European studies blog

167 posts categorized "Germany"

21 January 2015

Memories of a Nation: British Library loans at the British Museum

The British Museum’s exhibition ‘Germany – Memories of a Nation’ and the accompanying BBC Radio series have followed on from Museum Director Neil McGregor’s earlier ‘Histories in Objects’ projects, using artefacts from 600 years of German history “to investigate the complexities of addressing a …history which is full of both triumphs and tragedies.”

The objects in question include many spectacular loans – from Tischbein’s famous portrait of Goethe in Italy to Barlach’s hovering angel from Güstrow (and not forgetting a VW Beetle in the Museum’s Great Court). The British Library also lent a number of items, and as they prepare to return home after the exhibition closes on 25 January, here is a brief description.

Among the first exhibits visitors see is a map of Germany, printed in Eichstätt in 1494 (British Library Maps C.2.a.1), one of the items used to illustrate Germany’s changing borders over six centuries. A far larger map of a far smaller area is the ‘Seld Map’ (Maps *30415.(6.)) showing the city of Augsburg in the early 16th century, which is used to exemplify the power and importance of the ‘Free Imperial Cities’ of the Holy Roman Empire. It is easy to become lost in both maps: in the Eichstätt one trying to work out the geography and identify the different cities, and in the Augsburg one simply enjoying the meticulous detail of the streets and buildings and of the small figures passing to and fro among them.

One of the Library’s two copies of the Gutenberg Bible is placed in the section of the exhibition highlighting German technological achievements and inventions, in this case the printing press, perhaps the most influential invention in Western history. This is the copy printed on paper from King George III’s library (C.9.d.3-4); the other is on vellum and belonged to the collector Thomas Grenville(G.12226).

Opening of a Gutenberg Bible with a hand-illuminated border of vines and birds
The opening page of the Gutenberg Bible (Mainz, ca 1455) C.9.d.3.

Another Bible, printed less than a century after Gutenberg’s invention, shows how far printing technology had advanced in that time. However, it is not in the exhibition primarily as an example of printing but rather to illustrate the huge influence that its translator, Martin Luther, had on Germany’s religious life and on the German language. This particular Luther Bible from 1541 (679.i.15 and 679.i.16) is one of my own favourite British Library treasures. It is a large-format edition, bound in two volumes, each bearing a handwritten inscription by Luther himself; the first volume also has inscriptions by fellow-reformers Johannes Bugenhagen, Georg Major and Philipp Melanchthon.

End-papers of a Bible with manuscript inscriptions by Martin Luther and Johannes Bugenhagen and pasted-in woodcut portraits of Luther and Georg Major
The Bible in Martin Luther’s translation: Biblia, das ist, die gantze Heilige Schrift (679.i.15). Luther’s inscription, starting with the opening of the 23rd Psalm, is on the left

Our other printed books in the exhibition may be less visually exciting, but still tell important stories. Three of Goethe’s works are exhibited in a case which illustrates both his literary career and his scientific interests. Die Leiden des jungen Werthers (Leipzig, 1774; 12547.aa.21.) is the work which brought him international fame at the age of 24 and became the cult novel of the day. The drama Iphigenie auf Tauris illustrates the more mature classicism which followed the young Goethe’s ‘Sturm und Drang’ years, while an edition of Faust (Heidelberg, 1832; 11749.de.6) published in the year of Goethe’s death represents the drama that became his life’s work and has often been seen as the quintessential work of German literature.

In the section of the exhibition looking at political developments in 19th-century Germany is a work which has a particular connection to the British Museum itself: Karl Marx’s Das Kapital (Hamburg, 1872; C.12.b.1.). Marx famously worked on the book in the Round Reading Room of the British Museum, and he presented the copy on display (although sadly he didn’t see fit to inscribe it) to the then British Museum Library, now part of the British Library. It is appropriate that this book should be displayed in an exhibition gallery now situated above the Round Reading Room; indeed, although I wrote earlier about the items ‘coming home’ to the British Library, for almost all of them this exihibition marks a temporary return to their previous home in the Museum. An exception is the Manifest der Kommunistischen Partei (Communist Manifesto; London, 1848; C.194.b.289), shown alongside Das Kapital. This was acquired by the Library in 2010, filling a long-felt gap in our holdings.

Cover of the Communist Manifesto, pale green paper wth a simple decorative border
Cover of the Communist Manifesto, published by German political exiles in London

For those unable to get to the exhibition in its last days, some of the items described here are pictured in the accompanying book and some are discussed in the BBC series, where you can also hear BL curators among others discussing Gutenberg, Luther and Marx. And, although some are restricted from general use on account of their value, all will, of course, soon be back in the British Library.

Susan Reed, Lead Curator Germanic Studies

 

16 January 2015

Weird science: Reagan, Rudolf and Philip the Prudent

Not a few people looked askance when it was revealed that US President Ronald Reagan employed an astrologer, Joan Quigley. According to Donald T. Regan, White House Chief of Staff: “Virtually every major move and decision the Reagans made during my time as … chief of staff was cleared in advance with a woman in San Francisco who drew up horoscopes to make certain that the planets were in a favorable alignment for the enterprise,” he wrote in the memoir, For the Record: From Wall Street to Washington.

In an interview with CBS Evening News in 1989, after Reagan left office, Miss Quigley said that after reading the horoscope of the Soviet leader Mikhail S. Gorbachev, she concluded that he was intelligent and open to new ideas and persuaded Mrs. Reagan to press her husband to abandon his view of the Soviet Union as an “evil empire.” Arms control treaties followed.

Reagan denied that he had ever acted on the basis of heavenly guidance. In her 1989 book My Turn: The Memoirs of Nancy Reagan, Mrs. Reagan described Miss Quigley as warm and compassionate but played down her influence. Mrs. Reagan wrote that the president, speaking of her astrological bent, had told her: “If it makes you feel better, go ahead and do it. But be careful. It might look a little odd if it ever came out.” In the battle of memoirs, Miss Quigley may have had the last word. The title of her own 1990 book — What Does Joan Say? — was the question that she said the president had habitually asked his wife.

Reagan’s attitudes would not have been out of place in earlier times, when astronomy and astrology were not strictly distinguished.

Holy Roman Emperor Rudolf II (1552-1612) employed cutting-edge astronomers Kepler and Tycho Brahe sponsored the Rudolphine Tables, an updating of the thirteenth-century Alphonsine Tables of Alfonso X of Castile-Leon. These were astronomical in the modern sense, based on observation of the skies.  But he is probably better known nowadays for his interest in the occult: “The Mad Alchemist” for some.

Engraving of a temple-like structure with four astronomers and various astronomical instruments
Frontispiece from Johannes Kepler, Tabulae Rudolphinae (Ulm, 1627) British Library 48.f.7.

Philip II of Spain’s spin doctors dubbed him “The Prudent”. We might be influenced by Lytton Strachey’s view of the dour pious king-bureaucrat working at his desk in the monastery-palace of the Escorial (It means “slag heap”, probably a coincidence):

King Philip sat working in the Escurial—the gigantic palace that he had built for himself, all of stone, far away, high up, amid the desolation of the rocky Guadarrama. He worked incessantly, as no monarch had ever worked before, controlling from his desk a vast empire—Spain and Portugal, half Italy, the Netherlands, the Western Indies. He had grown old and white-haired in his labours, but he worked on. Diseases had attacked him; he was tortured by the gout; his skin was cankered, he was the prey of a mysterious and terrible paralysis; but his hand moved over the paper from morning till night. He never emerged now. He had withdrawn into this inner room of his palace—a small room, hung with dark green tapestries—and there he reigned, secret, silent, indefatigable, dying. He had one distraction, and only one; sometimes he tottered through a low door into his oratory beyond and kneeling, looked out, through an inner window, as it were from a box of an opera, into the enormous spaces of a church. It was the centre of his great building, half palace and half monastery, and there, operatic too in their vestments and their movements and their strange singings, the priests performed at the altar close below him, intent upon their holy work. Holy! But his work too was that; he too was labouring for the glory of God. Was he not God’s chosen instrument? The divine inheritance was in his blood.

His science policy, studied by David Goodman, was steadfastly uncurious: not for him the enquiring Renaissance scientific mind. He was interested in practical technology: navigation, fortification, hydraulics (important for trade: Philip patronised Turriano and when the king acquired a manuscript of Leonardo da Vinci, his interest was in Leonardo’s work on water). But alongside this was his promotion of what my now departed second-hand book garage in Greenwich used to shelve under “Weird S—t”.  Philip subsidised the occult sciences of astrology, alchemy and dowsing (all of them supremely useful, of course, if they actually work).

Woodcut illustration of a man dowsing while others mine stones from the ground

 Dowsing, from Georgius Agricola, Vom Bergwerck XII Bücher… (Basel, 1557). 443.h.6.(2)

We might lament the aspirational hollowness which prevented Philip from exploring the mysteries of the universe but for him prudence was nothing if not practical.

Barry Taylor, Curator Hispanic Studies


References:

Juanelo Turriano, Los veintún libros de los ingenios y máquinas (Madrid, 1996) RB.23.b.3216

Obituary of Joan Quigley

A guide to history of science sources at the British Library: http://www.bl.uk/reshelp/pdfs/historyofscience.pdf

David C. Goodman, Power and penury: government, technology and science in Philip II’s Spain (Cambridge, 1988) YC.1988.b.4780

Nicolás García Tapia, ‘Ingeniería del agua en los códices de Leonardo y en los manuscritos españoles del s. XVI’, Ingeniería de agua, 3 (1996), 17-38.  http://dialnet.unirioja.es/servlet/articulo?codigo=4820692

Peter H. Marshall, The Mercurial Emperor: the magic circle of Rudolf II in Prague (London, 2007) YC.2008.a.8358

Lytton Strachey, Elizabeth and Essex: a tragic history (London, 1928) 10807.e.21.

08 December 2014

‘Say “Dracula” and you smile. Say “Nosferatu” and you’ve eaten a lemon’

Introducing the Germanness of all things Gothic in an earlier post, Susan Reed draws the borderline between the South – ‘fine art, classical civilisation and the Renaissance’ - and the gothic North, concluding that ‘it’s harder to be gothic under a blue and sunny sky.’ This separation has a lot to do with meteorological, agricultural and gastronomical particularities – the vines simply stop growing by the time you get to the North.

What this means for Northern life and its artistic and cultural responses is something quite different to the restrained pietism and often ideal imagined worlds of classicism. As Jonathan Meades has it, in his 2008 documentary Magnetic North, ‘The North is the unpromised land of darkness, the gothic in all its forms, the thrilling grimness, exhilarating harshness, inky canals, fog, glistening cobbles – of buildings which respond to vast lands and skies with spires.’ One needs only to compare, for instance, the Isenheim Altarpiece (Matthias Grünewald 1512-1516) to a Raphael alternative – take Crucifixion with the Virgin, Saints and Angels. The German representation of the crucifixion is plague-ridden, screaming pain, whereas the Italian version shows an almost peaceful death. The hostile conditions of the Northern world are, therefore, tangibly transmitted into its art forms, which seek to escape the same world through a fantastical imagination always already informed by everyday horror.

The Gothic Exhibition is tinged with, if not haunted by, this hostile northernness (and its particular German variety). Once you navigate around the black spaces of the exhibition, brushing past black diaphanous dividing curtains, you reach the Dracula room, separated off in a dark corner, to be greeted by the black and white of a film projection – F.W. Murnau’s Nosferatu: Eine Symphonie des Grauens (1922). Murnau’s film is self-consciously based on Stoker’s Dracula and yet critics argue that, had Murnau not admitted his source, the works differ so much that it might have been easy to forget the connection (Mayne). Anders Larsson – firmly in the pro-Nosferatu camp – understands Stoker’s Dracula as ‘sophisticated, culturally aware, aristocratic, and seductive’ even engaging in ‘banter, seduction, small talk.’ In other words, Dracula is decidedly a human type, an intelligent, attractive one at that.

Cover of a 1901 edition of 'Dracula' with a picture of Count Dracula crawling down the wall of his castle
Dracula, from the first illustrated edition of Bram Stoker's novel (London, 1901) C.194.a.862

A quick glance at the list of actors in the English-speaking role only confirms this Anglo-American conception of the monster: Bela Lugosi, Christopher Lee, Gary Oldman, and Luke Evans (who is in this year’s Dracula Untold). Nosferatu, or Count Orlok, as he is known, is rather ‘repulsive in every way’ and certainly ‘not a sexy vampire’. Bald-headed, grotesquely exaggerated facial features, ever-lengthening fingernails, Orlok is (deliberately) rodent-like, far from conventional notions of beauty, yet perhaps far closer than Dracula to a shared concept of monstrosity. The difference is best articulated in the words of the film critic Roger Ebert: ‘Say “Dracula” and you smile. Say “Nosferatu” and you've eaten a lemon.’

Nosferatu (played by Max Schreck) standing in his castle gateway, from the 1922 film
Max Schreck as Count Orlok in Nosferatu (1922)

Countering the critical idea that Nosferatu is somehow Dracula avant la lettre, Saviour Catania attempts to show the already extant German romanticism and mysticism in Stoker’s work itself. The story is then Germanized both before and after the fact. Stoker has the vampire say, ‘I love the dark and shadow’, which Catania sees as a German romantic obsession with the ‘shadowy self, fragmenting into a more insubstantial parallel realm.’ If the story is indeed a play of dark and shadow, we begin to see the reasons for Nosferatu’s appeal, as film itself, in its earliest, silent, monochromatic form, is already a vampyric medium – a play of light and dark. In the scratchy, sketchy imprint of the remaining copies of Murnau’s film, the modern viewer is disturbed by default. Blackness engulfs the frame. Orlok becomes shadow, always hiding in them, rarely appearing in close-up, and Catania understands Murnau’s achievement as precisely the ‘ingenious ways of incarnating in visual images Stoker’s verbal descriptions of what is visible but incorporeal.’

Like the gruesome artworks of Grünewald, Bosch and northern Gothic in general, Nosferatu is inventive, fantastical and self-reflexive; it draws attention to its artifice, showing that both the horror and its representations are all the work of man, confining the horror to the ever-alienating and deadly potential of our world. We cannot escape. Shadow encroaches onto the edges of the film and re-asserts our uncertainty and the very real fears of the viewers’ worlds.

Florence Stoker, the wife of the author, immediately sought legal action after the appearance of Murnau’s film. A long drawn-out battle eventually saw the court order the destruction of all copies of the film. Living up to its name, Nosferatu (Romanian for ‘un-dead’), could not be destroyed and the film re-surfaced two years later. The film continues to haunt the legacy of Dracula as well as the Dracula room in the Gothic exhibition. We may even read the strong presence of (black and white) film in the exhibition, with its flickering play of projected light (and dark), as a nod to the ‘death-mask’ (André Bazin, in Catania) that is cinema itself, and the intangible shadowiness of our underlying horrors. However we understand the Dracula story and in whichever German, English, literary, or filmic mode, the vampire is here to stay, forever haunting the imagination. We can join Jonathon Meades in concluding, the Gothic ‘never went away, it never will.’

Pardaad Chamsaz, Collaborative PhD Student

References/Further Reading

F. W. Murnau, Nosferatu. Eine Symphonie des Grauens.  Sound collections 1DVD0006027

Henrik Galeen, ‘Nosferatu. eine Symphonie des Grauens: Scenario adapted from Bram Stoker's Dracula’ in Masterworks of the German cinema. Introduction by Dr. Roger Manvell (London, [1973].). X.989/24324.

Jackson, Kevin, Nosferatu : eine Symphonie des Grauens  (London, 2013.) YC.2014.a.7043

Thomas Elsaesser, ‘Six degrees of Nosferatu’, http://old.bfi.org.uk/sightandsound/feature/92

Wayne E. Hensley, ‘The contribution of F. W. Murnau’s Nosferatu to the evolution of Dracula’. Literature Film Quarterly, 30 (1), 2002, pp. 59-64. 5276.721100

Judith Mayne, ‘Dracula in the Twilight: Murnau’s Nosferatu (1922)’, in German Film and Literature, (New York; London, 1986). YC.1986.b.2491

Roger Ebert, ‘Nosferatu’, http://www.rogerebert.com/reviews/great-movie-nosferatu-1922

Anders Larsson, ‘Nosferatu as 20th century German zeitgeist’, http://www.academia.edu/4140848/Nosferatu_as_20th_Century_German_Zeitgeist

Saviour Catania, ‘Absent Presences in Liminal Places’, Literature Film Quarterly, 32 (3), 2004, pp. 229-236.

Jonathan Meades, Magnetic North, (BBC4, 2008). (available online at:  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Dw6J9bYQ4XY_1

 

28 November 2014

‘All Horrid’ – but not all German

One of the display cases in our current Gothic Exhibition shows a collection of books whose fame today rests largely on their being mentioned in a novel by Jane Austen (much like Kotzebue’s Lovers’ Vows, discussed in an earlier post).  These are the ‘Horrid Novels’ which Isabella Thorpe recommends to her new friend Catherine Morland in Northanger Abbey as the two girls embark on a spree of gothic fiction reading.

The titles Isabella lists are:  ‘Castle of Wolfenbach, Clermont, Mysterious Warnings, Necromancer of the Black Forest, Midnight Bell, Orphan of the Rhine, and Horrid Mysteries.’ Unlike Ann Radcliffe’s The Mysteries of Udolpho and The Italian, which the girls also read, these titles had pretty much sunk into obscurity by the time Northanger Abbey was posthumously published, and early literary critics believed that they were inventions of Austen’s, parodying typical titles of the genre. Later researchers, however, established that, although Austen (or Isabella) made some minor errors in transcribing the titles, all seven books were genuine products of the time.

However, one thing less than genuine about some of them is a claim to be of German origin. Of the seven, only Clermont offers no hint of German-ness on its title page. The Orphan of the Rhine clearly indicates a German setting, but goes no further, while the other five are all billed as ‘a German story/tale’ or ‘From the German.’ However, this is only strictly true of two: The Necromancer is an adaptation of Karl Friedrich Kahlert’s Der Geisterbanner, and The Horrid Mysteries is a translation of Carl Grosse’s Der Genius. The Castle of Wolfenbach, The Mysterious Warning and The Midnight Bell are only ‘German stories’ insofar as their action is at least partially set in Germany – and this was probably not all that the authors meant to imply

Title page of 'The Castle of Wolfenbach'
Title-page of The Castle of Wolfenbach, [not] a German story. (London, 1794) British Library C.192.a.187

Claiming a false (and often foreign) origin for a work of gothic fiction was not uncommon. The first gothic novel, The Castle of Otranto, purported to be translated from an Italian manuscript (and the device of an invented source goes back further still). Indeed, the original German editions of both Der Geisterbanner and Der Genius claim to be based on other sources: Danish accounts collected by ‘Lorenz Flammenberg’ and the ‘papers of the Marquis C* von G**’ respectively.

Title page of 'Der Genius'
The German title-page of Carl von Grosse, Der Genius (Halle, 1791) 12547.b.22.

But why such a German flavour in a list of English gothic novels? After all, the gothic novel began with Walpole’s supposedly Italian tale, and Ann Radcliffe’s novels also tend towards Italian settings. Italy, France and other southern, Catholic countries of Europe were popular backdrops for British gothic writers since sinister, conspiratorial monks, nuns and priests could be introduced as villains, pandering to the prejudices of a Protestant audience. Yet a German source was clearly a sign of gothic credibility for readers like Catherine and Isabella.

One reason is that there was a definite German influence on English gothic fiction. This came partly via the works of the Sturm und Drang movement and partly from the translations of the more popular and less literary ‘Schauerromane’ (literally ‘shudder novels’), themselves often influenced by British gothic models. (The false translation traffic could go both ways, too: a number of German gothic novels were ascribed to Ann Radcliffe in the first years of the 19th century.)  This German influence was not always welcomed. In 1807 the writer Charles Maturin wrote of literary ‘horrors’ reaching British shores on a ‘plague-ship of German letters’. Two years earlier The Critical Review had rather sarcastically described Matthew Lewis’s The Bravo of Venice as a ‘Germanico-terrific Romance’. The Bravo was an adaptation of a real German work, Heinrich Zschokke’s Abällino, although the reviewer, ‘not acquainted with the original’, and obviously on his guard against false claims of translation from the German, casts doubt on this. Nonetheless he still has some harsh words for the ‘writers of the German school’ and their constant desire to shock.

Frontispiece of 'The Mysterious Warning', showing a jug pouring water while suspended in mid-air, to the amazement of onlookers
Gothic goings-on in the frontispiece of The Mysterious Warning (London, 1796) 1153.f.32.

Apart from actual literary influences, the fact that ‘Gothic’ was still a synonym for ‘Germanic’ or Teutonic’ was no doubt another factor in the identification of Germany with things gothic, as was the Germans’ continued use of ‘gothic’ type. Interestingly, the Minerva Press, which published six of Austen’s ‘Horrid Novels’ and many other gothic works, printed its name in gothic type on its title pages – an early example of this kind of typeface being used as a kind of branding for the demonic and supernatural.

But perhaps another, although less easily demonstrable, explanation is that Germany simply lent itself more readily to gothic imagery in the popular imagination, with all the necessary forests, mountains and mediaeval buildings to furnish the scenery. Italy, despite its suspect Catholicism and its fair share of mountains and bandits, also carried connotations of fine art, classical civilisation and the Renaissance, all the antithesis of gothic. Perhaps even the idea of lowering North European skies as opposed to the sunshine of southern climes played a part: it’s harder to be gothic under a blue and sunny sky.

The continuing identification of German and gothic probably explains why Mary Shelley’s Victor Frankenstein, despite coming from rational, Protestant, French-speaking Geneva, has a German surname, and conducts his anatomical experiments while studying in Germany.  And it survives to this day, not least in the use of gothic lettering (and oddly superfluous umlauts) in the marketing of heavy metal and gothic rock bands.

Susan Reed, Lead Curator Germanic Studies

References/Further reading:

The seven ‘Horrid Novels’ as displayed in the current British Library exhibition are:

Eliza Parsons, The Castle of Wolfenbach, a German Story (London,  1794) C.192.a.187

Regina Maria Roche, Clermont, a Tale (London, 1798) 1152.h.1.

Eliza Parsons, The Mysterious Warning, a German Tale (London, 1796) 1153.f.32.

Karl Friedrich Kahlert, The Necromancer: or The Tale of the Black Forest: founded on facts, translated from the German of Lawrence Flammenberg by Peter Teuthold. (London, 1794)  C.175.i.8.

Francis Lathom The midnight bell, a German story, founded on incidents in real life… (London, 1798) C.117.ff.31.

Eleanor Sleath, The Orphan of the Rhine, a Romance (Dublin, 1802) Loan from University College Cork Library

Carl von Grosse Horrid Mysteries, a story from the German of the Marquis von Grosse, translated by P. Will (London, 1796) Loan from the Taylor Institution Library, Oxford

 

Michael Sadleir, Things Past (London, 1944) 12359.f.26.

Patrick Bridgwater, The German Gothic Novel in Anglo-German Perspective (Amsterdam, 2013) ZA.9.a.5563(165)

 

14 November 2014

Silesia: a borderland in Central Europe

Silesia is a region now located mainly in Poland with small strips in the Czech Republic and Germany. Historically the province has been divided into the north-western Lower Silesia and the south-eastern Upper Silesia with the two biggest cities Wrocław (Breslau) on the Oder and Katowice respectively.  In the early Middle Ages Silesia was populated by various Slav tribes and was part of Great Moravia and Bohemia.  

At the end of the 10th century it was incorporated into the Polish state by Mieszko I. Over the course of the next few centuries Silesia was ruled by the Silesian Piasts. In the 13th century the Piasts brought in a large number of German settlers and since then Silesia was under the influence of German culture and language.  Eventually it became part of Bohemia in 1335, and two centuries later fell under Habsburg rule. Its rich natural resources, especially coal and iron-ore deposits, and its important strategic position for Prussia were the cause of  wars with Austria for the possession of Silesia in the mid-18th century. Consequently, Frederick the Great of Prussia conquered most of Silesia and only a small part of the south-eastern corner was retained by Austria.

A man and woman wearing traditional Upper Silesian costumes in blue, white and redTraditonal Upper Silesian costumes, from Eduard Duller, Das Deutsche Volk in seinen Mundarten, Sitten, Gebräuchen, Festen und Trachten (Leipzig, 1847) 10256.d.20.

Prussian Silesia was then subjected to Germanisation, particularly strong during the implementation of the ‘Kulturkampf’ policy in the second half of the 19th century.  Lower Silesia was predominantly inhabited by Germans and was Protestant, while Upper Silesia had a mixed population of Germans, Poles and Silesians with Catholicism as the prevailing religion. The latter are regarded as an ethnic group of Slav origin speaking in Silesian. There is now an ongoing debate whether Silesian is a distinctive language, a Polish dialect or a regional language. Upper Silesians spoke Silesian at home and either German or Polish in public and clearly emphasized that they were neither Germans nor Poles.  Although Silesians had never created their own state, they built a society with a distinctive culture and language. In the 19th century there were unsuccessful attempts to codify Silesian, and only in 2003 was the first publishing house founded to publish books in Silesian.  

Upper Silesia was an arena of political clashes between Polish and German nationalist movements at the turn of the 20th century. Each aimed to win the support of the local population regarding  its ownership. Ironically, the Kulturkampf served to strengthen Polish nationalism in the region, which eventually led to the inclusion of the eastern part of Upper Silesia into the newly-reborn Poland in 1922. This followed three Silesian uprisings in 1919-1921 and a 1921 plebiscite organised by the League of Nations. The aim of the uprisings was to win autonomy for Upper Silesia either within the Polish or German state. The uprisings were, however, considered by some Silesians as a civil war. The plebiscite was to decide its national status.  Both Germany and Poland wanted this territory due to its heavy industrialisation and strong economic development.

Map showing the results by region of the 1921 Silesia plebisciteThe results of the plebiscite held in 1921 in Upper Silesia from Stefan Dziewulski, Wyniki Plebiscytu na Górnym śląsku. (Warsaw, 1921)  X.700/15938. The red areas voted to be part of Poland, the blue ones to be part of Germany

The solution was thus to divide it between the two countries. Subsequently, the Prussian Province of Silesia within Germany retained Lower Silesia and the western part of the disputed territory of Upper Silesia. Austrian Silesia was mostly awarded to the newly-created Czechoslovakia, with a small area included in Poland. The region granted to Poland formed the Silesian Voivodeship and received significant autonomy from the Polish government, with its own legislative body and treasury. Polish Upper Silesia (the eastern part) was economically most important as it comprised three-quarters of Silesia’s coal production. The demographic structure of the divided territory, with the Poles and Germans living on both sides, was, however, politically disadvantageous.

At the beginning of the Second World War Upper Silesia was immediately annexed by the Nazis to the Third Reich and the extermination of the Polish population took place. After the war the German inhabitants were expelled, with Poland shifting westwards in 1945. Nowadays, in a free Poland, there are political movements seeking autonomy, separation or even  full independence for Silesia.

Magda Szkuta, Curator East European (Polish) Studies

References/further reading

Tomasz Kamusella, Silesia and Central European Nationalisms: The Emergence of National and Ethnic Groups in Prussian Silesia and Austrian Silesia, 1848-1918 (West Lafayette, 2007) m07/12120

The Problem of Upper Silesia (London, 1921) 08072.c.6

Stefan Dziewulski, Wyniki Plebiscytu na Górnym Śląsku (Warszawa, 1921) X.700/15938.

03 November 2014

Concert to celebrate the Silver Jubilee of the Friends of the British Library - Brahms’ Requiem

The Friends of the British Library celebrate 25 years of support for the Library this year. To mark this special occasion, the British Library and British Museum Singers are holding a concert dedicated to the Friends of the British Library. The concert, on Thursday 13 November, will include excerpts from Brahms’ German Requiem in the composer’s own arrangement for piano duet, together with a selection of his Zigeunerlieder (‘Gypsy Songs’). This free lunchtime concert will take place in St Pancras Parish Church (opposite Euston Station) from 1.15 p.m. It will be conducted by Peter Hellyer and accompanied by Giles Ridley and Christopher Scobie.

The Friends are justly proud of their support for the British Library, and particularly for their contributions in the field of the Library’s music acquisitions. The acquisition in 2002 0f the archive of the Royal Philharmonic Society was significant, as the archive has been described as the single most important source for the history of music in England in the 19th century. The entire archive was digitised as part of the Nineteenth Century Collections Online database and can be viewed in the Library’s Reading Rooms.

Johannes Brahms as a young manJohannes Brahms, ca. 1853, from Alfred Orel, Johannes Brahms (Leipzig, 1937)  010709.de.52.

The choice of Brahms’ German Requiem as the centrepiece for the concert is particularly apt since it was first performed in Great Britain by the Philharmonic Society in 1873. It is a large-scale work for chorus, orchestra, and soloists, composed between 1865 and 1868. This sacred but non liturgical work has seven movements of which the Singers will perform the first five. Partial performances of the work also occurred during the course of its composition: the first three movements were performed in 1867 and six movements were performed in Bremen in 1868. Brahms added the fifth movement in May 1868 and the first performance of the complete work took place in Leipzig in 1869.

An alternative version of the work was also prepared by Brahms to be performed as a piano duet, four hands on one piano. This version also incorporates the vocal parts, suggesting that it was intended as a self-contained version probably for at-home use, but the vocal parts can also be omitted, making the duet version an acceptable substitute accompaniment for choir and soloists in circumstances where a full orchestra is unavailable. The first complete performance of the Requiem in London, in July 1871 at the home of Sir Henry Thompson  and his wife, the pianist Kate Loder, utilized this piano-duet accompaniment.

The Zigeunerlieder with words translated into German from Hungarian folk-songs by Hugo Conrat were originally composed in 1887 set for a vocal quartet (or choir) and piano. In the summer of 1888 Brahms produced an abbreviated version for solo voice as well. The Singers will perform a selection combining the two types of arrangement. A manuscript score of the arrangement for four voices and piano is held by the British Library in the Zweig collection . It is written in black ink with additional annotations by the composer in pencil and blue crayon mostly intended for the copyist. The Zweig collection was a gift to the British Library from the Heirs of Stefan Zweig, its presentation being accompanied by a series of concerts supported by the Friends.   

Peter Hellyer, Curator Russian Studies and Ed King, Former Head of British Library Newspaper Collections

  First page of Brahms's 'Zigeunerlieder' manuscriptThe first page of the Zigeunerlieder manuscript, British Library Zweig MS.20

29 October 2014

Language and the making of nations

On 14 November the British Library will be hosting a study day  ‘Language and the Making of Nations’, organised by the Library's European Studies Department and examining the relationship between majority and minority languages in the countries of Europe and the creation of national literary languages

The creation of a unified language has been significant in the formation of the nations of Europe. Part of the process has been the compilation of standard grammars and dictionaries, an initiative often followed by linguistic minorities, determined to reinforce their own identity. This seminar will look at the relationship between majority and minority languages in the countries of Europe, the role of language in national histories, and the creation of national literary languages. Specialists in the history of the languages of Europe will explore these issues in relation to Czech, Georgian, Italian, Serbian and Ukrainian, as well as Catalan, Dutch, Frisian, Silesian and the Norman French of Jersey.

A ninetheenth-century map showing the languages of Europe

Programme:

10:30  Registration; coffee

10:50  Welcome

11:00-12:00   Donald Rayfield (Emeritus Professor of Russian and Georgian, Queen Mary, University of London), ‘The tongue in which God will examine all other tongues — how Georgians have viewed their language.’

Marta Jenkala (Senior Teaching Fellow in Ukrainian, UCL School of Slavonic and East European Studies), ‘Ukrainian language and nation: a cultural perspective’.

Break

12:10-13:10   Mari Jones (Reader in French Linguistics, Cambridge University), ‘Identity planning and Jersey Norman French.’

Peter Bush (Literary translator), ‘Josep Pla and the making of contemporary literary Catalan.’

Lunch

14:10-15:40 Giulio Lepschy (Hon. Professor, UCL, London, School of European Languages, Culture and Society), ‘The invention of standard Italian.’

Prvoslav Radić (Professor, Faculty of Philology, University of Belgrade), ‘The language reform of Vuk St. Karadžić and the national question among the Serbs.’

Rajendra Chitnis (Senior Lecturer, School of Modern Languages, Bristol University), 'We are what we speak. Characterizations of the Czech language during the Czech National Revival.’

Break

16:00-17:30 Roland Willemyns (Emeritus Professor of Dutch, Free University, Brussels), ‘The Dutch Congress of 1849 and the Woordenboek der Nederlandsche Taal.’

Tomasz Kamusella (School of History, University of St Andrews), ‘Silesian: a language or a dialect?’

Alastair Walker (Emeritus Research Associate, Department of Frisian Studies, University of Kiel), ‘North and West Frisian: Two beautiful sisters, so much alike, but yet so different.’

The event has received most generous support from NISE (National Movements and Intermediary Structures in Europe), the Polish Cultural Institute, and the international publishing house Brill

Attendance is £25.00 Full Price;  £15.00 for under 18s. To book please email [email protected] or call +44 (0)1937 546546

There is an additional free event, following the study day, from 18:15-20:00.  Maclehose Press and the Institut Ramon Llull will be launching Joan Sales’ novel of the Spanish Civil War, Uncertain Glory, translated from the Catalan by Peter Bush.  Professor Paul Preston (Historian, Director of the Catalan Observatory at the LSE) will be in conversation with Peter Bush.  A wine reception will follow courtesy of Freixenet.

As places are limited, please RSVP to [email protected]  if you would like to attend the evening event.

13 October 2014

A German lesson for Europe: Siegfried Lenz (1926-2014)

Those searching on the map of Germany for the birthplace of Siegfried Lenz, who died last week at the age of 88, will seek in vain. Lyck in East Prussia, where he came into the world on 17 March 1926 as the son of a customs official, no longer exists; under its new name of Ełk, it is firmly on the other side of the Polish border. This symbol of displacement and dislocation is characteristic of the Europe, and more specifically the Germany, which he chronicled in his novels, plays and essays.

Lenz is probably best known for his novel Deutschstunde (1968), Cover of Siegfried's Lenz's 'Deutschstunde'translated into English as The German Lesson in the year of its publication. The story of a young boy and his friendship with Nansen, an artist whose paintings were condemned as ‘degenerate art’ and shares many features with the painter Emil Nolde, it unfolds as a series of reflections as the narrator tackles an essay entitled ‘Duty as Joy’ which he has to write as a punishment. Its apparent simplicity covers a wide range of moral and ethical issues explored elsewhere in Lenz’s work as he endeavoured to ‘take preventative actions against any danger of a recurrence’ of the Hitler era, as he declared in his acceptance in 2000 of the Goethe Prize, awarded to him on the 250th anniversary of Goethe’s birth.

Material released in 2007 suggested that Lenz, together with other German writers, might have joined the National Socialist Party on 20 April 1944, although he later claimed that he had been unwittingly signed up as part of a collective ‘joining’. Whatever the truth of this, his writings repeatedly address the theme of the responsibility to acknowledge the past and protect one’s historical and cultural heritage without attempting to deny its darker side. This is strikingly expressed in another of his most notable works, the novel Heimatmuseum (1978) in which a museum curator’s duties and moral dilemmas stand for those of an entire nation.

Photograph of Siegfried Lenz holding a pipeSiegfried Lenz at a poetry reading in 1969. Photograph by Lothar Schaak from the German Federal Archives, (Bundesarchiv, B 145 Bild-F030757-0015 / Schaack, Lothar / CC-BY-SA) taken from Wikimedia Commons

Lenz himself had fled to Denmark and spent a short time as a prisoner of war just before the end of the Second World War, and acted as a translator and interpreter for the British army before studying in Hamburg and joining the editorial staff of Die Welt (1950-51). His interest in current affairs led him to spend the royalties from his first novel Es waren Habichte in der Luft (‘There were Hawks in the Air’; 1951) on a visit to Kenya, documented in a novella, Lukas, sanftmutiger Knecht (‘Luke, gentle servant’).

Lenz was an outspoken critic of the German orthographic reforms of 1996, and was equally forthright in his support for Willy Brandt’s Ostpolitik after his involvement with the Social Democratic Party. His frank expression of his sometimes controversial views did not prevent him receiving numerous honours, including the honorary citizenship of his birthplace in 2011 and of Hamburg (2001), as well as the Peace Prize of the German Book Trade, awarded at the 1988 Frankfurt Book Fair. Yet in his evocation of the landscapes of remote corners of Masuria and Schleswig-Holstein and his playful and humorous writings for children, he reveals himself to be not only the guardian of his country’s conscience but of its half-forgotten past and its hopes for the future.

Susan Halstead, Curator Czech & Slovak

References:

Siegfried Lenz, Deutschstunde (Hamburg, 1968). X.909/17297. (English translation, The German Lesson, translated by Ernst Kaiser and Eithne Wilkins (London, 1971) X.989/13226.)

Siegfried Lenz, Heimatmuseum (Hamburg, 1978). X.989/79411. (English translation The Heritage, translated by Krishna Wilson (New York, 1981). X.950/19347.)

Siegfried Lenz, Es waren Habichte in der Luft (Hamburg, 1951). X.989/30264.

Siegfried Lenz, Ansprachen aus Anlass der Verleihung des Friedenspreises des Deutschen Buchhandels (Frankfurt am Main, 1988). YA.1989.a.9017.

04 October 2014

Ploughing, scattering and translating, or, You know more German hymns than you think.

Around this time of year churches in Britain are celebrating Harvest Festival, and many congregations will no doubt sing the favourite seasonal hymn ‘We plough the fields and scatter’. But  not many of the singers may be aware that this seemingly integral part of a British – or at least an Anglican – Harvest Festival service is in fact a translation of a German hymn, ‘Wir pflügen und wir streuen’, with words taken from a poem by the 18th-century German poet Matthias Claudius.

The English translation first appeared in 1861 in a collection entitled A Garland of Songs: or an English Liederkranz compiled by Charles S. Bere, a Devon clergyman. Bere was apparently something of a Germanophile: in a preface he speaks admiringly of the role played by vocal music in German homes and communities and expresses the hope that his English collection of secular and religious songs will encourage a similar culture among his compatriots. The translator, modestly described as “a lady … who wishes to be nameless”,  was Jane Montgomery Campbell (1817-1878). Among her other contributions to the collection is a version of ‘Stille Nacht’ beginning ‘Holy Night, peaceful night’ (the more familiar – and frankly better – translation ‘Silent Night’ was made two years earlier by an American Episcopal priest, John Freeman Young).

Music and words of J.M. Campbell's translation of 'Silent Night'Jane Montgomery Campbell’s translation of ‘Stille Nacht’ from A Garland of Songs.

German hymns had been making their way into English for a long time before Bere and Campbell collaborated on their Garland. The Latin-German macaronic carol ‘In dulci jubilo’ and Luther’s ‘Ein’ feste Burg’ appeared in English versions as early as the 16th century, and John Wesley made some translations from German in the 18th century. But the 19th century was the golden age of German-English hymn translation. For example, most of us know  ‘Ein’ feste Burg’ best in Thomas Carlye’s translation as ‘A safe stronghold’ (or in another 19th-century American translation as ‘A mighty fortress’), and most of the German hymn translations in the Church of England’s standard hymnal, Hymns Ancient and Modern, date from this period.

Perhaps the most active 19th-century translator and promoter of German hymns in  Britain was Catherine Winkworth (1827-1878). Winkworth really deserves a blog post to herself: she was not only a translator but also a social reformer and a pioneering advocate of women’s higher education, but here we must restrict ourselves to her collection of hymn translations, Lyra Germanica, which first appeared in  1855. Winkworth moved in intellectual Christian circles where contemporary German theology was much admired. The hymns in Lyra Germanica – over a hundred in all – were translated from a collection compiled by the ambassador and scholar Karl Josias von Bunsen (Winkworth’s sister Susanna also translated one of Bunsen’s prose works on theology). Winkworth followed up the success of her first series of translations with a second series and a study of German devotional lyrics, Christian Singers of Germany.

Decorative binding of 'Lyra Germanica' in red and green leather with gold tooling including the image of a lyre Binding from an 1868 luxury edition of Lyra Germanica (3434.f.19.), designed by John Leighton who was also one of the illustrators.

Although only a small percentage of the many hymns Winkworth translated are in general use today, those that are remain some of the most familiar and recognisable German hymns in Britain. The latest edition of Hymns Ancient and Modern (now simply called Ancient and Modern) includes six of her translations, perhaps the best known being no. 739 ‘Now thank we all our God’ (‘Nun danket alle Gott’) and no. 765, ‘Praise to the Lord’ (‘Lobe den Herrn’). Other German hymns in the collection include no. 9 ‘When morning gilds the skies’ (‘Beim frühen Morgenlicht’) translated by Edward Carswell and no. 181 ‘O sacred head surrounded’, Henry Williams Baker’s translation of Paul Gerhardt’s ‘O Haupt voll Blut und Wunden’. It is also worth noting that many of the tunes  in the book – for both German and other texts – are of German origin.

German hymns, then, are still sung in churches up and down the country, but it seems that they are waning somewhat in popularity. ‘Silent Night’ still holds its own in polls of favourite carols (although it has lost the top spot in recent years to a French rival, ‘O holy night’), but the only German entry in a recent BBC vote for ‘The UK’s top 100 hymns’ was ‘Now thank we all our God’, languishing at no. 65 in the chart. However, there is a German element within a wider European story behind the hymn which topped that poll, ‘How great thou art’. This is based on a Swedish original, and the most familiar English translation is by Stuart K. Hine, who discovered it when working as a Methodist missionary in the Carpathian Mountains in the 1930s. He translated it from a Russian version which was based in turn on an earlier German translation.

So whether at harvest time, Christmas or in the church year generally, an ‘English’ hymn may have an international story to tell. And if you are a churchgoer, you probably know more German hymns than you think.

Susan Reed, Lead Curator Germanic Studies

References/further reading:

A Garland of Songs: or an English Liederkranz, edited by the Rev. C. S. Bere. (London, 1861). A.745

Lyra Germanica: Hymns for the Sundays and Chief Festivals of the Christian Year, translated from the German by Catherine Winkworth. (London, 1855). 3436.f.27.

Catherine Winkworth, Christian Singers of Germany (London, 1869). 3605.bb.6.

Ancient and Modern: Hymns and Songs for Refreshing Worship. (London, 2013). D.845.t

Robert Maude Moorson, A Historical Companion to Hymns Ancient and Modern (London, 1885). 3436.g.55.

An Annotated Anthology of Hymns, edited with a commentary by J.R. Watson. (Oxford, 2002). YC.2002.a.10594.

Susan Drain, ‘Winkworth, Catherine (1827–1878)’, Oxford Dictionary of National Biography, Oxford University Press, 2004 [http://www.oxforddnb.com/view/article/29744]

 

02 October 2014

The Warsaw Uprising of 1944: Epilogue

In August this year we published a post to mark the 70th anniversary of the start of the Warsaw Uprising. Today, on the anniversary of its ending our guest blogger Andrzej Dietrich  looks back again at the events of 1944. (You can read the original Polish text of this post here)

The decision to start the uprising was made in a difficult political situation without taking into consideration the fighting power of the Home Army (known as AK). There was no consensus at AK Headquarters as to the launch of the uprising, its sense, chance of success and its possible date. Similarly, the Polish Government-in-Exile in London was divided in opinion over this matter. The AK  was poorly equipped. It had enough arms and anti-tank weapons for only three to five days. The Germans had 15,000 soldiers, including 3,000 Russians and Cossacks in the unit called RONA (Russkaia Osvoboditel’naia Narodnaia Armiia).  The German side also had at their disposal large amounts of weapons and ammunition, tanks and planes.

A number of turbulent meetings were held at AK Headquarters in the last week of July 1944. Colonel Janusz Bokszczanin, an opponent of the uprising, was in favour of waiting for events to unfold. The legendary ‘Courier from Warsaw’, Jan Nowak-Jeziorański, who recently arrived from London, conveyed Commander-in-Chief of the Polish Army Kazimierz Sosnkowski’s negative attitude towards a potential uprising as well the allies’ lack of ability to provide aid.  General Leopold Okulicki was sent from London to Poland in March 1944 with instructions from General Sosnkowski to block the launch of an uprising in Warsaw. However, he ignored the order and, instead, became the principal advocate of the uprising.  At some point, General Tadeusz Bór- Komorowski, the Chief Commander of the Home Army ( driven to despair, arranged for a vote [sic!]. This reflected his state of mind and lack of control over the situation:  you can vote in a parliament, but in an army you must carry out orders!

Tadeusz_Bor_KomorowskiGeneral Tadeusz Bór-Komorowski (image from photo below from Wikimedia Commons)

Finally, Komorowski gave in to pressure and on 31  July  made a decision for the uprising to start on 1 August , at 5pm, also called “W-hour”. 30,000 soldiers of the Home Army who were mobilised and placed in specific locations of the city were unarmed. They were supposed to be given arms before “W- hour”, but in reality only a small proportion of weapons reached the meeting points. As a result, at the crucial hour only 1,500 soldiers were fully armed. In the first days of struggle (i.e., up to 5  August ) the insurgents were successful to some extent owing to the Germans being taken by surprise. Later the Germans received reinforcements and a massacre started. The city was bombarded both by heavy artillery and planes. The Dirlewanger Brigade, made up largely of criminals, were known for their exceptional atrocities. They murdered 40,000 civilians in the Wola District of Warsaw, sparing not a single soul and burning the corpses.

Warsaw suffered shortages of food, water, medicine and first aid supplies. Hunger and disease were ubiquitous. One should honour the heroism of the soldiers and civilian population of the city, which systematically day by day was falling into ruin.

 

Ruined buildings and rubble in WarsawRuins in central Warsaw after the Uprising, from André Lenoir, Varsovie 1944. (Geneva, 1944) YA.1989.b.5500

The tragic balance of the uprising:

18,000 soldiers and 200,000 civilians were killed. Material losses included 70% of the city’s buildings being destroyed, burnt archives, libraries, works of art and culture created by generations of Poles throughout the centuries. In addition, Poland lost a generation of intelligentsia with significant consequences for the country in the following decades. In contrast, the Germans lost 6,000 soldiers including many common criminals sent to suppress the uprising. General Władysław Anders, in a letter to General Marian Kukiel,  wrote:

 …a fighting Warsaw brought me to my knees, but I consider the uprising in Warsaw a crime. Thousands killed, the capital utterly destroyed, the enormous suffering of the whole civilian population, the fruit of hard work throughout the centuries annihilated…

In his diary Winston Churchill gently noted: “There are few virtues that the Poles do not possess and there are few errors they have ever avoided.”

After 63 days of futile and hopeless struggle General Bór-Komorowski signed an act of capitulation in the early hours of 3 October  1944.

Statue of a dhild dressed in a soldier's uniform and carrying a gunThe Monument of the Little Insurgent in Warsaw (picture by Cezary p from Wikimedia Commons CC BY-SA 4.0)

On 1 October, 1983 the Monument of the Little Insurgent was erected to let future generations know that children were also involved in the struggle. To commemorate the city’s fight, the Monument of the Warsaw Uprising was unveiled on August 1  1989 (picture below by DavidConFran from Wikimedia Commons CC BY-SA 3.0)

Monument with a sculpture of soldiers running into action from a damaged building

Both these monuments are, alas, memorials of shame to those whose tragic decisions led to the destruction of Warsaw.

Andrzej Dietrich

Translated by Magda Szkuta

Further reading

J.K. Zawodny, Nothing but honour: the story of the Warsaw Uprising (London, 1978) X.809/43121

Władysław Bartoszewski, Abandoned heroes of the Warsaw Uprising (Kraków, 2008) LD.31.b.1915


 

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