and Ordinances of the Eastland Company, ed. Maud Sellers, London: Offices of the Royal Historical Society, 1906, p. xi. 38. Kot, ‘Źrόdła do historji propagandy’, pp. 323–6; Christopher Sandius, Bibliotheca antitrinitariorum, sive Catalogus scriptorum et succincta narratio de vita eorum auctorum qui . . . dogma de tribus in unico Deo per omnia aequalibus personis  .  .  . impugnarunt  .  .  . opus posthumum Christophori Chr. Sandii. Accedunt alia quaedam scripta  .  .  . quae omnia simul juncta Compendium historiae ecclesiasticae Unitarioru, Amsterdam: Johannes Aconius, 1684, p. 55. 39. Maria Barbara Topolska, Czytelnik i książka w Wielkim Księstwie Litewskim w dobie Renesansu i Baroku, Wrocław: Ossolineum, 1984, p. 148. 40. For more details between Hozjusz and English Catholics see Urszula Szumska, Anglia a Polska w epoce humanizmu i reformacji: związki kulturalne, Lwów: Krawczyriski, 1938, pp. 94–8; Clarinda E. Calma, ‘Stanisław Hozjusz jako Patron I Protektor Elżbietańskich Rekuzantów’, in Tomasz Garwoliński (ed.), Iubilaeum Warmiae et Bibliothecae, Olsztyn: Wydawnictwo Wyższego Seminarium Duchowego Metropolii Warmińśkiej “Hosianum”, 2016, pp. 28–41. 41. Mirosława Hanusiewicz-Lavallee, ‘Recusant Prose in the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth at the Turn of the Sixteenth Century’, in Teresa Bela, Clarinda Calma and Jolanta Rzegocka (eds.), Publishing Subversive Texts in Elizabethan England and the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth, Leiden and Boston, MA: Brill, 2016, pp. 9–27 (p. 19).

182  H. Mazheika 42. Piotr Skarga, Żywoty Swiętych starego y nowego zakonu z pisma świętego y z poważnych pisarzow y Doktorow koscielnych wybranych. Cz. 2, Wilno: Mikołaj Krzysztof Radziwiłł, 1579, p. 1122. 43. Janusz Tazbir, ‘Elizabeth I  and Her Contemporary Polish Opinion’, Acta Poloniae Historica, 61, 1990, pp. 91–115 (p. 93). 44. Anne Dillon, The Construction of Martyrdom in the English Catholic Community, 1535–1603, Aldershot: Ashgate, 2002, p. 13. 45. William Wizeman, ‘Martyrs and Anti-Martyrs and Mary Tudor’s Church’, in Thomas S. Freeman and Thomas F. Mayer (eds.), Martyrs and Martyrdom in England, c. 1400–1700, Woodbridge: Boydell, 2007, pp. 166–79 (p. 167). 46. Skarga, Żywoty Swiętych, p. 1130. 47. Ernest E. Reynolds, Campion and Parsons: The Jesuit Mission of 1580–1, London: Sheed and Ward, 1980, pp. 149–97. 48. Ibid., pp. 160–2. 49. Thomas M. McCoog, ‘And Touching Our Society’: Fashioning Jesuit Identity in Elizabethan England, Toronto: Pontific Institute of Medieval Studies, 2013, pp. 136–40. 50. Ibid., p. 138. 51. Thomas H. Clancy, ‘Bosgrave, James’, ODNB, www.oxforddnb.com/view/ article/2935 accessed 16 April 2014. McCoog, ‘And Touching Our Society’, p.  140, does not list Wilno among the destinations Bosgrave visited after release. 52. The translations have drawn a significant amount of attention from scholars; Clarinda Calma and Jolanta Rzegocka, ‘O nazywaniu rzeczy po imieniu: wileńskie tłumaczenia dzieł Edmunda Campiona SJ’, Senoji Lietuvos Literatūra, 35–6, knyga, 2013, pp. 367–78. For a detailed comparison see Clarinda E. Calma, ‘Edmund Campion’s Rationes Decem: A Survey of Campion’s Books in Polish Libraries’, Religious and Sacred Poetry: An International Quarterly of Religion, Culture and Education, 1, 2013, pp. 86–7. 53. For a detailed analysis of the translation, see Clarinda E. Calma, ‘Communicating Across Communities: Explicitation in Gaspar Wilkowski’s Polish Translation of Edmund Campion’s Rationes Decem’, Journal of Jesuit Studies, 1, 2014, pp. 589–606. 54. For the literary analysis of the translation see Clarinda Calma, ‘Piotr Skarga tłumaczem nowoczesnym? Polski i angielski przekład Rationes decem Edmunda Campiona—próba porównania’, Acta Universitatis Lodziensis. Folia Litteraria Polonica, 3, 21, 2013, pp. 233–44. 55. Hanusiewicz-Lavallee, ‘Recusant Prose’, p. 27. 56. Andrzej Wolan, Apologia Andreae Volani Ad Calumnias Et Convitia, Pestiferae Hominum Sectae, qui se falso Iesuitas vocan, Wilno: drukarnia Daniel z Łęczycy, 1587, fol. C1v. 57. For Wolan’s references to the writings of West European theologians, see Kęstutis Daugirdas, Andreas Volanus und die Reformation im Großfürstentum Litauen, Mainz am Rhein: Verlag Philipp von Zabern, 2008, pp. 131–2, 135, 291. 58. Andrzej Wolan, Ad scurilem et famosum libellum, Iesuiticae scholae Vilnensis, et potissimum maledici conviciatoris Andreae Iurgevitii, sacrificuli [et] Canonici Vilnensis Andreae Volani responsio, Wilno: s.n., 1589, p. 33. 59. Gregory Martin’s Roma Sancta 1581, ed. George B. Parks, Rome: Edizioni di Storia e Letteratura, 1969, p. 263.

12 Terrible Reality? Cannibalism in the Grand Duchy of Lithuania and in Livonia in the Sixteenth to Eighteenth Centuries—Between Chroniclers’ Invective and the Findings of Cultural Anthropology Aleh Dziarnovich What do the narrative sources of the sixteenth to eighteenth centuries conceal when we read their descriptions of the losses and disasters suffered by the civilian population during wars and civil catastrophes? Are their accounts impartial statements, or do they reflect anger, outrage or deep sorrow? When describing the calamities of that time, the most emotional and impressive stories which historians can present to readers today tell of cannibalism. These narratives do indeed recall real events. However, should we always treat the information provided by the narrative sources of the seventeenth century at face value, as a record of actual facts? May we discern behind the apparently factual descriptions of cannibalism a reality best viewed from the perspective of psychology, cultural anthropology and physiology?

‘Hunger Song’ The kind of imagery used in the texts under discussion to portray the disasters of the wars had already been developed in the earlier Belarusian-Lithuanian Chronicles. They share a fundamental feature in their description of events—the confrontation of Christians and pagans, or a comparison of the actions of other Christians with those of the pagans.1 The Suprasl´skaia letopis’ (one of the earliest redactions of the BelarusianLithuanian Chronicle of 1446) describes the catastrophic situation of starvation on a mass scale in the years 6944–46 (1436–38) in these terms: In those years there was a great famine in Smolensk, animals ate humans in the forests and along the roads, and in the city dogs ate people, dragging the heads, arms and legs of the dead along the streets. And because of their great hunger people ate the flesh of small children and in the countryside and villages they ate carrion in

184  A. Dziarnovich the Lenten Fast, and a quarter [of a barrel] of rye cost two schocks of groats. . . . And the people lying on the streets were cast into common graves.2 The chronicler of the Grand Duchy of Lithuania Maciej Stryjkowski writes of the famine that hit the country during the Livonian War in his Kronika Polska, Litewska, Żmódzka i wszystkiej Rusi:3 ‘A great famine befell Lithuania and Poland in 1570, so that the ordinary folk ate the carcasses of dead cattle and dogs, and finally they ate corpses that they dug up’. We should remember that Stryjkowski wrote his Kronika in the 1570s. It would seem that the lines quoted above were taken over from Stryjkowski by the author of the seventeenth-century Khronika Litovskaia i Zhmoitskaia: ‘On the great famine of 1571. There was a great famine in Poland and Lithuania. The poor ate the carcasses of animals and dogs, and finally dug up corpses from the ground, ate them and then died themselves’.4 These lines were transmitted further; we find similar information in the Historiæ Lituaniæ by Albertus Wiiuk Koiałowicz, published in two parts in 1650 and 1669: ‘Lithuania was stricken by an unbelievably severe famine in the middle of winter; the more needy peasants fed themselves not only on the meat of dead animals, but also on the corpses of the dead that they dug up. The terrible situation eased with the passing of winter’.5 A visual depiction of this information can be found in an Augsburg single-leaf woodcut from the collection (the Wickiana) of Johann Jakob Wick (1522–88), a Calvinist pastor from Zürich. The pamphlet is entitled ‘A frightening but true dreadful famine and pestilential plague that occurred in the land of Rus´ and Lithuania in the year 1571’ (Figure 12.1).6 The woodcut was printed in Munich in the publishing house of Adam Berger, a man truly devoted to the reform of the Roman Catholic Church, and funded by Hans Rogel of Augsburg.7 The detailed naturalistic description of a plague pandemic, mass cannibalism and other horrors in this pamphlet was accompanied by a picturesque woodcut measuring 182  by  234  mm, and portraying in a naïve yet vivid manner the main scenes of the tragedy—killing with the aim of cannibalism and eating corpses taken down from the gibbet.8 In the bottom left hand corner a man is using an axe to chop up a human body lying on a table; in the opposite corner a man and a woman are tearing the remains of a female body apart; another man is chewing a human leg; a third man is carrying the body of a child while a fourth is bearing a severed leg and hand skewered on a spear. In the background on the left hand side we can see human body parts on a spit being roasted over an open fire, and bodies—taken down from the gibbet or removed from the torture wheel—are being eaten. The house to the right of the picture is in flames. It would be hard to conceive of a more horrific picture being created by artistic means.

Terrible Reality?  185

Figure 12.1 Augsburg single-leaf (1571) ‘A frightening but true dreadful famine and pestilential plague that occurred in the land of Rus´ and Lithuania in the year 1571’ Source: Wikimedia Commons. {{PD-Art}}

Another publication, similar in topic to the pamphlet mentioned above, is a newssheet with rhymed German text which could be sung to the melody provided there. It was written by Jost Sommer and printed in Basel in octavo in 1572 by Samuel Apiarius.9 The full title of the newssheet reads as follows: ‘A pitiful story from Rus´ and Lithuania is here set out to be sung; it was written by a learned gentleman by name Jost Summer, Pastor in Vilna [Vilnius, Vil’nia, Wilno], for the noble-born ­gentleman Johan Jörgen von Gleissenthal, Prelate in Spesshart in 1572. To the melody ‘Come here to me says God’s one Son’. There then follows a coloured woodcut depicting a scene in which a man is knifing a boy to death. Forward slashes ‘/’ are used in the text to denote the rhythm of the song’. Unlike books, such newssheets could be printed very quickly and were cheap. They were aimed at a very broad public—including people who could not read, but were nevertheless hungry for information; they would

186  A. Dziarnovich listen to them being read aloud, and look eagerly at the illustrations.10 Therefore the methods of presenting information in such publications targeted a susceptible mass audience, and so served the popular culture of that time.11 Hence the outer form of these pamphlets and newssheets was determined by their social function: the information was followed by lurid headlines, which often contained adjectives like ‘horrific’, ‘atrocious’, ‘sinister’ or ‘wonderful’.12 The coloured woodcuts which often appeared in them were selected in such a way as to lure potential buyers. By the end of the fifteenth century printed news had already become a commodity that sold well and brought in a fine profit.13 No wonder human disasters were among the most popular topics of the newssheets. There also was a separate category of ‘flyers’ or leaflets, printed on just one side of the page. These were occasional publications, often containing engravings or coloured woodcuts. From the producers’ and printers’ viewpoint, such publications had a number of advantages. First, they were cheap to produce and easy to sell. In terms of graphics they catered for mass consumption, in which pictures played an important role. Sometimes these pictures resembled a nightmare. The Swiss scholar Bruno Weber has made a detailed study of the Wickiana. He has this to say about images such as those described above: ‘The worst, most horrific things that people could imagine, things that rendered them helpless, scared out of their wits and thoroughly wretched, and made them wave their arms about wildly, were precisely what was readily depicted in the fairy-tale like images on these leaflets. Truly horrifying events—involving bodies being torn apart and eaten—were depicted calmly and with obvious satisfaction’.14 However, we cannot explain everything in terms of the pursuit of commercial success and the availability of means to illustrate people’s phobias. Even in the early modern period the consciousness of European humans still retained some syncretism, and the understanding of the existence of evil had a settled, legitimate place in it. Evidence and rumours of the tragic events of the early 1570s in the Grand Duchy of Lithuania appeared in condensed form in the text of a Latin song which was found among the archival papers of Sophia Jagiellon, Duchess of Brunswick (1522–75): ‘A new song translated from ­Polish into Latin concerning the most severe and hitherto unheard of famine which in a short time destroyed a large section of the common people of the Grand Duchy of Lithuania in 1570–1571’.15 The work consists of eighteen quatrains. The anonymous author appeals to the mercy of God who has become enraged by ‘our most heinous sins and wicked wrongdoing’. In a truly grotesque manner the author describes the horrors caused by the famine: ‘a starving father cooks his own son, brother eats the body of brother, a man cuts up his wife’s body, and woeful mothers roast their children’.16 Seeking to save themselves from starvation people eat the leaves of trees, even the meat of dead dogs, and they kill

Terrible Reality?  187 one another fighting over a scrap of bread. The text concludes with a plea to God: ‘Oh Lord! We beg Thee, deign to suppress Thy wrath, for Thou hast said that when Thy paternal punishment has been meted out Thou shalt show mercy to sinners. After these calamitous and terrible years grant us better times and we shall be saved. Amen’.17 The text of the ‘Nova cantio’ is thought to have been brought to Germany in June 1573 by Dr Barthold Reich († 1589),18 one of the envoys of Duchess Sophia to the session of the sejm (parliament) held in the village of Kamień near Warsaw between 5 April and 20 May of that year to elect a new king of Poland and grand duke of Lithuania. It was Reich who, in a letter to Duke Julius of Brunswick-Wolfenbüttel (1568–89), wrote of the extraordinarily high cost of living in the Grand Duchy of Lithuania in 1570–71, adding that he would send additional information on the topic: ‘and I will send your Excellency news of the terrible rise in prices that occurred in Lithuania in the years 1570–71’.19 It is highly likely that the news source he mentions (‘Zeitung’) is the text of the ‘Nova Cantio’. The full title of the work demonstrates that it is a Latin translation of a Polish-language text. In general, songs about the plagues and famines which ravaged Poland and the Grand Duchy of Lithuania in the second half of the sixteenth century are well known from printed cantionals (collections of religious songs).20 However, we find no mention of the ‘Nova cantio’ in them. One possible hypothesis is that this particular work is a translation of a text that has not survived, ‘Songs of the ­Famine in Lithuania’ by the Calvinist polemicist Stanisław Sudrowski, who was elected senior preacher of the Calvinist congregations of the Grand Duchy of Lithuania in 1573.21 Jan Pirożyński develops this hypothesis, suggesting that the ‘Songs of the Famine in Lithuania’ may have formed part of a collection of ‘pieśni pospolite’ (popular songs/hymns) which has not survived and is known only through a bibliographical description of Sudrowski’s works: ‘A lesson and a confirmation of how a weak and feeble Christian should appear and give account of himself before God’s majesty’.22 No hymns or religious songs whatsoever are included in the only known copy of this work, an edition of 1600.23 Pirożyński notes that this does not necessarily mean that there were none in any previous edition(s).24 In the 1600 edition, the ‘lesson and confirmation’ is given as one of the appendices to the Calvinist Catechism which had been previously published in Wilno in 1594 and 1598.25 These appendices were prepared separately for publication, and their content differed from one edition to another. We may also assert that the ‘Nova Cantio’ of 1573 and the newssheet ‘Ein Erbermlich geschicht’ of 1572, which we discussed earlier, have textual similarities that are more than mere coincidences. We find another similarity in the story of a Samogitian boy who killed and ate thirteen people; God’s punishment for this was to have him perish in the fire that burned his house down. Is this not the house that we can see in

188  A. Dziarnovich flames in the upper right hand corner of the coloured woodcut entitled ‘Ein Erschröckenliche doch Warhaftige grausame hungers nott und Pestilenzische plag’? It should be noted that both ‘Ein Erbermlich geschicht’ and ‘Nova cantio’ echo the theological interpretation of the events: because mankind had sinned grievously, God sent punishment down upon them in the form of pestilence and famine. In such a situation the only way forward was for men to abjure sin and beg God for forgiveness. It is therefore clear that various sources of the last third of the sixteenth century and continuing into the seventeenth century do indeed describe the disastrous consequences of the famine which devastated the Grand Duchy of Lithuania in 1570–71. There are also textual and plot links between these sources; later authors were able to use the information contained in earlier versions. The works mentioned above all share a moralizing element in their description of those horrible events.

The Age of Memoirs in the Grand Duchy of Lithuania In the second half of the sixteenth century, memoirists of the Grand Duchy of Lithuania began to develop a new narrative tradition. As the previous analysis shows, significant images and epithets found in memoirs of the time match those from the Belarusian-Lithuanian chronicles. In fact, memoirists sought to model events that they had personally witnessed by using narrative methods developed in the Bible and by the authors of historical chronicles. We find in these memoirs that greater importance is attached to recording events that concern society as a whole than purely personal ones.26 The selective representation of facts proves that memoirs transcend the field of documentary text and relate to the tradition of literary convention. However, these texts are not completely fictional. In memoirs we can find records of personal experience of events and a tendency to structure the author’s own impressions according to conventional (and clear) rules. In his memoirs (1682) the Calvinist Jan Cedrowski records a famine that struck in wartime: On 21 March 1656 the Lord God permitted a huge number of field mice to infest various places in the palatinate of Minsk—including my house. They wrought havoc in the grain crop first in the open fields and then in the barns, granaries and linhays. This divine punishment was followed by a great famine which lasted right up to August 1657. It was so severe that the starving ate cats, dogs and all kinds of carrion; towards the end people were killed and their bodies eaten. Even the dead were not allowed to rest in peace in their coffins; I myself, miserable wretch that I am, witnessed this with my own eyes. This misfortune afflicted both Belarus and Livonia.27

Terrible Reality?  189 Accounts such as this seem to be confirmed by the reports of administrative officials in the areas of Belarus that were under Muscovite control in the war of 1654–67, where ‘people ate human flesh as well as carrion and all manner of unclean things’.28 A truly terrible picture is presented to us. It is, however, worth noting that Cedrowski’s description of the catastrophe that befell the civilian population in many respects resembles a scene in the Diary of Jazep Budzila, ensign (chorąży) of the town of Mazyr (Mozyrz). Aliaksandr Korshunaŭ, who translated the diary from Polish into Belarusian, has already drawn attention to the similarities.29 According to Budzila,30 fighting units formed by the nobility of the Polish Crown and the Grand Duchy of Lithuania in 1612 found themselves besieged inside the Moscow Kremlin by the first and second militias during the Muscovite Time of Troubles,31 and in a situation of starvation unprecedented and hard to describe, which cannot be found in any of the chronicles of human history. Where on earth could this happen, when under siege no grass, roots, mice, dogs, cats, carrion remained, prisoners were eaten, corpses were dug out of the earth and eaten, the infantry ate each other, and they also seized and ate civilians.32 The detailed description that follows resembles a scene from the Apocalypse: Truskowski, a lieutenant of infantry, ate his two sons, one hajduk (infantryman) ate his own son and another ate his own mother. There was a towarzysz (junior officer) that ate his servant. In short father showed no mercy to son, nor son to father; master was not safe from servant, nor servant from master. Whoever had the opportunity to eat someone took it; the stronger killed the weaker.33 Budzila even describes a kind of hierarchy of rights to the body of a dead comrade: There were instances when judgement was sought in cases where an individual claimed the right of inheritance after someone else had eaten the body of the plaintiff’s relative or comrade, and the plaintiff should have had first claim to eat the body. Such a case arose in Mr Lianicki’s company, where the hajduki ate one of their comrades; a relative of the deceased from another unit made a complaint to the company commander, saying ‘I, and no one else, should have been the first to eat him because he was a relative of mine’. The ones who had actually done the eating objected, saying ‘we had the right to eat him first, because he was on the same duty roster, in the same company and the same unit as we were’. The company commander did

190  A. Dziarnovich not know what ruling he could make; he was also afraid that one of the parties would be offended by the ruling and eat the judge, so he fled from the court.34 Budzila seems to present the following emotional assessment of the situation in a more realistic manner, most likely because we can feel that it arises from the author’s own personal experience: So it was that at that time of severe hunger we were also afflicted by various diseases, terrible deaths, such that one could not look upon a man dying of hunger except with horror and lamentation, and of this I was witness on many occasions. Some there were who would seek to eat the earth beneath their feet, arms, legs and bodies, and—what was worst of all—they would have been glad to die, yet they could not. They would attempt to bite into a stone or brick, begging the Lord God to turn it into bread, and they could bite nothing off. The sounds of men groaning and sighing could be heard everywhere in the castle, and before the castle lay imprisonment and death. Heavy indeed was the siege, and even heavier it was to remain steadfast. There were many who of their own free will went out to their deaths at the enemy’s hands and surrendered.35 The palatine of Minsk, Krzysztof Zawisza, in his memoirs written at the beginning of the eighteenth century, uses the same images of disaster as earlier memoirists:36 During the year 1710 the plague in the Prussian cities continued, and Lithuania suffered cruel diseases and, above all, famine. People ate not only carrion, but in some places even humans, but scant attention was paid to this. Foreign and domestic armies devastated the stores of food, and when nothing was left, a great famine began. . . . The famine left many dead, and homesteads were covered with corpses which became food for wolves. The living ate human corpses, cats, dogs. . . . In Wilno, a hundred paupers a day died.37 We also find in Zawisza’s descriptions some new details that shed light on the attitude of the authorities towards cannibalism: ‘and it happened that in some places mothers ate their own children, for which they were punished’.38 Another narrative source of the middle of the eighteenth century illustrates just how information was transmitted from one work to another. The Witebsk Chronicle (Dzieje miasta Witebska) of Michał Pancerny and Stefan Awierka gives examples of famine in former times, and refers to the original source:39

Terrible Reality?  191 Because of the rains and widespread flooding three years were so terrible that people started to eat children and human corpses taken down from the gibbets. Evidence of Miechowita. Year 1315.  .  .  . Because of the long, hard winter people cooked food from leaves and ate dead bodies, they went to the forests to be eaten by wild animals. . . . Evidence of Koiałowicz. Year 1570.40 When analysing apocalyptic pieces such as these by various authors, we find a striking similarity, in both the style of description and the stories told. One such story, the profanation of human corpses, seems the most archaic. It is found in the Old Testament book of Jeremiah, 8: 1–2: At that time, saith the Lord, they shall bring out the bones of the kings of Judah, and the bones of his princes, and the bones of the priests, and the bones of the prophets, and the bones of the inhabitants of Jerusalem, out of their graves; And they shall spread them before the sun, and the moon, and all the host of heaven, . . . they shall not be gathered, nor be buried; they shall be for dung upon the face of the earth. In the New Testament (Revelation 19. 17–18) we find this prophecy: And I  saw an angel standing in the sun; and he cried with a loud voice, saying to all the fowls that fly in the midst of heaven, Come and gather yourselves together unto the supper of the great God; That ye may eat the flesh of kings, and the flesh of captains, and the flesh of horses and of them that sit on them, and the flesh of all men, both free and bond, both small and great. As we can see, the biblical topos is the most widely used means of portraying a catastrophe, or—as the Ukrainian scholar Natalia Iakovenko has put it—the World-Turned-Upside-Down syndrome.41 We may therefore speak of the source of archetypes and the practice of self-referencing in the memoirs of the period from the sixteenth to the eighteenth centuries. Yet how could that happen at the purely technical level? One of the ways in which great opportunities were created for memoirists to borrow from other sources was the practice of sending copies of diaries and memoirs to neighbours, relatives and people who played major roles in a particular text. On the estates of the nobility interesting passages were copied, or in some cases the texts were written out again in their entirety.42 In this way information was transmitted, and most importantly for us, so were the images and metaphors used to describe certain events of social life.

192  A. Dziarnovich For the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth the seventeenth century was truly an age of memoirs. As Władysław  Czapliński, an expert on narrative sources of this type, has observed, ‘there was indeed something to write about’.43 The urge to write memoirs can be readily explained: history held a fascination for the nobility, who were ready to pore over chronicles and other news sources, and thereby satisfy their desire to fully grasp the significance of the events they and earlier generations had experienced—hence the success enjoyed by literature of this kind among readers of the time. Thanks to this success the authors acquired a measure of popularity and their social standing was raised.44 We may draw now a following preliminary conclusion about the function of reports of misfortunes suffered in wartime within narratives of the kind discussed above. If the memoirist is describing events to which he wishes to give the status of an epic tale, he actively employs well-worked cliché expressions and images borrowed from other texts. However, we also find in memoirs and diaries a reflection of the principle of causality; a detailed description may demonstrate that the author does indeed present events in a realistic manner, but as seen through his own interpretation. In many writings of the time we find that facts are seen through the prism of the author’s own perception and evaluation, rather than in the form of a straightforward description, thereby revealing his own personal attitude towards historical events.45 It is for this reason that the historian must treat with great caution all instances where facts have been borrowed directly from narrative sources, but which have no direct bearing on the narrator’s own life. Over time authors gradually developed their own individual styles for describing events; this in turn led to an increasing amount of information in what they wrote, as well as to a lesser dependency on the use of cliché descriptions. When analysing memoir literature, including that of the Grand Duchy of Lithuania, the researcher must bear in mind the complexity of the narrative structure. Robert Petsch has classified this particular problem as one of the mutual relations between the author and his sense of the ‘epic’ on the one hand, and between the author and what he considers ‘real’ on the other.46 The wave-like manner in which the story unfolds and the way in which these two characteristic features of the author interact with each other leads to a situation where first one factor predominates in the narrative, and then the other.47 The descriptions of the misfortunes suffered in wartime—including instances of cannibalism—which we find in the memoir literature of the sixteenth to eighteenth centuries illustrate this process very well.

Hunger as a Physiological and Social Psychological Phenomenon Hunger is a condition caused when a living organism consumes insufficient foodstuffs necessary to maintain homeostasis. Homeostasis refers to

Terrible Reality?  193 the ability of an organism to maintain the stability of its internal environment within permitted limits by means of co-ordinated reactions. The extent to which hunger can affect the human psyche and lead to an increase in antisocial activity has already been studied by sociologists. Under the influence of hunger the whole sphere of human consciousness becomes preoccupied with images and all kinds of ideas connected— directly or indirectly—with food. They burst uninvited into our sphere of consciousness and crowd out—or strive to expel—all other images and ideas; they do so independently of, and often contrary to, what we ourselves want.48 Fundamental changes in mindset occur. In times of prolonged, severe famine what we might call the ‘I’ as a unity and totality of spiritual life’,49 gradually fragments and splinters into tiny pieces that inter­act poorly with each other: they resemble broken bits of a mosaic picture that are held together only by the frame in which they are set. At the same time the human will also ‘breaks into pieces’. It ceases to be whole and complete, and instead flows fragmented and in disharmony with the ‘frame’ of the now uncontrolled human organism. A prolonged period of hunger—even a famine that could not be classified as ‘severe’— leads to major changes in the constitution of the nervous system, and in particular the brain. The totality of human mental abilities becomes disorganized; the various parts that make up the whole cease to work together.50 In this way the impact of a prolonged famine causes the individual to behave outside the framework of his normal life and customary moral compass. An individual’s behaviour can take on extreme forms when famines occur regularly, depending on circumstances and the person’s internal physical and psychological resources. It is crucial to note that famine affects not only the behaviour of individuals but also that of human groups as a whole. A  severe or even partial famine among the majority of members of a particular social aggregate will result in the appearance or strengthening of a particular kind of biological taxis (which Sorokin dubs ‘pishchetaksis’51—food taxis) in their behaviour, with the following consequences: a weakening and suppression of all reflexes that resist attempts to deny the sensation of hunger, and a corresponding development and strengthening of those reflexes which aid the acquisition of food.52 Even so we can observe a great deal of variety in the behavioural patterns of individuals and social collectives at times when famine prevails. Much depends on individual characteristics and, in the case of social collectives—on the degree of their cohesion.

‘The Horrible History’ of Livonia Historical sources also record instances of deviant behaviour in periods of crisis among the civilian population of Livonia, a territory bordering on the Grand Duchy of Lithuania and similar to it in climate and the experience of geopolitical upheavals. News of the dramatic events that took place in Livonia in the early years of the seventeenth century was brought

194  A. Dziarnovich together in a single text by Pastor Friedrich Engelke in March 1603 in Mitau (Jelgava). The text is entitled ‘Warrhafftige erschreckliche unnd unerhörte geschicht so sich in Lifflandt zugetragen in das einige Gebiethe Dünborch, geschrieben durch Herrn Friedriech Engell[cke], Pastorn daselbsten’ (‘The true, horrible and hitherto unheard of history of events that occurred in Livonia in the district of Dünaburg [Daugavpils], written by Herr Friedrich Engell{cke}, Pastor thereof’).53 It deals with the famine that affected the region in the years 1601–02. Just as with the news of the famine of 1571 in Belarus and Lithuania, this text was printed in the form of a flyer, the easiest means of distributing information quickly in Europe in the early modern period. The ‘History’ was published for the first time in this form in Königsberg (now Kaliningrad) in 1603. It was reissued several times in subsequent years; on occasion other authors had a hand in reworking it.54 These publications never failed to arouse the interest of readers. Pastor Engelke describes instances both of murder for the purpose of cannibalism and of using the remains of the dead as food. Here are just a few typical examples: ‘On the estate of Mistress Plater  .  .  . in January 1602 two women and a boy of 15 called Tzalit ate five people. They were all burned in the bathhouse’ (case no 1). Here is an instance of necrophagy: ‘On the same estate a villager going by the name Dump ate a large number of dead bodies of people who had died of natural causes, or had been taken down from the wheel or the gibbet, or had died of hunger by the roadside, and the estate steward Jakob Granezolt is a witness to all this’ (case no. 2). Of the thirty-two different instances listed by the pastor, thirteen deal with murder for the purpose of cannibalism, in only three instances were the bodies of the dead eaten; two describe eating both murder victims and others who were already dead. According to Engelke the most widespread punishment for cannibals was to burn them alive in a bathhouse; there is one instance of a variant punishment, when the cannibals were burnt in a house. In only one case do we find another type of punishment for a crime of this kind: An innkeeper . . . Jakob by name, quickly killed three men in the vegetable store of the inn that stood right on the bank of the river Dvina, and ate the corpses; when he learned of this, [the starosta— A.Dz.] Hartwig Sassen arrested him, ordered a hole to be made in the ice of the Dvina and drowned him without trial. This occurred just before Shrovetide in 1602. (case no. 6) The customary form of punishment used at the time—breaking on the wheel—was used only after trial in a court of law, most frequently in cases of murder, but only rarely where cannibalism was involved. In cases of

Terrible Reality?  195 cannibalism people took the law into their own hands and used methods of punishment that resembled ‘witch hunts’—holes in the ice or burning in bathhouses. It is precisely these punishments that offer evidence of the extent to which the image of those who had committed the crime of cannibalism was linked to folkloric tradition. The bathhouse, although not exactly a chthonic place, nevertheless had in the popular mind a kind of mediatory link with the world beyond the grave. The cold water that flowed beneath the ice possessed a purifying quality that made it one of the possible variants of ‘Divine judgement’.55 If—as in the case of the ‘Horrible History’—we do indeed find recorded the statements of ordinary witnesses, then it is perfectly possible that we are dealing with information as perceived by contemporaries. It is therefore conceivable that in these instances we have a combination of descriptions of real facts and folkloric elements designed to instill fear. Apart from that Pastor Engelke’s notes naturally contain motifs of Christian moralizing. This is apparent in his description of instances of cannibalism that took place during Lent: ‘According to Kaspar Brocking who witnessed these events, forty people were eaten during Lent 1602 in the inn belonging to Zachary Weiss. In addition one tramp ate another. Johann Engelbrus is a witness to this’ (case no. 26). Doubts arise in this account as to the total number of victims. The number of instances in which strangers to the district were accused of cannibalism is indicative—it would be difficult for them to prove their innocence, as there may well have been no one to speak up on their behalf: According to the witness Joachim Friedewoldt, a certain Lithuanian villager who the ran the inn on the ducal dam on the Olaf estate in the district of Born had been cooking human flesh in large quantities and selling it to villagers who lived on the other side of the river Dzvina [Daugava / Western Dvina]. (case no. 4) The possibility cannot be excluded that this man was being victimized because he was seen as a commercial rival. Some of what Engelke reports can be confirmed by research that has been undertaken in the fields of social and cultural anthropology, in particular when dealing with the illnesses that can be caused by cannibalism. Here is one such example offered by Engelke: ‘A child died in the family of Eberhardt Timmen, owner of an inn in Illuxt (Ilūkste), and was buried; soon afterwards a peasant on the Sieberg lands dug up the body, took it home, cooked it and served the flesh to five guests. Soon afterwards they all died’ (case no. 32). There are no straightforward analogies here, but the story of the disease called ‘kuru’ is quite well-known to anthropologists; it is caused by eating the flesh of deceased relatives.56 It is therefore possible for us to consider that something similar may have occurred in the instances, like the one above, described by Engelke.

196  A. Dziarnovich Similar descriptions of misfortunes in Livonia at the beginning of the seventeenth century can be found in the Livländische Chronik of Franz Nyenstadt.57 He begins his tale of the events that occurred at that time with an emotional preamble: ‘It now falls to my lot to relate the terrible misfortunes that I  experienced in Livonia in 1601 and 1602’.58 Nyenstaedt’s description of the tragedy is briefer than that of Engelke; what is important is that both authors treat identical subject matter. This is how Nyenstaedt treats an instance of suicide: ‘A peasant killed and ate his wife and then invited her brother to come visit him. When the brother heard what had happened, the shock and horror of it caused him to stab himself to death’.59 Here is how Engelke describes the same event: A peasant named Janel and living on the estate of Lady Sieberg killed seven people, including his wife and children. Janel’s brother called on him and asked him for something to eat, to which he replied ‘I have no bread, but meat I can give you’. When the brother, after eating some, found out the meat he had eaten was the flesh of Janel’s wife and children, he cried aloud ‘Ach, ach!’, seized a knife and stabbed himself to death. (case no. 24) The two versions differ in certain details, but the subject matter— involving a brother-in-law and his suicide—is essentially the same. It is quite possible to assume that the Riga burgomaster Franz Nyenstaedt, describing the events of 1601–02 later than Pastor Friedrich Engelke, made use of flyers containing Engelke’s text. In that case we have here an important example of how news items were transported from other narrative sources in a late Baltic German chronicle. Some of the events in the Livländische Chronik can be traced back to the tragic scenes in the Diary of Jazep Budzila, where we are dealing with how people behave under prolonged siege. This is how Nyenstaedt ­depicts their condition: ‘On 4 March in the Dorpat [Tartu] market a peasant publicly fried and ate a human arm. A Swedish soldier tore flesh from his right arm with his teeth and ate it. During the same siege a woman ate her own children and then stabbed herself to death’.60 In addition, the eighteenth-century Livonian historian Friedrich Gadebusch, writing about the famine of 1601–02, noted ‘that Menius, in his Chronicle that remained unfinished, intended to list hundreds of instances of cannibalism caused by the famine. Some of these instances had already been mentioned by Nyenstaedt and [Engelke]’.61 It is most probable that we have here a reference to the Swedish scholar Fredrik Menius, who was appointed a professor of Dorpat University in 1632, and two years earlier had published a history of Livonia. On the one hand, the descriptions of instances of cannibalism in Livonia are characterized by a wealth of detail, including names of the

Terrible Reality?  197 cannibals themselves, witnesses and representatives of authority. However, when we come to detail concerning the huge number of victims, and to a consideration of the folkloric style of the narrative, we may perhaps be permitted to see these texts not so much as a documentary description of facts as a transmission of information about what has happened, set out according to certain traditional narrative rules.

The Findings of Cultural Anthropology Research in the field of cultural anthropology has shown that the reality of cannibalism is the reality of something inhuman, outside the law, but nevertheless part of human experience. The cannibal is a non-person. His very existence on the outer edge of the social space is symbolic, right on the margins in relation to human consciousness and social order.62 The accessibility and ‘reification’ of the corpse strips it of the qualities of being the human it once was. Viewing the corpse solely as a realistic object means limiting it to no more than a purely biological phenomenon. It is however possible to go further and recognize in the dead body all the attributes of a human individual.63 The body is acknowledged to be a necessary condition for human self-identification, inasmuch as it quite literally embodies the individuality of its owner. The consumption of a body that belongs to another person amounts to the consumption of that person’s individuality, but it also means a certain degree of rejection of the consumer’s own individuality. In the semiotic sense the act of cannibalism establishes a relationship between the aggressor and the victim and therefore can be understood as an act of auto-cannibalism; there is clinical psychiatric evidence to show that this is indeed sometimes what occurs.64 Those who eat other people eat themselves; this unity can be interpreted as ontological or natural. Although cannibalism is located right on the very edge of society, it is thereby recognized as not being without precedent; quite the reverse— indeed there is reason to assert that there is a precedent as a norm in situations of social pathology.65 In accordance with logic of this kind, it is not the case that a socially deviant individual might perhaps become a cannibal, but that he will inevitably become one; he would be socially deviant otherwise. William Arens, in his influential book The Man-eating Myth, treats evidence of cannibalism mainly as the consequences of this axiom.66 Accusations of cannibalism are, according to Arens, akin to accusations of witchcraft or the ritual murder of children; this is clear in the examples we have cited dealing with the history of Livonia. Such accusations are an essential element of civilized man’s perception of the uncivilized world or the Christian’s view of the pagan. In practice, however, cannibalism is to a greater extent imagined rather than actually witnessed. Many objections were raised to Arens’s book, in particular by Daniel Gajdusek,

198  A. Dziarnovich Nobel Prize laureate in medicine in 1976; the award was based on his work on finding a cure for the viral neurological disorder kuru in New Guinea. The aetiology of the disorder is to be sought in the practice of cannibalism.67 It is impossible not to see as heuristic the functions of witness statements regarding cannibalism as a metaphor of identity.68 Cannibalism, when functioning as an ideological metaphor, means breaking a taboo that marks the boundary between the social and the antisocial; at the same time we are reminded of the reality of the antisocial sphere itself. It is precisely from this functional point of view that cannibalism resembles incest—another of the most important taboos for the European world.69 The common features of cannibalism and incest are rooted in a concept that can be applied to both phenomena, ‘human hematophagy’.70 People eating the flesh of their unfortunate relatives in the besieged Kremlin, as reported by Jazep Budzila, is also a topic that is euphemistically linked to incest. From the psychological and social viewpoint people’s interest in subjects that are socially taboo is the expression of their urge to question their own true nature. The ‘antisocial’ is thereby inextricably linked to views of an alternative society, or—to put it in more general terms—the world of the other, a world that cannot be conceived without continually distinguishing the norm from the deviation and accordingly without identifying the link between that which exists as a given fact, as ‘proper’, and that which exists as conceivable, as belonging to a particular individual.71 The reality of cannibalism for the human consciousness in the instances we discuss here can be explained as a manifestation of ‘an exception’ to all already familiar forms of social and cultural practice— whether it be aggression or something exotic or esoteric. That still leaves the question—to what extent does the narrative textual canon of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries demonstrate the veracity of the information it contains? At the moment we can do no more than assert that our knowledge of the narratives of the epoch rests on possibly deceptive foundations, especially if we believe these sources literally. If we do that we can find ourselves in a distorted, deformed world.72 If we proceed from the actual contents of the sources we cannot flatly deny that there were instances of extreme deviant behaviour such as cannibalism. However, we have to recognize that there was a certain set of norms, a kind of ‘narrative formula’ for the description of the kind of dramatic events we find in those sources. The chroniclers, who were chancellery officials, and the memoirists of the time worked within the framework of the state political systems in which they lived, and of their own ethical views; one of their tasks was to accuse the opponent of transgressing Christian ethics. In addition, the practice of quoting other authors was widespread. We should therefore at least bear in mind that when sixteenth- and seventeenth-century narrative sources describe instances

Terrible Reality?  199 of cannibalism, we are dealing with a traditional method of relating such stories, and not necessarily with a first-hand description of events. In any analysis of this topic the historian must make full use of anthropological and textological filters. ‘Horrible histories’ should be quoted in such a way as to show the style adopted for relating such events. Another aspect of the problem is the need to differentiate clearly between individual crimes and mass criminal acts. From the criminological point of view cannibalism is a crime against both the individual and society as a whole; as such the act, when committed by one individual, has been known in all periods of history, and has already come to be regarded as criminal in law. Mass cannibalism can be said to have occurred when there is proof that several instances have taken place in one locality over a limited period of time. The nature of these two types—cannibalism as the act of an individual criminal and cannibalism as a widespread act committed by social deviants—must be rigorously differentiated. Translated by Jim Dingley

Notes 1. For more details see Oleg Dziarnovich, ‘Istochniki XV v.—nachala XVIII v. o bedstviiakh grazhdanskogo naseleniia vo vremia voin: mezhdu faktami, politicheskimi invektivami i stilistechskimi klishe’, in Artūras Dubonis et al (eds.), Lietuvos Didžiosios Kunigaikštystės istorijos šaltiniai: faktas, kontekstas, interpretacija, Vilnius: Lietuvos istorijos institutas, 2007, pp. 339–54 (at pp. 339–40). 2. ‘B тыи же лета бысть глад великь во Смоленску, по лесомь и по дорогамь звери ядяше люди, a в городе и по улицамь пси ядаху люди, мертвых главы и руки и ноги влачаху пси. Ино и люди елико от малых детеи от великого гладу, a во великое говение мяса ели, звирину, по волостомь и по селомь, a четвертка жита тогды была под две копе грошеи. И меташа во скудильници людие емьлющи по улицамь’: ‘Suprasl’skaia letopis’, in N. N. Ulashchik (ed.), Polnoe sobranie russkikh letopisei (hereafter PSRL), vol. 35, Letopisi belorussko-litovskie, Moscow: Nauka, 1980, pp. 59–60. 3. ‘roku 1570 głód wielki w Litwie i w Polszce panował, tak iż ludzie prości ścierwy zdechłych bydląt i psów, na ostatek umarłych ludzi trupy wygrzebując jedli’: Maciej Stryjkowski, Kronika Polska, Litewska, Zmodzka i Wszystkiej Rusi. Wydanie nowe, będące dokładnem powtorzeniem wydania pierwotnego krolewieckiego z roku 1582, poprzedzone Wiadomością o życiu i pismach Stryjkowskiego przez Mikołaja Malinowskiego, oraz Rozprawą o latopisach Ruskich przez Daniłowicza, pomnożone przedrukiem dzieł pomniejszych Stryjkowskiego według pierwotnych wydań, Warsaw: Nakład Gustawa Leona Glucksberga, Księgarza, 1846, vol. 2. p. 419. 4. ‘О голодѣ великом. Року 1571. Голод великий был в Полщи и в Литвѣ, же убогие люди стерво здохлое и собак ѣли, наостаток трупы умерлых людей трупы выгребаючи з земли, ѣли и сами вмирали’: Khronika Litovskaia i Zhmoitskaia, in PSRL, vol. 32, Letopisi belorussko-litovskie, ed. N. N. Ulashchik, Moscow: Nauka, 1975, p. 114. 5. ‘Incredibilis a media hieme fames extreme Lithuaniam afflixit; egentiores agrestes non bestiarum modo extinctarum carnibus, sed hominum etiam exhumatorum cadaveribus pascebantur. Remisit malum cum hieme’, Albertus

200  A. Dziarnovich Wiiuk  Koiałowicz, Historiæ Lituanæ pars altera seu de rebus Lituanorum, Antwerp: Jacobus Meursius, 1669, p. 491. 6. ‘Ein Erschröckenliche doch Warhaftige grausame hungers nott und Pestilenzische plag so im Landt Reissen vnnd Littaw furgangen im 1571 Jar’, Zentralbibliothek Zürich, PAS II 9/9 (engraving in manuscript F 21, pp. 192–3). 7. Walter L. Strauss, The German Single-Leaf Woodcut 1550–1600, New York: Abaris Books, 1975, vol. 1, p. 102 (the date is read incorrectly: 1573 instead of 1571); Jan Pirożyński, Z dziejów obiegu informacji w Europie XVI wieku: nowiny z Polski w kolekcji Jana Jakuba Wicka w Zurychu z lat 1560–1587, an issue of Zeszyty Naukowe Uniwersytetu Jagiellońskiego, 654, 1995 (Prace Historyczne, 115), pp. 237, 290 (no. 7). This publication is not listed in other catalogues: Karol Estreicher, Bibliografia polska, vol. 19, Cracow: Druk Uniwersytetu Jagiellońskiego, 1903; Antoni Walawender, Kronika klęsk elementarowych w Polsce i w krajach sąsiednich w latach 1450–1586, part 1, Lwów: skł. gł. Kasa im. J. Mianowskiego—Instytut Popierania Polskiej Twórczości Naukowej, 1932 (Badania z Dziejów społecznych i gospodarczych, 10), pp. 98–101; Konrad Zawadzki, Gazety ulotne polskie i Polski dotyczące XVI–XVIII  w. Bibliografia, 3 vols, Wrocław: Zakład Narodowy im. Ossolińskich, 1977–90. 8. See A. Biely, ‘Strashny holad u Krainie Rus´ i Litva’, Spadchyna, 5, 1998, pp. 236–7. 9. Zentralbibliothek Zürich, Ms F 21, pp. 187–90. 10. ‘Ein Erbermlich || geschicht aus Ruessen / vnnd || Littaw / in gesangs weis verfast / || vnnd ist durch den gelehrten Herren in vnser || Teutsch Land geschriben worden / als mit na= ||men Jost Summer / Pastor in Vilnae [!—AD] / an || den Wolgebornen Herren / Johan Jör= ||gen / von Gleissenthal / Prelaten im || Spesshart / im 1572. || Im Thon / Kompt her zu mir spricht Gottes Son /rc.’: Karl Schottenloher, Flugblatt und Zeitung, Berlin: Richard Carl Schmidt & Co., 1922; reprint Munich: Klinckhradt & Biermann, 1985, p. 16. 11. For more details see Peter Burke, Popular Culture in Early Modern Europe, Aldershot: Wildwood, 1988, pp. 118–24. 12. Pirożyński, Z dziejów obiegu informacji, p. 65. 13. Ibid., p. 67. 14. Bruno Weber, Wunderzeichen und Winkeldrucker 1543–1586: Einblattdrucke aus der Sammlung Wikiana in der Zentralbibliothek Zürich, Zurich: Dietikon, 1972, p. 31. 15. ‘Nova cantio Polonico ex sermone conversa in Latinum de gravissima et ante inaudita fame, qua in Magno Ducatu Lithuaniae iam magna pars communis populi brevi tempore est absumpta annis 1570–71’: Wolfenbüttel, Niederasächsisches Landesarchiv, 1 Alt. 23, Nr. 52, Bl. 15 r—16 r. The document was discovered by Jan Pirożyński. See his ‘Nieznana pieśń o głodzie na Litwie w latach 1570–1571’, Zeszyty Naukowe Uniwersytetu Jagiellońskiego, 541, Prace Historyczne, 101, 1993, pp. 37–42. 16. ‘Famelicus pater iam coquit filium Fraternum corpus manducari a fretre ista non sunt nova; Maritus uxorem iam discindit ac infelices matres Assatos faciunt suos infants’. (fol.15v.) 17. ‘Iam iram Taum, Domine, dignare compescere, Quoniam post castigationem paternam dixisti Te misereri Peccatoribus velle; hoc calamitosos et gravissimos annos In meliores convertere et sic incolumes manebimus. Amen’. (fol.16v.)

Terrible Reality?  201 18. Jan Pirożyński, Księżna brunszwicka Zofia Jagellonka (1552–1575) i jej biblioteka: studium z dziejów kultury, Cracow: Nakładem Uniwersytetu Jagiellońskiego, 1986, pp. 98–9. 19. ‘und thu E. F. G. ich Zeittung von der grausamen theürung in Littaw der verschinen 70. 71 Jare ereignet’: quoted after Pirożyński, ‘Nieznana pieśń’, p. 38. 20. Estreicher, Bibliografia polska, vol. 19, pp. 79–97. 21. Bibliografia literatury polskiej ‘Nowy Korbut’, vol. 3, Warsaw: PIW, 1965, p. 300. 22. ‘Nauka i utwierdzenie o tym, z czym się ma pokazać i popisać przed majestatem Bożym człowiek chrześcijański niemocą złożony’, Wilno: Jan Karcan, 1580, 8°; Estreicher, Bibliografia polska, vol. 30, Cracow: Druk. Uniwersytetu Jagiellońskiego, 1934, p. 17. 23. Wilno: Jan Markowicz, 1600. 8° 24. Pirożyński, ‘Nieznana pieśń’, p. 39. 25. Estreicher, Bibliografia polska, vol. 19, p. 185. 26. Piotr Borek, ‘Obraz wojen kozackich za czasów Chmielnickiego w staropolskim pamiętnikarstwie’, Napis, 7th series, Warsaw, 2001, pp. 201–18 (p. 201). 27. Dwa pamiętniki z XVII wieku: Jana Cedrowskiego i Jana Floriana Drobysza Tyczyńskiego, ed. and intro. Adam Przyboś, Wrocław and Cracow: Zakład Narodowy im. Ossolińskich, 1954, pp.  10–11: ‘Anno eodem 21 martii. Dopuścił Pan Bog w wojewodztwie mińskim na różnych miescach i w moim domu straszną moc myszy polnych, tak że zboża wprzód w polach, a potym w puniach i świrnach i przepłotach strasznie psowali. Za którem dopuszczeniem Bożem zaraz głód straszny nastąpił, który trwał aż do żniw w r. 1657, tak że kotki, psy, zdechliny wszelakie ludzi jadali, na ostatek rznęli ludzie i ciała ludzie jedli i umiarłym trupom ludzkie wyleżeć się w grobie nie dali, czegom się sam mizerny człowiek oczyma moimi napątrzał. Ta klęska grasowała na Białorusi i w Inflanciech’. Belarusian translation: Jan Cadroŭski, ‘Uspaminy’, in A. F. Korshunaŭ (ed.), Pomniki miemuarnai litaratury Bielarusi XVII st, Minsk: Navuka i Tekhnika, 1983, p. 128. 28. Akty, otnosiashchiesia k istorii Iuzhnoi i Zapadnoi Rossii, sobrannye i izdannye Arkheograficheskoi komissieiu, vol. 3, St  Petersburg, 1863, pp.  576, 578, 582. A comparison of Cedrowski’s reports with those of the Moscow administration can be found in Hienadz Sahanovich, Nieviadomaia vaina 1654–1667, Minsk: Navuka i Tekhnika, 1995, p. 71. 29. Pomniki miemuarnai litaratury Bielarusi XVII st., p. 144. 30. Russkaia istoricheskaia biblioteka, izdavaemaia Arkheograficheskoi komissiei, vol. 1, Pamiatniki, otnosiashchiesia k smutnomu vremeni, St Petersburg: Pechatnia V. I. Golovina, 1872, cols 347–50. 31. For more detail see S. F. Platonov, Ocherki po istorii Smuty v Moskovskom gosudarstve XVI—XVII vv: opyt izucheniia obshchestvennogo stroia i soslovnykh otnoshenii v Smutnoe vremia, 5th edn, Moscow: Pamiatniki istoricheskoi mysli, 1995, pp. 358–60. 32. ‘ktory nie słychany y do wypisania trudny, iakiego zadne kroniki y historie nie swiadczą, aby kiedy na swiecie w oblęzeniu będący ktory go mogł, albo kiedy maiąt bydz, nastąpił, bo gdy iuz traw, korzonkow, myszy, psow, kotek, scierwa nie stało, więznie wyiedli, trupy, wykopuiąć z ziemie, wyiedli, piechota się sama miedzy sobą wyiadła y ludzie łapaiąc poiedli’. 33. ‘Truskowski porucznik piechotny dwu synow swych ziadł; hayduk ieden takze syna ziadł, drugi matkę; towarysz tez ieden sługę ziadł swego; owo zgoła syn oycu, oiciec synowi nie spuscił; pan sługi, sługa pana nie był bezpeczen; kto kogo zgoła zmogł, ten tego ziadł, zdrowszy chorszego pozbił’.

202  A. Dziarnovich 34. ‘O powinnego abo towarzysza swego, iesli kto komu inszy ziadł, iako o własny spadek się prawowali, ze go był blizszy ziesc, niz kto inszy, ktora taka sprawa przytoczyła się była w szeręgu p. Lenickiego, ze hayducy ziedli w swym szeręgu umarłego hayduka; powinny nieboszczykowsky z innego dziesiątku skarzył się przed rotmistrzem, zem go ia był blizszy ziesc, iako powinny, niz kto inszy; ci zas odpierali, zesmy blizszi do ziedzienia iego, poniewaz z nami w iednym ordynku y szeregu był y dziesiątku. Rotmistrz, iako novum emergens (?) nie wiedział, iako decretu ferowac, obawiaiąc się tez, aby ktora strona, będąc urazona decretem, samego sędzego nie ziadła, musiał z trzybunału umykac’. 35. ‘W tak tedy okrutnym głodzie nastąpiły rozmaite choroby, smierci srogie, ze na człowieka z głodu umieraiącego patrzac z strachem y nie bez płaczu przychodziło, ktorych wielem się napatrzył, ziemię pod sobą, ręce, nogi, ciało, iako mogł, zarł, a co naygorszy, ze chocby rad umarł, a umrzec nie mogł, kamien abo cegłę kąsał, prosząc p. Boga, aby w chleb przemienił, ale ukąsic niemogł. Ach! Ach! Wszedy pełno w źamku, a przed zamkiem więzienie y smierc. Cięszkie oblęzenie, cięszsze wytrwanie było! Siła ludzi takich było, co dobrowolnie na smierc do nieprzyjaciela szli y przedawali się . . .’ 36. Krzysztof Zawisza, Pamiętniki Krzysztofa Zawiszy, wojewody mińskiego (1666–1721), ed. Julian  Bartoszewicz, Warsaw: Nakładem Jana Zawiszy, potomka wojewody, 1862, p. 363. 37. ‘Roku 1710 toż trwa po różnych miejscach pruskich powietrze, a w Litwie ciężkie choroby i nadewszystko głód, bo nietylko ludzie zdechlinę, ale na niektórych miejscach ludzi jedli, a na to wszystko mniej uwagi, wojsk i swoich i postronnych uciski wielkie, dla których gdy zjedzono ostatnie, głód nastąpił [. . .]. Zkąd taki głód, że po dworach trupów pełno było na pożywienie wilkom. Ludzie żywi trupy zjadali, kotki, psy [. . .]. W Wilnie ubóstwa po stu i więcej na dzień umierało’. 38. ‘i zdarzało się że na kilku miejscach matki dzieci swoje pojadły, za co karano’. 39. Letopis´ Pantsyrnogo i Averki, in PSRL, vol. 32, ed. N. N. Ulashchik, Moscow: Nauka, 1975, p. 203. 40. ‘Z okazyi deszczow y powodzi wielkiey trży letni tak cienżki, że ludzie, dzieci ieść y trupow z szubienic zdientych. Test Miechowita. Roku 1315 . . . Z racyi cieńżkiey y długiey zimy, ze ludzie z liścia sobie pożywienie robili i trupow iedli, szli do lasow na pożarcie bestyiom . . . Teste Koiałowicz. Rok 1570’. 41. Natalia Iakovenko, ‘Skil´ky oblych u viiny: Khmel´nychchyna ochyma suchasnikiv’, in eadem, Paralel'nyi svit: doslidzhennia z istoriyi uiavlen´ ta idei w Ukrayini XVI—XVII st., Kyiv: Krytyka, 2002, pp. 208, 211, 224. 42. Adam Przyboś, ‘Wstęp’, in Dwa pamiętniki z XVII wieku: Jana Cedrowskiego i Jana Floriana Drobysza Tyczyńskiego, Wrocław and Kraków: Zakład Narodowy im. Ossolińskich, 1954, p. ix. 43. Władysław Czapliński, ‘Wstęp’, in Jan Chryzostom Pasek (ed.), Pamiętniki, vol. 1, Wrocław and Warsaw: Zakład Narodowy im. Ossolińskich, Wydawnictwo De Agostini, 2003, pp. ix–x. 44. Jadwiga Rytel, ‘Pamiętniki’ Paska na tle pamiętnikarstwa staropolskiego. Szkic z dziejów prozy narracyjnej, Wrocław: Zakład Narodowy im. Ossolińskich, 1962, p. 41. 45. S. L. Haranin, ‘Histarychna-miemuarnaia litaratura’, in Historyia biela ruskai litaratury XI—XIX st., vol. 1, Daŭniaia litaratura XI—piershai palovy XVIII st., 2nd edn, Minsk: Bielaruskaia kniha, 2007, p. 682. 46. Robert Petsch, Wesen und Formen der Erzählkunst, Halle am Saale: M. Niemeyer, 1934, pp. 112–13.

Terrible Reality?  203 47. Rytel, ‘Pamiętniki’ Paska, p. 82. 48. P. A. Sorokin, Golod kak faktor: vliianie goloda na povedenie liudei, sotsial´nuiu organizatsiiu i obshchestvennuiu zhizn´, ed. and intro. and commentaries by V. V. Sapov and V. S. Sycheva, Moscow: Akademia i LVS, 2003, p. 103. 49. Ibid., p. 109. 50. Ibid., p. 112. 51. P. A. Sorokin, Obshchedostupnyi uchebnik sotsiologii: stat´i raznykh let, Moscow: Nauka, 1994, pp. 367–8. 52. Sorokin, Golod kak factor, p. 239. 53. Friedrich Engelke, ‘Istinnaia, uzhasnaia i neslykhannaia istoriia o sluchivshemsia v Livonii, v okruge Dinaburgskom’, in Sbornik materialov po russkoi istorii nachala XVII v, transl., intro. and notes by I. M. Boldakov, St Petersburg: Publishing House of P. P. Soikin, 1896, pp.  46–52; commentaries, pp. 109–14. 54. See Sbornik materialov po russkoi istorii nachala XVII v., pp.  109–14; E. F. Fetterlein, ‘Redkie nemetskie letuchie listy XVII v., kasaiushchiesia Rossii’, in Otchet Imperatorskoi Publichnoi Biblioteki za 1882 g., St  Petersburg: VTip. II, pp.  5–6; Otchet Imperatorskoi Publichnoi Biblioteki za 1890 g., St  Petersburg: VTip. II, pp.  92–3; ‘Johann Textor's von Haeger Nassawische Chronik’, in Mittheilungen aus dem Gebiete der Geschichte Liv-, Ehst- und Kurland's, part 7, Riga, 1854, pp. 69–73; part 8, pp. 407–8; 416–20. 55. A. Ia. Gurevich, Srednevekovyi mir: kul´tura bezmolvstvuiushchego bol'shinstva, Moscow: Iskusstvo, 1990, p. 304. 56. Michael C. Howard, Suchasnaia kuĺturnaia antrapalohiia, Minsk: Tekhnalohiia  & Bielaruski Fond Sorosa, 1995, pp.  376–7 (original: Contemporary Cultural Anthropology, 4th edn, Harlow: Longman, 1992). 57. Franz Nyenstaedt, ‘Livländische Chronik nebst dessen Handbuch’, in G. Tielemann (ed.), Monumenta Livoniae Antiquae: Sammlung von Chroniken, Berichten, Urkunden und anderen schriftlichen Denkmalen und Aufsätzen, vol. 2, Riga & Leipzig: Eduard Frantzen, 1839, fols 6–27, pp. i–viii, 1–166; Franz Nyenstaedt [Nienshtedt], ‘Livonskaia letopis’, in Sbornik materialov i statei po istorii Pribaltiiskago kraia, vol. 3, Riga: Publishing House of A. I. Lipinskii, 1880, pp. 353–400; vol. 4, Riga, 1882, pp. 7–124. 58. Nyenstaedt, ‘Livländische Chronik’, pp. 112–14; Nyenstaedt [Nienshtedt], ‘Livonskaia letopis’, pp. 111–13: ‘Hier muss ich den grausamen Jammer berichten, so ich 1601 vnd 1602 in Lieffland erlebet habe’. 59. ‘Ein Bauer hat sein eigen weib geschlachtet vnd gekochet, vnd ihren Bruder darauff zu Gaste geladen, welcher, wie ere s gehöret, vor Angst vnd Zittern sich erstochen’. 60. ‘Den 4. Martii hat in Dörpt ein Bauer eines Menschen Arm öffentlich auff dem Marckt gebraten vnd gefressen. Ein anderer verhungerter schwedischer Soldat hat das Fleisch von seinem rechten Arm mit den Zähnen zerrissen vnd gefressen. In derselben Belagerung hat ein Weib ihre eigenen Kinder gegessen, vnd darnach sich selbst erstochen’. 61. Livländische Jahrbücher, part 2, Riga, 1781, pp.  314–16; Sbornik materialov po russkoi istorii nachala XVII v., St  Petersburg: S. D. Sheremetev, 1896, pp. 113–14. 62. K. A. Bogdanov, ‘Kannibalizm: istoriia odnogo tabu’, in Pogranichnoe soznanie (Almanach Kanun, 5), St Petersburg: Kanun, 1999, p. 199. 63. Louis-Vincent Thomas, Trup: od biologii do antropologii, transl. Krzysztof Kocjan, Łódź: Wydawnictwo Łódzkie, 1991, p. 100 (original: Le cadavre: de la biologie à l’anthropologie, Brussels: Éditions Complexes, 1980).

204  A. Dziarnovich 64. Armando R. Favazza, Bodies Under Siege: Self-mutilation and Body Modification in Culture and Psychiatry, Baltimore, MD: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1996, pp. 140, 142. 65. Bogdanov, ‘Kannibalizm’, pp. 203–4. 66. William Arens, The Man-Eating Myth: Anthropology and Anthropophagy, Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1979. 67. Paula Brown and Donald Tuzin (eds.), The Ethnography of C ­ annibalism, Washington, DC: Society for Psychological Anthropology, 1983, p.  3; Peggy Reeves Sanday, Divine Hunger: Cannibalism as a Cultural System, ­Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1986, pp.  9–10; Tim D. White, ­Prehistoric Cannibalism at Mancos, Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1992; Howard, Suchasnaia kuĺturnaia antrapalohiia, pp. 376–7. 68. Nick Fiddes, Fleisсh: Symbol der Macht, Frankfurt am Main: Zweitausendeins, 1991, pp. 155–6; Don Gardner, ‘Anthropophagy, Myth and the Subtle Ways of Ethnocentrism’, in Laurence R. Goldman (ed.), The Anthropology of Cannibalism, Westport, CT: Bergin & Garvey, 1999, pp. 27–50. 69. Bohdanov, ‘Kannibalizm’, p. 204. 70. N. A. Butinov, ‘Pishcha, rodstvo, intsest’, in Kul´tura narodov Indonezii i Okeanii (Sbornik muzeia antropologiia i etnografii, vol. 39), Leningrad, 1984, pp. 113–19. 71. V. V. Lunev, Motivatsiia prestupnogo povedeniia, Moscow: Nauka, pp. 239–40. 72. Iakovenko, Paralel´nyi svit, p. 277.

13 A Lithuanian Nobleman’s Mapping of Poland The Itinerary of a Peregrination by Stanisław Samuel Szemiot (1680) Jakub Niedźwiedź About eight o’clock in the morning on Saturday 14 September  1680, a group of travellers reached the town of Skawina, around fifteen kilometres southwest of Cracow. Most of them travelled in carts, but some rode their horses.1 They were pilgrims and that day they meant to cover the distance from Tyniec to Kalwaria Zebrzydowska, around thirty kilometres. One of the riders was Stanisław Samuel Szemiot, a young Lithuanian nobleman and the chief of the expedition. During his journey he kept an itinerary in which he noted his observations about the Kingdom of Poland. ‘We set off from the place of overnight accommodation at six in the morning. We passed by a small town called Skawina, where a church and an abandoned castle could be seen’—Szemiot noticed laconically.2 Luckily for us, an aerial map or a bird-eye view of this town, drawn in 1663, has survived and is now kept in the National Archive in Cracow.3 On the map we can see the church, the castle and the road which headed to Kalwaria. Probably we are looking at Skawina from the same perspective as Szemiot and his companions 300 years ago. This chapter will use Szemiot’s itinerary to present several similar pictures of the Polish Crown. Sometimes Szemiot’s dense and concise des­ criptions can be supported by seventeenth-century views of towns and castles. Thus, we can easily imagine some places he visited in September 1680. At the centre of our interest, however, is Szemiot himself and the way he mapped Poland. I use the term ‘mapping’ advisedly, because his diary—in a similar way to the 1663 manuscript map of Skawina— was a self-made map of a part of Poland.4 Several questions arise concerning this mapping. What is particular in Szemiot’s writing about Poland? To what extent did he regard it as something different from his own country? What cultural and literary filters did he apply to constructing his narration? How did he forge his personal map of Poland? And finally how can we imagine the mentality and spatial imagination of this young Lithuanian nobleman? The Itinerary of a Peregrination to Some Holy Places Safely Travelled Anno 1680 was published by Mirosław Korolko and Zofia Olszewska in 1979. The diary is an excerpt from a commonplace book, now conserved

206  J. Niedźwiedź in the Ossolineum Library in Wrocław.5 It contains several documents, typical for such books, and around 200 various poems composed by Szemiot between 1674 and 1683. They were published in 1981 by Korolko.6 The diary has not often drawn attention from contemporary scholars. There are only three publications in which the content of the Itinerary is examined.7 When Szemiot wrote his text he was probably twenty-five years old. He was born around 1655 into an old and well-known Samogitian family.8 Their coat of arms was Łabędź (Swan). His childhood was marked by several losses. After his father’s death his Aunt Abramowiczowa looked after him. This was probably because of the fact that the family did not agree with Stanisław being brought up by his Protestant mother. However, the aunt orphaned him a couple of years later and three Catholic guardians were appointed. Before her death he became a student of the Jesuit Academy in Wilno (Vilnius), probably in 1665 or 1666. He studied there at least until 1672. It is highly probable that he was one of the most accomplished students in the Academy at the time. He exhibited organizational and interpersonal skills and several times was elected to the highest positions in an elite student union, the Sodality of Our Lady. In 1670 he even became the prefect (or director) of the Sodality, but more frequently he was appointed the treasurer or one of the vice-directors. He finished the entire course of lower studies and probably studied philosophy as well. After his studies he started to manage his properties. At the age of twenty-one he married Zofia Kierdejówna, the daughter of the district marshal of Grodno (Hrodna). They had four children. He was a wealthy man and we can suppose he possessed good financial skills. He inherited several manors, his wife brought him a few other properties and he also had a house on Sawicz Street (Savičiaus gatvė) in Wilno. As far as we know, Szemiot was focused on his business, family and social life and tended to avoid involvement in politics. However, he had one great passion: poetry. In 1673 or 1674 he started to compile his commonplace book in which he continuously wrote his poems.9 They represent various genres: romances, epitaphs and threnodies, epigrams and panegyrics. He commented on political events, such as the victories of Chocim (Khotyn) in 1673 and Vienna in 1683. In many of his poems he praised the Lord and the saints, but at the same time he did not eschew composing pornographic epigrams. There is one common feature of his poetry: its tendency towards philosophical reflection. He was especially interested in human nature, ethics, eschatology and the mechanism of the world. We find some remarks about the mechanisms in the itinerary as well. Szemiot’s itinerary is an exceptional source. Although there are many diaries and memoirs written by Poles and Lithuanians in the seventeenth century, none of them offers such a description of Poland as Szemiot does. Other authors are focused on the events they witnessed or participated in,

Szemiot’s Mapping of Poland  207 so narration is more common than description. They describe when they went abroad and saw something unusual. One of the most prominent examples of such Lithuanian texts is The Diary of the Journey in the Lands of Germany, Bohemia and Italy by Teodor Billewicz, written almost at the same time as Szemiot’s Itinerary (1677–78).10 The first stage of Billewicz’s journey was the Polish Crown, although the route was somewhat different to Szemiot’s. He described only the monastery of Częstochowa and mentioned two other places with holy pictures.11 Evidently, he was not much interested in Poland and its attractions. However, in his diary we can find meticulous description of foreign cities, towns and other places. Billewicz’s attitude to the Polish Crown was typical. Thus, we have many Polish and Lithuanian descriptions of Italy, France, the Netherlands, even Palestine, but when it comes to Poland we must rely mainly on the accounts of foreigners: Germans, Italians and French. For the citizens of the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth, the nature of their own country seemed obvious. Why would they want to write about it? An eighteenth-century Polish encyclopaedist, Benedykt Chmielowski, defined a horse thus: ‘everyone sees what a horse looks like’ (koń jaki jest, każdy widzi).12 For most Polish-Lithuanian diarists Poland was just such a horse. But not for Szemiot. To notice his interest in Poland it is necessary to admit the distinctly Lithuanian identity of the poet. However, almost all of the Polish historians of literature who have written about Szemiot have regarded him as a typical Polish-Sarmatian nobleman and as a provincial poet.13 Even Kamykowski, who noted Szemiot’s Lithuanian background, stressed that actually he was a Pole.14 Korolko without any hesitation wrote that the poet ‘was a Pole born in Lithuania’.15 The latest research shows, however, that Szemiot was neither a provincial nor a Polish nobleman.16 He gained an outstanding educational background at Wilno Academy, inherited a small fortune, and then by his marriage and connections aspired to ­become a member of the elite of the Grand Duchy of Lithuania. He continually travelled between his Lithuanian properties. Probably, therefore, it was his Lithuanian identity and intellectual aspirations which induced him to write his account about Poland—a country which to him represented both proximity and otherness. Szemiot wrote his itinerary almost every day in next to no time, probably in the evening. This is the reason why his notes are so concise. But he could not resist the temptation to take up the pen even after a long and tiring day. After his return, his notes would be helpful to recall the memories. In this respect he is similar to contemporary tourists taking pictures and showing them off on Facebook. But such pictures are deliberately taken in such a way that they could construct a narration of his journey. It is not a place which demands to be shown in a particular way, but a previously undertaken scenario (in Szemiot’s case it is the genre of the diary) decides how the place should be represented. Thus, a scheme of

208  J. Niedźwiedź constructing a story and discursive maps precede Szemiot’s observations. As a result, the Itinerary is not only a record bringing back memories, but was also a guide written by a Lithuanian poet.17 Szemiot’s diary has a simple, chronological order. In this respect it does not differ from many other Lithuanian diaries written in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, such as the memoirs and diaries of Mikołaj Krzysztof Radziwiłł, Jerzy Radziwiłł, Teodor Billewicz or Krzysztof ­Zawisza. The Itinerary begins on 29 August  1680, when Szemiot and his companions set off on their journey and finishes a month later, on 30 September, when they returned. Szemiot meticulously accounted for every village and town they passed. We can easily reconstruct their route and draw it on the map (see the appendix to this book). Szemiot’s account is in fact an act of mapping or designing a personal map. At this time maps were in common use among people belonging to his social class. They consulted maps in schools, as a part of their historical and mathematical education (Szemiot studied mathematics), and they had to use them to manage their properties. In the second half of the seventeenth century, manuscript maps were a part of a documentation of their lands. A sample of such a plan is the aforementioned map of the town of Skawina.18 Thus, we can assume that Szemiot was accustomed to maps but we do not know if he consulted them when preparing his journey. The travellers started in the manor house in Przegaliny, which was part of the dowry of Szemiot’s wife. Przegaliny is now part of the voivodeship of Podlasie in Poland but in Szemiot’s times it was one of the most westward points of the palatinate of Brześć Litewski (Brest) in the Grand Duchy of Lithuania. Although only the landscape has survived, the site of the manor house is still visible, especially on satellite pictures. Firstly, the pilgrims travelled westward. They crossed the Vistula river near to the castle of Czersk and visited the monasteries at Góra Kalwaria. Next, they more or less followed the Pilica river upstream and on the eleventh day they reached Częstochowa. They spent three days in the sanctuary and continued their journey towards Cracow. Because of the plague they could not enter the city, instead they went through Skawina to Kalwaria Zebrzydowska. Almost certainly this was the most southerly point Szemiot reached in his life. After visiting Kalwaria and the nearby castle of Lanckorona, they again passed Cracow and went northwards through the palatinate of Sandomierz. They crossed the Vistula again and spent two days in Lublin. The last stage of the pilgrimage led directly to Przegaliny. During the thirty-two days of the journey they covered 900 kilometres, visited fifty towns and villages, dozens of churches, monasteries, castles and manor houses. Szemiot was proud of it when he wrote at the end of his itinerary: It is worth highlighting how exceptional the grace of the Lord was upon us during such a long journey. It was not a hundred, even two

Szemiot’s Mapping of Poland  209 hundred [Polish] miles19 in both directions. The horses alone were forty-five [in number] and by far more people but nobody was ill and all the horses remained without any injuries. Indeed, animissime we did this way favente Deo et Matre eius. (p. 116) Szemiot regards the pilgrimage (and probably his entire life) as a part of the metaphysical battle between God and evil. When the pilgrims stayed over the first night, most of the horses escaped. Szemiot attributed this disaster to ‘the resident of Ereb’ (p. 117), the devil, who had tried to induce the travellers to stop their holy journey. The situation seemed to be hopeless. Some of the pilgrims suggested giving up their journey and turning back. But they had a strong supporter in the battle against the devil: the Blessed Virgin Mary. Shortly after a supplication to her, the horses were found and the pilgrimage could be continued.20 The Virgin is always present in Szemiot’s thinking; he mentions her or her miraculous depictions on every single page of his diary, no less than forty times in all.21 At the same time he avoids mentioning the devil. But the devil is still present and vigilant. The author writes three times about his malicious although unsuccessful actions. This metaphysical battle is the background, but on the surface there are everyday events and rituals. The days are described in similar ways: waking up at six, hearing mass, travel, dinner, travel and at around eight in the evening the next stop. The monotony of the journey is however ostensible. Below is a typical sample of Szemiot’s narration. They spent the night of 24 September in Łagów in the Holy Cross Mountains (Góry Świętokrzyskie). The next day the author visited this small town. Die 24 Septembris Before we set off we went to the church, which is built in stone. The inside is decent; there is quite a big semi-organ. In this town there are three churches. There is a clock at one of them. At lunch we stopped in the town called Opatów, belonging to the prince palatine of Cracow. In the suburb we visited the church of the Bernardine Friars [Observant Franciscans], which is built in stone together with its monastery and walled. In this church there is nothing particular to be described. Next we were in the parish church, which is built in the ancient style. There is a big organ and a fairly good picture of the Blessed Virgin. We heard holy mass there. The town itself is decent, there are several gates and probably it was walled in the past, but the wall has fallen down. In the town there are two clocks; one at the Bernardine Friars, the other on the parish church, where seven or eight priests have always lived. At six we stopped for overnight accommodation in the village of Gliniany, belonging to Mr Jawornicki.

210  J. Niedźwiedź The reason for our early stopover was that one of our carts broke and had to be fixed. In this small town there is a small wooden church. (pp. 112–13) In this fragment there are some elements which are repeated in the descriptions of other places. We can easily discern the things Szemiot is the most interested in. These are: churches, sculptures and pictures (mostly of the Blessed Virgin); the church music; mechanisms, such as organs, clocks or guns. He is also interested in the architecture of the churches and castles.22 In Częstochowa and Lanckorona he has visited the strongholds and makes relatively thorough descriptions of them. At Opatów ‘the ancient style’ of the parish church has caught his eye. He had probably not seen a large Romanesque church before, but he could easily discern its peculiarities and antiquity. Szemiot always notes the material of a building. He has evidently noticed that in south-western Poland there were many more churches and manor houses built in brick or stone than in Lithuania. Two other things really astonished the Lithuanian nobleman. The first was the treasury in the Jasna Góra Monastery in Częstochowa.23 He devotes an entire page to enumerating priests’ cassocks, silver candlesticks, chalices and such like. He was most struck by ‘a pure gold monstrance, one and a half ell tall, which weighs 20 pounds of gold’ (p. 104). In his mind he did a quick calculation of the price: the precious stones are 30,000 złotys each, the costs of labour of a goldsmith one złoty per stone, and so on. He discovered the monstrance was worth one million, two hundred thousand Polish złotys. He calculated the worth of other precious objects as well and summed up, ‘Note how great are the treasures of this holy place. I think they have no less than six million złotys in jewellery, silver and gold’.24 ‘They’ meant the Pauline monks. Is Szemiot envious? To cover up any bad impression he adds: ‘Let this wealth will be multiplied for the praise of the Lord and the particular embellishment of the Blessed Virgin’ (p. 104). The other astonishing thing Szemiot had the opportunity to see was the landscape near Lanckorona. He was invited there by Mrs  Zebrzydowska, the wife of the chamberlain (podkomorzy) of Cracow. When Szemiot climbed the top of the castle walls he saw mountains. ‘The Tatra Mountains’, he wrote, ‘and the snow on them can be very clearly visible from there. We could see with our own eyes how the clouds covered the top of Babia Góra and lay there for quarter of an hour’ (p. 109).25 It was the first and the last time in his life when he could see how the earth and the sky were united. With surprise he could listen to the weather forecast by the local people who predicted the rain on the second day. These two miraculous places, Częstochowa and Lanckorona, certainly distinguished Poland from Lithuania. Szemiot could see many other differences in other places: architecture, density of population, wealth,

Szemiot’s Mapping of Poland  211 clocks in the towns, Italian gardens and so on. All these things were new and interesting. But to what extent could he feel and express in his narration the otherness of Poland? To what extent did he think of Poland as different from Lithuania? The Polish border was so close to Przegaliny that Szemiot did not even mention that they crossed it. Probably in this part of the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth there were no particular signs of the boundary. He must have crossed it many times before, going to visit his neighbours or to the town of Radzyń Podlaski. Thus, did he think he was in another country? His diary does not give a straightforward answer to this question. However, his descriptions of the villages they passed through in the palatinate of Lublin (pp. 97–98, 115) are detailed from the very beginning of his journey. He mentioned every interesting detail, even though he was no more than forty kilometres from home. We can suppose after embarking on the journey his attitude towards these parts of the Commonwealth changed. He did not look at the palatinate of Lublin as a familiar neighbourhood, but as a part of an unknown space, worth being described in the itinerary. In his state of mind he was already abroad. And this ‘foreign country’ was to be mapped. When he started to note his observations he became a seventeenth-century Lithuanian tourist and mapmaker. After crossing a certain point he already knew he was in Poland. It is not easy to say where this point was. Perhaps it was not any particular point but a distance and time, but certainly this change took place. Looking with disappointment at the high towers of Cracow he wrote: ‘After hearing holy mass from a distance we said goodbye to Cracow, where we could not be because of the plague and at eight we set off on the return journey to Lithuania’ (p. 110). Being one Polish mile from Cracow, he knew he was abroad and on somewhat alien territory. This territory was alien not because it was completely different from those parts of the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth Szemiot had seen previously, but because he constructed his narration in such a way that it could produce an effect of otherness. Probably Szemiot names these objects which could be considered unusual by their huge number: clocks, old castles, holy pictures, towns with many stone churches and fortifications and so on. Alien territory is represented by applying tools well known to the author and his readers: those of the diary and cartographic ones. The diary is a narration which belongs to a kind of a­ utobiographical prose. The Itinerary does not directly tell the story of Szemiot’s ­personality, as Philippe Lejeune put it in his classical definition of autobiography,26 but the poet’s personality can be reconstructed, as Kamykowski and Wereda have tried to do in their studies. In consequence, the alien Polish territory is described through a personal impression in a piece of autobiographical narration. This type of writing—a diary—applies schemes in describing particular places. When a narrator for the first time mentions

212  J. Niedźwiedź some characteristic objects belonging to a place, very often he or she tends to find the same type of objects in other places as well. This might be an explanation, why Szemiot repeatedly enumerates stone buildings, clocks, organs and pictures of the Blessed Virgin. Eventually, his personal interests mingle with schemes and modes typical for diary writing. There is yet another, less obvious, feature of his description of Poland: a map-like way of constructing a representation of space. By ‘map-like’ I  mean two characteristic features of Szemiot’s narration. Firstly, the aforementioned enumeration of places and objects is a mnemotechnic tool which is very often applied in early modern manuscript and printed itinenaries. Enumeration within an itinerary is a much simpler way of representing space than designing a map, which requires from its author mathematical and drawing skills. The result of this simpler act of listing places in Szemiot’s diary is a discursive map of the Polish Crown. Using the mnemotechnic tool, this discursive map—just like a two-dimensional map—facilitates the imagining of Polish territory. In the early modern period such a gesture was often applied in symbolic depictions of the nation’s territory.27 In Szemiot’s case the goal of this discursive map is different. He detaches himself from the space he describes. Then, in this act he defines not only the imagined space, but also his own self as a stranger and voyager. In other words, being in this part of the Commonwealth and describing it in such a way he points out his ‘Lithuanity’. He is simultaneously a citizen of this country and an alien. In his detachment from Poland lies the uniqueness of his diary. Polish historians have noticed this uniqueness, but in contradicting Szemiot’s Lithuanity, they missed an opportunity of a deeper understanding of the multi-dimensional identity of the inhabitants of the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth. Secondly, Szemiot’s narration resembles general maps of the PolishLithuanian Commonwealth and other countries published in the seventeenth century. On these maps are marked cities, towns and villages, rivers and mountains and borders between countries and sometimes between palatinates or other provinces. There are no roads or fields. Trees have more of a decorative function than the task of representing the country’s actual forests. Places and topographical objects in Szemiot’s description of Poland are rendered in a similar way. There is a hierarchy of settlements similar to the hierarchy of signs on contemporary maps and objects represented on views of towns. Consequently, they are mentioned in a hierarchic way as cities, towns, villages, estates and manor houses. In Szemiot’s diary there is no landscape and the exception is the description of Babia Góra and the Tatra Mountains discussed above. Nevertheless the travellers must have passed fields, forests, characteristic crosses and statues erected by the roads, and such like. But in the narration, just like on contemporary maps, the spaces between villages and towns are empty. The unique features of the landscape noticed by Szemiot are mountains

Szemiot’s Mapping of Poland  213 and river—specifically, the Vistula river, which they had to ford. Even though they travelled to Częstochowa along the Pilica river, Szemiot does not name it at all. This cartographic way of representing space in seventeenth-century memoirs is probably not particularly original. We can also find traces of it in Teodor Billewicz’s diary, but in Szemiot’s case the description is very dense and survey-like. This way of cartographic thinking can be also observed in his descriptions of villages and towns. While Billewicz’s relations about the towns and cities he visited during his journey to Italy are similar to written characteristics in the Civitates orbis terrarum or in the guide by Franz Schott,28 Szemiot’s descriptions are not based on texts, but rather on the engravings similar to those in Braun and Hogenbergh’s work. When constructing his townscapes Szemiot enumerates characteristic objects, always marked on the contemporary views of urban space: castles, churches, town halls, towers with clocks, fortifications and such like. This use of cartographic imagination can also be seen in the attempts of imitating of early bird-view cadastral maps, similar to the one mentioned at the beginning of this chapter. A  description, similar to seventeenth-century inventories can serve as an example: For dinner we arrived at the property of Mr Michałowski, steward (stolnik) of Różan, called Słupie. There is quite a beautiful manor house, entirely built in stone, and a garden. In each corner there are small, stone towers. The wooden church looks pretty good. Having dined, at one in the afternoon we set off our trip again. (pp. 110–11) It is possible that when he looked at Cracow from the distance of one mile, he recognized this view from one of many copperplates representing the capital of Poland. We will never know in which way he might have described the city if he had a chance to visit it. But he could not and he regretted the fact. The travellers were afraid of being infected by the plague. Actually, there was no plague in the city, but only the fear it could break out just as it had three years earlier.29 Thus, no visitors were allowed to go through the city gates. But Szemiot was convinced they had avoided yet another diabolical trap and survived—this time at least. He did not know that he would not have another chance to visit Cracow. Two years later the epidemic reached the Grand Duchy of Lithuania. Three of Szemiot’s four children died.30 After another two other years, on 24 April 1684, Szemiot met his own death on the way from Nowogródek (Navahrudak) to Grodno. He was no more than twenty-nine years old. The Itinerary written in his commonplace book four years earlier is not only a documentation of his pilgrimage to the holy places in Poland but

214  J. Niedźwiedź a personal mapping of this country as well. This survey turned out to be the journey of his life.

Notes 1. This chapter is a partial result of the project financed by the National Science Centre (Poland) about the relationship between Polish literature and cartography in the sixteenth and the first half of the seventeenth centuries: ‘Związki literatury polskiej i kartografii w XVI i I  poł. XVII w.’, UMO2014/15/B/HS2/01104 (K/PBO/000337), DEC-2014/2015/B/HS2/01104. 2. Stanisław Samuel Szemiot, Diariusz peregrynacyi na różne miejsca święte szczęśliwie odprawionej anno 1680, eds. Mirosław Korolko and Zofia Olszewska, in Ze starych rękopisów, ed. Henryk Kowalewicz et  al., Warsaw: Instytut Wydawniczy PAX, 1979, p. 107. All the subsequent quotations from the Itinerary will be marked in the text by the page number. 3. ‘Półperspektywiczny plan miasta Skawiny z ok. 1663 roku’, Archiwum Narodowe w Krakowie, Cracow, Collection 29/663, zb. kart. VI-426. Available online at the Małopolska Biblioteka Cyfrowa, http://mbc.malopolska. pl/dlibra/doccontent?id=18648. 4. The term a self-made map is borrowed from Tom Conley, The Self-Made Map: Cartographic Writing in Early Modern France, Minneapolis, MN and London: University of Minnesota Press, 1997. 5. Biblioteka Zakładu Narodowego im. Ossolińskich, Wrocław (Poland), MS 212/II, fols 21r–30r. 6. Stanisław Samuel Szemiot, Sumariusz wierszów, ed. Mirosław Korolko, Warsaw: PAX, 1981. This is an edition of Szemiot’s entire poetical output. A selection of his poems was published earlier in Poeci polskiego baroku, eds. Jadwiga Sokołowska and Kazimiera Żukowska, vol. 2, Warsaw: PIW, 1965, pp. 290–8 and Stanisław Samuel Szemiot, Wiersze wybrane, ed. Mirosław Korolko, Poezja, 12, 1977, 5/6, pp.  110–27. Ludwik Kamykowski was the first scholar to discover Szemiot’s poetry and he compiled a meticulous review: Ludwik Kamykowski, ‘Stanisław Samuel Szemiot’, Pamiętnik Lubelski, 3, 1935–37, pp. 106–57. 7. Kamykowski, ‘Stanisław Samuel Szemiot’, pp. 99–105, Mirosław Korolko, ‘Wstęp’, in Szemiot, Diariusz peregrynacyi, pp. 89–96, Dorota Wereda, ‘Diariusz podróży Stanisława Samuela Szemiota’, Wschodni Rocznik Humanistyczny, 1, 2004, pp. 49–59. 8. This short biography of Szemiot is based on Andrzej Rachuba and Jakub Niedźwiedź, ‘Szemiot Stanisław Samuel’, in Polski Słownik Biograficzny, vol. 48, Cracow: IH PAN, 2012, pp. 503–4. 9. Kamykowski, ‘Stanisław Samuel Szemiot’, p.  98, Mirosław Korolko, ‘Stanisław Samuel Szemiot—poeta sarmackiej prowincji’, p. 23. 10. It is highly probable that Szemiot and Teodor Billewicz knew each other. In 1667 Szemiot and Zygmunt Billewicz, Teodor’s brother, became members of the Sodality of Our Lady at Wilno Academy. A  couple of years later, in the early 1670s, Teodor Billewicz also became a prominent member of the Sodality. Szemiot must have been his older fellow student. Catalogus sodalium, cui ab anno Domini 1667 Sodalitati Immaculatae Conceptionis B.V.Mariae in Academia Vilnensi Societatis Iesu adscritpi sunt reformatus anno Domini 1683, Biblioteka Jagiellońska, Cracow, MS 4557, fol. 153r. 11. Teodor Billewicz, Diariusz Podróży po Europie w latach 1677–1678, ed. Marek Kunicki-Goldfinger, Warsaw: Biblioteka Narodowa, 2004, p. 115.

Szemiot’s Mapping of Poland  215 12. Benedykt Chmielowski, Nowe Ateny albo Akademia wszelkiej scjencyi pełna na różne tytuły jako na classes podzielona: Mądrym dla memoryjału, idiotom dla nauki, politykom dla praktyki, melancholikom dla rozrywki erygowana, vol. 1, Lwów: W Drukarni Pawła Józefa Golczewskiego, 1745, p. 475. 13. Kamykowski, ‘Stanisław Samuel Szemiot’, p.  100; Korolko, ‘Stanisław Samuel Szemiot’, pp.  5–6, Wereda, ‘Diariusz podróży’, p.  58. Naturally, Lithuanian researchers consider Szemiot to be a Lithuanian poet, but their remarks about him are almost entirely based on Polish studies. See Eugenija Ulčinaitė, ‘Latyniškieji ir lenkiškieji kūriniai’, in Eugenija Ulčinaitė and Albinas Jovaišas, Lietuvių literatūros istorija: XIII—XVIII amžius, Vilnius: Lietuvių literatūros ir tautosakos institutas, 2003, p. 297. 14. ‘The Itinerary [is] a diary of the first Polish tourist pilgrimage in Poland, written by a Lithuanian, but a Lithuanian in the Mickiewicz’s sense of the word; what is more by [a Lithuanian] who lived in Podlasie’. Kamykowski, ‘Stanisław Samuel Szemiot’, p. 100. 15. Korolko, ‘Wstęp’, p. 94. 16. Rachuba and Niedźwiedź, ‘Szemiot Stanisław Samuel’, p. 503. 17. Peter Turchi, Maps of the Imagination: The Writer as Cartographer, San Antonio, TX: Trinity University Press, 2004, p. 20. 18. Only a very few such maps of small properties have been preserved until today; another example represents the property of the Dominican Friars in Jakubowice in 1642. See the exhibition catalogue Szlacheckie dziedzictwo czy przeklęty spadek: Tradycje sarmackie w sztuce i kulturze, ed. Joanna Dziublowa, Poznań: Muzeum Narodowe w Poznaniu, 2004, p. 27. 19. A Polish mile was about seven kilometres. 20. Szemiot writes about this event in the poem added at the end of his diary: Podziękowanie majestatowi Pańskiemu za szczęśliwie odprawienie wizyty miejsc świętych oraz i Bogarodzicy Pannie Przenaświętszej za osobliwe patrocinium, przy tym specificatio miejsc świętych osobliwszych w którycheśmy byli [The Gratitude to the Majesty of the Lord for the Fortunate Visiting Holy Places and to the Holy Virgin for a Special Protection and an Enumeration of the Most Interesting Holy Places Which We Visited] (pp. 117–21). 21. Kamykowski, ‘Stanisław Samuel Szemiot’, p.  100; Wereda, ‘Diariusz podróży’, pp. 54–5. 22. Cf. Kamykowski, ‘Stanisław Samuel Szemiot’, p.  100, 102–04, Wereda, ‘Diariusz podróży’, pp. 54, 56–7. 23. In the seventeenth century the icon of the Black Madonna of Częstochowa was the main goal of the Catholic pilgrims from all provinces of the PolishLithuanian Commonwealth. The monastery became especially famous after holding out against the Swedish army during the ‘Deluge’ in the Winter of 1655–56. 24. Three years earlier Billewicz also admired the treasury of Jasna Góra, but his account of his visit is much less detailed: ‘Then we stopped in Częstochowa die 23 Augusti. After the church service, the next day all the preciouses were shown to us. There are countless treasures and elaborate jewelry, pure gold set with precious stones’. Billewicz, Diariusz, p. 115. 25. Cf. Kamykowski, ‘Stanisław Samuel Szemiot’, p.  105, Korolko, ‘Wstęp’, pp. 93–4, Wereda, ‘Diariusz podróży’, p. 56. 26. ‘Retrospective prose narrative written by a real person concerning his own existence, where the focus is his individual life, in particular the story of his personality’. Philippe Lejeune, ‘The Autobiographical Pact’, in idem, On Autobiography, ed. and foreword by Paul John Eakin, transl. Katherine M. Leary, Minneapolis, MN: University of Minnesota Press, 1988, p. 4.

216  J. Niedźwiedź 27. Tom Conley has pointed out these mnemonic features of sixteenth-century French itineraries which allow the reader to imagine the national space of the Kingdom of France: ‘In the itinerarium, the place names that make up the nation offer a view of France as a restricted surface of memorable things and people and fabulous events. Frank Lestringant [.  .  .] reminds us that Hondius, in his preface to Mercator’s Atlas universel (1578–1595), whose map of France used Estienne’s Guide [. . .], presents geography as “the artificial memory of history” ’. Conley, The Self-Made Map, p. 144. 28. Georg Braun and Franz Hogenberg, Cities of the World: 230 Colour Engravings Which Transformed Urban Cartography 1572–1617, eds. Stephan Füssel and Johannes Althoff, transl. Joan Clough and Ruth Schubert, Cologne: Taschen 2015. Franz Schott, Itinerarium nobiliorum Italiae regionum, urbium, oppidorum, et locorum, Vicenza: Francesco Bolzetta, 1600. 29. A terrible epidemic broke out in Cracow in 1677 when, according to contemporary sources, more than 21,000 people died (which is an obvious exaggeration). In April 1680 Cracow was threatened by a new wave of plague. When Szemiot travelled in September 1680 the gates of the city were closed and without a special certificate of health nobody was let in under pain of death. Cf. Jan Kracik, Staropolskie postawy wobec zarazy, Cracow: Petrus, 2012, pp. 82–90. 30. Szemiot devoted to them the poem Króciutka pamiątka postradanych jednego roku dziatek, najstarszej córki Anny, syna Emanuela i drugiej córeczki Zuzanny, którą pamiątkę stroskany ociec i na sercu, i na papierze mieć chce ustawicznie [A Short Memory of the Children Lost in One Year: The Oldest Daughter Anna, the Son Emanuel and Another Little Daughter Zuzanna, Which Memory the Sad Father Wants to Have Always in His Heart and on Paper] and two epitaphs. Szemiot, Sumariusz wierszów, pp. 331–2.

14 Propaganda in the Parishes Local Communication During the Insurrection of 1794 Richard Butterwick

This chapter originated in the discovery of a document preserved in the Wróblewski Library of the Lithuanian Academy of Sciences in Vilnius (Figure 14.1a and 14.1b).1 This source was created in May 1794, during the early stages of the insurrection against Russian domination of the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth. It contains a letter from Reverend Canon Symon Waraxa (vel Szymon Waraksa) to the parish clergy of the southern half of his deanery of Olwita (Alvitas) in the Roman Catholic diocese of Wilno (Vilnius). Attached to the letter are one hand-written and two printed proclamations by the civil and ecclesiastical authorities in Wilno as well as instructions for their delivery (‘via cursoria’) to each parish. It also details how these instructions were carried out. The analysis of this document, when combined with other sources, enables the historian to investigate various questions including the priorities of the insurrectionary authorities, the discourse of insurrectionary propaganda, practical cooperation between civil and ecclesiastical administrations, and the routes and speeds of communication at a particular time and place. The latter is the most significant for this volume’s theme of microhistories. At the time when the document was created, the Grand Duchy of Lithuania was both exhilarated and imperilled. Between 1788 and 1793 the Commonwealth had rejected Russian hegemony, given itself a new constitution, been invaded by Russia and subjected to a rapacious, repressive counter-revolutionary regime, and partitioned for the second time. The provocations orchestrated by the Russian envoy extraordinary and minister plenipotentiary to the Commonwealth, General Osip Igelström, prompted the return of General Tadeusz Kościuszko from exile. In Cracow on 24 March 1794 he became the head of an insurrection to liberate the country from its occupiers. On 4 April Kościuszko’s forces, including some scythe-wielding peasants, won a victory over Russian troops at Racławice. The insurrection then spread to other parts of the twice amputated Commonwealth.2 On 17–18 April Warsaw rose against the Russians, forcing Igelström to escape with only a fraction of his garrison.3 A day earlier, the insurrection had been proclaimed in the Grand Duchy of Lithuania at Szawle (Šiauliai). The people of Wilno rose during

Figure 14.1a and 14.1b ‘Letter to confrères about the arrival of proclamations from Wilno “of both highest authorities” ’. Wróblewski Library of the Lithuanian Academy of Sciences, MS F43–26934 By kind permission of the Wróblewski Library of the Lithuanian Academy of Sciences, Vilnius.

Propaganda in the Parishes  219

Figure 14.1a and 14.1b  (Continued)

the night of 22/23 April. The ‘Act of Insurrection of the Lithuanian Nation’ (Akt Powstania Narodu Litewskiego) was proclaimed from the city hall on 24 April. The next day, the de facto leader of the counterrevolutionary confederacy that had ruled the Grand Duchy in 1792– 93, Szymon Kossakowski, was hanged as a traitor. The body variously called the Supreme Council of the Lithuanian Nation (Rada Najwyższa Narodu Litewskiego) or the Supreme Lithuanian Government Council (Najwyższa Rządowa Rada Litewska) established on 24 April had a criminal court and three deputations—for public safety, public provisioning and the public treasury. Military command was entrusted to the radical ‘Jacobin’ general and poet, Jakub Jasiński. The Grand Duchy’s insurrectionary institutions acted on their own initiative in the name of ‘the Lithuanian nation’, prompting Kościuszko to press for the integration of the Lithuanian structures into those shared with the Polish Crown. It is perhaps ironic that Jasiński had come to Lithuania from Great Poland (Wielkopolska) while Kościuszko was a native son of the Grand Duchy.4

220  R. Butterwick With significant Russian forces still in the vicinity after the successful revolt in Wilno, it was essential to mobilize all possible human and other resources while preventing supplies from falling into Russian hands.5 These imperatives entailed rapid and effective communication with the population. The document in the Wróblewski Library refers to three printed proclamations (uniwersały). Copies were originally enclosed with it in a package. The first proclamation was ecclesiastical—issued by the general office of the bishopric of Wilno on 1 May and ordaining prayers and services for the Fatherland in churches across the diocese.6 The second was issued by the Supreme Council on 30 April, and was addressed to the rural population (‘Odezwa do Rolnikow ludu wieyskiego’). Most insurrectionary sources are in Polish, but several proclamations, including this one, were also printed in Lithuanian.7 The third proclamation most concerns us here. It was issued by the Deputation for Public Provisioning on 26 April. Reverend Waraxa had received very few printed copies, so he copied it out by hand before despatching it to the parishes. In short, it forbade the hoarding or export of ‘grain, hay, victuals, cattle, meat, fat, hides and other types of food’ because of the military emergency. Officials would be empowered to confiscate foodstuffs if any such attempts were discovered. However, there was no mention of any compulsory requisitioning, only an encouragement to sell foodstuffs to the army for what was termed a ‘market price’ and a ‘decent price’. Existing tolls of all kinds were suspended to facilitate deliveries to areas in which the Lithuanian army was being concentrated. Existing contracts would lose their force ‘until the tranquillity and liberty of the Fatherland were completely secured’. The language of the proclamation also merits attention. The above measures were justified in a stirring preamble: The rising up of the Nation from the enemy’s cruel slavery, just as the greatness of the bravery and courage of the Lithuanian Knighthood shall astonish all, so the most exacting duty requires from the Deputation of Public Provisioning that it should seek with all speed to supply victuals for these valiant forces and provide for the needs of the citizens who with the utmost zeal will rise in the defence of all. Love of the Fatherland and Freedom will surely sway all hearts to make offerings—of the property of everyone for the salvation of the Nation, which is bravely rising up; and feeling and tenderness in every soul, on recalling the torments inflicted by the bloody enemies, caused by the greed of the cruel traitors to the Fatherland, will incite all to share even their last piece of bread with those who have offered their lives and blood for the punishment of enemies and traitors, and for the protection from a dreadful slaughter, inferno and uprooting of the innocent inhabitants of the country.

Propaganda in the Parishes  221 The deputation was not mincing words. A similar discourse of patriotic sacrifice in the face of murderous treason could be heard in the France of Year II. Indeed, the authorities in Wilno have been accused of naively trying to copy revolutionary French models in the very different environment of the Grand Duchy of Lithuania.8 The composition of this deputation is therefore noteworthy. It comprised noblemen of significant standing and property (although none of them were magnates), two burghers and two clergymen.9 One of the latter, Michał Franciszek Karpowicz, was archdeacon of Smolensk and professor of theology at Wilno University. His long-standing reputation as the Commonwealth’s most eloquent preacher was confirmed with his funeral oration for those who had fallen in the Vilnan insurrection of 22/23 April.10 As a trenchant critic of the evils of serfdom in the mid1770s and an outspoken supporter of the Constitution of 3 May 1791, he had been targeted for revenge by Józef Kazimierz Kossakowski, bishop of Livonia who, like his brother Szymon, was hanged for treason—in Warsaw on 9 May 1794. Although Bishop Kossakowski denounced Karpowicz as a radical, the sermons preached by the latter during the ‘Polish Revolution’ of 1788–92 were in fact more concerned with defending the clergy from radical enlightened criticism than with social, let alone theological reform. Moreover, Kossakowski had himself condemned nobles for their exploitation of serfs.11 Despite occasionally sanguinary rhetoric, 1794 in Poland-Lithuania saw a relatively gentle revolution, with only intermittent moments of crowd violence against ‘traitors’. Although some ‘Jacobins’ including Jasiński, wanted to mobilize an emancipated peasantry to fight for the national cause, there was no hint of abolishing the nobility, let alone of French-style dechristianization. In return, the majority of Polish-Lithuanian hierarchs and parish clergy cooperated with and usually cheered on the rising.12 This was certainly the case with the suffragan bishop and administrator of the diocese of Wilno, Dawid Pilchowski.13 Dean Waraxa gave instructions for the circulation of the three proclamations. When the mounted courier arrived at each church, the clergyman in charge would keep two printed proclamations and copy out the third, before sending the remaining copies and the written document on to the next church. They would attest the time of arrival and departure in the appointed place on the second and third pages of the document, which listed the parishes of the southern half of the deanery in the expected order of travel. When the document returned to the dean, he would despatch it to Wilno. Priests, he wrote, should ‘not only read and explain these proclamations to the people from the pulpits in churches for several weeks continually, but having received them, immediately send them to nobles, to manor houses, and explain and announce them wherever larger populations were to be found’.

222  R. Butterwick The dean sent the package from the parish of Bartniki (Bartninkai). It was to proceed southwards via Wisztyniec (Vištytis), Wiżayny (Wiżajny), Filipów, Bakałarzewo and Raczki to Janówka, and then northwards via Suwałki, Magdalenowo with Wigry, Kaletnik, Jeleniewo, Lubewo (Liubavas) and Grażyszki (Gražyškai) back to Bartniki. Presumably he sent analogous instructions to the parishes located in the northern half of his deanery; these, however, have yet to be found, if they survive at all. The territory covered by this instruction forms the western part of what is now known to NATO military planners as the ‘Suwałki gap’. On a large-scale map it looks like an exposed strip of land along the current Polish-Lithuanian border, between Belarus to the south-east and the Kaliningrad enclave of the Russian Federation to the north-west. In fact the terrain is unfavourable to invasion. It is characterized by post-glacial moraine deposits, with numerous lakes and steep-sided drumlins and ridges. Parts are thickly wooded—remnants of a once enormous forest which expanded still further after the ethnocide of the Baltic Yotvingians at the hands of the Teutonic Order in the thirteenth century. Almost bereft of inhabitants, it became hunting terrain for the grand dukes of Lithuania and was later divided into exploited and managed grand ducal forests. Clearings and settlements, most of them planned by the grand dukes, their consorts and advisers, began to diminish the extent and density of the forest in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, especially from the northern and south-eastern directions. However, during the ‘little ice age’ of low global temperatures, coinciding with the devastating wars fought by the Commonwealth from the mid-seventeenth until the early eighteenth century, the tree cover grew back in places.14 The border fixed in 1422 between the Grand Duchy of Lithuania and the Prussian Ordnungstaat (and then its successor duchy and kingdom of Prussia) lasted almost unchanged until the Third Partition of the PolishLithuanian Commonwealth in 1795.15 It is replicated today along the frontier between the Republic of Lithuania and the Russian Federation, and along the administrative border between the Polish voivodeships of Podlasie and Warmia-Masuria. Within the Grand Duchy of Lithuania the area was split between the three districts of Kowno (Kaunas), Troki (Trakai) and Grodno (Hrodna), each of which had its own local parliamentary assembly or sejmik, and all of which were part of the palatinate of Troki. The key characteristic of the region’s economic and political geography was the high concentration of royal domain estates (ekonomie królewskie). In the later eighteenth century, these domains experienced intense development, driven by the Lithuanian court treasurer Antoni Tyzenhauz. The area saw its forests and marshes retreat rapidly in favour of pasture and cultivated land. The process is reflected in the palynological analysis of lake-bed sediments which reveals rising concentrations of wheat, barley and buckwheat pollen around this time.16 The 1789 tax

Propaganda in the Parishes  223 and population survey carried out in the Commonwealth reveals that some small towns and many villages had higher populations at that time than they do today.17 A quiet market square—for example at Jeleniewo— can remind us of long-lost municipal status. This growth was echoed in ecclesiastical structures: four of the parishes covered in this chapter—Bartniki, Jeleniewo, Suwałki and Kaletnik— were founded after 1780.18 Each parish in the deanery encompassed one or two dozen villages, manors, hamlets and other settlements. These parishes were large by the standards of central and western Poland, still larger by those of most of southern and western Europe. They were much smaller, however, than those located in the eastern half of the vast diocese of Wilno, where the faithful of the Latin rite were outnumbered by Catholics of the Ruthenian rite (that is, Uniates or Greek Catholics).19 After twelve years as ‘New East Prussia’, the region became part of the handle-shaped north-eastern extension of the Napoleonic Duchy of Warsaw and then the Tsarist Kingdom of Poland. During the nineteenth century, the town of Suwałki grew swiftly as an administrative, military and industrial centre. Further north, so did Mariampol (Marijampolė) which became an important centre for the Lithuanian national movement. The countryside in between changed more slowly. The region was bitterly contested between the reborn Polish and Lithuanian states in the wake of the First World War. The demarcation line proposed by Marshal Ferdinand Foch remains the basis of the frontier, which now links two members of the Schengen zone of the European Union. To modern Poles this is the Suwalszczyzna—one of the most beautiful and unspoilt corners of their country. To modern Lithuanians it is the lost, southern part of Suvalkija which stretches as far north as the River Nemunas (Niemen) and is one of the four recognized Lithuanian ethnographic regions (alongside Drukija, Aukštatija and Žemaitija).20 Only the north-eastern fringes of this territory on the Polish side of the current border, in and around the small town of Puńsk (Punskas), still have an ethno-linguistic Lithuanian majority population.21 Very few Poles now live on the Lithuanian side of the border, quite unlike the situation in and around Vilnius. We can try to follow the route taken by the package in 1794 with the aid of two further, almost contemporaneous sources. The first is the report of the deanery of Olwita compiled in 1784 on the instructions of the bishop of Wilno, Ignacy Jakub Massalski, imitating an earlier initiative taken by Michał Jerzy Poniatowski who was then bishop of Płock but would shortly become primate of Poland. Each parish priest was obliged to provide a detailed description of the boundaries and topography of his parish, including the roads and paths.22 This action was characteristic of a generation of reforming bishops, concerned as much with the temporal welfare as with the spiritual salvation of their flocks, and lends itself to analysis in the context of ‘Catholic Enlightenment’, and even to comparisons with Josephism in the Habsburg Monarchy.23 For our purposes, the

224  R. Butterwick value of this record is enhanced by its critical published edition, which triangulates it with numerous other primary and secondary sources.24 The second is the military map created for the rulers of ‘New East Prussia’ in the second half of the 1790s, following the Third Partition of the Commonwealth in the 1795. This is a source whose level of detail (on a scale of 33,300:1) greatly surpasses the later published edition (scaled at 152,500:1). However, its representation of natural features is still a little schematic.25 Given the ongoing geographical changes in the area, evident from a comparison with the 1782 map of the Grodno royal domain lands, neither of these sources can provide an exact snapshot of the situation in May 1794. It is also enjoyable, although sometimes deceptive, to trace the route on Google maps and at the sites www.geoportal.lt and www.geoportal.gov.pl.26 Having sounded this cautionary note, let us head for Bartniki on Friday 9 May 1794. The first church at Bartniki had been a modest chapel attached to the much larger parish at Olita (Alytus), which was also the centre of a major royal domain. The textile manufactory and ironworks established under Tyzenhauz had not survived his fall from favour in 1780, but, the court treasurer left an ecclesiastical monument to his plans. Bartniki became a parish in 1783 and thanks to contributions from parishioners and the administrator of the domain, Wincenty Puzyna, its large, twin-towered church, dedicated to Saints Peter and Paul, was finally consecrated in 1790. Largely destroyed in 1944, it is now an imposing ruin.27 There was—and is—no direct road from Bartniki to Wisztyniec, but from the 1784 description two routes suggest themselves—one via Grażyszki, the other via Pojewonie (Pajevonys), which parish Reverend Waraxa held conjointly with Bartniki. Waraxa was also a canon of Smolensk, but since that Latin-rite cathedral had been in partibus Moscoviæ since 1654, this was an honorific distinction. As the package returned via Grażyszki, we shall assume the outward route went via Pojewonie. Initially, this was the easier way, forming part of the major ‘public road’ or gościniec from Grodno to Königsberg (now Kaliningrad). Lined with trees, it proceeded north-westwards straight through undulating, open fields for two miles (one Polish mile was about seven kilometres) until it reached the elongated village of Pojewonie, whence another road led south-westwards for a little less than two miles. The descriptions given in 1784 match the Prussian map. After passing the elevated parish church in its grove of pine trees, the sometimes sandy, sometimes muddy route led through the villages of Anczławka (Ančauklys) and Dobra Wola (Dabrawolė). It then climbed and wound its way into the Wisztyniec forest, becoming wetter and more difficult, before descending in stonier and sandier form into open fields.28 At four o’clock in the afternoon on 9 May 1794 the courier arrived at the parsonage in Wisztyniec. Today’s small lakeside town of Vištytis, adjoining the Russian Federation, has preserved its eighteenth-century street layout, but not its once

Propaganda in the Parishes  225 numerous Jewish community, which was wiped out in 1941. In 1794 Wisztyniec had recently recovered the urban rights lost in 1776; its representatives had participated in the burghers’ movement of the Four Years’ Sejm. In contrast to the royal domains at Bartniki and Pojewonie, here the key player was the local starosta, or holder of a Crown estate, Krzysztof Puzyna.29 The dean gave instructions not to cross the Prussian border on the journey to Wiżayny. We do not know exactly when the courier left Wisztyniec, but the package arrived at seven o’clock the following morning (Saturday), presumably after starting at dawn. The road of just over two miles was described a decade earlier as ‘sandy and muddy in places’ (the sixteen-kilometre drive across the unguarded Schengen border now takes twenty minutes). It first led south, through lakeside fields to the village of Wartele (Varteliai) before turning south-east to cross a wooded ridge. At this point, according to the 1784 description penned by the parish priest of Wiżayny, the road was ‘overgrown, muddy, hilly, stony’. From the crest the road led down to the lake that shared its name with the town at its southern tip. With 658 persons recorded in 1789, Wiżayny was then a relatively populous small town; like Wisztyniec, it was the seat of a starostwo.30 The next parish en route was Przerośl. The road was rather inadequately described in 1784 (perhaps because it was also the principal route from Warsaw to Samogitia), but it can be followed on the Prussian map. It led southwest to the elevated village of Wieżgóry (Wiżgóry), and on through fields along the Prussian border to Wierszele (Wersele), whence it took a winding and undulating route to Przerośl. The distance would have been well over three miles.31 The town had been founded through a grant of land in 1562 by King Sigismund Augustus to Reverend Albertus Grabowski of Sierpc, canon of Vilna and astrologer. This property served to endow the parish founded by the same monarch in 1571, shortly after Grabowski’s death.32 Before the setbacks initiated by the Swedish ‘Deluge’ of 1655, it had been the seat of the deanery. By the late eighteenth century the population had recovered to early seventeenth-century levels. For most of the eighteenth century, Przerośl was the most populous town in the region. In 1789, 1021 persons were recorded, including the suburbs, but growth was slowed by recurrent fires, and the Camaldolese monks’ town of Suwałki, with 1030 persons noted, had drawn ahead.33 Although Przerośl is marked on the document, no entry was made by a priest. So, we do not know if the courier found nobody at the parsonage and carried on to the next parish, or if he had already been given reason not to travel to Przerośl, and, instead to proceed directly to Filipów. The road between these two small towns led south along the western side of Lake Krzywólka, then across higher ground and a wood before bridging the river Dowspuda (now called the Rospuda) and thence into Filipów.34 An alternative route of similar length, staying further away from the

226  R. Butterwick Prussian frontier, might have led along the western side of Lake Hańcza, before turning right at Jemieliste onto the road from Grodno to Filipów. Either way, the courier would have covered over seven miles (about fifty kilometres) before he arrived at his destination at eight in the evening— about as far as a rider might expect to travel in a long day. Filipów was another royal town founded in the 1560s. The population was recorded as 725 in 1789.35 Like the burghers of Przerośl, the Filipovians had taken part in the urban movement of 1789–92.36 The courier reached the next parish, at Bakałarzewo, at five o’clock in the morning of Sunday 11 May, presumably after another dawn start. Also located by the Prussian frontier, this private town (with a population of 443 in 1789) belonged to the Chlewiński family, who also owned much of the ample farmland in the parish. Little woodland was left; some of the land has since been reforested.37 The route, described as ‘a good mile’ (it is over ten kilometres), led southwest across fields, passing the Chlewińskis’ manor and tavern at Garbaś, then along the eastern bank of the lake of the same name, crossing the Dowspuda by a bridge. The road was mostly ‘dry and good’, but it did climb and traverse a wood between two smaller lakes, before proceeding through fields into Bakałarzewo.38 The next stage was the road to Raczki, a small private town belonging to the Pac family. This road, described in 1784 as ‘initially smooth and dry’, proceeded south-eastwards across fields, forded the small river Malinówka, climbed to the village of Kamionka, which, like much of the land thereabouts, belonged to the Camaldolese monastery at Wigry. It continued through fields above the Dowspuda river, stonier in places, but generally smoothly, until turning right via a bridge over the Dowspuda at (what was then, but is no longer) the head of Lake Bolesty, and then turning left to continue into Raczki. The distance was just over two miles and the courier arrived at ten o’clock in the morning.39 The courier next made for the parish at Janówka, the village of about forty hearths at the southernmost point of the journey. This was about a mile and a half, along a road described in 1784 as ‘hilly, muddy and stony in places’, and also as ‘hilly and potholed in places’, but which passed through two villages and crossed open fields without fords or bridges.40 The package was delivered to the parish priest at eight o’clock in the evening. The total distance covered this day was about four miles. Until this point the stages were relatively straightforward and the parishes quite close together. A  greater challenge now faced the rider. Although the document indicates that the dean had expected delivery first to Suwałki, then to Magdalenowo (the parish church, attached to the nearby Camaldolese monastery on its peninsula in Lake Wigry), it turned out to be the other way round. Moreover, the courier only arrived at seven o’clock in the evening of Tuesday 13 May. We can only speculate as to the reasons for the delay. One rider might well have needed to rest for a day, but what if more than one man and one horse were available?

Propaganda in the Parishes  227 Future research may reveal inclement weather or military operations which could have made travel on Monday 12 May impossible. Or did the rider simply get lost in the forest around Lake Wigry? Neither the parish priest of Janówka nor his monastic counterpart in Suwałki noted any connection between the two churches in the 1784 survey. Indeed, the taciturn monks at Wigry declined to make a response at all. The only possibility indicated by this survey was to return to Bakałarzewo and then go south-east along a ‘bad, winding’ three-mile road to Suwałki, and from there a further two miles to Magdalenowo.41 The Prussian map suggests that this way initially crossed fields to the south-east before cutting through the forest to Leszczewek and then around the top of Lake Wigry to the church. A more direct route from Janówka, again suggested by the Prussian map, would have involved retracing the road to Raczki as far as Sucha Wieś, before taking a track to the north-east, climbing a ridge before winding into a low-lying arm of royal forest, before coming out at the village of Dubowo. This is the route now taken by the controversial fast road through the valley. An alternative route to this point crossed the same forest arm a little further north, from Raczki. This seems the most likely possibility. Either way, from Dubowo a straight road led to Suwałki. However, it was also possible to bypass Suwałki to the south. Whether or not the rider passed through the town, various forest trails to the east could, if chosen wisely, lead to four possible crossings over the Czarna Hańcza river at the expanding village of Sobolewo, before reaching the lakeshore at Leszczewek. The Camaldolese have traditionally prided themselves on their silence and on their isolation; on both counts the terse reply to a question in the survey is revealing: ‘as for parish roads, they are various, good and bad’.42 Whatever the route chosen, after a journey of over five miles the package reached Magdalenowo at seven o’clock in the evening on 13 May and was immediately sent on. The courier arrived at Suwałki at eleven, and only there is it recorded that the third proclamation was copied out. The proclamations were on their way again at two in the morning, this time to Kaletnik. This was the youngest parish in the area—it had been formally erected by Bishop Massalski on 10 March  1794.43 The rider arrived at eight o’clock in the morning on Wednesday 14 May, so the journey of just over two miles would have taken about six hours. Judging from the Prussian map, the most direct route wound east and north-east, across fields, through the villages of Osinki and Polule, for the most part skirting woods and marshy ground. At ten o’clock the package was again despatched, this time to Jeleniewo, a parish erected in 1785 for the recently settled villages of the royal domain lands. Jeleniewo itself had been founded as a village by King Stanisław August after 1765. The monarch had founded the church in 1772 and subsequently raised the settlement to the status of a small town.44 After another journey of six hours and about two miles,

228  R. Butterwick the courier arrived at four in the afternoon. The road, which connected Krasnopol and Jeleniewo, was described in 1784 as ‘hilly, rather stony, with roots, very narrow in the woods’. By the later 1790s, most of these woods appear to have been cut down. Interestingly, the way from Jeleniewo to Krasnopol (about twice as far as from Jeleniewo to Kaletnik) was then reckoned at seven hours via the pastures, but in winter at only four hours across the frozen marshes at Polule.45 Alternatively, a series of tracks further to the north, involving many steep ascents and descents, led through villages at Głęboki Rów, Czerwonka and Leszczewo, past the southern end of Lake Szelment. After only an hour at Jeleniewo, at five o’clock in the afternoon the package left for Lubowo. The courier did not arrive, however, until eight o’clock the following morning, which seems slow going for a distance of what was described as ‘three great miles’ (by the straightest route today it is about twenty-six kilometres to Liubavas—just across the Lithuanian border). Presumably the rider stopped at nightfall and resumed his journey at dawn. He would have been wise to do so, because the road to both Wiżayny and Lubowo was described in 1784 as ‘very hilly, stony and narrow in the woods’. Open fields north of Jeleniewo gave way to the royal forest (which however may have been cut down by the mid-1790s), and at Gulbiniszki the road to Lubowo branched to the right. Within the latter parish the roads were summed up as ‘on all sides hilly, stony and wooded’.46 This is confirmed by tracing the route indicated on the Prussian map, which follows the Szeszupa river through strongly contoured forest, before crossing the river at Poszeszupa and then traversing a steep ridge to arrive in Lubowo, a small town apparently granted urban rights in 1734, with a parish probably dating from 1770, and the seat of a starostwo.47 The remaining timing cannot be determined; all we know from a laconic note is that the proclamations arrived on the same day, Thursday 15 May in the next parish, at the small town, sometimes described as a village, of Grażyszki. The distance was about two miles. Ten years earlier the vicar had declined to enumerate the roads: ‘There are several particular roads in the parish almost to every place, because of the hilliness, and for this reason they do not need description, because [the hill] on which the church stands is very clearly seen from the west, north, east and south’. Whichever route was chosen, a high wooded ridge had to be crossed, but the easiest way led north to Ejstyszki (Aistiškiai) and then north-west across more open country, cleared about two centuries earlier, to Grażyszki. From there it was a further ‘great mile’ by ‘good, dry road’ across open fields, north-east to Bartniki.48 Probably the document was returned to the parsonage before nightfall, although the time of arrival was not recorded. It had taken seven days to distribute three proclamations to twelve parishes in the deanery of Olwita. The round trip amounted to more than thirty miles (210–220 kilometres). It is summarized in the map created by

Propaganda in the Parishes  229 Michał Gochna which follows this chapter. The return leg through hilly and wooded terrain proved much more difficult and time-consuming than the outward leg along the Prussian border. The seven miles and four parishes from Wisztyniec to Filipów were covered in one day, a tempo that could not be maintained thereafter. We do not know how many men and horses were involved in carrying the package from parish to parish; we may hope, for their sake, that there were more than one of each. Once the proclamations had arrived in each parish, there remained the task of reading them out and explaining them from the pulpit, and sending them on to nobles’ manor houses. This kind of document is a rare survival. The Wróblewski Library contains at least one equivalent. It is dated 29 April 1794 and records the despatch of proclamations around the entire deanery of Worniany (Varniany), now located in north-western Belarus, close to the Lithuanian frontier. Delivery to sixteen churches was completed in five days, after a circular route of about forty miles (280 kilometres).49 Although well wooded, the land here is flatter, without the myriad post-glacial lakes of the Suwalszczyzna. Communication in the deanery of Olwita was more challenging. A slightly earlier example is an instruction from the counterrevolutionary confederacy of the Grodno district in 1792 for documents to be sent ‘via cursoria’ to the parishes of the district, with the time of delivery recorded.50 In 1794 deliveries were organized by ecclesiastical deanery, not by the secular administrative division of the district. It is tempting to see this difference as a hint of more willing cooperation with the insurrectionary than with the earlier counter-revolutionary authorities, but this is a wider question that requires more research. The document despatched by Dean Waraxa is also a window into the question of clerical residence—a perennial problem for the postTridentine Church, and not only in the Commonwealth.51 In the fourteen parishes listed, two—Suwałki and Magdalenowo—were run by the Camaldolese monks; here the package was signed for by Father Leonity and Father Metody Cichowski respectively. Of the twelve other parishes, the parish priest (prepositus), usually called the pleban, was in residence on the day of delivery in four. These priests were Mateusz Polakowski at Wisztyniec, Antoni Rakowski at Bakałarzewo, Dominik Gliński at Janówka and Kazimierz Wróblewski at Jeleniewo. Dean Waraxa had despatched the package from Bartniki himself, although it is not known if he was there for its return. In four other parishes, the delivery was attested and the third proclamation copied by the assistant priest or vicar (vicarius, wikariusz, wikary—the equivalent of a curate in the Anglican Church). These were R. Milanowski at Wiżayny, M. Żyżniewski at Filipów, P. Sarmyłowicz at Lubowo and Reverend Norkiewicz at Grażyszki. For Raczki, we have the signature of Reverend Paweł Rydzewski ‘K. H. R.’. Given that in 1784 the parish priest was Wacław Rydzewski, it seems likely that Paweł was his collator and helper with a right of succession to

230  R. Butterwick the benefice—and perhaps his nephew. At Kaletnik, Reverend J. Woytkiewicz signed himself ‘Attor’. This is probably an abbreviation of ‘attorneus’, suggesting he was legally empowered to represent the parish priest. In short, at the time in question, the parish priest was resident and in charge of the parish in less than half of the churches. Of the absentees, the most famous was the pleban of Grażyszki since 1778—none other than Michał Franciszek Karpowicz, a member of the deputation for public provisioning in Wilno. Since 1774 he had held the parish of Preny (Prienai), located a dozen miles east, on the banks of the River Niemen (Nemunas).52 Comparing the description of the deanery in 1784 with the 1794 document, we note considerable stability in personnel. Besides Karpowicz, five priests—Waraxa, Wróblewski, Gliński, Rakowski and Polakowski—had all been in possession of their parishes a decade earlier. In Karpowicz’s case the 1784 description had been penned by his vicar, ‘in the absence of the pleban himself, occupied by a public lesson of theology in the Wilno Academy’.53 Karpowicz prompts the coda to this piece. After the defeat of the Insurrection and the 1795 treaty of partition, this region became part of ‘New East Prussia’. Not only did the new rulers ordain the marvellously precise military survey and map which we have been using to follow the routes across the terrain. They also closed down the Camaldolese monastery at Wigry. In 1799 the monks’ church became the cathedral of the new diocese of Wigry, which replaced the partitioned diocese of Wilno within the Kingdom of Prussia. The first bishop was Karpowicz, who died in 1803. For all its beauty, the peninsular location must have been inconvenient. In 1818 the diocese of Wigry, by now in the tsarist Kingdom of Poland, was refashioned and its seat relocated to the town of Sejny. This bishopric existed until 1925/26 when, divided by the Polish-Lithuanian frontier, legally impassable because of the absence of diplomatic relations, it was replaced by the dioceses of Łomża and Vilkaviškis.54 At least the parish of Wiłkowyszki (vel Wyłkowyszki) was once in the deanery of Olwita. However, the parts of that old deanery which are now in Poland were transferred in 1992 to the newly created diocese of Ełk (a town formerly known in German as Lyck and to the Masurians as Łek), belonging to the metropolitan province of Warmia and Masuria. Only then—from the parochial perspective of the Suwalszczyzna—was the 570-year-old boundary between Prussia and the Grand Duchy of Lithuania erased.

Notes 1. ‘List do konfratrów o dojściu uniwersałów z Wilna “Obojey Naywyzszey Zwierzchności” ’, Lietuvos mokslų akademijos Vrublevskių biblioteka, F43– 26934. It is part of the enormous archive of the Vilna Cathedral Chapter. I wish warmly to thank the Director and staff of the Wróblewski Library for their kindness and assistance during my research in that marvellous institution, for providing a scan of the document, and for permission to publish it here.

Propaganda in the Parishes  231 2. See, inter alia, Bartłomiej Szyndler, Powstanie kościuszkowskie 1794, Warsaw: Ancher, 1994; Andrzej Zahorski, ‘ Powstanie kościuszkowskie 1794’, in Stefan Kieniewicz, Andrzej Zahorski and Władysław Zajewski (eds.), Trzy powstania narodowe, 4th edn, Warsaw: Książka i Wiedza, 2000. 3. See Wacław Tokarz, Insurekcja warszawska (17 i 18 kwietnia 1794 r.), Lwów: Wydawnictwo Zakładu Narodowego im. Ossolińskich, 1934; Andrzej Zahorski, Warszawa w powstaniu kościuszkowskim, 2nd edn, Warsaw: Wiedza Powszechna, 1985. 4. See Władysław Zajewski, ‘Wilno w rewolucji 1794 r.’, in Henryk Kocój (ed.), 200 rocznica powstania kościuszkowskiego, Katowice: Wydawnictwo Uniwersytetu Śląskiego, 1994, pp. 103–32; Vydas Dolinskas, Simonas Kosakovskis: Politinė ir karinė veikla Lietuvos Didžiojoje Kunigaikštystėje 1763– 1794  m., Vilnius: Leidykla VAGA, 2003, pp.  722–47; Henryk Mościcki, Generał Jasiński i powstanie kościuszkowskie, Warsaw: Gebethner i Wolff, 1917; Zdzisław Maciej Zachmacz, Jakub Jasiński: Generał i poeta, Warsaw: Wydawnictwo IBL, 1995. Cf. Zbigniew Góralski, ‘Ustrój powstania kościuszkowskiego’, in Janusz Wojtasik (ed.), Powstanie kościuszkowskie 1794: Z dziejów polityczno-społecznych, Warsaw: Agencja Wydawnicza ‘Egros’, 1997, pp.  30–49 (pp.  36–8, 44–5); Adam Lityński, ‘Wymiar sprawiedliwości’, ibid., pp. 50–71 (p. 52). 5. For the military situation, see Szyndler, Powstanie kościuszkowskie, pp. 115– 39, 215–25. 6. Officium Generalne Wileńskie. Całemu duchowieństwu i wszystkim wiernym zdrowie: Dan w Wilnie w kancelarii Offici. Gen. Roku 1794 d. 1 maja. Ks. Dawid Pilchowski. Officjał Gen., republished in Kościół katolicki a powstanie kościuszkowskie. Zapomniana karta z dziejów insurekcji 1794 r. Wybór źródeł, ed. Andrzej Woltanowski, Warsaw: Wydawnictwo Archidiecezji Warszawskiej, 1995, pp. 91–2. 7. Andrzej Woltanowski, ‘Kształtowanie opinii publicznej podczas powstania’, in Janusz Wojtasik (ed.), Powstanie kościuszkowskie 1794: Z dziejów polityczno-społecznych, Warsaw: Agencja Wydawnicza ‘Egros’, 1997, pp.  80–111 (pp.  85, 96–7, 109 n. 35). Cf. Zigmantas Kiaupa, Trumpasis XVIII amžius (1733–1795 m.), vol. 7, part 1 of Lietuvos istorija, Vilnius: Baltos lankos, 2009, pp.  262–91; idem, The History of Lithuania, transl. S. C. Rowell, 2nd edn, Vilnius: Baltos lankos, 2004, p. 165. 8. Woltanowski, ‘Kształtowanie opinii publicznej’, pp.  85–6. Cf. Timothy Tackett, The Coming of the Terror in the French Revolution, Cambridge, MA: Belknap Press, 2015. 9. The deputation was chaired by Michał Grabowski, master of horse (koniuszy) of the Grand Duchy of Lithuania. The other members were Stanisław Wołłowicz, chamberlain (podkomorzy) of Rzeczyca (Rechytsa), Mikołaj Morawski, former scribe (pisarz) of the Grand Duchy of Lithuania, Antoni Tyzenhauz the ensign (chorąży) of Wilno, Mikołay Chrapowicki, the district marshal (marszałek) of Starodub (Staradub), Benedykt Karp, the ensign of Upita (Upytė), Michał Karpowicz, the archdeacon of Smolensk, Ignacy Towiański, the land judge (sędzia ziemski) of Wilno, Jan Miller and Gotlib Zeydler (both almost certainly burghers) and as secretary Franciszek Fryber, a Dominican friar. 10. Michał Franciszek Karpowicz, Kazanie na żałobnym obchodzie pamiątki tych Obywateli, którzy w dniu Powstania Narodu w Wilnie i następnym gonienia nieprzyjaciół życie swe mężnie za Wolność i Ojczyznę położyli [. . .] dnia 20 maja 1794 R. Z Rozkazu Rady Narodowej Litewskiej do druku podane, Wilno: Drukarnia XX. Bazylianów, 1794, shortened version in Kościół katolicki a powstanie, ed. Woltanowski, pp. 168–72.

232  R. Butterwick 11. Magdalena Ślusarska, ‘Michał Franciszek Karpowicz (1744–1803)’, in Teresa Kostkiewiczowa and Zbigniew Goliński (eds.), Pisarze polskiego oświecenia, vol. 2, Warsaw: PWN, 1994, pp. 74–98; cf. Richard Butterwick, Polska Rewolucja a Kościół katolicki 1788–1792, Cracow: Arcana and Muzeum Historii Polski, 2012, pp. 331, 467, 496, 499, 545, 623, 741–2, 745, 755–7, 865–7, 878; also a bilingual Polish-Lithuanian anthology of Karpowicz’s sermons: Mykolas Prančiskus Karpavičius, Rinktiniai pamokslai, ed. Kristina Mačiulytė, Vilnius: Lietuvių literatūros ir tautosakos institutas, 2003. 12. See Kościół katolicki a powstanie kościuszkowskie, ed. Woltanowski; Magdalena Ślusarska, ‘Między sacrum a profanum: O obrzędowości powstania kościuszkowskiego’, Wiek Oświecenia, 12, 1996, pp.  107–33; Jan Ziółek, ‘Ze studiów nad udziałem duchowieństwa katolickiego w insurekcji kościuszkowskiej’, in Henryk Kocój (ed.), 200 rocznica powstania kościuszkowskiego, Katowice: Wydawnictwo Uniwersytetu Śląskiego, 1994, pp. 133–58. For a nuanced view of ‘treason’, see Łukasz Kądziela, ‘Śledztwa i sądownictwo w sprawach o zdradę kraju w Insurekcji 1794 roku’, in Łukasz Kądziela (ed.), Od Konstytucji do Insurekcji. Studia nad dziejami Rzeczypospolitej w latach 1791–1794, Warsaw: Wydawnictwo Neriton 2011, pp. 209–25. Cf. Bogusław Leśnodorski, Polscy jakobini: Karta z dziejów insurekcji 1794 roku, Warsaw: Książka i Wiedza, 1960. 13. Woltanowski, ‘Kształtowanie opinii publicznej podczas powstania’, pp. 85–6. Kościół katolicki a powstanie kościuszkowskie, ed. Woltanowski, p. 92. 14. See Jerzy Wiśniewski, ‘Dzieje osadnictwa w powiecie sejneńskim od XV do XIX wieku’, in Jerzy Antoniewicz (ed.), Materiały do dziejów ziemi sejneńskiej, Białystok: Białostockie Towarzystwo Naukowe, 1963, pp. 9–222; idem, ‘Dzieje osadnictwa w powiecie suwalskim od XV do połowy XVII wieku’, in Jerzy Antoniewicz (ed.), Studia i materiały do dziejów Suwalszczyzny, Białystok: Białostockie Towarzystwo Naukowe, 1965, pp.  51–138; Krzysztof Łożyński, ‘Warunki naturalne puszcz na Grodzieńszczyźnie’, Józef Śliwiński, ‘Wyodrębnienie się puszcz przynależnej do Grodna’, Krzysztof Łożyński, ‘Początek kolonizacji puszczy grodzieńskiej’, Józef Śliwiński, ‘Samorzutne podziały administracyjne puszcz’, Krzysztof Łożyński, ‘Puszcza Grodzieńska, jej kolonizacja oraz podziały w XVI wieku’, all in Józef Śliwiński (ed.), Puszcze wielkoksiążęce na północnym Podlasiu i zachodniej Grodzieńszczyźnie w XV-XVI wieku (podziały, administracja, służby leśne i wodne), Olsztyn: Wydawnictwo Uniwersytetu WarmińskoMazurskiego w Olsztynie, 2007, pp.  67–87, 95–132, 153–78, 249–304; Anna Pytasz-Kołodziejczyk, Zasoby wodne w dobrach wielkoksiążęcych zachodniej Grodzieńszczyzny w XVI wieku. Administracja i eksploatacja, Olsztyn: Instytut Historii i Stosunków Międzynarodowych Uniwersytetu Warmińsko-Mazurskiego w Olsztynie, 2017, pp.  27–69; Jūratė Kiaupienė and Rimvydas Petrauskas, Nauji horizontai: dinastia, viuomenė, valstybė. Lietuvos Didžioji Kunigaikštytė 1386–1529 m., vol. 4 of Lietuvos istorija, Vilnius: Baltos lankos, 2009, pp. 74–85. The great forest of the late seventeenth century is imaginatively and eruditely evoked in the historical novel by Igor Strumiński and Jerzy Socała, Rękopis zagubiony w Jeleniewie, Warsaw: Muza, 2005. 15. Kiaupienė and Petrauskas, Nauji horizontai, pp. 49–50. 16. See Stanisław Kościałkowski, Antoni Tyzenhauz: Podskarbi nadworny litewski, 2 vols, London: Wydawnictwo Społeczności Uniwersytetu Stefana Batorego w Londynie, 1970–71; Melchior Jakubowski, ‘Metody badania topografii Rzeczypospolitej XVIII wieku’, in Aleksandra Antoniewicz, Rozalia Kosińska and Piotr Skowroński (eds.), Zmierzch i świt. Stanisław August i Rzeczpospolita

Propaganda in the Parishes  233 1764–1795, Warsaw: Neriton, 2015, pp. 40–56, which is fortuitously focused on the countryside of this region while providing an invaluable guide to the methods and pitfalls of topographical history. 17. On this survey, which is thought to underestimate both the urban and rural population, see Cezary Kuklo, Demografia Rzeczypospolitej przedrozbiorowej, Warsaw: DiG, 2009, pp. 52–3. 18. Źródła do dziejów Wielkiego Księstwa Litewskiego i Podlasia: Opisy parafii diecezji wileńskiej z 1784 r. Repozytorium wiedzy, ed. Józef Maroszek, vol. 3, Dekanat Olwita, ed. Tomasz Naruszewicz, Bakałarzewo, 2009 (cited henceforth as Dekanat Olwita), p. 14. 19. See Stanisław Litak, Atlas Kościoła łacińskiego w Rzeczypospolitej Obojga Narodów w XVIII wieku, Lublin: Towarzystwo Naukowe Katolickiego Uniwersytetu Lubelskiego Jana Pawła II, 2006; Tadeusz Kasabuła, Ignacy Massalski, biskup wileński, Lublin: Redakcja Wydawnictw Katolickiego Uniwersytetu Lubelskiego, 1998, pp. 383–96, 463–4; Richard Butterwick, ‘How Catholic Was the Grand Duchy of Lithuania in the Later Eighteenth Century?’ Central Europe, 8, 2010, 2, pp. 123–45. 20. A perspective reflected in Jonas Totoraitis, Sūdovos Suvalkijos istorija, Marijampolė: Piko valanda, 2003, a reedition of a book first published in Kaunas in 1938. 21. It is worth noting the recent publication of a guidebook, intended to inform Lithuanian visitors (who might otherwise confine themselves to shopping) about the Lithuanian heritage of the region: Jonas Drugilas, Algimantas Katilius and Giedrė Milerytė-Japertienė, Seinų ir Suvalkų kraštas kelionių, Vilnius: LII Leidykla, 2015. 22. Michał Grzybowski, ‘Kościelna działalność Michała Jerzego Poniatowskiego biskupa płockiego’, Studia z Historii Kościoła w Polsce, 7, 1983, pp. 5–225 (pp. 71–2); cf. Kasabuła, Ignacy Massalski, pp. 217–18. 23. Magdalena Ślusarska, ‘Oświeceniowe modele biskupa, plebana i parafii. Kontynuacja czy zmiana tradycji?’ in Magdalena Ślusarska (ed.), Dwór, plebania, rodzina chłopska. Szkice z dziejów wsi polskiej XVII i XVIII wieku, Warsaw: DiG, 1998, pp.  37–53; Butterwick, Polska Rewolucja a Kościół katolicki, pp.  109–33, 165–79; Rafał Szczurowski, Zarządzić potrzebom doczesnym i wiecznym. Idee oświecenia w Kościele katolickim w Polsce (do 1795 r.), Cracow: WAM, pp. 89–155; cf. Derek Beales, ‘Joseph II and Josephism’ in idem, Enlightenment and Reform in Eighteenth-Century Europe, London: I. B. Tauris, 2005, pp. 287–308. 24. Dekanat Olwita (n. 18 above). 25. ‘Krieges Karte der Provinz Neu Ost Preussen’. The original—never published, unlike its Austrian equivalent compiled for Galicia in 1779–83—is in the Prussian Cultural Heritage department of Berlin City Library (sig. Q 17030). This was the basis for the Topographisch-Militarische Karte vom vormaligen Neu Ostpreussen oder dem jetzigen Nördlichen Theils des Herzogthums Warschau, nebst dem Russischen District [. . .] auf XV Blaetter reducirt [. . .], Berlin: Textor-Sotzmann, 1808. I was able to consult highresolution scans of both maps thanks to the kindness of Magister Michał Gochna and Professor Marek Słoń of the Historical Atlas Department of the Tadeusz Manteuffel Institute of History of the Polish Academy of Sciences in Warsaw. On these maps, see Jakubowski, ‘Metody badań topografii’, p. 46, and Michał Gochna’s contribution to this volume. 26. Cf. Jakubowski, ‘Metody badania topografii’, pp. 44–7. 27. Dekanat Olwita, pp. 44–5, 48. 28. Ibid., pp. 61, 63, 143–4, 165. 29. Liudas Glemža, Lietuvos Didžiosios Kunigaikštytės miestų sajūdis 1789– 1792 metais, Kaunas: Vytauto Didžiojo universitas, 2010, pp. 21, 61, 57,

234  R. Butterwick 105, 225. See also Krystyna Zienkowska, Sławetni i urodzeni: Ruch polityczny mieszczaństwa w dobie Sejmu Czteroletniego, Warsaw: PWN, 1976. 30. Dekanat Olwita, pp. 164–70. Jarosław Szlaszyński, Przerośl: Dzieje miasta i gminy, Przerośl: Gminny Ośrodek Kultury w Przerośli, 2009, p. 47, table 7. 31. Dekanat Olwita, pp. 147–8, 169. 32. The confusion which has arisen over this question is cleared up by Wioletta Pawlikowska, ‘Kanonik Wojciech Grabowski z Sierpc—zapoznana postać szesnastowiecznego Krakowa i Wilna’, Lituano-Slavica Posnaniensia. Studia Historica, 11, 2005, pp. 165–240 (pp. 221–4). On Grabowski, see also her chapter in this book, at pp. 29–30. 33. Szlaszyński, Przerośl, p. 47, table 7. See also Jurgita Šiaučiūnaitė-Verbickienė’s contribution to this volume, at p. 67. 34. Dekanat Olwita, p. 68, 149. 35. Szlaszyński, Przerośl, p. 47, table 7. 36. Glemža, Lietuvos Didžiosios Kunigaikštytės miestų sajūdis, p. 57, 220. 37. Dekanat Olwita, pp. 53–9. Szlaszyński, Przerośl, p. 47, table 7. 38. Dekanat Olwita, pp. 58, 69. 39. Ibid., pp. 59, 149–52. 40. Ibid., pp. 82, 152. 41. Ibid., pp. 58, 156. 42. Ibid., pp. 153–7, quotation at 156. 43. ‘Kaletnik – parafia pw. Ducha Świętego’, http://diecezjaelk.pl/kaletnik-parafia-p-w-ducha-swietego/ accessed 31 October 2017. 44. Dekanat Olwita, p. 51. 45. Ibid., p. 87. 46. Ibid., pp. 86–7, 90, 111. 47. Ibid., p. 50. 48. Ibid., pp. 39, 76, 61, 63. 49. ‘Naywyzsza Władza Kraiowa y Officium Generalne Wilen: zalecaią Jchmc Xięzom Plebanom, ażeby odbieraiąc rozsyłaiące się Uniwersały dawali Rewersa według Porządku niżey oznaczonego z napisaniem dnia y godziny przyiscia y odesłania pomienionych Uniwersałow—1794 R. 29. Aprilis.’, Lietuvos mokslų akademijos Vrublevskių biblioteka, F43–1152. 50. I owe a copy of this document, preserved in the book of the acts of the Grodno district confederacy in the Natsionalny Histarichny Arhiv Belarusi in Mensk, Fond 1791, op. 1, delo no 1, pp. 1–2, to the kindness of Dr Aliaksander Dounar and Professor Ramunė Šmigelskytė-Stukienė. 51. See, inter alia, Wioletta Pawlikowska, ‘The Challenge of Trent and the Renewal of the Catholic Church in the Grand Duchy of Lithuania: the Higher Clergy of Vilnius and the Problems of Plural Residence in the Sixteenth Century’, Bažnyčios Istorijos Studijos, 4, Church History Between Rome and Vilnius: Challenges to Christianity from Early Modern Ages to the 20th Century, Vilnius: Lietuvių Katalikų Mokslo Akademija, 2011, pp. 37–55. 52. Ślusarska, ‘Michał Franciszek Karpowicz’, p. 75. 53. Dekanat Olwita, pp. 59, 63, 76 (quotation), 84, 91, 165. 54. See ‘Diecezja augustowska czyli sejneńska’, http://santes.com.pl/parafiasejny/ historia/diecezja-augustowska-czyli-sejnenska/ accessed 5 November  2017; ‘Istorija iki šiu dienų’, http://vilkaviskis.lcn.lt/apie/istorija/iki/ accessed 5 November  2017; ‘O diecezji’, http://diecezjaelk.pl/diecezja/ accessed 5 November 2017.

15 The Route Map of Dean Szymon Waraxa’s Courier Michał Gochna

This map presents the route that was taken by Dean Szymon Waraxa’s courier (or couriers) while transporting the package of documents from the Insurrectionary authorities across the southern part of the Olwita deanery, as described in Richard Butterwick’s article. The courier started his journey at Bartniki (Bartninkai), from where he went to Wisztyniec (Vištytis) and Wiżayny (Wiżajny). From this point he went to Filipów, but we are not able to decide whether he travelled through Przerośl or not. Nevertheless, from Filipów the route led to Bakałarzewo, Raczki and Janówka. From Janówka the most probable way led through Raczki to Magdalenowo and Wigry. In this case as well, it is not possible to determine the exact route the courier had taken: through Suwałki or directly to Magdalenowo and Wigry. From Magdalenowo he went to Suwałki and then to Kaletnik, Jeleniewo, Lubowo (Liubavas), Grażyszki (Gražyškai) and back to Bartniki. This map was prepared using ESRI ArcGIS software at the Historical Atlas Department of the Tadeusz Manteuffel Institute of History of the Polish Academy of Sciences in Warsaw.1 Each map feature class is described in the legend. The basemap is the Prussian Topographisch—Militärische Karte vom vormaligen Neu Ostpreussen oder dem jetziger Nördlichen Theil des Herzogthums Warschau nebst dem Russischen District [. . .], prepared by Johan Christoph von Textor, and published by Daniel Friedrich Sotzman in 1808 in Berlin. It is a generalized version (on an approximate scale of 1:150,000) of a previous, large-scale map, made by LieutenantGeneral von Geusau and Lieutenant-Colonel von Stein in 1795–1800, the Krieges Karte der Provinz Neu-Ost-Preussen [. . .]. Both maps depict territories that were annexed by the Prussian Kingdom after the third partition of Poland in 1795. The latter is the very first map—of any provenance—to represent topography of these lands with such high accuracy and in such a detailed way (on an approximate scale of 1:33,300).2 The symbology and graphics are typical for Prussian cartography of the late eighteenth century. Either on the detailed Geusau-Stein map or the more general Textor map, the most useful element in the preparation of our map was the road network. On the Geusau-Stein map, six kinds of roads have been depicted (country road, communicational path, a road through wet forest or grassland that could be passed by a light farmer’s cart, a worse road

236  M. Gochna on dry ground and a footpath) whereas in the generalized map by Textor, only three kinds are presented: a country or post road, an ordinary road and a footpath.3 We have marked the courier’s route directly on the old map’s roads, thus creating the most probable route of his journey. In order to achieve better legibility we have decided to present the route using the more generalized Textor map (Fig. 15.1).

Figure 15.1 The route map of Dean Szymon Waraxa’s Courier (scale 1:275,000) Map by Michał Gochna

The Route Map of Waraxa’s Courier  237

Notes 1. I am much obliged to Professor Richard Butterwick and Dr Tomasz Panecki of the Historical Atlas Department, for their help in preparing this map and commentary. 2. This map is held in the Prussian Cultural Heritage collection of Berlin City Library (sig. Q 17030). 3. Andrzej Konias, Kartografia topograficzna państwa i zaboru pruskiego od II połowy XVIII wieku do połowy XX wieku, Słupsk: Wydawnictwo Naukowe Akademii Pomorskiej w Słupsku, 2010, pp. 29, 147–60.

Appendix

Appendix to Jakub Niedźwiedź, ‘A Lithuanian Nobleman’s Mapping of Poland: The Itinerary of a Peregrination by Stanisław Samuel Szemiot (1680)’ The route of Stanisław Samuel Szemiot’s journey drawn by Jakub Niedźwiedź on a seventeenth-century map of Poland-Lithuania (Przegaliny—Czersk—Nowe Miasto—Inowłódź—Sulejów—Gidle—Częstochowa—Ogrodzieniec—Skała— Skawina—Lanckorona—Skała—Miechów—Chęciny—Opatów—Lublin—Przegaliny) traced on a fragment of Nicolaes Visscher and Nicolas Sanson, Tabula nova totius Poloniae . . . , in Atlas minor sive totius orbis terrarum contracta delineatio, Amsterdam: Nicolaes Visscher, 1690, accessed on 19 February 2019 from the David Rumsey Map Collection (www.davidrumsey.com, creative commons).

Contributors

Richard Butterwick is Professor of Polish-Lithuanian History at the UCL School of Slavonic and East European Studies, and holds the European Civilization Chair at the College of Europe, Natolin, Warsaw. He works on the eighteenth-century Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth. His most recent book is The Polish Revolution and the Catholic Church 1788–1792: A Political History (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2012). Neringa Dambrauskaitė is an Assistant in the History Faculty at Vilnius University. Her research is on the economic and social history of the nobility of the Grand Duchy of Lithuania in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. Aleh Dziarnovich is Senior Researcher at the Institute of History of the National Academy of Sciences of Belarus in Mensk. Primarily an early-modernist, his wide-ranging research on the Grand Duchy of Lithuania encompasses ideas, culture, historiography and the Lithuanian Metrica. David Frick is Professor of Slavic Languages and Literatures at the University of California, Berkeley. His research encompasses religious reform in the East Slavic world, sacred philology, textual criticism, inter-confessional relations, and urban spaces and communities, as well as Fryderyk Chopin. His most recent book is Kith, Kin, and Neighbors: Communities and Confessions in Seventeenth-Century Wilno (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 2013). Michał Gochna is a PhD student and Researcher at the Tadeusz Manteuffel Institute of History of the Polish Academy of Sciences in Warsaw. He works in the ‘Historical Atlas of Poland’ project (www. atlasfontium.pl). His research focuses on early modern fiscal studies and historical geography, applying the methods and tools of Digital Humanities. Martynas Jakulis is an Assistant in the History Faculty of Vilnius University. A  historian of society and religion, his research focuses on

240 Contributors charitable activity, including hospitals, as well as on the Lutheran and Calvinist communities in the Grand Duchy of Lithuania. Vaida Kamuntavičienė is Professor and Head of the History Department of Vytautas Magnus University, Kaunas. Her research focuses on Church, state and society in the Grand Duchy of Lithuania, and lately on questions of interaction between the monastic clergy and the laity. Among her books is Katalikų bažnyčios ir valstybės santykiai Lietuvos Didžiojoje Kunigaikštystėje XVII a. antrojoje pusėje [Relations between the Catholic Church and the state in the Grand Duchy of Lithuania in the second half of the seventeenth century] (Kaunas: Vytauto Didžiojo universiteto leidykla, 2008). Hanna Mazheika completed her PhD in the School of Divinity, History and Philosophy at the University of Aberdeen. Her research deals with questions of cultural and religious interaction between the Grand Duchy of Lithuania and the British Isles. Jakub Niedźwiedź is Professor at the Faculty of Polish Studies at the Jagiellonian University in Cracow. His research is on questions of literacy, the book and cartography in early modern European culture. His most recent book is Kultura literacka Wilna (1323–1655). Retoryczna organizacja miasta [Vilnan literary culture (1323–1655). The rhetorical organization of the city] (Cracow: Universitas, 2012). Wioletta Pawlikowska is Researcher at the Tadeusz Manteuffel Institute of History of the Polish Academy of Sciences in Warsaw. She has coedited The Statutes of the Cathedral Chapters of Vilna and Samogitia (Vilnius: LKMA, 2015). Her research includes cathedral chapters, ecclesiastical and political careers, and mobility in the sixteenth- and seventeenth-century Grand Duchy of Lithuania and Polish Crown. Rimvydas Petrauskas is Professor and Dean of the History Faculty of Vilnius University. His research spans the political and social history of the Grand Duchy of Lithuania from the thirteenth until the sixteenth century. He has co-authored the third and fourth volumes of Lietuvos istorija [History of Lithuania] (Vilnius: baltos lankos, 2009, 2012). Agnė Railaitė-Bardė is Researcher in the Department of the History of the Grand Duchy of Lithuania at the Lithuanian Institute of History, and Lecturer at the University of Vilnius. She is an associated member of the International Academy of Heraldry and also chairs the Lithuanian Heraldry Commission. Her research includes genealogy, heraldry and the theory of Lithuanian descent from the Romans. Jurgita Šiaučiūnaitė-Verbickienė is Associate Professor in the Faculty of History at Vilnius University. She researches Lithuanian Jewish history and culture, and the socio-cultural and comparative history of non-Christian minorities in the Grand Duchy of Lithuania. Her books

Contributors  241 include Žydai Lietuvos Didžiosios Kunigaikštystės visuomenėje. Sambūvio aspektai [Jews in the society of the Grand Duchy of Lithuania: aspects of co-existence] (Vilnius: Žara, 2009) and she has coedited Synagogues in Lithuania. A Catalogue, 2 vols (Vilnius: Vilnius Academy of Arts Press, 2010–12). Ramunė Šmigelskytė-Stukienė is Senior Researcher and heads the Department of the History of the Grand Duchy of Lithuania at the ­Lithuanian Institute of History, Vilnius, as well as Professor at the ­Education Academy of Vytautas Magnus University, Kaunas. She works on the eighteenth century, especially on confederacies, r­ eforms of g­ overnance, cartography and the composer and politician Michał Kleofas Ogiński. Among her books is Lietuvos Didžiosios Kunigaikštystės k ­ onfederacijos susidarymas ir veikla 1792–1793 metais [The formation and a­ ctivity of the Confederacy of the Grand Duchy of Lithuania in 1792–93] ­(Vilnius: LII leidykla, 2003). Artūras Vasiliauskas is Lecturer in the History Faculty at Vilnius University and also Director of the British Council office in Lithuania. His research focuses on political and social relations among the nobility in the sixteenth- and early seventeenth-century Grand Duchy of Lithuania.

Index

Note: where a name appears in the book in more than one version, the variant most commonly used in this volume is treated as the principal one. Abramowiczowa, noblewoman 206 Adamkiewicz family (Adamkevičiai) 122 Agata, unfree daughter of Baltromei Lukiianovich 123 Agneshka (Agnieška), unfree wife of Baltromei Simanovich 123 agriculture 63, 65, 68, 70 – 1, 124 – 6, 222, 226 Albertus alias Moniwid (Albertas Manvydas) 9, 92, 95, 98, 99, 100 Albinus, Georgius (Jerzy Albin) 33 – 5, 38 Alexander, Alekna (Olechno) 95 Alexander Jagiellon (Aleksander Jagiellończyk, Aleksandras Jogailaitis), Grand Duke of Lithuania and King of Poland 95 Alexander the Great, King of Macedon 94 Algimantas (Algeminne, Angemunt, Augemunt, Olgemont, Olgimunt, Ongemund) 92 Algirdas (Algerde, Olgerd, Olgierd), Grand Duke of Lithuania 93, 94 Allexander alias Muntholt 98 Alsace 21 Alšeniškiai see Holshansky clan/family Alvitas see Olwita (Alvitas), deanery of Alzhbeta (Elžbieta), daughter of Kotryna 122 Alziuta (Alziutė), unfree woman 123 Amsterdam 13 Anabaptists 13, 17, 172 – 3 Anczławka (Ančauklys) 224 Andreas alias Gastold (Andriejus Goštautas, Andrzej Gasztold, Andrei Gastovt) 95, 98

Andreas Dowgyrdowycz (Andriejus Daugirdaitis) 96 Andrei Olgerdovich 94 Andrii (Andrius), unfree son of Baltromei Lukiianovich 123 Andrzej Jastrzębiec, bishop of Vilna 94 – 5 Anela, unfree woman 122 Anglo-Belarusian Society xii Anna Jagiellonka, Grand Duchess of Lithuania and Queen of Poland 175 Annales School 25 annals see chronicles and annals anniversarius 37 anthropology 5, 6, 8, 183, 195, 197 – 9 Antitrinitarians, Antitrinitarianism 13, 17, 172 – 5, 177 Anusas 125 Anusiewicz, Piotr (Petras Anusavičius) 127 Apiarius, Samuel 185 apothecaries 31 Aramowicz, intendant 159 archival sources 4, 5, 17 – 26, 30, 63 – 4, 78, 151, 186, 205, 217 Arciechowski, Petrus (Piotr) 36 Arens, William 197 Arianism see Antitrinitarianism Armenians 16 Askew, Anne 172 Astikai see Ostyk clan Astikas see Ostyk Augsburg 21, 23 – 4, 184; Peace of 14 Augsburg Confession see Lutherans Augustus II, Grand Duke of Lithuania and King of Poland 112 Aukštatija 223

Index  243 Austria see Habsburg Monarchy Awierka, Stefan 190 Babia Góra 210, 212 Bachmünch, Friedrich 49 Bakałarzewo 222, 226, 227, 229, 235 – 6 bakers 31, 52, 123 Baldersheim, Wigand von 94 Baltic Sea 1, 8; trade 174 Baltromei Lukiianovich (Baltromejus Lukianavicius), unfree man 123 Baltromei Simanovich (Baltromejus Simonavičius), unfree man 123 Banaschen, Maria Elisabeth 55 Barbara (Barbora), unfree daughter of Voitekh Milkevich 123 barbers 37, 56 Barbora, unfree woman 122 Barbusha (Barbuša), unfree woman 123 Baroque 76 Bartniki (Bartninkai) 222, 223, 224, 225, 228, 229, 235 – 6 Bartolomeus (Bartłomiej) of Kowno (Kaunas) 33 – 8, 41 Basel (Basle) 172, 185 Bavaria 21 Bazylik, Cyprian 170 – 1, 172, 176 Belarus 4, 188 – 9, 194, 222, 229 Belarusian language 2, 189 Belarusians 1 – 2 Benedictine monastery, Kroże 69 Benedictine nunnery, Kowno 76 Berger, Adam 184 Berlin 235; Geheimes Staatsarchiv Preussischer Kulturbesitz, Dahlem 20 Bernardine friars 4, 32, 75 – 85, 209 Bernardine nunnery, Kowno 76 Bernardino of Siena, Saint 32, 75 Bernard of Clairvaux, Saint 85 Bertie, Richard 171 Beynart, Ambrosius (Ambrozy) 39 Beza, Theodore 178 Białłozor family (Belozorai) 126 Biandrata, Giorgio 173 Bible 170, 175, 188, 190 – 1 Bielany 158, 162 Billewicz, Krzysztof (Kristupas Bilevičius) 123 Billewicz, Teodor 207, 208, 213 Black Sea 1, 8 blacksmiths see smiths

Bobiński, regent 160 Bohemia, Kingdom of 93, 207 Bolcewicz, Leonardus (Leonard) 79, 82 Bolesław (Boleslaus) II, duke of Mazovia 93 Bolesław Świdrygiełło see Švitrigaila, Grand Duke of Lithuania Bolesty, Lake 226 Bologna 178 Bonner, Edmund, bishop of London 174 borderland 2 Born, district of 195 Bortkiewicz, Grigorij (Grigalius Bortkevičius) 125 Bortkiewicz family (Bortkevičiai) 123 Borwidowiczowa, Jadwiga (Jadvyga Borvydavičienė) 123 Bosgrave, James 169, 176 – 7 Brandon, Catherine, Duchess of Suffolk 171 Braun, Georg 213 Brest see Brześć Litewski Brest, Union of 18, 48 brewers 31, 124 British Isles 175 Brocking, Kaspar 195 Broke, Adam 169 Brothers of Mercy 57 Bruno of Querfurt, Saint 1 Brześć Litewski (Brest) 154, 155, 158, 161, 170, 175; palatinate of 208 Bubka, unfree woman 122 Budny, Szymon 172 – 4 Budzila, Jazep 189 – 90, 196, 198 Bullinger, Heinrich 170, 172, 173 bureaucracy 5, 8, 149 – 50, 156 – 62 burghers 25, 40 – 1, 54, 65, 71, 231 Bush, M. L. 150 Busko (Buškys) 92 butchers 52, 55 Butėnas, Domas 120, 121 Butigeidis (Butegeyde), Grand Duke of Lithuania 93 Butrim Nyemyerowicz (Butrimas Nemiraitis) 96 Butterwick, Richard 5, 235 Byzantium 108 Calvin, Jean 169 – 70, 178 Calvinism 171, 187

244 Index Calvinists 14, 16, 21 – 2, 28 – 9, 47 – 8, 50, 137, 169 – 70, 178, 188; clergy 184, 187 Camaldolese monks 225, 226 – 7, 229 – 30 Campion, Edmund 176 – 8 cannibalism 5, 8, 183 – 99 canonical curia 28, 30 – 3 careers 5 Carmelite monastery, Kiejdany 66 carpenters 31, 52 carters 31 cartography 5, 8, 224 – 30, 235 – 6; mental mapping 205 – 14 Casimir IV Jagiellon (Kazimierz Jagiellończyk, Kazimieras Jogailaitis), Grand Duke of Lithuania and King of Poland 75, 95 Casimir Jagiellon (Kazimierz, Kazimieras), Saint 80 casters 52 castrato singer 23 Catholic Church, (Roman) Catholicism 4, 28 – 41, 76, 91, 173, 175, 184, 221; ‘Catholic Enlightenment’ 223; charitable provision 49, 55 – 7; clerical residence 229 – 30; parishes 217 – 30; piety 76 – 85 Catholics (Roman, Latin-rite) 2, 5, 13 – 16, 21 – 2, 47, 75, 137, 171, 175 – 8, 206, 223 Catholics of the Greek or Ruthenian rite see Uniates Cauna see Kowno Cecora (Ţuţora), battle of 140 Cedrowski, Jan 188 – 9 Cerutti, Simona 6 Chancery Ruthenian see Ruthenian language charitable provision for the poor 47 – 59 Charles V, Holy Roman Emperor 105, 110 Chiesa, Giovanni Battista 76 children 53, 58, 122 – 8, 184 – 6, 190, 213 Chimica 122 Chlewiński family 226 Chmielowski, Benedykt 207 Chocim (Khotyn), battle of 206 Christendom 2 Christian, Johann 54

Christianity 1 Christians 4, 13, 15 – 16, 18, 29; and Jews 4, 18, 62 – 71; and Muslims 18; and pagans 183, 197 Christianus Radvila see Voyszundas I Christianus Radvila Christ Jesus 77, 172 chronicles and annals 1, 98, 113 – 14, 183 – 4, 188, 190 – 1, 193 – 6, 198 Cichowski, Metody 229 Ciechanowiecki, Count Andrzej xii Cistercian order 85 cities see towns Civil-Military Commissions of the Peace 149 Čižas, Jonas see Czyż, Jan Clement VIII, Pope 29 climate 222 cobblers 32 Colmar 21, 23 Commission of National Education 149 common weal 13, 17 communication 5, 8, 217 – 30, 235 – 6 Constitution of 3 May 1791, 217, 221 conversions 28, 58, 175, 177 cooks 123, 124 Coote, Lesley 106 Cracow 41, 172, 176, 205, 208, 211, 213; bishopric 38; church of St Florian 33; Czartoryski Library 20; Jagiellonian Library 20; Jews 16; Library of the Polish Academy of Sciences and Arts and of the Polish Academy of Sciences 20; National Archive 20, 205; University 16, 32 – 3 Cranmer, Thomas 171 Crespin, Jean 170 Cristinus alias Ostyk see Ostyk (Ostyk Cristinus, Kristinas Astikas) cuius regio, eius religio 14 Čupurna see Czupurna curriers 52, 55 Cytowiany (Tytuvėnai) 83 Czaja, Aleksander 149 Czapliński, Władysław 192 Czarna Hańcza, river 227 Czersk 208 Czerwonka 228 Częstochowa 76, 207, 208, 210, 213

Index  245 Czupurna (Čupurna, Stanislaus alias Czupurna) 95 Czyż, Jan (Jonas Čižas) 122

Dutch, the 13, 174 Dvina (Dzvina, Daugava), river 194, 195 Dziarnovich, Aleh 5

Dabrawolė see Dobra Wola Dąbrowski Skurka, Jan 82 Dambrauskaitė, Neringa 5 Danzig (Gdańsk) 48 Darata [Kaulelė], unfree woman 122 Darata, unfree woman 122 Daugava see Dvina, river Daumantas of Nalsen (Nalšia, Dovmont-Timofei) 91 Dausprungas, legendary Roman patrician 115 Davis, Natalie Zemon 6 Dawidowicz, Andrzej 146 Dawidowicz family 135, 136, 138 Dębkowski, Jan 83 Devil, the 7, 28, 209 diaries 189 – 92, 206 – 14 Dietrichin, Elisabeth 55 Dingley, Jim 199 Dirsune (Dirsūnas) 93 diseases 49 – 50, 53 – 4 Djarzhynsk see Koidanów Dmitrii Olgerdovich 94 Dobra Wola (Dabrawolė) 224 doctors 25 Doctor Saprez (Sierpc) see Grabowski, Albertus of Sierpc Dołmat-Isajkowski, Franciscus (Franciszek) 32 Domanowski, Joannes (Jan) 35 – 6 Domańska, Ewa 6 Dominican friars 76, 83, 216 Domska, Regina 56 Dorgy Sudymont (Dargis Sudimantas) 92 Dorohostajski (Dorohostaiskiai) family 97 Dorota (Darata), unfree wife of Voitekh Milkevich 123 Dorpat (Tartu) 196 Dovmont-Timofei see Daumantas of Nalsen Dowgiała, nobleman 82 Dowspuda (now called the Rospuda), river 225, 226 Druja (Druia) 68, 154, 155 Drukija 223 Dubowo 227 Dump, villager 194 Dünaburg (Daugavpils): Gebiethe Dünborch district 194

Eginthe (Eigintas) 93 Eigird, Matys (Matisas Eigirdas) 126 Ejstyszki (Aistiškiai) 228 Ejsymonty (Eismanty) 79 Elizabeth I, Queen of England 169, 172, 174, 176, 177, 178 Ełk see Łek Engelbrus, Johann 195 Engelke, Friedrich (Friedriech Engell{cke}) 194 – 6 England 5, 169 – 79 English and French Catholics and on Jesuits 176 English college in Rome 178 English Jesuits 177, 178 Enlightenment 15, 17, 223 Erasmians 17 Erasmus Eustachius de Cracovia (de Czas) 32, 33, 41 Europe 1, 2, 15, 62, 105, 106, 186, 194, 198, 223; cities in 15, 18 – 20; feudal relations 96; identity 106; monarchies 92 – 3, 148 – 50; nobles 148 – 50; religious conflicts 13, 16, 172, 176 executioners 25 famines 183 – 96 Fatebenefratelli 57 Faunt, Arthur Laurence 178 Fedor Olgerdovich 94 Filipów 222, 225 – 6, 229, 235 – 6 fires 4, 8, 19, 49, 62 – 71, 187 – 8 Foch, Ferdinand 223 Fogel, Reinhold 57 forests 124 – 5, 128, 222, 226 – 30, 236 Foucault, Michel 55 Foxe, John 170 – 5 France: Kingdom of 149, 207; revolutionary 221 Franciscan friary, Kowno 75 French, the 25, 207 Frick, David 4, 8, 13, 31 Friedewoldt, Joachim 195 furniture makers 31 Gadebusch, Friedrich 196 Gajdusek, Daniel 197 – 8 Garbaś 226 gardeners 52

246 Index Gardiner, William 171 Gargždai see Gorżdy Gasztold family (Goštautai, Gasztołdowie) 93, 98, 99 Gaudemunda (Gaudemantė, Sophia), daughter of Grand Duke Traidenis 93 Gdańsk see Danzig Gediminas (Giedymin, Gedeminne), Grand Duke of Lithuania 92 – 3 Gediminid dynasty 112 – 13 genealogy 92, 97, 99, 105 – 6, 114 – 15 George, St, Church and Convent of, Kaunas (Kowno, Cauna) xii, 75 – 85 Georgius alias Gedigold 95 German language 2, 49, 50 – 1, 75, 184 – 6 Germans 1 – 2, 22, 207 Germany see Holy Roman Empire Geusau von, Lieutenant-General 235 Giedroyc (Giedroyć, Giedraičiai) family 92, 123, 135, 136, 138, 141 Giedroyc, Marcin 145 Giedroyc, Maurycy Kazimierz 140, 145 Ginzburg, Carlo 6, 24 – 5 glazers 31 Glebavičiai see Hlebowicz family Głęboki Rów 228 Gleissenthal, Johan Jörgen von 185 Gliniany 209 – 10 Gliński, Dominik 229 – 30 Glover, Thomas 174 glovers 52 Gniezno, archbishopric and metropolitan province 34 Gochna, Michał 6, 229 God 29, 78, 186 – 7, 190, 209 goldsmiths 25, 52 Golejewski, Jan 146 Golejewski family 135, 136, 138 Góra Kalwaria 208 Gorecki, Stanislaus (Stanisław) 40 Gorżdy (Gargždai) 161 Grabowski, Albertus (Wojciech) of Sierpc 29, 30, 33, 36, 225 Granezolt, Jakob 194 Grażyszki (Gražyškai) 222, 224, 228, 229, 230, 235 – 6 Great Northern War 49 Great Poland (Wielkopolska) 219 Gregory XIII, Pope 170 Grell, Ole Peter 58 Grey, Jane see Jane Grey, Queen of England

Grigor (Grigorijus), unfree son of Voitekh Milkevich 123 Grigutis, unfree boy 122 Grindal, Edmund 172 Grodno (Hrodna) 41, 152, 154, 155, 158, 213, 224, 226, 229; court 160; deanery 79; district of 67 – 8, 222, 229; royal domain estates 222, 224, 227 Gudavičius, Edvardas 120 Guerre, Martin 6 guilds 22, 55, 82 Gulbiniszki 228 Gurski, Jerzy 83 haberdashers 52 Habsburg Monarchy 223 hagiography 175 Hańcza, Lake 226 hatters 31 Hayduk, Jakub 82 health problems 84 Hedwig, Queen see Jadwiga of Anjou, Queen Regnant of Poland Helena (Galena), unfree wife of Baltromei Lukiianovich 123 heraldry 105 – 16 herders 122, 124 herring sellers 32 Hlebowicz (Glebavičiai) family 97 Hogenbergh, Franz 213 Holshansky clan/family (Alšėniškiai, Holszańscy) 92, 98 Hołubicki, Piotr 146 Hołubicki family 135, 136, 138 Holy Apostolic See 34 Holy Cross Mountains (Góry Świętokrzyskie) 209 Holy Roman Empire (Germany) 14, 21, 93, 185 – 7, 207 Hooper, John 171 Horodło, Union of 100 horodnictwo jurisdiction 22 horses 23, 124, 191, 207, 226 – 7, 229 Horsey, Jerome 169 Hozjusz, Stanisław (Stanislaus Hosius), bishop and cardinal 34, 170, 175, 176 Hrodna see Grodno Humphrey, Laurence 178 hunger 8, 192 – 3 Hus, Jan 171 Iakovenko, Natalia 191 Iakub (Jokūbas), unfree son of Kieistut 123

Index  247 Ian (Jonas), unfree son of Voitekh Milkevich 123 Iank (Jankus), unfree son of Rudelis 122 Igelström, Osip 217 Ilewiczowa, wojtowa 84 Illuxt (Ilūkste)195 Insurrection of 1794 6, 217 – 21, 227, 229, 230 intolerance and intoleration see tolerance and toleration Isaiah, Canon 36 Israelis 1 Italians 16, 25, 28, 207 Italy 20, 25, 207, 213 Iurii (Jurgis), unfree son of Voitekh Milkevich 123 Ivan IV the Terrible, Tsar of Muscovy 174 Iwanek, barber 37 Iwanowiczowa (Ivanavičienė), noblewoman 124 Jablonskis, Konstantinas 120 Jadwiga (Hedwig) of Anjou, Queen Regnant of Poland 93 – 4 Jakob, innkeeper 194 Jakubel (Jokūbėlis), unfree son of Gendruta Rudeikovna 122 Jakubowice 216 Jakulis, Martynas 4 Jane Grey, Queen of England 172 Janel, peasant 196 Janowdowa (Jaunodava) 122 Janówka 222, 226 – 7, 229, 235 – 6 Jasiński, Jakub 219, 221 Jasiński, Josephus (Józef) 35 – 6 Jasna Góra monastery see Częstochowa Jawnus (Jaunius) 92 Jawornicki, nobleman 209 Jeleniewo 222, 223, 227 – 8, 229, 235 – 6 Jelgava see Mitau Jemieliste 226 Jenkinson, Antony 174 Jerusalem 191 Jesuits 4, 76, 83 – 5, 169, 170, 175 – 8, 206 Jewłaszewski, Fiodor 28 – 30 Jews 2, 4, 15 – 16, 22, 63 – 71, 75, 173, 225; privilege de non tolerandis Iudaeis 13, 15, 16; of Wilno 16, 47 – 8

Jochem family 52 – 3 Jogaila (Jagyelo, Jagal, Władysław II Jagiełło), Grand Duke of Lithuania and King of Poland 92 – 5, 98 Jogaila Giedraitis 92 Johannes alias Dawgerd 95 Johannes alias Niemir 98 Johannes alias Sungal 95 Johannes alias Thautwil Muntholtowicz see Thautwil Muntholtowicz Johannes Gasztold (Jonas Goštautas) 98 Johannes Moniwidowicz vel Johannes filius Monividi (Jonas Manvydaitis) 96 John III Sobieski, Grand Duke of Lithuania and King of Poland 110 Josephism 223 Judaizers 172, 173 Judeliowicz, Jankel 69 Julius, Duke of BrunswickWolfenbüttel 187 Jundzil Raczkowicz (Jundilas Rackaitis) 96 Jurbork (Jurbarkas, Yurburg, Georgenburg) 154, 157, 158 Jurgiewicz, Andreas (Andrzej) 39 Jurginis, Juozas 120 Jurgutis, runaway unfree man 125 Jurowo (Iurovo) 158 jurydyki 21, 28, 30 – 1, 69 Jütte, Robert 53, 55 Kachna, unfree woman 122 Kąkolewski, Jan 31 Kaletnik 222, 223, 227, 228, 230, 235 – 6 Kaliningrad: enclave of the Russian Federation 222; see also Königsberg Kalwaria Zebrzydowska 205, 208 Kamień, near Warsaw 187 Kamieński, Zygmunt 137, 146 Kamieński family 135, 136, 138 Kamionka 226 Kamuntavičienė, Vaida 4 Kamykowski, Ludwik 207, 211 Kantak, Kamil 76 Kantakouzene dynasty 108 Kaplan, Benjamin 17 Karaites 1 Karaś, Nicolaus (Mikołaj) 79 Karigaila, Kazimieras see Korygiełło, Kazimierz

248 Index Karpowicz, Michał Franciszek 221, 230 Katalynas, Kęstutis 31 Katerina (Kotryna), unfree daughter of Baltromei Lukiianovich 123 Kaunas: archdiocesan archive 78; see also Kowno Kazimierz, town 16 Kesgaylo (Kęsgaila) 92, 99 Kęstutis (Kenstutte, Kiejstut), Grand Duke of Lithuania 93 Keszgal (Kęsgaila, Kieżgajło) family 97, 98, 99 Kieistut (Kasutis), unfree man 123 Kiejdany (Kėdainiai) 66 – 7 kinship 91 – 2, 106, 113, 137, 143 Kirchen Allmosen 50 Kochanowski, Jan 31 Koiałowicz, Albertus Wiiuk (Albert Wijuk Kojałowicz) 97, 184, 191 Koidanów (now Djarzhynsk) 68 Kolaini (Kolainiai) 122 Kołłb, Stanisław 157 Komorowska, Marusza née Sapieżanka 137 Komorowski, Heliasz 138 Komorowski, Jerzy 133, 138, 141, 136, 137, 138, 140 Komorowski, Samuel 138 Komorowski family 135, 136, 138 – 9, 143 Königsberg (now Kaliningrad) 3, 56, 57, 174 – 5, 194, 224 Koninklijke Bibliotheek, Den Haag xii, 109 Korolko, Mirosław 205 – 6, 207 Korshunaŭ, Aliaksandr 189 Korybut Wiśniowiecki family 113 Korycin 67 – 8 Korygiełło, Kazimierz (Kazimieras Karigaila) 94 Koryzna, Nicolaus (Mikołaj) 40 Kościałkowski, Stanisław 150, 159 Kościeniecki, Reformed minister 29 Kościuszko, Tadeusz 217, 220 Kossakowski, Józef Kazimierz, bishop of Livonia 221 Kossakowski, Szymon 219, 221 Kotryna, unfree woman 122 Kowno (Kaunas, Cauna) 4, 75 – 85, 154, 155; district of 222 Kraków see Cracow Krasnopol 228 Krewo (Kreva) 155

Kristina, unfree daughter of Kotryna 122 Kristof (Kristupas), unfree son of Baltromei Simanovich 123 Kropiński, Jan 160 Kroże (Kražiai) 69, 171 Kryńki 68 Krystyn of Ostrów 94 Kryszpin-Kirszensztein, Andrzey 84 Kryszpin-Kirszenstein, Hieronym 80 Kryszpin-Kirszensztein family 80 Krzywólka, Lake 225 Kubik, Jan xii Kuczborski, Tadeusz 160 Kunicki, Joannes (Jan) 33 – 4 Kupiszki (Kupiškis) 69 Kutzer, Anna Euphrosina 53, 54 Kutzer, Benjamin 53, 54, 56 Kutzer, Benjamin Ludwich 53 Kwietki (Kvetkai) 158 Ladislaus (László, Władysław) of Hungary, Saint 93 Łagów 209 Lanckorona 208, 210 Lanza, Janine Marie 54 Łaski, Jan 169, 171 Laskowski, Daniel 158 Laskowski, Ignacy 158, 161 Laskowski, Jan 158 Laskowski, Tadeusz 158 Laskowski family 158 Latin 3, 186 Latvia 4 Latvians 1, 123 Lawrynowiczowa, Jagnieszka (Agnieška Laurynavičienė) 124 lawyers 25 Lecler, Joseph 17 Leeuwen van, Marco 53, 57 – 8 Lejeune, Philippe 211 Łek 230 Leonity, Camaldolese monk 229 Le Roy Ladurie, Emmanuel 6 Leshchi (Leščiai) 123 Leszczewek 227 Leszczewo 228 letopisy see chronicles and annals Levi, Giovanni 6, 76 Leybowicz, Herszek 109, 113 Lianicki, company commander 189 Lida, district of 70 Linkuwa (Linkuva) 122 literary studies 8, 207

Index  249 Lithuania, Grand Duchy of 1, 8 – 9, 91 – 2; borders of 1, 5, 211, 222, 225 – 6, 229, 230; conversion to Christianity 1, 91 – 3, 98 – 9; cultural exchanges 169, 173, 178 – 9; customs administration 152, 153 – 4, 156, 159 – 62; demography 51 – 2, 64 – 71, 75, 121, 127 – 8, 186; historiography of 1 – 3, 8, 105, 120, 132, 143 – 4; identities in 2, 106, 115, 207, 212; identity of 169, 178; Military Commission 148 – 9; natives of 40, 207, 212, 217; nobles of 40 – 1, 52, 91 – 100, 105, 120 – 8, 132 – 43, 148 – 63, 173, 189, 205 – 14, 220; politics in 5, 132 – 43; prices in 187, 220; Ruthenian lands 40, 92, 94; Statutes (1529, 1566, 1588) 21, 120, 121, 126; Supreme Council of the Lithuanian Nation (1794) 219 – 21; towns 62 – 72, 105; Treasury Commission 5, 64 – 6, 148 – 62; tribunal 133, 138, 142 Lithuania, Republic of xii, 1, 4, 5 – 6, 222, 223, 228, 229, 230 Lithuanian language 3, 47, 75, 108, 220 Lithuanians 1, 223 Liubavas see Lubowo Liutsia (Liucija), unfree daughter of Baltromei Simanovich 123 livestock 124 – 6 Livonia (Livland, Lifflandt, Inflanty) 140, 142, 194, 157, 184, 188, 193 – 7 Lizdeika 114 local history 8 locksmiths 31, 32 Łojów (Loieŭ) 158 Łoknicki, Stanisław 38 – 9 Łomża 230 London 170, 172, 174 ‘loose persons’ 25 Lord Judge Marshal (Ordyniec) 23 Łosk (Losk) 174 Lowrynowicz, Piotr Kazimierz 80 Lowrynowiczowa, wife of Piotr 80, 81 Lublin 208; palatinate of 211; Union of 1, 132, 174 Lubowo (Liubavas) 222, 228, 229, 235 – 6 Ludwich, Benjamin 53 Lukash (Lukašas), unfree son of Voitekh Milkevich 123 Lupu, Maria 107, 108 – 9

Lupu, Vasile 108 – 9 Luther, Martin 56, 178 Lutherans 2, 14, 16, 18, 22, 175; Vilnan 3, 4, 47 – 59, 185 Lutsa (Liucė), unfree daughter of Zofija 122 – 3 Lyck see Łek Lyonnais 14 Macyna, Alexius 79 – 82, 84 – 5 Magdalenowo 222, 226 – 7, 229, 235 – 6 Magdeburg Law 15, 22, 72, 174 Magreta, unfree daughter of Barbora 122 magnates 132 – 3, 136, 139 – 43, 178 Makowiec 4 Makowiecki, Joannes (Jan, John Makaviecki) 29, 30, 35 – 6, 37, 38, 41 Makowiecki, Thomas (Tomasz) 30, 38, 41 Małachowski, Stanisław 38 Malinówka, river 226 Malinowski, Ignacy 162 Manstein, von, family 100 Mansto 100 Manvydai see Moniwid family Manvydas see Albertus alias Moniwid Mariampol (Marijampolė) 223 Marian 172, 176 Markiewicz, Ignacy 161 Markowa, house on the River Wilia 82 Maroszek, Józef 31 marriage 122 – 3, 174 Martha (Morta), wife of Mindaugas 91 Martin (Martynas), unfree son of Baltromei Simanovich 123 Martinus Gasztold (Martynas Goštautas) 98 martyrology 5, 8, 171 – 8 Mary, Blessed Virgin, Mother of God 76 – 84, 206, 209, 210, 212 Mary I Tudor, Queen of England 171, 172, 174 marzipan maker 23 masons 31, 52, 55 Massalski, Ignacy Jakub, bishop of Wilno 223, 227 Massalski, Tomasz 161 Masuria, Masurians 230 Matias Vehe Glirius 173 Mazheika, Hanna 5

250 Index Mazyr (Mozyrz) 189 medics 52; royal medics 30, 34, 35, 36 Meilus, Elmantas 63 – 4 Mejerowicz, Eliziej 70 memoirs 188 – 92, 206 Menius, Fredrik 196 Mennonites 13, 15, 16 merchants 52 Michael alias Keszgal 95 Michael alias Minigail 95 Michael a Viślica (Michał z Wiślicy) 33 Michael Golgynovycz (Mykolas Galiginaitis, Michał Goliginowicz) 95 Michalonis Lituani (Mykolas Lietuvis) 123 Michałowski, Ignacy 157 Michałowski, nobleman 213 microhistory 6 – 8, 24 – 5, 28, 30 – 1, 48, 64, 78, 120, 132, 217 Miechowita 191 Milanowski, R. 229 millers 52 Miłosz, Czesław 2 Mindaugas (Mendog), King of Lithuania 91, 96 Minigail see Michael alias Minigail Minsk 21, 68, 154, 155; palatinate of 65, 188 Mir 112 miracles and mirabilia 4, 8, 76 – 85 Mitau (Jelgava) 194 Molière (Jean-Baptiste Poquelin) 6 – 7 Moniwid, Albertus 100 Moniwid (Manvydas) see Albertus alias Moniwid Moniwid (Manvydas) family 97, 98, 99 Montigerdowicz, Petrus (Petras Mantigirdaitis) 96 Montigerdowicz (Mantigirdai) family 98 Morta see Martha, wife of Mindaugas Moscow 20, 174; Kremlin 189, 198 Mozyrz (Mazyr), district of 68 Muchawiec (Mukhavets) Canal 152, 155 Mullach, David 49 multiconfessionalism 1 – 2, 13 – 26, 30 Munich 21, 184 Muntholt, Alexander (Mantautas, Montowt) 95, 96 Muntholt family (Mantautai, Montowtowie) 98 Muscovy 1, 169, 224; captured Muscovites 123; Company 174;

invasion and occupation of Lithuania 4, 21, 31, 48, 76, 80 – 1, 188 – 9; Time of Troubles 189 Muslims 1, 18; see also Tatars Mykolas Lietuvis see Michalonis Lituani Nadaryński, Adam (Adomas Nadarinskis) 12 Nadson, Alexander 28 – 9 names 4 – 5, 91 – 100 Napoleon I Bonaparte, Emperor of the French 223 Narbutt, Albertus 36 Narbutt, Tadeusz 160 Narimantas, legendary Grand Duke of Lithuania 113 – 14 Narkuski, Stanislaus (Stanisław) 36 Narowlia (Naroŭl´´ia) 68 Narva 174 Nastasiia (Nastasija), unfree daughter of Baltromei Simanovich 123 nationalism and nationalists 2, 223 NATO 222 necromancy 30 Nemiro family 98 Nemunas see Niemen, river Neris see Wilia gate Netherlands, the 207 Newel (Nevel) 157 New Guinea 198 newssheets 185 – 6 Niasvizh see Nieśwież Nicolaus Radivilowicz (Mykalojus Radvilaitis) 98 Niedźwiecki, Bartolomeus (Bartłomiej, Bartholomew Niadźviedzki) 29 Niedźwiedź, Jakub 5 Niemen (Nemunas), river 75, 82, 223, 230 Nieśwież (Niasvizh) 105, 113, 170, 174 Norkiewicz, Reverend 229 Norway, Kingdom of 93 Nowogródek (Navahrudak, Naugardukas, Novogorodok) 142, 213 Nyenstadt, Franz 196 Observant Franciscans see Bernardine friars Ochmański, Jerzy 31 Ogiński, Michał Kleofas 157 Olaf estate, district of Born 195

Index  251 Olański, Jakob 55 old age 123 Old Believers 1 Olita (Alytus) 224 Olszewska, Zofia 205 Olszewski, Michał 161 Olwita (Alvitas), deanery of 217, 223, 228 – 30, 235 – 6 onomastics 8, 91 Opatów 209 – 10 Orany (Varėna) 155 Orsha (Orsza) 81 Orszula (Uršulė), unfree girl 127 Orthodox, the 2, 18, 22, 47, 58, 75, 91 – 2 Orthodoxy 28, 94 Osinki 227 Oskierka, Ignacy 160 Oskierka, Józef 160 Ostyk (Ostyk Cristinus, Kristinas Astikas) 92, 94, 98 Ostyk (Astikai) clan 97, 98 Ottoman Empire 15, 108 Otwinowski, Erazm 172 Pac, Konstanty 83 Pac family 83, 226 paganism 1, 91, 94, 97, 178, 183, 197 Pajevonys see Pojewonie Paknys, Mindaugas 31, 78 Palanga see Połąga Palemonas (Palemon) 115 Paleologus dynasty 108 Palestine 207 palynology 222 Pancerny, Michał 190 Pantaleon, Heinrich 170 papacy see Holy Apostolic See papermakers 52 Paprocki, Bartosz 110 Parisians 14 Parovėja see Porovy Pashka (Poška), nobleman 126 patriotism 2 patron-client relationships 5, 132 – 3, 139 – 43, 146 – 7, 148, 150, 160, 162 Pauline monks 76, 210; see also Częstochowa Pauslajis see Pouslei manor Pavarduvys manor 124 Pavel (Paulius), unfree son of Baltromei Simanovich 123 Pawlikowska, Wioletta 4 peasants 52, 122, 127, 220 – 1

Peltonen, Matti 6 Permanent Council 148 – 9 Persons, Robert 176 Pessenti, Alexander de 37 Peter I the Great, Emperor of Russia 1 Petrauskas, Rimvydas 4, 127 Petrus (Piotr) of Poznań, Canon 35 – 6, 41 Petrus Montigerdowicz (Petras Mantigerdaitis) 96 Petrus Senko Gedigoldowicz (Petras Simonas Gedgaudaitis) 96 Petryków (Petrykaŭ) 155 Petsch, Robert 192 physiology 183, 192 – 3 Piast dynasty 93 – 4 Piedmont 76 Pilchowski, Dawid 221 Pilica, river 208, 213 Pilypas, unfree person and his family 122 Pina, river 155 Pińsk 155 Pirożyński, Jan 187 plagues 49, 62, 142, 184 – 5, 187, 190, 208, 213, 216 Plater, noblewoman 194 Podbereski, Mikołaj Samson 140 Podlasie, current voivodeship of 208, 222 Podlecki, Andrzej 138 Podlecki, Hieronim 133, 135, 136, 137, 138, 139 – 41 Podlecki, Jan 138 Podlecki, Piotr 138, 140 Podlecki family 135, 136, 138 – 9, 143 poems 206 – 7 Pojewonie (Pajevonys) 224, 225 Połąga (Palanga) 157, 158 Polakowski, Mateusz 229 – 30 Poland: Catholic identity of 178; contacts with England 169, 174; (Polish) Crown 39 – 41, 66, 149, 161, 177, 189, 212; distinctiveness from Lithuania 205, 206 – 7, 210 – 13; Kingdom of 1, 5, 76, 92 – 3, 169, 173, 205, 230; Republic of xii, 1, 5 – 6, 223, 230; Tsarist Kingdom of 223 Poles 1, 207, 223 Polikowski, Marcin 37 Polish language 3, 47, 75, 220 Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth (Respublica, Rzeczpospolita)

252 Index 1 – 2, 5, 8, 15, 25, 175, 211; administration 148 – 62; demography 63, 66 – 7; and England 174; monarchy 149 – 50; partitions of 153, 217, 222, 224, 230, 235; wars 76, 222 Polish mile 224 Polonina, unfree woman 122 Polonyia (Polonėja), unfree daughter of Voitekh Milkevich 123 Polule 227, 228 Poniatowski, Michał Jerzy, bishop of Płock, later primate of Poland 223 Ponti, Carlo 24 – 5 Porovy (Parovėja) 122 Postawy (Pastavy) 155 Poszeszupa 228 Potrykowski, Antoni 155 Pott, Jakob 56 potters 31 Pouslei (Pauslajis) manor 126 poverty 47 – 59; see also charitable provision; famines Poznań 41, 176, 178 Preny (Prienai) 230 proclamations 217, 220 – 1 prosopography 8, 30, 148, 151 Protasewicz, Valerianus (Walerian), bishop of Vilna (Wilno) 34, 175 Protestants 5, 169 – 79, 206; see also Calvinists; Lutherans; Reformation Prussia: Duchy of 175; Kingdom of 100, 225, 229, 230, 235 – 6; New East Prussia 5 – 6, 223, 224, 230, 235 – 6; Royal Prussian cities 190; see also Teutonic Order Przegaliny 208, 211 Przerośl 67, 70, 225 – 6, 235 – 6 Pskov 91 public servants 148 – 62 Pukuveras Butvydas (Pucuwerus), Grand Duke of Lithuania 93 Pullan, Brian 14 Puńsk (Punskas) 223 Puzyna, Krzysztof 225 Puzyna, Wincenty 224 Quedlinburg Abbey 1 Rachel, Sophia 54 Račiūnaitė, Tojana 78 Racławice, battle of 217 Raczki 222, 226, 227, 229, 235 – 6

Raczkowicz Jundzil (Jundilas Račkaitis) 96 Radivilowicz, Nicolaus (Mikalojus Radvilaitis) 98 Radiwil Ostikowicz (Radvila Astikaitis, Nicolaus) 96, 97 – 8, 99 Radoszkowiczy (Raduškevičiai) manor 124 Radvila, Christianus 105, 114 Radziwiłł, Georgius (Jerzy, Jurgis Radvila), bishop and cardinal 38, 107, 208 Radziwiłł, Janusz I (Jonušas I Radvila) 145, 178 – 9 Radziwiłł, Janusz II (Jonušas II Radvila) 105 – 10, 115 – 16 Radziwiłł, Karol Stanisław (Karolis Stanislovas Radvila) 105, 106 – 7, 110, 115 – 16 Radziwiłł, Krzysztof II (Kristupas II Radvila) 133, 136, 137, 139, 140 – 3 Radziwiłł, Krzysztof Mikołaj, ‘the Thunderbolt’ (‘Piorun’, Kristupas Radvila Perkūnas) 107, 169 Radziwiłł, Mikołaj Krzysztof, ‘the Orphan’ (‘Sierotka’, Mikalojus Kristupas Radvila Našlaitėlis) 28, 107, 171, 175, 177, 178, 208 Radziwiłł, Mikołaj, ‘the Black’ (‘Czarny’, Mikalojus Radvila Juodasis) 169, 170, 171, 175 Radziwiłł, Mikołaj, ‘the Red’ (‘Rudy’, Mikalojus Radvila Rudasis) 169 Radziwiłł family (Radvilai) 4 – 5, 92, 96 – 9, 105 – 16, 135, 138, 171, 178 – 9; Birże-Dubinki (BiržaiDubingiai) line 105, 138; NieświeżOłyka (Niasvizh-Olyka) line 105 Radziwiłłowa, Katarzyna née Tęczyńska 110 Radziwiłłówna, Ludwika Karolina 138 Radzyń Podlaski 211 Ragauskas, Aivas 58 Railaitė-Bardė, Agnė 5 Rajecki, Aleksander 133, 136, 137, 138, 140 Rajecki, Gedeon 138 Rajecki family 135, 136, 138 – 9, 143 Rakowski, Antoni 229 – 30 Raseiniai see Roseini Raudany (Raudonė) 80, 81, 84 Redwichin, Christian 54 Redwichin, Concordia 54 Redwichin, Johann Christian 54

Index  253 Reformation 15; Catholic 48; Counter-Reformation 57, 174, 175; Protestant 1, 48, 75, 169 – 79 Reformed (Calvinist) Church 22, 170, 172 refugees 5 registers of baptisms, marriages and deaths 19, 22, 48, 53 Reich, Barthold 187 Rekuc (Rėkutis) 97 Rewell, Michael 49, 58 Rimkūnas, Rolandas xii, 112 Rimša, Edmundas 108 Ritterumem, Raphael 175 Rnkowd, Greger 39 Rogel, Hans 184 Rogers, John 169 Roman Catholics see Catholics Romans as ancestors of Lithuanians 113 – 15 Romashka, unfree woman 122 Rondomański, Benedictus (Benedykt) 79 Ronikier, Michał Aleksander 160 Roseini (Raseiniai) 124 Rospuda see Dowspuda Rouen 176 Rowntree, Benjamin Seebohm 53, 54 Rudeikovna (Rudeikaitė), Gendruta, unfree woman 122 Rudelis, unfree man 122 Rudziawski, Michał 83 Rumbold (Rumbaudas) 92 runaways 125, 126 Rus´ 1, 184 – 5 Russia: Russian Empire 1, 149, 217, 220; Russian Federation 4, 222, 224 Russian language 2, 3 Russians 1 – 2 Ruthenian language 3, 47, 75 Ruthenians 82, 92 Rutkowski, Felicjan 158 Rutter, Ralph 173 – 5 Rydzewski, Paweł 229 – 30 Rydzewski, Wacław 229 Rylski, intendant 157 Rysinius, Solomon 97 Rządnik, silversmith 83 Sabinka, Bartolomeus (Bartłomiej) 34 saddlers 31, 32, 52 Sadowski, Kazimierz 159

St Petersburg 20 – 1 salters 25, 31 Samogitia (Žemaitija) 63 – 4, 69, 154, 155, 171, 187 – 8, 206, 223, 225 Sander, Nicholas 176 Sandomierz, palatinate of 208 Sandziwojowicz, Stanisław 75 Sanguszko family 113 Sapieha, Fridrich (Frederikas Sapiega) 137 Sapieha, Jan Stanisław (Jonas Stanislovas Sapiega) 125 Sapieha, Lew (Leonas Sapiega) 137, 140 Sapieha, Mikołaj (Mikalojus Sapiega) 137 Sapiezyszki (Zapyškis) 81 Sarmyłowicz, P. 229 Sassen, Hartwig 194 Saurymowiczowa, Barbara 81 Saurymowiczówna, Hanna 81 Saurymowiczówna, Konstancja 81 Schedibor (Šedbaras) 92 Schemyoth Nyemoykowycz (Šemeta Nemeikaitis) 96 Schengen zone 223, 225 School of Slavonic and East European Studies, University College London xii Schott, Franz 213 Scots 2, 16 Šedbaras see Schedibor Sędziwoy of Szubin 95 sejm (parliament) 39, 133, 138, 142, 148, 150, 151, 153; Four Years Sejm (1788–92) 148 – 9, 217, 225 – 6 sejmiks (dietines) 85, 132 – 43 Sejny 230 serfs and serfdom see peasants servants 52; see also unfree persons Seyterin, Regina 47, 54 Shepreve, William 178 shoemakers 52, 55 Šiaučiūnaitė-Verbickienė, Jurgita 4 Sieberg family 195, 196 Siesicki, Abram 142, 145 Siesiecki, Jan 145 Siesiecki, Kasper 145 Siesicki family 135, 136, 138, 141 Sigismund, Grand Duke of Lithuania see Žygimantas Kęstutaitis, Grand Duke of Lithuania

254 Index Sigismund II Augustus, Grand Duke of Lithuania and King of Poland 169, 171, 225 Sigismund III Vasa, Grand Duke of Lithuania and King of Poland 38, 134, 142 Sigismundus (Žygimantas), son of Michael Golgynovycz 95 silversmiths 83 Šinkūnaitė, Laima 78 Sirputis see Syrput Sisters of Charity 57 Siwicki, Ignacy 160 Skarga, Piotr 175 – 7 Skawina 205, 208 Skidel (Skidzel) 70 skippers 82 Skorulski, Michael (Michał) 39, 41 Skuodas see Szkudy slaves see unfree persons Słonim (Slonim) 155, 161 Słuck (Slutsk) 155, 172 Słupie 213 Šmigelskytė-Stukienė, Ramunė 5 smiths (blacksmiths) 31, 52, 55 Smolensk 123, 183, 224 Sobieski family 113 Sobolewo 227 sociology of politics 132 socio-topography 30 – 1 soldiers 52, 80 – 1, 140, 189 – 90, 220 Sołłohubowa (Sologubienė), noblewoman 123 Sołtan Alexandrowicz (Soltanas) 95 Sommer (Summer), Jost 185 Songailo, Zygmunt (Žygimantas Songaila) 127 songs 186 – 8 Sophia Jagiellon, Duchess of Brunswick 186 – 7, 197 Sorokin, P. A. 193 Sotzman, Daniel Friedrich 235 Spain, Kingdom of 149 Spesshart 185 sphragistics 8, 105 – 16 Spiegel, Gabrielle M. 106 spinners 124 Śrem 31 Stahuljak, Zrinka 106 Stanislaus (Stanisław), Saint 95 Stanislaus Janowicz (Stanislovas Jonaitis Kęsgaila, Stanisław Janowicz Kieżgajło) 97

Stanislav (Stanislovas), unfree son of Rudelis 122 Stanisław August Poniatowski, Grand Duke of Lithuania and King of Poland 153, 227 Stein von, Lieutenant-Colonel 235 Stepan (Steponas), unfree son of Voitekh Milkevich 123 Stephen Báthory (Stefan Batory), Grand Duke of Lithuania and King of Poland 29, 177 Stirpeyke (Stirpeikis) 93 Strasbourg (Strassburg) 21 Strust 160 Stryjkowski, Maciej 184 Sucha Wieś 227 Sucha Wolia 67 Sudimund Dorgewicz (Sudimantas Dargaitis) 96 Sudrowski, Stanisław 187 Sudywoy (Sudivojus) 92 Sudywoy Wolimuntowicz (Sudivojus Valmantaitis) 95 Suffolk 177 suicide 196 Sumorok, Roman 137, 140, 141, 145 Sumorok family 135, 136, 138 Sungal see Johannes alias Sungal Suprasl´skaia letopis´ 183 Surwillen family 100 Suwałki 222, 223, 225, 226, 227, 229, 235 Suwalszczyzna/Suvalkija 6, 222 – 3, 229, 230 Suxe, Nicolaus 91 Švitrigaila (Bolesław Świdrygiełło, Boleslaus alias Swydrigal), Grand Duke of Lithuania 94, 95 Swabia 21 Sweden, Kingdom of 21, 76, 170, 196, 225 Swiss Reformers 186 swordsmiths 31, 39 Symon, unfree man 123, 124 Syrput (Sirputis) 97 Szawkoty (Šaukotas) manor 125 Szawle (Šiauliai) 155, 217 Szelment, Lake 228 Szemiot, Stanisław Samuel 5, 205 – 14 Szemiot, Zofia née Kierdejówna 206, 208 Szeszupa, river 228 Szkudy (Skuodas) 158

Index  255 Szóstak, Colonel 160 – 1 Szucki, Jan (Jonas Šuckis) 125 Szukiewicz, Adam 157 – 8 Szuńko, Jan 146 Szuńko family 135, 136, 138 Szydłowiec 41 Szydłowski, Stanislaus (Stanisław) 39, 41 Szymonowiczowa, Agnieszka Alexandrowa 83 tailors 31, 52, 55, 69, 124 Talachyn see Tołoczyn tanners 25 Tarnowski, Aleksander 122 Tartu see Dorpat Tatars 1, 2, 16, 47, 22; of the Crimea 174 Tatra Mountains 5, 210, 212 Tautvilas, son of Grand Duke Kęstutis 96 Tautvilas, son of King Mindaugas 96 taxation 65 – 6, 69 – 70, 73, 154 – 5 tax records 19, 21 – 4, 32, 63 – 71, 132 – 3, 138, 142, 222 – 3 Tęczyński family 110 Teutonic Order 1, 94, 98, 99 – 100, 222 Textor von, Johan Christoph 235 – 6 Thautwil Muntholtowicz (Tautvilas Mantautaitis, Johannes) 96 – 7 Thirty Years’ War 23 Thorn (Toruń) 142 Timmen, Eberhardt 195 Tiron, Tudor Radu 108 tobacco 155 – 7, 160 tolerance and toleration 2, 13, 15 – 16, 171, 172 – 3 Tołoczyn (Talachyn) 160 Tolstoy, Lev 13 – 14, 26 Tomash (Tomašas), unfree son of Baltromei Simanovich 123 topography 8, 18, 23, 223, 233, 235 – 6; see also socio-topography Toruń see Thorn Towiański, Ignacy 231 Towiański, Jakób 146 Towiański family 135, 136, 138, 139 towns 1, 4, 13 – 26, 62 – 71, 209 – 10, 223, 225 – 6 Traidenis, Grand Duke of Lithuania 93 traitors and treason 219 – 21 Transylvania 173 Trent, Council of 76, 229 Trojden see Traidenis, Grand Duke of Lithuania

Trojden, Duke of Czersk and Warsaw 93 Troki (Trakai), palatinate and district of 222 Truchlau, Andreas 56 Truchlau, Maria 56 Truskowski, Lieutenant 189 Tur, Marcin 161 – 2 Ţuţora see Cecora, battle of Tyniec 205 Tyszka family 139 Tytuvėnai see Cytowiany Tyzenhauz, Antoni 150, 159 – 60, 222, 224 Tzalit, boy 194 Ukmergė see Wiłkomierz, district and sejmik of Ukraine, Republic of 4 Ukrainian language 2, 3 Ukrainians 1 Ulianitsa, unfree woman 123 unfree persons 5, 120 – 8 Uniates (Catholics of the Ruthenian or Greek Rite) 18, 22, 47 – 8, 55, 57, 58, 223 Unikowski, Andrzej 146 Unikowski family 135, 136, 138, 139 Upita (Upytė), district of 158 Uppsala 21 Utenhove, Jan 170, 171 Užneris see Zawielski Vaidila see Waydelo Vaišundas see Voyszundus I Christianus Radvila Vaišviltas see Woyswylth Vaitkevičius, Gediminas 31 Valmantas see Walimund Buschkenson Vardomskis, Teodoras see Wardomski, Fedor Varėna see Orany Varniany see Worniany Varnioniai see Worniany Vasiliauskas, Artūras 5 Vasilishki see Wasiliszki Veblaitis, Petras 78 Venclova, Tomas 2 Venetians 14 Vermigli, Peter Martyr 170 Vidra, Stanislovas see Wydra, Stanisław Vienna, battle of 206 Vilkaviškis, diocese of 230

256 Index Vilkmergė see Wiłkomierz, district and sejmik of Vilna, Vilne, Viln´ia, Vilno see Wilno Vilnius, capital of the Republic of Lithuania xii, 3, 4, 20, 23, 30, 223; Lithuanian State Historical Archive 20, 64, 151; Martynas Mažydas National Library of Lithuania 20; University xii (see also Wilno, Academy); University Library 4, 20, 78; Wróblewski Library of the Lithuanian Academy of Sciences v, xii, 5, 20, 30, 111, 217 – 20, 229; see also Wilno Virbalis see Wierzbołów Viršulis see Wirszullo Vistula, river 16, 208, 213 Vištytis see Wisztyniec Vladimir Olgerdovich 94 Voitekh (Vaitiekus), son of Gendruta Rudeikovna 122 Voitekh Milkevich (Vaitiekus Milkevicius), unfree man 123 Voschke, Friedrich 56 Voyszundus (Vaišundas) I Christianus Radvila 105, 114, 116 Vytautas the Great (Wytowdus Allexander, Witold, Wigand), Grand Duke of Lithuania 93 – 4, 95, 98 – 9 Vytenis (Witenes), Grand Duke of Lithuania 93 Vytis (Pogoń, Pahonia) 113, 115 Walimund Buschkenson (Valmantas) 92 Walsingham, Francis 169 Waraxa, Symon (vel Szymon Waraksa) 217, 220, 221 – 2, 224, 229, 230, 235 – 6 Wardomski, Fedor (Teodoras Vardomskis) 122 Warmbrunn, Paul 18 Warmia (Ermeland) 230 Warmia-Masuria, current voivodeship of 222 Warpuciański, Stanisław (Stanislovas Varputinskis) 127 Warsaw 20, 225; Central Archive of Old Records (AGAD) 20; Confederacy of (1573) 13, 176; Duchy of 223; Insurrection (1794) 217, 221; National Library 20; University Library 20, 114 Wartele (Varteliai) 225

washerwomen 23, 31, 124 Wasiliszki (Vasilishki) 70 Waydelo (Vaidila) 93 weavers 31, 124, 127 Weber, Bruno 186 Wędrogowski, Mikołaj 29 Wędziagolska, Magdalena 80 – 1 Węgierski, Wojciech 172 Weiss, Zachary 195 Wereda, Dorota 211 Wereszczak, Bogusław 161 Westphalian settlement 14 Weströhm, Olof 52 Whitaker, William 178 White Ruthenia see Belarus Wick, Johann Jakob 184, 186 widows 47, 48, 51, 53 – 5 Wielkopolska see Great Poland Wierszele (Wersele) 225 Wierzbołów (Virbalis) 159 Wieżgóry (Wiżgóry) 225 Wigand, Johannes, bishop of Pomerania 175 wigmaker 23 Wigry, monastery and Lake, diocese of 222, 226 – 7, 230, 235 – 6 Wilia (Neris), river 75, 82 Wiłkomierz (Vilkmergė, Ukmergė), district and sejmik of 5, 132 – 43 Wilkowski, Kasper 177 Wiłkowyszki (Wyłkowyszki, Vilkaviškis) 230 wills and testaments 23, 24, 121, 123, 124, 133, 136 – 7, 138, 140 Wilno (Vilna, Vil´na, Vilne, Vil´nia, Vilnius, Vil´no, Wilna): Academy (University) 175 – 8, 206 – 7, 221, 230 (see also Vilnius, capital of the Republic of Lithuania, University Library); capital of Grand Duchy of Lithuania 3, 80, 133; cathedral chapter of 4, 21, 28 – 41; churches (Evangelical (Calvinist) 138, 172; Lutheran 48; St Francis and St Bernardino 32; St Ignatius 22; St John (and St John) 22); confessional pluralism 14, 16, 17 – 18, 21, 28 – 9, 47 – 8, 57 – 9; convocation of the Lithuanian Estates 133, 141; customs office 154; diocese and bishopric of (Roman Catholic) 79, 80, 84, 217, 220, 221; dormitory of St Ambrose 32; famine in 190; hospitals and almshouses 47 – 59; Insurrection

Index  257 (1794) 217 – 19, 221, 230; Lutherans 3, 4, 47 – 59; name in different languages 3; occupations 23, 25, 31 – 2, 52, 80; printing in 170, 175, 178, 220; streets (Bernardine (Ulica Bernardyńska, Bernardinų gatvė) 21, 30, 32 – 41; Castle (ulica Zamkowa, Pilies gatvė) 21, 34; German (Ulica Niemiecka, Vokiečių gatvė) 16, 48; Jewish (Ulica Żydowska, Žydų gatvė) 16; Meat-Shop (Ulica Jatkowa, Mėsinių gatvė/M. Antolskio gatvė) 16; St Anne’s (Ulica Św. Anny, Šv. Onos gatvė) 16; Sawicz (Ulica Sawicz, Savičiaus gatvė) 206; Skop (Ulica Skopowa, S. Skapo gatvė) 21); Wilia (Neris) gate 48 Winogrodzki, Kazimierz 83 Wirbkowski, Joannes (Jan) 34, 36 Wirszullo (Viršulis) 97 Wiślicz, Tomasz 7 Wisztyniec (Vištytis) 222, 224 – 5, 229, 235 – 6 Witebsk Chronicle 190 – 1 Wiżayny (Wiżajny) 222, 225, 228, 229, 235 – 6 Władysław I Łokietek, King of Poland 93 Władysław II Jagiełło see Jogaila, Grand Duke of Lithuania and King of Poland Władysław IV Vasa, Grand Duke of Lithuania and King of Poland 22, 95, 138, 142 wójt (Vogt, advocatus) 15 Wolan, Andrzej 178 Wolczkowicz, Jurij (Jurgis Volčkavius) 125 Wolffram, Johann Simon 54 Wolffram, Rachel Sophia 54 Wolfowicz, Martinus (Martyn) Szulc 32 Wołłowicz, Eustachius (Eustachy) 38 – 9, 41 woodcuts 184 – 6

Worniany (Varniany in Belarus), deanery of 229 Worniany (Varnioniai in Lithuania) 122 Woyna, Benedictus (Benedykt), bishop of Vilna (Wilno) 38, 41 Woyswylth (Vaišviltas) 93 Woytkiewicz, J. 230 Wróblewski, Jacek 83 Wróblewski, Kazimierz 229, 230 Wrocław, Ossolineum Library 206 Wydra, Stanisław (Stanislovas Vidra) 122 Yiddish language 3, 47 Yotvingians 222 Zabrzeziński (Zaberezinskiai) family 97 Żagiel, Martinus (Martyn) 39 Żagory (Žagarė) 158 Zaleska, Alena (Elena Zaleskienė) 123 Zaleski, Stanisław 160 Zapė Kaulelė, unfree woman 122 Zapyškis see Sapiezyszki Zawadzki, Franciszek 158 Zawadzki, Jakub 158 Zawadzki, Kazimierz Jan 157, 158 Zawadzki, Stanisław 158 Zawadzki family 158 Zawielski (Užneris) 122 Zawisza, Krzysztof 190, 208 Zawlicki, Augustinus (Augustyn) 82 Zebrzydowska, noblewoman 210 Zelwie (Želvė), manor 125 Žemaitija see Samogitia Zofiia (Zofija), unfree daughter of Baltromei Lukiianovich 123 Zofiia (Zofija), unfree daughter of Voitekh Milkevich 123 Zofiia (Zofija), unfree woman 122, 126 Zürich 184 Žygimantas Kęstutaitis (Zygmunt Kiejstutowicz), Grand Duke of Lithuania 95 Żyżniewski, M. 229

Index compiled by Wioletta Pawlikowska and Richard Butterwick