Image: Public Domain
Portrait of Georg Wilhelm Friedrich Hegel by Jakob Schlesinger, 1831

1. From Jena to Bamberg

The twin battles of Jena and Auerstedt, in which Napoleon’s forces crushed the Prussian troops, and the destruction and pillaging in their wake, fundamentally changed life in the Thuringian city of Jena. Teaching at the university was temporarily suspended, student numbers fell sharply, and many professors left the city to seek employment elsewhere. These included the philosopher Georg Wilhelm Friedrich Hegel (1770–1831), who had lived in Jena since early 1801 and been appointed professor there in 1805 (unsalaried at first, though he later drew a modest stipend). Hegel initially left the city only temporarily, between early November and mid-December 1806, so that he could oversee the printing of his Phenomenology of Spirit by the publisher Anton Göbhardt in Bamberg. Upon his return, he found himself facing great personal and professional difficulties. On February 8, 1807, his former housekeeper, Christiane Charlotte Burckhardt (née Fischer), gave birth to their son, Georg Ludwig Friedrich Fischer. Hegel had no plans to marry her, and mother and child stayed behind in Jena when he departed to Bamberg for the second time in early March 1807.1

Although Hegel had considered moving to Bamberg already in late 1800,2 the final decision to do so was primarily due to his difficult circumstances. His biographer Terry Pinkard writes: “When, out of the blue, [Friedrich Immanuel] Niethammer offered him a position as editor of a newspaper in Bamberg, Hegel jumped at the chance, although it is clear that he did it with some regret.”3 Although Hegel accepted the editor’s job at the Bamberger Zeitung for want of any other alternatives, he saw it as a strictly temporary solution, “something to which he was not completely averse but which was clearly second-best for him.”4 He still hoped to pursue an academic career,5 writing in June 1808 to the Jena publisher Carl Friedrich Ernst Frommann: “I cannot go there without a respectable salary, but with one, I would love to, and, if I consider the matter well, would rather go nowhere else. Apart from Jena I almost despair of obtaining honorable work again.”6

Although biographical studies have paid some attention to Hegel’s work as an editor in Bamberg,7 details of his social life there are generally scant and confine themselves to lists of his activities as well as his friends and acquaintances in the city.8 Hegel’s correspondence during his time in Bamberg—from March 1807 to November 1808—suggests that he associated mainly with doctors, clergymen, civil servants, and army officers. While some of these individuals were prominent figures in the city’s history or in the wider intellectual, literary, and educational history of the period, of others there is little trace beyond Hegel’s mentions of them in his correspondence. This article examines the biographies and networks of Hegel’s Bamberg acquaintances more closely and situates them within their historical context in order to give a clearer picture of the philosopher’s social circle during his Bamberg years than previous accounts and to shed further light on the intellectual and social changes that were occurring in the city at the turn of the nineteenth century.

2. Context

The context of Hegel’s life and work in Bamberg between spring 1807 and fall 1808 was shaped by four main factors. The first and probably most important was the secularization of the prince-bishopric [Hochstift] after the city was occupied by Bavarian forces in fall 1802, ending Bamberg’s centuries-old status as an independent ecclesiastical territory. Bamberg, with a population of 18,388 in 1804, went from being the capital of an autonomous territory and residence of a prince-bishop to a provincial Bavarian town.9 While some of the city’s residents lost out as a result (the cathedral chapter and university were closed, the prince-bishopric’s bureaucracy and most of the monasteries were dissolved), for others it meant new opportunities. Prior to 1802, Bamberg had been the seat of a Catholic bishopric, and Protestants were unable to practice their religion openly; following its incorporation into Bavaria, the city became multidenominational. The local Protestants were granted the old collegiate church of St. Stephan’s, where they held services from 1806 onwards.10 Bamberg also underwent major health and social reforms. Adalbert Friedrich Marcus (1753–1816),11 the former personal physician to the prince-bishop, had become founding director of Bamberg’s pioneering general hospital in 1789, but his career subsequently stalled under the reign of the last prince-bishop, Christoph Franz von Buseck (r. 1795–1802). Marcus took the change of rulers as an opportunity to secure the post of medical director for Franconia and implement wide-ranging reforms. In late April 1803, Marcus wrote to Friedrich Wilhelm Joseph Schelling that he wanted “to bring medical institutions in Franconia to a point without precedent in Germany.”12 During that year, he proceeded with breathtaking speed to that end, founding a health board, a hospice, a maternity home, training centers for midwives and medical orderlies, a medical and surgical academy, and a psychiatric institute. As a result, Bamberg’s healthcare system was soon highly advanced by the standards of the time. In May 1803, Schelling wrote to Hegel, “Marcus governs land and people, and his hospital, which is now a medical school, is set up superbly once again.”13

Bamberg’s resulting reputation among educated Central Europeans as a center for pioneering medicine was a second key factor that shaped Hegel’s time in the city. Aside from the hospital, this renown was due mainly to Marcus and his intermittent deputy Andreas Röschlaub (1768–1835) championing the new, much-discussed Brunonian theory of medicine, which they began provisionally implementing in Bamberg in the mid-1790s. The Bamberg physicians’ reforms and experiments attracted hordes of young doctors to the city in the years around 1800. A visit by the philosopher Schelling began a phase of collaboration with Marcus and Röschlaub that culminated in Marcus and Schelling copublishing the Yearbooks of Medicine as a Science (Jahrbücher der Medicin als Wissenschaft, 1805–1808).14

When Marcus became increasingly attracted to Schelling’s Naturphilosophie, however, it caused a rift between him and Röschlaub, who had developed the Brunonian model into his own theory of excitation.15 Exasperated by Marcus’s egotism and intellectual fickleness, Röschlaub accepted a post in Landshut in 1802, and Marcus replaced him with the young physician Conrad Joseph Kilian (1771–1811) from Jena, who was a firm proponent of Naturphilosophie.16 However, Kilian also fell out with Marcus in 1804 after Marcus published a critical article about Würzburg’s university and hospital under Kilian’s name. Kilian, who felt he had been slandered and bullied by Marcus, launched legal proceedings against him and published a lengthy polemic attacking Marcus in 1805.17

Hegel, who may have met Kilian during his time in Jena, was aware of these events. In December 1804, he wrote to his friend Friedrich Immanuel Niethammer (1766–1848)18—a philosopher, theologian, and fellow native of Württemberg—“I heard of Marcus’s triumph over Kilian and feel sorry for the latter, who despite his actual legal victory is the defeated party.”19 In a later letter to Niethammer, dated March 1805, Hegel wrote, “Without a doubt, some fine insights are still to be expected from Kilian and Marcus. Kilian at least does not appear to be as completely laid out on the floor against Marcus as it seems, and at least apparently is still able to knock Marcus down.”20 In November 1805, Hegel received a highly critical report about Röschlaub from his correspondent Karl Wilhelm Gottlob Kastner (1783–1857). Röschlaub was alleged to have plagiarized the dissertation of Karl Eberhard Schelling, brother of the philosopher.21 Hence, even before 1807, Hegel was aware of Bamberg’s reputation as a leading center for medicine as well as of the quarrels between some of its preeminent physicians.

A third key factor that shaped the historical context of Hegel’s time in Bamberg was the Coalition Wars against Revolutionary/Napoleonic France, in which the city was repeatedly caught up between 1796 and 1815. Bamberg was first occupied by France in 1796, and was divided between French and Austrian occupying forces from December 1800 until April 1801. In summer 1806, French troops were once again stationed in Bamberg, and Napoleon signed the declaration of war on Prussia in the city in early October that same year.22 When the French forces departed from Bamberg, they were joined by the Alsatian priest Gérard Gley (1761–1830), who had left France in 1791 due to the passing of the Civil Constitution of the Clergy. After working as a tutor for aristocratic families in Cologne and Mainz, Gley came to Bamberg in 1794, where he discovered the medieval Heliand manuscript in the cathedral library, worked as a language teacher, and in 1795 became editor of the Bamberger Zeitung, the prince-bishopric’s first independent newspaper.23 According to Matthias Winkler, the success of the paper—which Gley edited until 1801, and then again from 1804 to 1806, from the rear annex of Marcus’s house24—and of the political supplement Charon demonstrates “the innovativeness of the émigré Gley, who shortly after his arrival in Bamberg identified gaps in the publishing market and managed to tap into potential demand.”25 Gley also studied Kant’s philosophy, and met with Schelling and August Wilhelm Schlegel—with whom Marcus presumably put him in touch—in Bamberg in 1800. In 1805, he traveled to Erlangen to attend Johann Gottfried Fichte’s inaugural lecture.26 When Gley joined the troops commanded by Marshal Louis-Nicolas d’Avoût27 as an interpreter in the fall of 1806 and accompanied them to Prussia and Poland, the editorship was left vacant, and Niethammer subsequently offered the post to Hegel, writing:

The last time the French came through the city, the owner of the local newspaper released its editor, a French émigré, to accompany Marshal Davoust and, hoping for his return, temporarily gave the editorship to Bamberg’s Professor Täuber, who is doing such a marvelous job that he has all but tolled the paper’s death knell. This circumstance, in conjunction with the fact that the previous editor is not coming back, has prompted the newspaper’s owner, Mr. Schneidewind or Schneidewang28 or whatever his peculiar-sounding name may be, to seek assistance as quickly as possible.29

Niethammer was initially offered the post himself but turned it down because he already had too many demands on his time, instead passing the offer along to his friend Hegel.30 The editorship in Bamberg came to Hegel thanks to biographical twists and turns resulting from the Coalition Wars. As a resident of Bamberg, he witnessed further effects of the wars firsthand. By August 1808 at the latest, a large number of wounded French soldiers were accommodated in the city.31 The same month, Hegel informed Niethammer that Bavarian troops would be moving out and a “10,000-strong” French division would be stationed in the city.32

A fourth important contextual factor in Hegel’s experience in Bamberg was the rise of bourgeois society there since the 1790s, which provided new cultural opportunities in a city which had traditionally been dominated by the prince-bishop’s court and other administrative structures. The founding of the Bamberger Zeitung in 1795 is just one of several striking examples of these new developments. Informal weekly meetings of a group of local dignitaries (lawyers, doctors, businesspeople, prosperous artisans) led to the founding of a formalized club in 1792. The physician Marcus was one of the leading figures33 in the club, which was renamed the “Society of Local Dignitaries” in 1796 and then “the Harmony” in 1808. The club provided a sociable meeting place for Bamberg’s gentry and educated bourgeoisie. It accepted “all persons of rank, artists, businessmen, any respected citizens of a noble, moral character,” and had around two hundred members (including both men and women) during Hegel’s time in Bamberg.34 On New Year’s Eve 1808, the philosopher attended a costume party that Marcus held in honor of the district general commissioner, Count Friedrich Karl von Thürheim (1762–1832).35

Another milestone in the rise of bourgeois society was the founding of Bamberg’s theater. Three years after members of the Society of Local Dignitaries set up an amateur theater in 1797, the prince-bishop appointed Daniel Gottlob Quandt (1762–1815), from Leipzig, to establish a professional ensemble in Bamberg once the ongoing War of the Second Coalition was over. After Quandt’s troupe fell into financial difficulties, he was replaced in spring 1802 by the writer Julius Graf von Soden (1754–1831), who had worked with Gley and Marcus as coeditor of the Bamberger Zeitung and its supplement Charon. Soden purchased a property on Zinkenwörth (now Schillerplatz) and had it converted into a theater. In addition to performances of Soden’s own plays and dramas by the popular contemporary playwrights August Wilhelm Iffland and August von Kotzebue, the theater presented older popular works including Schiller’s The Robbers, Lessing’s Emilia Galotti, and Mozart’s operas.36 However, the running costs exceeded Soden’s means, and he was forced to sell the theater in February 1808 (i.e. while Hegel was living in Bamberg) to the innkeeper Anna Maria (Nanette) Kauer. Kauer refurbished the theater and Gesellschaftshaus (a venue for social and cultural events), but its financial situation remained precarious, and there was a frequent turnover of directors.37

3. Montgelas’s Man in Bamberg: Joseph du Terrail Bayard (1765–1815)

Niethammer, who was appointed Protestant school superintendent for Franconia in 1806, undoubtedly played the key part in arranging the editorship for Hegel, but the approval of Joseph du Terrail Bayard, one of the most influential Bavarian officials in the former prince-bishopric, was clearly significant as well. Niethammer, to whom Bayard initially offered the job, passed the offer to his friend Hegel “after reminding Privy Councilor von Bayard of the matter yesterday,” and Bayard himself took over the editorship until Hegel’s arrival.38 In his reply to Niethammer, Hegel signaled that he was interested in principle, and added, “It will be a very advantageous circumstance in this regard for me to deal with Privy Councillor von Bayard.”39 In Bamberg, the philosopher and the Bavarian civil servant were in regular contact. In July 1807, for instance, Hegel let Niethammer know that Bayard had asked after him.40 However, when political tensions ran high in Bamberg a month later—“Patrols have abounded in the city for several nights and days,” as Hegel wrote to Niethammer—contact with Bayard appears to have become more difficult:

I have not dared cross Mr. von Bayard’s path at such a time […] I gather that he withdrew from all the managing. Anyone who claimed to the people of Bamberg—you know how they are—that the district government showed much intelligence in operations that contradicted and canceled one another every hour would have gained the reputation among them of having a mania for paradox.41

In a letter to Niethammer from January 1808, Hegel described Bayard as having a “good head,” but

he is such a completely practical administrator that he has often explained to me that he puts no stock in theory if it does not have a so-called practical use. He shares the usual Bavarian ideas in other ways as well: that Bavarians have an excellent [basic] nature, and that it would not be easy to find elsewhere peasants with such native wit, and so on. This is the sort of reply one hears when the scientific standing, culture, and knowledge expected of every educated man come up for discussion, and when the lack of it in Bavaria is remarked. I told him on one occasion that Bavaria has been a real blot on the luminous painting that is Germany. He thought this was nothing but a self-conceit of Saxons or Protestants who do not want to hear of [Andreas] Lamey,42 the founders of the Academy, and so on.43

Hegel mentioned Bayard again in a letter to Niethammer in 1810, by which point Hegel had already moved to Nuremberg.44

An attempt to trace Bayard’s biography, of which no in-depth study has yet been published, reveals primarily that he was close to Bavaria’s leading statesman of the day, Maximilian von Montgelas (1759–1838). Bayard came from the County of Artois and is said to have completed part of his education in Paris, in addition to having been enrolled at the University of Ingolstadt as a student of logic between 1783 and 1785.45 According to the historian Joachim Heinrich Jäck, he subsequently entered the service of Duke Charles II August of Palatine-Zweibrücken (1746–1795), whose brother would later become Elector Maximilian IV Joseph of Bavaria.46 From the early 1790s onwards, Bayard worked as a secretary at the Palatine-Bavarian embassy to the Franconian Imperial Circle in Nuremberg, and in 1792 he became editor of the Teutsche Ministerialzeitung (renamed Deutsche Staats- und Ministerialzeitung in 1793), a Nuremberg newspaper opposed to the French Revolution.47 In 1794, Bayard received permission from the Palatine-Bavarian elector to wear the uniform of a lieutenant à la suite.48 His duties in Nuremberg included “monitoring attempts by foreign powers to recruit deserters and subjects of the principality, and buying military gear and other items back from them,” in addition to carrying out covert recruitment for the Eleventh Palatine-Bavarian Fusilier Regiment.49

Between 1794 and 1798, Bayard regularly supplied Montgelas—who at that time was living in Ansbach as secretary to the exiled Duke of Zweibrücken (the later Maximilian IV Joseph) and working on reforms of the Bavarian civil service50—with information about the affairs of the Franconian Circle and messages that arrived in Nuremberg from Paris and Vienna. In March 1795, for instance, he reported on the election of Georg Karl Ignaz von Fechenbach zu Laudenbach (r. 1795–1808) as Prince-Bishop of Würzburg. He also sent Montgelas excerpts from French newspapers.51

Karl August von Hardenberg (1750–1822), Prussia’s leading statesman in Franconia, evidently took notice of Bayard’s talents, recruiting him into Prussian service and even sending him on a diplomatic mission to Paris.52 After Bayard had, according to his own words, “served under three royal ministers […] in Prussia,” he returned to Bavarian service in 1800,53 when he was appointed to a post in the foreign ministry. Upon taking up the office in February, he received a special allowance of three hundred gulden.54 In his new role, Bayard attended meetings of the Bavarian state council, established in 1799, where he took positions on a variety of issues and presented several rescripts.55 Given Bayard’s earlier work for the Teutsche Ministerialzeitung in Nuremberg and Hegel’s later appointment in Bamberg, it is notable that, in a state council meeting on March 10, 1802, Bayard presented a draft rescript on a matter relating to press affairs that outlined the conditions under which the Duchy of Berg’s privy councilor Johann Anton Mannes should be permitted, subject to certain conditions, “to transform his Düsseldorf gazette into a general advertiser for the Duchy of Berg.”56

Following his final state council meeting in October 1802,57 Bayard was appointed director of the first deputation of the Würzburg district government in 1803, making him the highest-ranking Bavarian official in the former bishopric after Count Thürheim, general commissioner for the Franconian principalities.58 In June 1803, Elector Maximilian IV Joseph promoted Bayard to the rank of full privy councilor “in recognition of our exceptional satisfaction with his services.”59 In early October 1805, he met in Würzburg with the commissaires des guerres of the first and second corps of the Napoleonic army in his capacity as the Bavarian representative to negotiate arrangements for supplying French troops in Northern Franconia.60 According to Jäck, Bayard met his wife the same year while performing administrative duties in Ansbach.61

While Bayard resided in Würzburg, artists such as the painter Johann Martin von Wagner (1771–1858) sought his patronage,62 and he socialized with Schelling (who was a professor in Würzburg between 1803 and 1806), his wife Caroline, and Meta Forkel-Liebeskind, all of whom were also acquainted with Hegel. In May 1806, for instance, Caroline wrote to Schelling that Bayard had told her “about a letter from Liebeskind to you” that, because it had been “addressed to him,” had “traveled halfway through Germany before finally reaching you.”63

In 1808, Bayard was appointed chancellor of the Main district, with its seat in Bamberg. The post came with an annual salary of 2,600 gulden, making him Bavaria’s second-highest government representative in the district after general commissioner Stephan Freiherr von Stengel (1750–1822), who collected a salary of 6,000 gulden.64 In fall 1810, Bayard moved to Ansbach to take up the post of district chancellor for the Rezat district,65 but in 1814—one year before his death—he is once again referred to as district chancellor in Bamberg. He died in Ansbach at the age of fifty.66

In sum, Bayard was a civil servant who clearly enjoyed the trust of Montgelas and, after several years of service in the state council, was one of the most influential officials in Bavaria’s new Franconian territories from 1803 onwards. He also had a particular interest in press matters and actually worked as a newspaper editor at several points. Although Hegel described him as a pragmatic “administrator,” he appears to have also cultivated friendships with artists and intellectuals in both Würzburg and Bamberg.

4. Aristocrats, Academics, and Army Officers

In a letter to Niethammer’s wife Rosine Eleonore in late May 1807, Hegel concisely summed up their mutual Bamberg acquaintances:

I meet Fuchs at times. I see the Bengels67 at times while taking a walk. The tea circle is not as organized during the summer. I am frequently at Ritter’s […] and at Mrs. von Jolli’s. I also frequent Diruf’s house. […] I have been made acquainted with the Countess Rotenhahn68 as well. She is a particularly respectable woman, and her daughters are likewise as natural and good-natured as they are educated and full of talents.69

A look at the biographies of the individuals mentioned in this passage reveals that they were mainly scholars and army officers and their wives who, like Hegel himself, had only been in Bamberg for a short time. The Protestant theologian Karl Heinrich Fuchs (1773–1847) came from a Huguenot family in Heidelberg. After attending school and university there, he accepted a pastorate in Wachenheim an der Haardt in the Palatinate in 1796. Three years later, he became a Reformed military chaplain in Carl Philipp Joseph von Wrede’s (1767–1838) Electoral Palatine-Bavarian Brigade. He came to Würzburg in 1803 with the army of Lieutenant General Friedrich Wilhelm zu Isenburg during the bishopric’s secularization. There he worked as a Protestant pastor—first for military personnel, later for all the city’s Protestant residents—and consistorial councilor. In 1804, the local university awarded Fuchs a doctorate and gave him a temporary post as professor of theology. Like Bayard, Fuchs moved from Würzburg to Bamberg in 1806, after Würzburg became capital of the newly formed Grand Duchy of Franconia. In 1807, he married Friederike Vogel, the daughter of a treasury official from Bayreuth.70 After serving in Bamberg as pastor of the newly opened Protestant church of St. Stephan’s and as a consistorial councilor, Fuchs moved to Regensburg in 1810 to take up a post as dean. He subsequently spent a period in Ansbach before ending his career in Munich as senior consistorial councilor and second preacher [zweiter Hauptprediger]. A eulogy printed after Fuchs’s death in 1847 said that he had devoted himself to the “uniquely difficult task” of establishing Protestant worship in Bamberg “with prudence, intelligence, noble dignity, and firm resolve.”71

Like Bayard’s, Fuchs’s career took numerous unexpected turns due to the upheavals of the French Revolution and the Napoleonic era. Moreover, like Bayard, he played a part in integrating the secularized Franconian bishoprics into the Bavarian state. Hegel mentions Fuchs several times in his correspondence.72 In July 1807, the philosopher commented on the pastor’s wife: “Young [Miss] Fuchs’s father [Karl Heinrich Fuchs] has a splendid garden and hothouse in Bayreuth, but his daughter’s hothouse warm feeling in Bamberg perhaps does not meet with a similarly hot embrace by others.”73 In January 1808 Hegel wrote to Niethammer, “The local Protestant Church will be opened in a week. [Karl] Fuchs is having an invitational text printed. I have just read the proofs.”74 Hegel also refers to the grave illness of the Fuchses’ eldest child in one of his letters.75

The “Mrs. von Jolli” whom Hegel mentions several times in his correspondence with obvious admiration76 was born Marie Eleonore Alt. Although originally from Bamberg, she married an army officer from elsewhere and left the city with him a few years later. Her husband, Ludwig (Louis) Jolly (1780–1853), came, like Fuchs, from a Huguenot family in the Palatinate; his father was the pastor of a Walloon church in Mannheim. At the age of fifteen, Ludwig Jolly joined an Electoral Palatine-Bavarian fusilier regiment and embarked on a military career. In 1803, he was posted to the garrison in Bamberg, where he met the seventeen-year-old Marie Eleonore, a Catholic registrar’s daughter. He married her in October of the following year. Jolly returned to war in 1805, and in 1806 came back from the War of the Fourth Coalition with the rank of captain. In 1808, their first daughter was born, and they spent half a year in Nuremberg. The following year, he left the army and returned with Marie Eleonore (now pregnant again) to his native Mannheim, where he later became mayor and a successful businessman.77

Karl Jakob Diruf (1774–1869), with whose family Hegel was on sociable terms, was likewise a native of the Electoral Palatine, and his name again suggests Huguenot ancestry. Diruf studied philosophy and medicine in his home city of Heidelberg before practicing in Heilbronn. Later, he served as a doctor in the Austrian army and became a prosector78 at the veterinary school in Munich. He also taught at Munich’s medical school and trained orderlies at the Herzog-Josephs-Spital. Subsequently he accompanied the Bavarian crown prince (the later Ludwig I) on trips to Landshut, Göttingen, Italy, and France. In late 1805, Diruf was posted to Bamberg as medical councilor and junior physician with responsibility for medical and charitable institutions.79 He took over from Kilian as deputy to the aforementioned Marcus.80 It did not take long for relations to cool between Diruf and his superior. In 1807, a row broke out with Marcus and the committee responsible for supervising Bamberg’s hospital, because Diruf refused to compile monthly statistics on the patients.81 As a result, Marcus threw his weight behind his nephew Karl Moritz Marc (1784–1855) and tried to have him replace Diruf. In a petition to the Bavarian Interior Ministry in September 1807, Marcus claimed that “medical councilor Diruf’s behavior suggests he himself wishes to be posted elsewhere.”82 Despite this, Diruf retained the post for the time being, although he mainly worked in the psychiatric institute and hospice to avoid further conflict with Marcus. Diruf also taught at the Bamberg medical and surgical academy, and, when this was reorganized into a school for country doctors in fall 1809, he was given responsibility for teaching anthropology, zoology, physics, and public health [Staatsarzneywissenschaft].83 In January 1810, he moved to the Grand Duchy of Würzburg, where he worked as a general practitioner, medical councilor, and spa physician in Bocklet.84 Another point of interest in the present context is Diruf’s publication of a work on natural explanations of meteorites [Ideen zur Naturerklärung der Meteor- oder Luftsteine] in Göttingen in 1805, a topic that Hegel later addressed in his lectures on the philosophy of nature.85

Hegel’s circle of acquaintances in Bamberg was thus made up of well-educated individuals who rarely settled in one place for long and whose path of migration brought them to Bamberg during the tumultuous period between 1802 and 1810. In late 1807, this group expanded to include a married couple whom he described as a “new acquisition” for the city: the lawyer and flute virtuoso Johann Heinrich Liebeskind (1768–1847) and his wife Sophia Margarethe Dorothea, known as Meta (1765–1853). The daughter of the Göttingen theologian Rudolph Wedekind had already had an eventful life by this point: having separated from her first husband, the music scholar Johann Nicolaus Forkel, after a brief marriage, Meta Liebeskind had a year-long affair with the poet Gottfried August Bürger, who afterwards scornfully referred to her in letters and poems as Furciferaria (a reference to the Latin furcifer, a fork fitted around the necks of slaves in ancient Roman times, combined here with sexual overtones). Beginning in the late 1780s, she translated numerous works from English and French, including Constantin-François Volney’s Les Ruines, ou méditations sur les révolutions des empires (1791), Thomas Paine’s political treatise Rights of Man (1792), and William Godwin’s novel Caleb Williams (1795). During the Republic of Mainz (1792/93), she moved in the circles of leading Jacobins, including Georg Foster and her brother Georg Wedekind. Because of these personal ties, she was imprisoned for a period after the republic’s fall. In 1794, she married Liebeskind, two years after she had given birth to his son in the village of Vorra in the parish of Frensdorf, not far from Bamberg. The child was christened Adalbert Joseph Anton, and his godparents are listed as the Bamberg physician Marcus and Joseph Sippel, a pharmacist, city councilor, and professor of natural science at the University of Bamberg.86 The Liebeskinds lived in Riga, Königsberg (1794), and Ansbach (1797), before moving in spring 1807 to Bamberg, where Johann took up a post in the judiciary.87

Hegel wrote about Meta in a letter to Niethammer (in which he presumed that the free-spirited author and translator would “not be unknown” to his friend):

Her friendship with Mrs. [Caroline] Schelling might perhaps—depending on one’s judgment of the latter—add some timidity to one’s curiosity to get to know her. She seemed good-natured to me, and he is indeed quite a charming man. The manners and culture of the rest of Bamberg are perhaps not completely suited to this family, and are perhaps even somewhat opposed to it. So I am all the more inclined to think I will find an interesting, free and easy circle of friends here.88

Meta had known Caroline Böhmer-Schlegel-Schelling, the daughter of the Göttingen orientalist Johann David Michaelis, since her youth. They had lived together during the time of the Republic of Mainz, and Meta had visited her in Jena in 1797 en route from Königsberg to Ansbach, and later in Würzburg in 1804. The record of this second visit shows that she was acquainted with Bayard as well.89

For a while, close personal relations developed between Liebeskind, his wife, and Hegel. “The Liebeskinds are a great acquisition for me,” Hegel wrote to Niethammer on July 8, 1807, “I visit almost no other house.”90 A month later, the philosopher informed his friend that “a few days ago I played a game of l’hombre with the Countess [Julie] von Soden hosted at Mrs. Liebeskind’s.”91 However, Liebeskind was transferred to Munich in late 1807, so their personal contact with Hegel lasted only a few months.92

The handful of Catholic families that Hegel associated with included Georg Franz Pflaum (1778–1807) and his wife. Pflaum and his father, Matthäus Pflaum (1748–1821), a privy councilor and judicial official who rose to prominence as a criminal law reformer in the Prince-Bishopric of Bamberg in the 1790s,93 were also friends with Niethammer. Georg Pflaum’s career began under the last prince-bishop of Bamberg, Christoph Franz von Buseck. In the court almanac of 1796, Pflaum is listed as a canon [Domicellar] at the collegiate chapter of St. Stephan.94 He was promoted the following year, and later became privy councilor [Hofrat] and junior treasury counsellor [zweiter Kammerkonsulent]. On September 2, 1802, he married Barbara Schlehlein, daughter of the senior civil servant Johann Georg Albert Schlehlein, in a ceremony at the cathedral presided over by the prince-bishop himself.95 After secularization, the Bavarian government appointed the ambitious young lawyer to the position of judge.96 However, Hegel’s acquaintance with Pflaum was only brief, for on May 2, 1807, just two months after his arrival in Bamberg, Pflaum passed away. The records of the parish of St. Martin’s list the cause of death as “gout and inflammatory fever.”97

Hegel immediately passed news of the death to Niethammer:

Pflaum died but two hours ago. This news—which I did not want to delay sending you, dear friend, since I know how much this family interests you—will surprise you as well, since no one expected it. His father told me that the day before yesterday he wrote you convinced that Pflaum felt better—a conviction shared by doctors, acquaintances, and even the patient himself. The illness was a painful gout moving about in the members. He suffered from it greatly, and his wife no less.98

In a letter to Niethammer’s wife composed four weeks later, Hegel again referred to the unexpected death and gave a detailed account of the young widow’s grief.99 Pflaum had been treated by the physicians Marcus and Johann Philipp Ritter (†1813), both of whom were also personally acquainted with Hegel. According to Jäck, Ritter had introduced the young Marcus (who converted from Judaism to Catholicism in 1781) into Bamberg society, and remained friends with him until his death.100 In a letter to Niethammer in August 1807, Hegel wrote that he enjoyed the “occasional glass of wine after dinner with the honorable Privy Councillor [Johann Philipp] Ritter.”101

5. Complex Relationships: Hegel, the Pauluses, and Adalbert Friedrich Marcus

As we have seen, most of Hegel’s acquaintances in Bamberg were, like himself, outsiders who were only living in the city for a few months or years as a temporary stepping-stone in their careers. Another example of this pattern is the Protestant theologian Heinrich Eberhard Gottlob Paulus (1761–1851) and his wife Karoline. The Pauluses, who, like Hegel, were natives of Württemberg, merit more detailed attention than Hegel’s other acquaintances for two reasons: Firstly, they had first met each other in Jena102 and subsequently in Nuremberg and Ansbach.103 Secondly, Karoline had had an affair with Marcus in Bad Bocklet in summer 1801, which led to her becoming pregnant. Although August Wilhelm, born in spring 1802, was raised in the Paulus household, both mother and father knew that he was Marcus’s son.104 The family moved to Würzburg—at that time under Bavarian rule—in 1803, where Paulus assumed the post of professor of theology at the university (an appointment that Marcus had a key part in arranging).105 Things became thorny, however, when Würzburg temporarily regained its status as an independent territory, and Paulus was transferred to Bamberg of all places. Paulus was originally supposed to be given a post at the University of Altdorf, but the district general commissioner Count Thürheim, unimpressed by Paulus’s accomplishments in Würzburg, prevented this. Instead of the professorship, Paulus received the office of consistorial councilor and educational superintendent in Bamberg.106

The Pauluses moved into Marcus’s home on Lange Straße in central Bamberg in summer 1807.107 This created a very delicate situation, since not only did Marcus’s wife live there, but also her cousin, with whom Marcus had also had an illegitimate son in 1802. Consequently, Marcus began looking for a second house.108 Staying in Marcus’s home evidently opened up some promising career opportunities for Paulus, for in August 1807 Hegel wrote to Niethammer: “The Pauluses are connected through Marcus and the wife of the Commercial Councilor with one branch of the [District] President’s [Stengel’s] family.”109 The “wife of the Commercial Councilor” was Juliana (Esther) Stieglitz (1765–1834), the widow of Marcus’s brother, the Russian commercial councilor Nathan Marc,110 who died in Bamberg in 1801. Her second marriage (in 1810) was to the widowed district general commissioner Stephan von Stengel, who this passage from the letters suggests she was already close friends with in 1807.111 Alongside Bayard, Stengel was one of the most influential Bavarian officials in the Main district.112 Marcus gave a New Year’s party in his honor at Bamberg’s Feast of St. Michael in 1808, which Hegel also attended.113

Hegel evidently hoped his acquaintance with Paulus would bring him financial benefits, too. In late August 1807, he wrote to Niethammer that he had heard that the king had “earmarked 300,000 florins for education, of which 45,000 florins are to fall to the province of Bamberg. I have suggested to Paulus that he should get hold of some of it for me as well, since I also belong in education.” However, the next line indicates that he regarded the theologian as more of an abstract theorist than a practical organizer: “The only question is whether he is sufficiently in command of the empirical side to do so.”114

After the departure of the Liebeskinds, the Pauluses appear to have been one of the central nodes of Hegel’s social network in Bamberg. Alluding to their shared roots in Württemberg and time together in Jena, he wrote to Niethammer in November 1807 that “no people anywhere can compare with those of Jena, and especially with the Swabians of Jena. Just do not whisk Paulus, too, away from here in the organizational shuffle.”115 In a letter to Johann Sulpiz (Melchior Dominikus) Boisserée (1783–1854)—an art collector and friend of Hegel—in August 1808, Dorothea Schlegel (1764–1839) also spoke of the friendship between these two Swabian scholars who had ended up in Bamberg together:

Hegel lives in Bamberg and writes the local newspaper; he spends every evening at Paulus’s house, and since, although I was silent in company, my objections must have been written all over my face, Paulus and Hegel had a conversation with me in a more select circle in which I disputed all manner of things and revealed my thoughts.116

In September 1808, however, it seemed that Paulus would be leaving Bamberg. “Paulus has recently been on the road for school and curriculum inspections,” Hegel wrote to Niethammer,

I am sure the trip showed what an impact a good example can have. He has had occasion to visit Nuremberg with his wife and is impatiently awaiting something in the offing there. […] There is a real earthquake going on here. No one stands fast in his present position. Anyone who has not just been appointed is about to leave, wants to leave, or fears having to.117

A month later, in a letter to Karl Ludwig von Knebel (1744–1834),118 a poet and translator living in Weimar, Hegel wrote regretfully that “the acquaintances I had here, especially Paulus, are being once more dispatched elsewhere in the [mis]organizational shuffle. Paulus will go to Nuremberg as School Councilor; others are off in other directions.”119 However, on October 26, 1808, Hegel was informed by Niethammer (whose reforms have left their mark on the Bavarian school system to this day) that he had been nominated as rector of the gymnasium in Nuremberg and was to begin work there the following week. In the new role, he would be “implementing reforms to the gymnasium under District School Councilor Paulus’s instruction.”120 Consequently, Hegel was at least able to maintain this contact—one that was of particular interest due to his relationship with Karoline, which may have been intimate in nature (though it is impossible to say for certain based on the available evidence).121

6. Observations on the Nature of Hegel’s Bamberg Network

In a 1979 essay, Wolfgang Reinhard observed that urban elites are “not primarily constituted by their members’ possessing the same social attributes, but through the social entanglement [Verflechtung] of these members, which enables, facilitates, and channels interactions.”122 Reinhard identified “four categories of personal relations that play a key role as potential bearers of interaction, for it can be shown that ‘networks’ of such relations have enabled not just solitary transactions but the formation of groups.” These four relations are kinship, common regional origin, friendship, and patronage.123

If we analyze Hegel’s network in Bamberg in terms of these categories, kinship clearly played no role (unlike in the next chapter of his life in Nuremberg, where he married Marie Helena Susanna von Tucher, a member of one of the city’s leading patrician families124), but common origin, friendship, and patronage were indeed significant factors. Hegel shared a common regional origin (in Protestant Württemberg) with his main correspondent, Niethammer and with the Pauluses. It is also striking that most of Hegel’s central acquaintances in Bamberg were Protestant, and that several of them (Fuchs, Jolly, Diruf) came from the Electoral Palatinate, a southwest German region to which the Swabian Hegel may have felt a closer affinity than to Catholic Franconia. In any case, when Hegel received the offer from Bamberg in early 1807, he was still hoping for an appointment at the University of Heidelberg.125

Friendship was definitely an important category in Hegel’s network in Bamberg. He maintained his friendships both by correspondence (especially with Niethammer) and by socializing in person; it is notable that he befriended both men and women.126 In his study of correspondence between Würzburg professors around 1800, Clemens Tangerding found that friendships were not cultivated simply for their own sake, but always had an instrumental and strategic character as well:

In the scholars’ correspondence, friendship manifests itself […] as an appeal to inaugurate or to continue mutual aid. It is striking how often professors proclaim friendship to colleagues when they are asking their addressee for something or granting the other person’s request.127

Hegel was not the only one cultivating contacts for the sake of his future career; Paulus, to give one example, can also be observed behaving in a very similar way.

The final category, patronage, was one of the most important social relations in the early modern society of estates,128 and it continued to play a key role in the politically turbulent period around 1800. It was politically influential men like Bayard and the district general commissioners Thürheim and Stengel who decided on the promotions and postings that determined the course of people’s careers. With respect to finding patronage, Hegel again appears to have corresponded and kept company with the right people.

One thing that is striking is the transitory nature of Hegel’s network. Reading his Bamberg correspondence, one has a sense not of a permanently settled group, but of constant comings and goings. Civil servants were frequently relocated due to Bavaria’s wide-ranging bureaucratic reforms in the wake of secularization and mediatization, while clergymen like Fuchs and doctors like Diruf pulled up stakes after a few years to take up more lucrative posts elsewhere. Hegel likewise saw Bamberg as a mere temporary stopping point: by his own admission, the editorship there was a way of

reaching Bavarian ground and soil at least temporarily, and of having my shoes in it even if not yet my feet. Since this engagement does not bind me to a definite time, in Bamberg I can doubtless for the moment pursue private study and discharge my obligations at the same time.129

In this context of high geographic mobility, letters were a crucial method of maintaining relationships between different locations.130 This mobility was also a key reason why the scholars and civil servants that this article has focused on did not develop long-lasting ties to Bamberg and its inhabitants;131 for them, the old seat of the Franconian bishopric, reduced in 1803 to the status of a provincial Bavarian town, was merely a temporary stop along the way to a more lucrative or appealing career opportunity.

Notes

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  • Regierungsblatt für die Churbayerischen Fürstenthümer in Franken, vol. 1, no. 24. June 1803.

  • Staats- und Address-Handbuch der Staaten des Rheinischen Bundes für das Jahr 1811. Weimar, 1811.


This article is a translation and was originally published in German as:

Mark Häberlein and Michaela Schmölz-Häberlein. Georg Wilhelm Friedrich Hegels Bamberger Netzwerk, in Zeitschrift für bayerische Landesgeschichte 81 (2018), 627-655

Image: Helmut Groschwitz
St. Peter’s Cathedral in Regensburg, detail from the south face. Photograph taken by the author in 2008.

Authenticity1 and cultural heritage are two multilayered, challenging concepts central in a field of discourse that the involved actors engage with in very different ways. Whether in relation to the work of cultural historical and ethnological museums, the valorization and recognition of monuments, performances in the form of customs and rituals, or the chimera (both problematic and successful in equal measure) of “tradition” or “the traditional society,” the question of how cultural heritage is constructed and functions is a recurrent theme in the history and practice of the related disciplines of folklore studies, cultural anthropology, and European ethnology and has also been highly productive in public discourse. Following the adoption of the UNESCO Convention Concerning the Protection of the World Cultural and Natural Heritage (1972) and the Convention for the Safeguarding of the Intangible Cultural Heritage (2003), scholars and even the general public have devoted more attention to questions related to cultural heritage. The field of Critical Heritage Studies2 emerged as a result of the increasingly intensive appraisal of origins and implementation of the associated programs as well as their direct and indirect effects on the sites and practices accorded heritage status. This interdisciplinary field addresses the communities and discourses linked to these sites and practices by posing questions about the actors and power structures involved and about value creation and conflicts; it examines the construction of identities and processes of inclusion and exclusion as well as modes of location, appropriation, and instrumentalization.

Amid a range of heterogeneous stances on “cultural heritage,” there are two discernible fundamental approaches associated with different actor groups. One view is essentialist, rooted in the assumption that cultural heritage is intrinsic and needs only to be accorded recognition. The other is constructivist, perceiving cultural heritage as the product of discourses, attributions, and processes of inclusion and exclusion. In this latter view, the awarding of heritage status and the preceding phase of reflection and discussion is constitutive for heritage—cultural heritage, in this perspective, is what has been intentionally designated as such. Recognition itself creates heritage, which unfolds its own dynamism from the moment of recognition onwards.

These two perspectives in turn underlie two very different approaches to understanding and interacting with cultural heritage that frequently collide, resulting in mutual incomprehension and a need for “translation.” On one side of the divide, actors champion “their” tangible or intangible cultural heritage as valuable, important, and unique, stressing that its very existence makes it worthy of protection. Critical voices on the other side of the debate, which most commonly come from academic circles, instead tend to highlight the evolution and manufactured nature of cultural heritage, pointing out how contingent it is and how it has been shaped by underlying power structures and value creation processes and subjected to political influences and instrumentalization.3

The question of authenticity is highly significant for both camps. The former assumes that it is in possession of authentic matter and authentic performances; in other words, this position perceives objects and actions, everyday (“common sense”) certainties, and familiar social realities as inherent, taking them largely for granted. The opposing camp questions authenticity and deconstructs what is perceived as authentic, viewing this as primarily a product of discourses and processes of communication and authentication.

This essay appraises the potential of actor-network theory—i.e. the comprehensive analysis of networks involving people, things, discourses, and translations—for paving a route to the middle ground between these camps and opening up a fresh perspective on cultural heritage. It considers various forms of cultural heritage including the role of museums and intangible aspects of heritage and focuses in particular on the role played by things themselves.

Cultural heritage as reflective practice

There is no unambiguous definition of Kulturerbe [cultural heritage]; even the simple comparison of this term with its counterparts in other languages (French patrimoine, English heritage)4 suggests just how complex and open this field of discourse is. A lack of conceptual clarity is particularly evident in the broad area of needing to find ways of distinguishing general forms of passing on, continuing, acquiring, and updating cultural techniques and objects (in ways for which the categories of socialization and appropriation seem suitable) from those forms of cultural expression and objects that are perceived in a specific way and have been especially designated as cultural heritage. A process of reflection is decisive for the latter, and while this often (although not necessarily) coincides with feelings of uncertainty and fears or experiences of loss, it may also mark a transition from daily performance to reflective reinterpretation, a transformation into representational forms,5 and processes of museum-ization or heritage-ization. These processes of reflection and the associated production of knowledge have been described many times.6

They are supplemented by cultural heritage transmission practices that frame cultural heritage as needing to be explained and register altered perceptions regarding phenomena as cultural heritage as evidence of a developing new consciousness. In fact, the importance of fostering a new awareness of heritage is often expressly spelled out in metatexts, especially in those dealing with programmatic objectives. It is visible, for example, in hopes voiced that popular narratives that have been “saved” from oblivion in the nick of time might again become meaningful to people in their daily lives,7 in the countless objects in museums that have survived an intermediate stage of falling into disuse and being discarded, in the securing of ruins that are to be made accessible because they are seen to represent developments in cultural history, in the “revival” or “purification” of cultural performances, and even in completely new inventions based on components cobbled together from other practices.8 These reflective productions of what is then designated as cultural heritage are connected with the contingent selection of what is included and excluded. A defined and definable image of a specific cultural heritage is created through this process—an ideal starting point for the application dossier that (politically motivated) cultural heritage programs generally require.

This process of reflection, however, fosters different perceptions of cultural heritage in different actors—as remarked on above—that are also deserving of attention: reflection strengthens some actors’ sense that their own cultural heritage and practices are special, but the flip side of this coin is that knowledge production (i.e., scholarly reflection) tends to emphasize the contingent and manufactured nature of cultural heritage.

Authenticity and authentication

The concept of authenticity—the tacit assumption or stated presumption of “genuineness,” “originality,” and “provability”—is a core formula conveying legitimacy on museums and on tangible and intangible cultural heritage. The problematic and dazzlingly multifaceted character of the discourse on authenticity, which spans a range of concepts from proof of material continuity to the authoritative determination of “correct” interpretations, has been discussed many times,9 as have the difficulties associated with the perception of authenticity. Judging whether something is authentic requires a definition of authenticity, but such a definition is ultimately the result of communication processes—what is authentic depends on what being authentic has been negotiated to be. At the same time, the concept of authenticity always requires an opposite pole, inauthenticity, and thereby also encompasses the neighboring discourses on forgery, copying, and reinvention.10

Three examples will serve here to outline the problematic nature of authenticity. The first of them is the cathedral in Regensburg, which is included in the town’s UNESCO World Heritage site. Work on the Gothic incarnation of the cathedral began in the thirteenth century and, in principle, has never been completed. The spires—a central element of the cathedral’s present appearance—were only added in the nineteenth century. During this same period, some baroque elements were removed to restore the cathedral’s “pure Gothic style.” To this day, the Dombauhütte [cathedral workshop] is continually replacing the building’s substance. The restoration work now uses a significantly more durable limestone in place of the greenish sandstone used at the beginning (Illustration 1). While the site of the building can be described as authentic, the building substance itself is only partially authentic, to the extent that authenticity refers to the original medieval material. The form of the building follows earlier models, and the craftsmen in the cathedral workshop use historical techniques to some extent. The cathedral is, finally, also authentic as a building that changes its shape again and again, one that spans multiple epochs and is always being reworked in some way. It is clear that “authenticity” can refer to very different aspects.

Illustration 1: St. Peter’s Cathedral in Regensburg, detail from the south face. The various building materials used in the facade are clearly evident: the darker, somewhat green stones are the original sandstone, while the lighter stones are more recent limestone replacements. Photograph taken by the author in 2008.

Knowledge pertaining to authenticity is typically expert knowledge that changes and is reinterpreted during its transmission. This expert knowledge and the performances and objects evaluated, however, need to maintain compatibility with other forms of knowledge. Imagine if the performers at one of the now highly popular “medieval fairs” spoke Old High German or Middle High German—whichever corresponded to the period being depicted. They might come very close to an authentic performance, but most visitors would be utterly incapable of decoding it. What happens instead is that visitors regard the specially invented artificial language used on such occasions as authentic, a language which makes liberal use of “-ey” (Gaukeley [amusements], Sauferey [drinking] etc.) and is peppered with quaint words and phrases largely motivated by Early New High German.11 The expectations of the general public are not infrequently centered around depictions in pop culture including films and books. Silke Meyer has shown this for the film “Braveheart”12: the hero—a “genuine Scot”—wears a kilt, even though the film is set in a period (the thirteenth century) when kilts did not yet exist in this form. The kilt in the film serves as a symbol to authenticate the protagonist as a Scottish freedom fighter. Authenticity here can be understood as an interpretive framework of the kind defined by Erving Goffman, one that that facilitates the categorization and interpretation of observations. But these examples also show how disparate scholarly and public discourses often are and how “popular authenticity” can take on a life of its own, developing its own frameworks for evaluation depending on social contexts.

My third example, the Japanese Nō theater masks in the Museum Rietberg in Zurich, are displayed in an isolated context with lighting that has an auratizing effect. While these masks are technically originals, decisive elements are lacking here because of their extreme decontextualization and the elaborate stagecraft deployed in their aesthetic presentation: the costumes that go with them, for one thing, but even more significantly the dimension of performance, of the masks’ appearance on stage. Because so much cultural complexity is omitted here, the presentation of the masks is inauthentic in spite of their status as original objects.

In all of its dazzling facets, authenticity appears to be a phenomenon which can only ever be attested for partial aspects, and its perception also appears to depend upon the observer. Despite the problematic nature of the concept, however, authenticity (or the pursuit of authenticity) represents a point of orientation for metacultural action, for example finding the “correct” way to display an object in a museum or to conserve one, but also—for groups that are “bearers” or “carriers” of cultural heritage—striving to find the “correct” way of executing a cultural performance. While authenticity may defy any analysis that seeks to move beyond partial aspects, what we can describe quite well are the processes and practices of authentication, the strategies, in other words, deployed in attempts to mark objects or performances as authentic.13

Museums as destroyers and producers of authenticity

Museums seem to be on quite solid ground with the narrative of authenticity; the aura of authentic objects is, after all, the bread and butter of their very existence. However, objects become entangled in a dynamic process of decontextualization and recontextualization during their museumization. Objects entering the inventory of a museum are removed from the contexts in which they formerly functioned—as utilitarian objects or as status symbols, as ceremonial or religious items, or as objects that had already reached an interim stage of becoming outmoded and being discarded.14 At the same time, these objects undergo an intensive process of knowledge production: they are cleaned, inventoried, conserved, researched, and finally—should they belong to the exclusive two to five percent of the inventory destined to be exhibited—placed on display in permanent and special exhibitions, in which curators order the arrangement of these objects to illustrate the narrative they have chosen (or created). As all this goes on, spatial and argumentative connections form that did not exist before the objects entered the museum and curators designed the exhibition (Illustration 2). The ordering of objects in a museum does not reproduce a “natural” or “original” situation: objects are contextualized in new ways that reflect the narratives of the museum, the relevant exhibition, and the curators. Karl-Heinz Kohl coined the provocative slogan “context is a lie” (“Kontext ist Lüge”) to describe this phenomenon.15

The other side of this picture, however, is that arguments proceeding from objects are often epistemically effective, considerably more so than text-based modes of knowledge transmission. Just as historians do not reproduce historical events but rather interpret sources and develop historical narratives, exhibitions do not simply display objects and illustrate events, but select and arrange objects to create relationships between them and integrate them into broader narratives and arguments. Just as the recognition of cultural heritage involves an aspect of invention, museums are constantly creating new knowledge in this process. It is only a slight exaggeration to claim that museumization destroys authenticity by nullifying functional relationships and fragmenting the cultural integration of objects. This is, of course, not to suggest that the history of these artifacts is brought to an end. In fact, the reverse is the case: a new chapter opens in the “biographies” of the things that are now artifacts held in museums and stored or exhibited in various ways. Taking up the bon mot of objects as slow events, one might say that new episodes are beginning. Museumization also includes a process described by Gottfried Korff, with reference to Walter Benjamin, as “auratization.”16 Being incorporated into a museum designates an object as special, but also makes it a proxy for others, giving it a representative character and thus an additional role complementing its individual immediacy and uniqueness.

Illustration 2: Reflection of a reliquary bust in the shape of a bishop (ca. 1520, presumably from Brussels) in front of a Congolese Nkisi (“power figure,” 19th century). The juxtaposition of these two objects—featured in the EuropaTest exhibition (Berlin, 2014)—illustrates how Catholic theology is intertwined with local cultures and interpreted differently depending on these cultural contexts. Photograph taken by the author in 2014.

The mechanisms of deauthentication are flanked by processes of authentication, the most notable of which are forms of verification, knowledge production, and knowledge formation. In contrast to the oft-voiced invocation that exhibits should be permitted to “speak for themselves,” in general the individual objects on display do not actually say very much on their own. The role of proving their authenticity, or more often of attesting it, typically falls to the accompanying texts and narratives (Illustration 3). Considering the intensity of the struggles over knowledge formation at times, it can perhaps be concluded that what is described as genuine and made the focus of research counts as authentic. Authenticity is produced by the scholars and curators who concern themselves with it and mark it as such in exhibitions. But perceptions of authenticity are also induced by other factors: the museum building, for example (objects that have entered the museum are more likely to be seen as “genuine”), the exhibit labels, and the display cabinets that not only provide protection but also signify the presence of protected objects that merit a closer look.

Agency and the disciplining of things

While authenticity appears to be a multilayered process of negotiation and attribution as well as an interpretive framework, the objects viewed within this framework are not arbitrary; objects distinguished by particular material qualities, the places where they were found, or modes of acquisition are evaluated differently from others, and in this a kind of agency of things can be seen to be at work.17 Whether one should go so far as to inquire into whether objects have “power” or are capable of “doing” is debatable, since “doing”—as opposed to just behaving in a certain way—is always linked to intentionality. Stories attributing agency to objects are, however, rife in popular narratives and myths, in everyday perceptions, and in religious contexts. The (European) concepts of fetishes, of relics—sacramental or magical objects—that were used in manifold ways in the past are still quite popular, for example, with esoteric shoppers today. That the world views of many indigenous societies take the agency of material things for granted can only be mentioned in passing here.

It could, of course, be argued, from a constructivist point of view, that it is discourse which produces attributions of supernatural potency or spiritual essences to things. From the perspective, however, of the actors themselves—of pilgrims bringing healing holy water home from Lourdes, for example, or of computer users cursing or pleading with machines as though these were autonomous entities with their own intentions—material things do appear capable of acting independently, and often enough subversively; at least in cases like these, the boundaries between things simply having behavioral characteristics and having the power to act seem rather fluid.

The power relations that can be observed between people and things are, indeed, not always unilateral or unambiguous. A passenger in a car that rolls over in traffic accident is not part of a discourse or an attribution, but embedded in the behavior, the materiality of the technical machine. Museums, too, are stages upon which conflicts between people and things play out. These conflicts are normally not visible for visitors—but conservators are all the more keenly aware of them. Colors change in shade, varnish darkens, fibers disintegrate and dissolve, thatched roofs rot—museums are usually intent on suppressing the actions of things and represent spaces characterized by efforts to discipline things—both materially and discursively.

Illustration 3: Explanatory text; Grassi Museum of Ethnology, Leipzig. Photograph taken by the author in 2016.

How things produce authenticity

When authenticity is considered to be the result of negotiations carried out and attributions made by people, things appear as largely passive, as no more, at most, than nuclei around which discourses can crystallize. But approaching authenticity from a vantage point that does not rule out the idea of things having agency throws up a new question: how do things themselves produce authenticity and contribute to discourses and processes of attribution?

Things “act” by existing and being perceived, interpreted, and integrated into functional contexts, by having an appearance and characteristics that prompt people to act differently or to commence an action in the first place (affordance). People produce and modify objects, and objects in turn influence and shape people: they support identity, acting as extensions of the human body and as media which facilitate social exchanges.18 Actor-network theory19 (ANT) is analytically useful, as it facilitates the examination of human and non-human actors and their reciprocally entangled relationships. Because the scope of this article does not allow for a more in-depth exploration of ANT’s theoretical ramifications, two examples of such networks serve to illustrate this approach here:

The first example is the phenomenon of the “movie star” that emerged in the wake of the nineteenth-century invention of cinematographic film. Precursors are identifiable in stage acting; the initial introduction of film as a medium merely changed acting techniques and ended the simultaneity of acting and watching, but it also provided new forms of representation—changes of perspective, close-ups, special effects, and the like. The emergence and evolution of the “movie stars” subsequent to film’s introduction can be understood as a social process, but also as one determined by technical aspects—cameras, lighting, cutting, projection—in other words, by things. Technical innovations—like the advent of sound film—have always been accompanied by changes in acting techniques and audience reception.

Museums as institutions form another example of such a network. The history of museums illustrates how objects have been marked, valorized, and revalued and how exhibits have been arranged, presented, and received by visitors in ways that are linked with various discourses and social processes. These discourses cannot be investigated in isolation, however, as they are always bound up with things—with the artifacts collected, the exhibits placed on display, the cabinets protecting them, and the buildings housing them. In a way, these things “create” professions and actors of their own: curators, conservators, guards, and visitors to the museum. Museum history is usually written as the history of collectors and institutions, of an interest in the exotic and its presentation—as, all in all, the outcome of discourses. ANT, however, foregrounds the complex entanglements of human and non-human actants. In the case of museums, this means the relationships between exhibits, display cabinets, labels, buildings, curators, visitors, politicians, conservators, security guards, and so on. What is ultimately of interest are the negotiations and translations that are constantly taking place between things and people forming performative networks that are constantly changing in ways that can include the active removal of objects from the network.20 How could networks like this now be interrogated to discover more about how things produce authenticity? A first example revolves around an object that cannot be decoded without ambivalence due to a lack of available sources. The second example takes up the question as to how material things unleash discourses.

Weltmuseum Wien (Vienna World Museum, formerly Wiener Völkerkundemuseum, the Vienna Museum of Ethnology) holds an object that is widely known as the “Penacho”21. It consists mostly of feathers and gold ornaments connected to a supporting frame. The object acquired the appellation “Moctezuma’s headdress” in the context of the discourse which crystallized around it, but this attribution to the Aztec ruler Montezuma II (c. 1465–1520) is unproven. It has left traces in inventories from the sixteenth century onwards, and the interpretations in exhibition catalogs have varied—so its history is attested by further objects. Both its exact provenance and its precise function before it was brought to Europe are unclear, but the feathers and the techniques used in its construction confirm its Mexican origins. The Penacho is a good example of an object which is non-decodable in the absence of sources and consequently amenable to being interpreted in new ways and embedded in changing discourses. The description of this object—back in the colonial era—as “Montezuma’s featherwork crown” clearly served, for example, to boost the museum’s renown. While the museum’s curators increasingly questioned this attribution in the twentieth century, postcolonial activists adopted it in their repatriation demands, elevating the Penacho to a national symbol bearing witness to the injustice of Spanish pillaging.22 How can such an object that lacks a clear provenance and function—one that in its ambiguity defies authentication in the sense of having an attested history23—successfully generate authenticity in a way that transcends the ebb and flow of discourses? In this case, the pure existence and materiality of the object, the contingency of its appearance, its components, and the techniques used in its making draw visitors into dialogue with it and constitute its singularity. The productions of knowledge proceeding from such properties are—along with the capacity of exhibits to engage the senses and emotions of visitors—core components of the presentation of objects in museums.

Things can bear witness to historical cultural practices—independently of any claims to them advanced by contemporary societies or nations seeking to bolster the narrative of their origins by integrating these practices into their own historiographies. Given the fact that historical borders of settlements and territories often diverge from modern state borders, relicts in the landscape can acquire great political brisance by allowing for claims that a particular group occupied a given stretch of land “first” and can stake legal claims to it. This can be observed, to give two examples, for the native peoples of North America and for Armenian claims to territories within modern Turkey, where churches, ruins, and stone crosses (khachkars) have been systematically destroyed to undermine such claims. The simple existence of objects can become problematic, things themselves can become unsettling and disturbing actants, and their destruction can be pursued in order to effect shifts in person-thing-networks.

Similarly, the remnants of villages near the Czech-Bavarian border have an impact which can be attributed to their sheer existence. Deserted following the deportation of the German-speaking population after the Second World War and the creation of exclusion zones behind the Iron Curtain, they conserved cultural memory. After the lifting of the Iron Curtain, these sites and their material evidence bore witness to earlier settlements in the area in a fashion that has led to an intensive renegotiation of history24 that must now be inscribed into the history of Czech Republic, the region, and Europe’s collective memory.

The ability of things to accumulate various modifications, appropriations and attributions of meaning within themselves—and in this sense to form a kind of palimpsest—also creates their polyvalent and ambiguous nature. The Selimiye Mosque in North Nicosia in Northern Cyprus is a prime example (Illustration 4). Both its history as a Gothic cathedral and its history as a mosque are inscribed into its materiality in a way that makes it impossible to unambiguously classify the structure in regard to national, ethnic, or religious cultural heritage. Instead, it embodies an entangled cultural history that could be allowed to take on a bridging function as shared cultural heritage, or rather as cultural heritage forming part of a shared history, although such an outcome currently appears remote considering the present political situation in Cyprus and recent nationalist attempts at appropriation.

In all these examples, the roles played by things are far from passive. Embedded into person-thing networks, they have the power to unleash, amplify, or curb discourse, and things can also authenticate further things, sites, and historical events. Pursuing questions of authenticity would be pointless without these material and cultural effects, and authenticity can neither be attested nor transmitted in their absence. At the same time, however, attempts to appropriate things and attribute significance to them in a manner that seeks to eliminate ambiguity rather than to shine a light on the multi-layered and open-ended meanings of objects is problematic because it precludes a comprehensive approach which could highlight shared cultural heritage.

Illustration 4: Interior of the Selimiye Mosque in Nicosia (Northern Cyprus). The building’s interior shows clear traces of its conversion since 1571 from the Gothic Cathedral of Saint Sophia into a mosque. The apse to the east is still recognizable on the left side of this image, although the furnishings are now arranged around the Mihrab (prayer niche), which is placed in the direction of Mecca. Photograph taken by the author in 2015

Cultural heritage as a network

The difficult question as to whether agency is attributable to things is a point upon which ANT is vulnerable to criticism.25 The concept of the agency and, indeed, the waywardness of things is, nevertheless, a fertile one, both because of the insights it affords into how the meanings of things can extend beyond their current status in a discourse26 and because of the way in which it allows us to investigate how things and people influence each other reciprocally. In the context of the relationship between cultural heritage and authenticity, paying more attention to networks and to negotiations between people and things offers a promising way forward. When the authenticity of things and practices is subjected to analysis within the framework of Critical Heritage Studies, the diagnoses reached are often somewhat skeptical and unsettling. The processes surrounding the transmutation of objects into cultural heritage are forms of metacultural action and inevitably produce something which is new. Their character is more creative and productive than it is declarative; recognition of heritage often sparks profound changes, and the question tends to rear its head quickly as to how exactly the heritage celebrated is “authentic.”

Essentialist approaches to cultural heritage that take its existence to be a given and perceive its character as fundamentally non-discursive remain problematic; neither of these assumptions can be confirmed, but both feature regularly in public and political discourse. At the same time, these very attributions—these yearnings for what is “original,” “genuine,” and “unique”—are themselves part of the phenomenon of cultural heritage and merit attention in that context. The essentialist view of cultural heritage cannot only be seen as that portion of heritage which should be deconstructed, or whose adherents should be persuaded of the error of their ways, but as an aspect of cultural heritage which is constitutive for and inherent to the phenomenon.

From a perspective which examines networks between people, things, discourses, and translations, authenticity can be understood as the result of negotiations between people and things and as a consensus reached between various actors and institutions. This does not free us from needing to critically examine processes, power relations, and value creation, but it allows for a broader definition of cultural heritage as a complex and fluid network of people, things, discourses, translations, and institutions that constitutes itself depending on the situation through the interactions of the various actors involved. This can usefully supplement the deconstructivist perspective on cultural heritage which researchers (with their strong focus on processes of “heritage-ization” and valorization) typically apply with a perspective that allows for more thorough consideration of material aspects.

Thinking of cultural heritage as a network also has interesting consequences for the categories used to describe it. The distinction made between tangible and intangible cultural heritage has long been in the sights of critics who see it as problematic and have pointed out that both forms of heritage are far more intertwined than has been reflected in the implementation of cultural heritage programs to date. While the older UNESCO world cultural heritage program was primarily related to the material substance of heritage, the criteria repeatedly referenced aspects addressing intangible heritage.27 The more recently defined criteria for intangible cultural heritage expressly encompass the objects intangible heritage draws on—the tools used in crafts, for example, or the accoutrements used in customary practices—although the main emphasis is on knowledge, social practices, and performances, these are unimaginable without their material “coalition partners.” Numerous museums, especially open-air museums, have also been moving beyond their traditional mission—the preservation of material evidence of the past—in recent years and are now concerning themselves to a greater degree than before with the museumization of intangible cultural heritage like historical craftsmanship or cultivation methods.

The background to how this distinction between tangible and intangible cultural heritage was discursively produced in the first place during the long conceptual history of cultural heritage—from the first cabinets of curiosities and movements to protect historical monuments all the way up to the UNESCO conventions and EU programs—would merit an investigation all of its own, not least because this background also supplies the context in which the discipline of ethnology developed. The rigid corset of conventions, procedures, and institutions which now exists in the heritage sphere—a Foucauldian dispositif if ever there was one—will hardly permit more holistic approaches to tangible and intangible aspects of cultural heritage in the near future. But from an analytical perspective, the investigation of networks between people, things, discourses, and translations can be profitably integrated into the continuing development of the idea of cultural heritage, into “doing heritage” and into heritage management—all the more so if it is also oriented towards current approaches to fostering participation and knowledge transmission.

Notes

  • The present article is based on a lecture with the title “Wie Dinge Authentizität produzieren. Kulturerbe aus Sicht der Akteur-Netzwerk-Theorie” [“How Things Produce Authenticity: Cultural Heritage from the Perspective of Actor-Network Theory”] given as part of the lecture series “Heritage, Gedächtnis, Identität—Herausforderungen für die Autorisierten Diskurse” [“Heritage, Memory, Identity—Challenging the Authorized Discourses”] hosted by the University of Cologne Forum “Cultural Heritage in Africa and Asia” on 8 May 2014 at the University of Cologne. http://forum-heritage.phil-fak.uni-koeln.de/19513.html [27 December 2015].↩︎

  • The foundation of the Association of Critical Heritage Studies and the promulgation of its 2012 “Manifesto” deserve mention as the pinnacle of efforts to date to bring critical approaches to cultural heritage together in a network: http://www.criticalheritagestudies.org/history [June 2017].↩︎

  • Representative texts for the now extensive literature on cultural heritage include: Barbara Kirshenblatt-Gimblett, “Intangible Heritage as Metacultural Production,” in: Museum International 56 (2004), 52–65; Michael Simon/​Thomas Schneider/​Timo Heimerdinger/​Anne-Christin Lux/​Christina Niem (eds.), Kulturelles Erbe und Authentizität (Volkskunde in Rheinland-Pfalz 20), Mainz 2006; Dorothee Hemme/​Markus Tauschek/​Regina Bendix (eds.), Prädikat “Heritage.” Wertschöpfungen aus kulturellen Ressourcen (Studien zur Kulturanthropologie/​Europäischen Ethnologie 1), Berlin 2007; Karl C. Berger/​Margot Schindler/​Ingo Schneider (eds.), Erb.gut? Kulturelles Erbe in Wissenschaft und Gesellschaft. Referate der 25. Österreichischen Volkskundetagung vom 14.–17. 11. 2007 in Innsbruck (Buchreihe der Österreichischen Zeitschrift für Volkskunde N. S. 23), Vienna 2009; Harm-Peer Zimmermann, “Second Hand World? Zur Kritik der Heritage-Kritik in Hinblick auf das Kasseler Weltdokumenteerbe,” in: ------. (ed.), Zwischen Identität und Image. Die Popularität der Brüder Grimm und ihrer Märchen in Hessen (Hessische Blätter für Volks- und Kulturforschung NF 44/45), Marburg 2009, 572–591; Markus Tauschek, Kulturerbe. Eine Einführung, Berlin 2013; Göttinger Studien zu Cultural Property, vols. 1–11, Göttingen 2010–2017.↩︎

  • Astrid Svenson, “‘Heritage,’ ‘Patrimoine’ und ‘Kulturerbe’. Eine vergleichende historische Semantik,” in: Hemme/​Tauschek/​Bendix, Prädikat (as in fn. 3), 53–74.↩︎

  • What is meant by this is the transformation of a cultural technique that has fallen out of everyday use (with the abandonment of a mine, for example, or the discontinuation of timber rafting) into a practice continued in a symbolic form by culture associations or during festivals.↩︎

  • See, for example, Thomas Schmitt, “Jemaa el Fna Square in Marrakech—Changes to a Social Space and to a UNESCO Masterpiece of the Oral and Intangible Heritage of Humanity as a Result of Global Influences,” in: The Arab World Geographer 8 (2005), 173–195; Markus Tauschek, Wertschöpfung aus Tradition. Der Karneval von Binche und die Konstituierung kulturellen Erbes (Studien zur Kulturanthropologie/Europäischen Ethnologie 3), Berlin 2010.↩︎

  • Helmut Groschwitz, “Kulturerbe als Metaerzählung,” in: Ingo Schneider/Valeska Flor (eds.), Erzählungen als kulturelles Erbe. Das kulturelle Erbe als Erzählung (Innsbrucker Schriften zur Europäischen Ethnologie und Kulturanalyse 2), Münster 2014, 75–85.↩︎

  • On this, see the “folklorism” dispute [Folklorismusstreit] in ethnology sparked by Hans Moser, “Vom Folklorismus in unserer Zeit,” in: ZV 58 (1962), 177–209; Eric Hobsbawm/Terence Ranger (eds.), The Invention of Tradition, Cambridge 1983; Anthony Giddens, “Leben in einer posttraditionalen Gesellschaft,” in: Ulrich Beck, Anthony Giddens u. Scott Lash, Reflexive Modernisierung. Eine Kontroverse, Frankfurt am Main 1996, 113–194.↩︎

  • For example, Wolfgang Seidenspinner, “Authentizität. Kultur­anthropologisch-erinnerungs­kundliche An­näherungen an ein zentrales Wissenschafts­konstrukt im Blick auf das Welt­kulturerbe,” in: Volkskunde in Rheinland-Pfalz 20 (2006), 5–39; Achim Saupe, “Authentizität,” in: Stefanie Samida/​Manfred K. H. Eggert/​Hans-Peter Hahn (eds.), Handbuch materielle Kultur. Bedeutungen, Konzepte, Disziplinen, Stuttgart 2014, 180–184.↩︎

  • On this, see also Martin Fitzenreiter (ed.): Authentizität. Artefakt und Versprechen in der Achäologie (IBAES. Internet-Beiträge zur Ägyptologie und Sudanarchäologie XV), London 2014. Accessible online at: http://www.ibaes.de and http://www2.rz.hu-berlin.de/nilus/net-publications/ibaes15/beitraege.html [8 June 2017].↩︎

  • Helmut Groschwitz, “Authentizität, Unter­haltung, Sicherheit. Zum Umgang mit Geschichte in Living History und Reenactment,” in: BJV (2010), 141–155.↩︎

  • Silke Meyer, “Heldenmythen. Inszenierung von Geschichte im Spielfilm,” in: Andreas Hartmann/​Silke Meyer/​Ruth‑E. Mohrmann (eds.), Historizität. Vom Umgang mit Geschichte (Münsteraner Schriften zur Volkskunde/​Europäischen Ethnologie 13), Münster 2007, 69–83.↩︎

  • Groschwitz, “Authentizität”; Stefanie Samida, “Zur Genese von Heritage. Kulturerbe zwischen ‘Sakralisierung’ und ‘Eventisierung,’” in: ZV 109 (2013), 77–98.↩︎

  • Barbara Kirshenblatt-Gimblett, “From Ethnology to Heritage. The Role of the Museum. SIEF keynote address given on 28 April 2004.” Online: https://www.researchgate.net/publication/238714489_From_Ethnology_to_Heritage_The_Role_of_the_Museum [8 May 2017].↩︎

  • Karl-Heinz Kohl, “Kontext ist Lüge,” in: Paideuma 54 (2008), 217–221.↩︎

  • Gottfried Korff, “Aporien der Museali­sierung. Notizen zu einem Trend, der die Institution, nach der er benannt ist, hinter sich gelassen hat,” in: Wolfgang Zacharias (ed.), Zeitphänomen Museali­sierung. Das Verschwinden der Gegenwart und die Konstruktion der Erinnerung, Essen 1990, 57–71.↩︎

  • Anke Rees, “(Un)heimliche Akteure. Kultur als Netzwerk,” in: BJV (2013), 45–57; Guido Fackler/Brigitte Heck, “Von Vogelscheuchen und der Handlungsmacht der Dinge. Zur Re­ kontextualisierung von Museumsdingen mit der Akteur-Netzwerk-Theorie (ANT),” in: Karl Braun/​Claus-Marco Dietrich/​Angela Treiber (eds.), Materialisierung von Kultur. Diskurse – Dinge – Praktiken, Würzburg 2015, 125–136.↩︎

  • In connection with the “material turn,” material culture and the social embeddedness of things attracted renewed attention. Examples include Elisabeth Tietmeyer/​Claudia Hirschberger/​Karoline Noack/​Jane Redlin (eds.), Die Sprache der Dinge. Kulturwissenschaftliche Perspektiven auf die materielle Kultur(Schriftenreihe des Museums Europäischer Kulturen 9), Münster et.al. 2010; Daniel Miller, Der Trost der Dinge, Berlin 2010; Andreas Hartmann/​Peter Höher/​Christiane Cantauw/​Uwe Meiner/​Silke Meyer (eds.), Die Macht der Dinge. Symbolische Kommunikation und kulturelles Handeln. Festschrift für Ruth‑E. Mohrmann (Beiträge zur Volkskultur in Nordwestdeutschland 116), Münster et al. 2011; Samida/Eggert/Hahn, Handbuch (as in fn. 9).↩︎

  • For an introduction, see Ingo Schulz-Schaeffer, “Akteur-Netzwerk-Theorie. Zur Koevolution von Gesellschaft, Natur und Technik,” in: Johannes Weyer (ed.), Soziale Netzwerke. Konzepte und Methoden der sozial­ wissenschaftlichen Netzwerk­ forschung, Munich 2000, 187–211; Andréa Belliger/​David Krieger, “Netzwerke von Dingen,” in: Samida/Eggert/Hahn, Handbuch (as in fn. 9), 89–96.↩︎

  • Anamaria Depner, Dinge in Bewegung. Zum Rollenwandel materieller Objekte. Eine ethno­graphische Studie über den Umzug ins Altenheim, Bielefeld 2015. For a summary, see: https://www.socialnet.de/rezensionen/18981.php [8 May 2017].↩︎

  • Sabine Haag/​Alfonso de Maria y Campos/​Lilia Rivero Weber/​Christian Feest (eds.): Der alt­amerikanische Federschmuck. Altenstadt 2012.↩︎

  • Gottfried Fliedl, “… das Opfer von ein paar Federn.” Die sogenannte Federkrone Montezumas als Objekt nationaler und musealer Begehrlichkeiten, Vienna 2001.↩︎

  • See Helmut Groschwitz, “Das Museum als Strategie der kulturellen Ambiguitäts­bewältigung,” in: Hans-Peter Hahn (ed.), Ethnologie und Weltkulturenmuseum. Positionen für eine offene Weltsicht, Berlin 2017, 139–172.↩︎

  • See, for example, Nils Kopp, “Vergesst nicht unsere Geschichte.” http://www.br.de/br-fernsehen/sendungen/nachbarn/tschechien-geschichte-junge-100.html [8 May 2017].↩︎

  • Belliger/Krieger, Netzwerke (as in fn. 19), 95.↩︎

  • Hans-Peter Hahn, “Vom Eigensinn der Dinge,” in: BJV (2013), 13–22.↩︎

  • Eva-Maria Seng, “Die UNESCO-Konvention zur Erhaltung des Immateriellen Kulturerbes,” in: Heimatpflege in Westfalen 30 (2017), Issue 1, 1–4.↩︎


Originally published as

Helmut Groschwitz, “Wie Dinge Authentizität produzieren. Kulturerbe als Netzwerk” in Bayerisches Jahrbuch für Volkskunde (2017), 17-27.

Image: Rights: Archäologische Staatssammlung, Munich. (© Photographer: Susanne Friedrich)
Amber object B (BR Zg 2)

Summary

In 2000 the extensive fortified citadel of Bernstorf near Munich in Germany, which burned down in or after c. 1320 BC and had already yielded some gold regalia of rather Aegean appearance, produced two amber objects seemingly inscribed in Linear B. The authenticity of these objects has been questioned, on grounds that are as yet insufficient. A new reading suggests links with a place called *Ti-nwa-to, the existence of which is attested by the Mycenaean archives at Pylos and possibly at Knossos. Women from this place worked at both palatial centers as weavers, but it also had a wealthy ‘governor’. An analysis of the Pylos tablets suggests that this place was in western Arcadia. This material sheds light on long-distance connections in Mycenaean times.

1. The finds from Bernstorf

Some archaeological and epigraphic finds are so startling that they seem to make no sense. With no knowledge of the Vikings, we would not expect to discern Norse runes on a stone lion in the Piraeus or discover Arab dirhams in Dublin. The Aegean script Linear B should not be found in Bavaria, even in a Bronze Age context. Any attempt to explain such a puzzle will of necessity draw on various disciplines and materials – in this case, the epigraphy of Linear B, early metallurgy, records of governors and female slaves at Pylos and Knossos, amber in Messenia, the geography of the kingdom of Pylos, and historical evidence from c. 1350–1200 BC for roving warriors in the Levant and Aegean. Only by adopting a very broad outlook can we hope to explain something so bizarre – unless the objects from Bernstorf are outright forgeries. But what if they are not?

The hamlet of Bernstorf lies in Upper Bavaria near Freising in the vicinity of Kranzberg, on the river Amper not far from the Danube and some 40 km north of Munich. It happens to be the site of the largest Middle Bronze Age fortification so far known north of the Alps. The site was located in 1904 by Josef Wenzl, a local schoolmaster, who drew a sketch-plan of the fortifications, half of them buried in the forest. Since 1955 two thirds of the enceinte has been destroyed for the extraction of gravel and marl; its original length was 1.6 km and it encompassed an area of 12.8 ha. In 1992 two amateur archaeologists associated with the Archaeological Museum in Munich, Manfred Moosauer, an ophthalmologist, and Traudl Bachmaier, a bank-employee, discovered that the site was enclosed by a timber stockade that burned so fiercely that vitrification occurred; the temperature reached was 1350 °C1. With the authorities’ permission, they excavated a small area of its NE sector in 1994–8. Burned timbers yielded a preliminary 14C date for its construction of 1370–1360 BC, during the local late Middle Bronze Age2.

Goldensemble Bernstorf Gde.Kranzberg Lkr.Freising (Rights: Archäologische Staatssammlung, Munich. Photo M. Eberlein.)

In August 1998, after the archaeological excavations had ended, the contractor’s bulldozers and graders tore up the trees over an area of about 1 ha within the rampart inside the gate. Reportedly, the drivers found a hinged bronze cuirass with nipples rendered in pointillé, a bronze helmet and bronze weapons, all too small to fit modern men3. Moosauer and Bachmaier, in dismay at the devastation, investigated the spoil-heap on 8 August and began to discover among the uprooted tree-stumps an extraordinary hoard of amber and golden objects that had been carefully folded and wrapped in clay; after the first object was unearthed, most of the finds were made under official supervision between then and 29 April 1999, and all were taken promptly to the Museum4. Most of the material was encased in its original clay packing, which has been analysed and proves to come from Bernstorf5. This remarkable cache included six irregular centrally perforated lumps of amber6, a wooden sceptre which partly survived in a carbonized state (at the laboratory in Oxford the charcoal received a calibrated 14C date of 1400–1100 BC with 95.4% probability)7 and had a spiralform gold wrapping8, a gold belt with pierced triangular ends, a gold bracelet, a crown made of two layers of sheet gold with five attached vertical elements rising from its horizontal headband, a dress-pin of twisted gold with a flat triangular head, a gold diadem or cloak-fastener with pierced, pointed ends, and seven square gold pendants pierced at one corner for attachment (Fig. 1); in total these weigh 103.4 g9. The jewellry is made of sheet gold uniformly c. 25 mm in thickness10. Most of it was produced by a single workshop in repoussé by hammering the gold with punches made of bone or wood rather than of metal11; the decoration is rows of concentric circles and of diagonally hatched triangles, with a square tooth-pattern along the edges12. However, pointillé decoration is used on the sceptre and pin-head, which bears the wheel-pattern 𐀏 impressed in dots (there is no suggestion that this is writing)13. The projections on the crown were held in place with slots, as in Aegean crowns as early as that from Mochlos Grave VI14. The hoard was at first dated to the 16th or 15th centuries BC, because the style of the goldwork was compared with that of the rich finds from the Shaft Grave Circle A at Mycenae15. However, parallels with the gold of the Shaft Graves are weak16, and an initial 14C calibrated date of the wood from the sceptre, obtained in the laboratory at Oxford, gave a result of 1390–1091 BC17; three further 14C tests have given a tighter chronological range, with two yielding 1389–1216 ± 1 BC18. Although this is the only gold crown possibly of Aegean type that has been found outside the Aegean19, the treasure has been thought to derive from a local workshop under both Carpathian and Mycenaean influence20, or to come from a local workshop using material imported from afar21. The metal is too soft for the objects to have been used in ordinary life, and they were certainly ceremonial equipment; it has plausibly been proposed that they adorned a cult-statue or xoanon22, but they could also have been used for mortuary purposes. Analysis showed that the crown bore traces of styrax-resin, used for incense and native to southern Arabia23. The gold bears some traces of combustion. In its final use it was carefully folded and deposited as a hoard. Further excavations, now led by the Bayerisches Landesamt für Denkmalpflege, took place on the S. side of the rampart in 1999–2001, and revealed that it had been constructed from an estimated 40,000 oaken logs and was completed with a ditch.

Fig. 2. Bernstorf, Lkr. Freising. Amber object A (BE Zg1). Obverse: bearded male head, facing; Reverse: inscription in Linear B. Scale 2:1 (Rights: Archäologische Staatssammlung, Munich. Photo S. Friedrich.)

During the archaeological excavations of 2000, the directors decided to use a mechanical digger to clear an area of previously unproductive soil within the rampart, some 50 m E. of the find-spot of the hoard, in preparation for another rescue-excavation; however, after heavy rain, the resultant spoil-heap was seen to contain some prehistoric sherds, whereupon they asked the amateurs to search it. On two successive Saturdays, 11 and 18 November, Moosauer and Bachmaier, together with Alfons Berger, the deputy mayor of Kranzberg, found two inscribed amber objects, Objects A and B, along with sherds of a local Middle Bronze Age pot decorated with incised lines24. These were promptly handed to the Museum, where Object B was found still to be surrounded by a matrix of local sand and clay; they are described below.

Amber Object A (Figs. 2–3) is a roughly triangular piece of dark brown amber, 3.21 cm wide by 3.05 cm high and 1.08 cm in thickness. It has on the ‘obverse’ (Fig. 2) a male face with eyebrows, nose, mouth, and ears shown by simple incised lines; incised circles represent the eyes, and a beard is indicated by a number of short oblique incisions (no moustache is shown). It has been compared the famous gold funeral mask of ‘Agamemnon’ found by Heinrich Schliemann in Shaft Grave V at Mycenae,25 but is actually very crude. The ‘reverse’ (Fig. 3) bears three incised linear signs that in general appearance resemble the Linear B script. However, two of them are in fact very hard to identify in that script (see §7). Like the amber beads in the hoard, its edges and reverse display signs of melting and burning. However, where it is unburnt one can see that the surface of the reverse was smoothed or polished before the incisions were cut.

Amber Object B (Fig. 4) might be held roughly to resemble a scarab in shape. It is made of bright yellow amber. It is 2.1 cm high, with a flat oval obverse measuring 2.4 by 3.1 cm and and a convex reverse. It has a conical hole 0.35–0.31 cm in diameter drilled from one end only along the longer dimension of the reverse. Its upper and lower surfaces were carefully smoothed and polished before the incisions were made. Two thin strips of sheet gold, of much the same thickness and composition as the gold of the treasure, were found by X-ray analysis deep within the hole. The object seems not to have been burnt. On the obverse it bears three incised linear signs. The ‘exergue’ below the signs on its obverse bears a horizontal line with five vertical elements rising from it; this has been interpreted as a reasonably accurate depiction of the gold crown seen in Figure 126. Above this it has three signs, which were correctly read in Linear B as 𐀞𐁅𐀴 pa-nwa-ti in the editio princeps, where the inscription received the number BE Zg 227. This reading of the signs is opaque in meaning, but the presence of the sign 𐁅 nwa confirmed, in the eyes of both the experts who were consulted at the time, L. Godart and J.-P. Olivier, that we are dealing with Linear B rather than Linear A, in which script that sign does not occur28. We shall return to their reactions below (§2).

Fig. 3. Bernstorf, Lkr. Freising. Amber object B (BR Zg 2). Oberse: inscription in Linear B. Scale 2:1 (Rights: Archäologische Staatssammlung, Munich. Photo S. Friedrich.)

Further excavations of the south-west sector of the ramparts followed in 2007 and 2010–11, together with a geomagnetic survey by the University of Frankfurt. These have showed that occupation at the site began in c.1600 BC, and that after its abandonment it was reoccupied to a lesser extent in Hallstatt and Medieval times29. Although 14C dating has given two possible chronological ranges for the construction of the rampart, 1376–1326 or 1317–1267 BC30, dendrochronological study shows that its logs were felled between 1339 and 1326 BC, more probably close to 133931. Local archaeologists believe that it was burned within one generation of its construction, since in their view such structures were never long-lived32.

The curators of the Archäologische Staatssammlung at Munich are certain of the authenticity of both the inscribed amber and the golden objects, which, they write, is guaranteed by the find-spot and the circumstances of the discovery, by the investigations that were immediately carried out in their laboratories, and by subsequent research33. Careful scientific studies have produced no valid proof that any of them have been tampered with since their discovery34. However, the purity of the gold is a stumbling-block. The first X-ray fluorescence analyses revealed the gold to be highly refined, with under 0.5% of base metal and under 0.2% of silver, presumably by the use of the salt cementation method that is first described by Agatharchides of Cnidus in the 2nd century BC35; the dearth of silver shows the gold could not be a local product from alluvial sources36. Salt cementation is first documented archaeologically in Sardis in the mid-sixth century BC, but could have existed in the Bronze Age37. Later studies have shown that the gold is about 99.7% pure by weight; none of the pieces contains any copper or silver at all, but traces of antimony, sulphur, mercury and bismuth in proportions that are roughly similar in all the objects38. The two small pieces of gold wire from deep within the perforation of amber Object B39 have a purity and composition almost identical to that of all the other golden objects from Bernstorf40. This shows that the authenticity of both sets of finds is a single question, which is also linked to the early radio-carbon date of the wood from the sceptre. The presence of these trace-elements has been held both to exclude modern electrolytic gold41, and to prove that this is what the Bernstorf objects are made of42. There are still rather few comparanda for the composition of early gold; only a handful of Bronze Age artefacts from Northern Europe are made of such pure gold, notably the Moordorf disk, which also has similar decoration43. However, such gold is known from the handle of a Mycenaean sword from Chamber Tomb 12 (the ‘Cuirass Tomb’) at Dendra in the Argolid; the tomb was closed in LH IIIA 1, but the sword may be LH IIB. This was pure except for 0.01% silver, 0.13% bronze, 0.002% tin, and 0.017% platinum44. The gold matrix of the mask of Tutankhamun is 97–98% pure by weight45. A finger-ring from Amarna is 98.2% pure46, while the gold in the so-called ‘coffin of Akhenaten’ found in the Valley of the Kings (KV 55) is 99% pure47, but differs in other respects48. For paucity of comparative data, we simply do not yet know how pure Bronze Age gold could be49. Lack of comparative data also hinders the determination of the origins of central European and Mycenaean gold50; the latter has been linked with Transylvania, Nubia, or possibly the Black Sea.51

The amber is succinite from the Baltic52. When at the Museum Object B was first removed from the matrix of local sand and clay in which it was found, it looked like new. Freshly cut amber fluoresces strongly under ultra-violet light, and this phenomenon lasts for ten to twenty years of exposure to light and air. When both pieces were examined shortly after they were found they fluoresced very faintly53. However, examination of other pieces of amber found in an excavation at Ilmendorf near Ingolstadt showed that they too all fluoresced faintly, whereas no fluorescence was seen in any of over a hundred pieces of Roman and Bronze Age amber in the Archäologische Staatssammlung which had been out of the ground for between thirty years and a century. Rather than prove these items to be forgeries, the comparison shows that the amber was relatively fresh when it was buried, and that its fluorescence was preserved by its burial54. Like the gold and amber from the cache, the two inscribed objects show traces of burning and melting. The lack of reoccupation at Bernstorf until the Hallstatt period suggests that the destruction of its fortifications provides a terminus ad quem for the artifacts found there. The hoard of gold and the carved amber objects were perhaps buried for safety by their owner or owners, never to be recovered, before the fortifications were fired, or were rescued from the fire and interred shortly thereafter.

2. Reactions to the discoveries

Kristiansen and Larsson, in a wide-ranging study of travel and trade in the European Bronze Age, accept the authenticity of the finds at Bernstorf and regard them as an important support for the thesis that there were extensive contacts in LH II–IIIA (1500–1300 BC) between Scandinavia and the Tumulus Culture of southern Germany on the one hand, via the Adriatic, with the eastern Mediterranean on the other55. As they note, the Uluburun shipwreck of c. 1305 contained both Baltic amber and an Italian sword56, as if amber routes via Central Europe and Italy were still operative57. However, the finds at Bernstorf were too outlandish and remote for them to have attracted much notice from scholars of the Aegean Bronze Age, a field which has seen some notorious forgeries and hoaxes58. Our inability thus far to identify parallels for Linear B on seals, to interpret the inscriptions convincingly, and to account for the nature of these objects has contributed to their continuing obscurity. When they have been noticed, they have attracted profound scepticism59.

Since the discovery of Linear B inscriptions in a Bronze Age context so far from Greece is completely unparalleled, forgery has been alleged, on several grounds: the amber objects were found by amateur archaeologists in an unstratified context, incisions can easily be made in amber, and assessing the condition of amber is a complicated question; convincing ‘antiquities’ made of it are not hard to create, and unworked amber was frequently found at the site60. Moreover, the discovery came at a convenient time to lend publicity to a book about the recent find of the cache of gold from the same site61. But it does not suffice to argue ‘was nicht sein darf, kann es nicht geben’, nor to try to impugn the integrity of their discoverers when there are no grounds for doing so62. Nor is it a valid objection to authenticity that the Bavarian amateurs have sometimes confused Minoan and Mycenaean in their publications63, and have made some far-reaching and probably exaggerated claims about their significance64. It should hardly need saying that wild comparisons and errors in popular publications do not in themselves constitute arguments that the objects under discussion are fakes (compare the Phaestus disc).

The reactions of Godart and Olivier to the inscriptions were mixed.65 Godart regarded the second and third signs on Object A as possibly Linear A, but rejected its overall authenticity. He would not have hesitated to accept the authenticity of Object B had it been found in a Bronze Age Aegean context, and read the signs as pa-nwa-ti. But he concluded that both were forgeries, because Object B was found with Object A, which he considered a forgery, because no amber seals are incised with Aegean scripts and only one seal is inscribed in Linear B (see below), and because they were found in Germany66. Upon learning, from further correspondence, of the previous discovery of the hoard of gold, he wrote that there can be no question of forgery in this case67. Olivier read the signs in Linear B as a symbol probably followed by ka-a on Object A, and as pa-nwa-ti on Object B. He too was astounded by the findspot, but moderated his scepticism after further correspondence.68

Apart from the possibility of forgery, three other reasons have been offered for rejecting the inscriptions from Bernstorf. First, if Object B is a seal its shape is unparalleled in the Minoan and Mycenaean corpora69. Secondly, if the parallels between the golden crown, the frontal portrait of a face on amber Object A, and the treasures from Grave Circle A at Mycenae, including the ‘Mask of Agamemnon’ from Shaft Grave V, are valid, these objects are much too early to be associated with Linear B70, which is first attested in the LM II or early LM IIIA 1 archive from the Room of the Chariot Tablets at Knossos71. Finally, although Linear B signs were freely written over sealings impressed on clay, ‘seals were not vehicles for Linear A and B. Nor was amber used for making them’72. However, these objections can be met.

First, although the shape of Object B (Fig. 4) is certainly unparalleled among Aegean seals, it may have been left largely in its natural shape. Object A largely retains its unworked shape.

Secondly, the gold is definitely to be dated after the Shaft Grave era on grounds of style, and perhaps too because of the purity of its composition. The similar composition of the gold wire found inside Object B seems to prove that the gold treasure and the inscribed amber were used together before their final depositions. Gold and amber were both worked in Room B of the palatial workshop at 14 Oedipus Street at Thebes in Boeotia73. If the goldwork were to be from the Aegean, its style does not match that of Late Middle Helladic and Early Mycenaean gold from the Argolid and Messenia, since both in Greece and in central Europe spiral and curvilinear decoration predominates at that time74. In this case, it was made later, perhaps in a peripheral area.

Thirdly, Linear B was certainly written on materials other than palatial clay tablets and Cretan stirrup-jars for trade in olive-oil. There must have been records on perishable materials, notably longer-term ledgers that correspond to the yearly records kept on the tablets75. The retention for two centuries or more of the curvilinear shapes of the signs, although they are written on clay, is a decisive proof76. Moreover, inscriptions on a sherd and on a stone weight have come to light at Dimini77. There are also a few connections between amber, seals, and Linear B. A single seal made of amber was found at Mycenae, an amygdaloid with grooved back showing a bull78; another probable specimen was found in a tholos-tomb79 at Pellana in Laconia dating to LH IIIA80, and a third in tholos-tomb 1 at Routsi (Myrsinochori) in Messenia (LH IIIA), which may have borne a rare frontal image of a human head81. Their existence shows that amber was sometimes worked after its arrival in Greece82. In addition, there is a Linear B inscription on a seal from a secure Mycenaean context. A lentoid seal now in the Museum at Delphi83, MED Zg 1 (Fig. 5), fully legible as Linear B, was found in the LH IIIC tomb 239 at Medeon in Phocis. Such items in LH IIIC tombs are often ‘heirlooms’, and naturally one suspects that it in fact dates from LH IIIA–B, when Linear B was still used84. It is published as ivory but is probably made of bone85. It has no figural decoration, but only the signs (reading from left to right) 𐀁𐀒𐀊 e-ko-ja, an unparalleled sign-group86. However, every sign in this inscription happens to be symmetrical about its vertical axis; a retrograde reading of the seal from right to left would give a dextroverse reading in the impression87. If the order of the signs is indeed reversed, they read 𐀊𐀒𐀁 ja-ko-e88. Both ja and e have medial as well as initial uses in sign-groups, but 𐀁𐀒𐀊 e-ko-ja is perhaps preferable, since 𐀁 e is more common as an initial sign. Unfortunately neither reading supplies the basis for any obvious interpretation, and neither evokes any obvious parallel in our present corpus of Linear B. We are probably dealing with an unknown personal name or conceivably toponym89. The interpretation of short sign-groups in this script is always far harder than that of longer ones, particularly in cases like these where there is no context to help determine the meaning90.

Fig. 4. Medeon, Phocis (Greece). Bone seal from tomb 239 with inscription in Linear B (CMS V 2 no. 415), Archaeological Museum Delphi.

3. A Fresh Approach

As was observed soon after the discovery91, all the signs in the inscription on Object B, 𐀞𐁅𐀴 pa-nwa-ti (Fig. 4), are symmetrical about their vertical axes, like those on the seal from Medeon (Fig. 5). They are therefore open to being read in either direction, either as a seal or as an impression. Although microscopic examination shows that the lines were engraved from left to right92, and left to right is the invariable direction in Linear B, we should be open to a sinistroverse reading, since the impression of the signs would inevitably be read in the normal direction from left to right. If we do reverse the sequence of signs, we obtain 𐀴𐁅𐀞 ti-nwa-pa (Fig. 6). This reading is still obscure, but it reminded Olivier of the ethnic adjective ti-nwa-si-jo that is well known in the Pylos tablets93.

I suggest that in fact there has been a mechanical confusion between two signs of similar shape. Experts on Linear B are even more wary than classical scholars of corrections to their texts94, because of the high level of uncertainty that the interpretation of Linear B involves, but this should not absolve them from considering intelligent emendations when ratio et res ipsa demand them; texts written in Linear B are no more exempt from error than those in any other script. As Ilievski showed, errors that depend on the confusion of sign-shapes do occur, and several other kinds of mistake, like the omission of a final syllable, are as verifiably frequent in the corpus95. In this case the intended inscription would have been 𐀴𐁅𐀵 ti-nwa-to rather than 𐀴𐁅𐀞 ti-nwa-pa, entailing the easy confusion between 𐀞 pa and 𐀵 to. Such errors are common in Linear B, and include 𐀙 na versus 𐀵 to96, 𐀞 pa versus 𐀫 ro97, and 𐀠 pi versus 𐀴 ti98, although not so far as I know 𐀞 pa versus 𐀵 to.

In this case 𐀵 to seems to have been changed into 𐀞 pa rather than the reverse. Magnification of the high-resolution image (Fig. 6) proves that the upper part of the vertical in 𐀞 pa was created as a separate incision,99 which was made in a different movement from the rest of the upright. This mode of writing it was normal among the scribes of Linear B100. Since the uppermost vertical is not crossed by the upper horizontal, which was incised from left to right, we cannot tell on that basis which line was cut first. However, since the uppermost vertical of 𐀞 pa projects above the apex of the sign 𐀴 ti that occupies the opposite, equivalent position on the oval flan, it breaches the symmetry of the engraving, in which the middle sign 𐁅 nwa ought to have projected above the signs on either side. Thus the mistake was probably caused by the engraver, who revised his opinion as to which sign he was meant to write, and altered his original 𐀵 to into 𐀞 pa101. Perhaps he was not himself literate, unlike the person who had written his exemplar; in Mycenaean Greece, a scribe was by definition literate but we have no evidence that craftsmen were. To the objection that, if the amber was originally a Mycenaean symbol of authority, such an error ought not to have escaped the notice of the ruler who commissioned it, I would reply that not all rulers of early societies were literate; the Mughal king Akbar was not, nor William I of England, to whom his rebellious son Henry I defended his bookish ways by saying ‘rex illiteratus, asinus coronatus’102. This mistaken correction, once made, could not have been reversed without ruining the precious amber. I conclude that the original reading was ti-nwa-to.

Fig. 5. Bernstorf, Lkr. Freising. Detail of amber object B. obverse , to show added upper line in the sign (Sign) pa and vertical asymmetry of this sign

The sign-group ti-nwa-to is not directly attested in the Linear B tablets, but the adjectives ti-nwa-si-jo (masculine)103, ti-nwa-si-ja (feminine nominative plural)104 and ti-nwa-ti-ja-o (feminine genitive plural)105 appear in the archive from Pylos. The alternation between -si-ja and -ti-ja must be owed to analogical levelling: toponymic adjectives ending in -tios or -thios first became –sios in Mycenaean, as in Attic Μιλήσιος from Μίλητος and Προβαλίσιος from Προβάλινθος, but then the dental was often restored by analogy with the noun, as in Attic Κορίνθιος from Κόρινθος and Knossian ra-su-ti-jo /Lasunthios/ from *Λάσυνθος ‘Lasithi’106. Hence the forms ti-nwa-si-jo and ti-nwa-ti-ja-o must be derived from a place-name that is not itself attested, but was at once reconstructed as *ti-nwa-to and tentatively recognized as a prehellenic toponym in -ανθος within the wider class of such toponyms in -ανθος, -ινθος and -υνθος107. Thus the place-name *Ti-nwa-to108 should be interpreted as /Tinwanthos/ or /Thinwanthos/109, and the corresponding adjective as /T(h)inwansios/ or /T(h)inwanthios/. Except for pe-ru-si-nwa ‘last year’s’, no Mycenaean word containing nwa has an Indo-European etymology110.

Let us briefly examine the pre-hellenic words in -ανθος111. The termination shows that the mountain-range Ἐρύμανθος or Ἐρυμάνθιον, now the Olonós on the north-west border of Arcadia, has a pre-hellenic name, as many mountains do. A settlement Ἐρύμανθος is said to have been the earliest name for Psophis, and the river Ἐρύμανθος flowed south-west from the mountains to join the Alpheus112. On Pylos tablet Cn 3.6 a contingent of U-ru-pi-ja-jo, a detachment of troops who were defending the coast and were stationed at O-ru-ma-to in the Hither Province, send an ox to Diwyeus, one of the officials called ‘Followers’ that liaised with the coastguard113. These same U-ru-pi-ja-jo, noted to be thirty in number, are described by the ethnic O-ru-ma-si-jo-jo on ‘coastguard’ tablet An 519114; this ethnic gives the place where they were based, whereas they are guarding the coast at a place called A2-te-po south of Ro-o-wa, which was also in the Hither Province115. The fact that the ethnic of O-ru-ma-to is O-ru-ma-si-jo, just as that of *Ti-nwa-to is Ti-nwa-si-jo, confirms that O-ru-ma-to ended in -ανθος.

O-ru-ma-to must be the same word as Ἐρύμανθος, with a different initial vowel, because the same fluctuation is seen in other words that appear to contain the same stem: the name of the Homeric warrior Ἐρύμας is read as Ὀρύμας by the T scholia116, and the toponym Ἔρυμνα in Pamphylia was also known as Ὄρυμνα117. But the coincidence does not prove that Pylian O-ru-ma-to was located near Mt Erymanthus118; on the contrary, the corresponding reference to O-ru-ma-to in the coastguard tablets appears between entries pertaining to contingents in the south of the Hither Province, between Ro-o-wa and Pi-ru-te119. Another name in -ανθος in the archive is Pu-ro Ra-wa-ra-ti-jo (Ra-u-ra-ti-jo), i.e. /Pulos Lauranthios/, on Pylos tablets Ad 664 and Cn 45120, which is apparently formed from *Lauranthos121. This town lay in the south-east quadrant of the Further Province122. The only place outside the Western Peloponnese that ends in -ανθος is the village of Πύρανθος near Gortyn in Crete, modern Pyrathi123. However, like the name Gortys or Gortyn, the name Pyranthos could of course have been taken from the Peloponnese to Crete, since Arcadian elements appear in the dialect of central Crete at Axos and Eleutherna.124 With Pyranthos compare Hittite Puranda, a village in Pisidia125.

The concentration of place-names in -ανθος in the Western Peloponnese suggests that *Ti-nwa-to was located there. The likeliest explanation for the limited distribution of such names is that the local dialect of the pre-hellenic language (and this dialect alone) either modified the vowel that precedes the ending or preserved its original vocalization. In the latter case this ending is more closely comparable to the ending -anda that is so widely attested in the ancient place-names of Western Anatolia126.

4. The people of *Ti-nwa-to at Pylos and Knossos

The socio-economic status of *Ti-nwa-to and its inhabitants within the kingdom of Pylos has not been investigated, but turns out to have been peculiar.

*Ti-nwa-to was not among the sixteen major towns of the kingdom; only its ethnic attests its existence. At least two men identified by the ethnic Ti-nwa-si-jo were members of the Pylian élite. First, on tablet Fn 324.12 a certain A-ta-o Ti-nwa-si-jo, probably /Antāos/, receives an allocation of barley, perhaps in order to attend a religious festival127. On Jn 431.23 a man named A-ta-o is identified as a bronze-smith with no allotment of bronze, on An 340 a certain A-ta-o contributes or controls fourteen men, and on Vn 1191 the name appears in the genitive as A-ta-o-jo. Some or all of these further references may be to the same person, but this is uncertain128. As there was a man named A-ta-o at Knossos also (L 698), the name may have been common.

Secondly, a holding of land belonging to Ti-nwa-si-jo, which means ‘man’ or ‘men’ of *Ti-nwa-to, is recorded in tablet Ea 810129. The word may well be a name, since a singular proper name is expected here130. If, however, the name was used as an ethnic to describe an important individual from the town, it may describe the A-ta-o of Fn 324, the ‘governor’ Te-po-se-u (see below)131, or a third unidentified person132.

Thirdly, *Ti-nwa-to had a local leader or ‘governor’ (ko-re-te), whose name was Te-po-se-u. That a place which was not among the sixteen tax districts should have a ‘governor’ is not unparalleled; tablet Nn 831 mentions a ko-re-te who was probably in charge of the town of Korinthos133. Te-po-se-u appears twice. On tablet Jo 438, he is required to contribute towards the 5–6 kg of gold that the palace wished to collect for some purpose134. With ten others he is assessed for the standard amount of 250 g, the second-largest quantity listed, twice as much as the amounts for seven major towns. His gold never reached the palace, since there is no check-mark against his entry. His name recurs without a title or ethnic in tablet On 300, which records distributions or contributions135 of commodity *154, probably leather hides, among the governors of all the towns in both Provinces. Because the title ‘governor’ is given in eleven of the thirteen surviving entries, we can be sure that the same man is meant. His amount is the standard 3 units (the largest quantity is 6).

Chadwick well interpreted Te-po-se-u as /Thelphōseus/, comparing the toponym Τέλφουσα or Θέλπουσα;136 more precisely, Te-po-se-u would have been /Thelphonseus/ in Mycenaean Greek.137 This name certainly comes from the toponym Thelpousa or Telphousa; both forms are derived from *Θέλφονσα < *Θέλφοντyα ‘Place of diggings’138, with different dissimilations of the aspirates according to Grassmann’s Law139. The first is the spring Telphousa near Haliartus in Boeotia140. Ιn addition, a town of this name was located on the river Ladon in N.W. Arcadia141, but its location may have moved since Mycenaean times, since many Pylian place-names appear in Arcadia142; I suspect that they were taken thither by refugees from the collapse of the Pylian kingdom, since the Mycenaean dialect of the tablets survived in Arcadia into the historical period. In classical times two other place-names from Mycenaean Pylos are found in N.W. Arcadia—Erymanthus and Lousoi (see §5 below). In addition, Pausanias records that a river Ἁλοῦς flowed below Thelpousa143, whereas the coastguard tablets mention a place A2-ru-wo-te /Halwons/, i.e. Ἁλοῦς, in the north of Hither Province near Ku-pa-ri-so and O-wi-to-no144. Since the river’s name, from *ἁλόϝεντ-ς, means ‘salty’145, the Pylian location on the coast was probably the original one.

In addition, the lists of personnel who worked for the palace suggest that nine of its women were dependent on it and are recorded among sets of tablets that otherwise tally slaves. The Ad series records the children of about 750 women at Pylos who were working in various humble professions146. Tablet Ad 684 lists the seven children, two adult and two under age, of weavers from *Ti-nwa-to147. The same women, stated to be nine in number, reappear in tablets Aa 699148 and Ab 190149, where they have seven and three children respectively. The other groups of women at Pylos in these three sets of tablets, Aa, Ab and Ad, are identified either by their professions alone, or by toponyms, and their husbands are never referred to150. Where the toponyms can plausibly be identified, as most of them have been, they are almost all located far away on the coasts and islands of the Aegean151, as if they were captured in the kind of piracy or raiding that forms the background to Homer’s Iliad. The women in these series include women of Cythera (ku-te-ra3)152, Carystus (ka-ru-ti-je-ja)153, the Euripus (e-wi-ri-pi-ja)154, Chios (?) (ki-si-wi-ja)155, Asia/Aššuwa (A-*64-ja = A-swi-ja)156, Lemnos (ra-mi-ni-ja)157, Miletus (mi-ra-ti-ja)158, Cnidus (ki-ni-di-ja)159, and Halicarnassus (?) (Ze-pu2-ra3)160, alongside the unplaced ko-ro-ki-ja161 and Ti-nwa-si-ja162. This pattern immediately suggested that they had come to the palace as slaves, especially since they seem to have no husbands163. Chadwick proposed that they were named after the slave-markets in which they were purchased164, like the one on Lemnos in which Priam’s son Lycaon was sold165. However, historical parallels for such a nomenclature are lacking; they ought to have been known by their ethnic origins, like the Carian or Phrygian slaves of classical antiquity. Some are probably called ‘captives’: on tablets Aa 807 and Ad 686 twenty-six or twenty-eight of these women are described as ra-wi-ja-ja /lāwiaiai/, which is more likely to mean ‘captives’, from λεία (Ionic ληΐη, Doric λαΐα) ‘booty’166, than ‘harvesters’ from λήϊον ‘harvest’167. The fact that these women are explicitly called ‘captives’ might imply that the others were not, but more probably means that their ethnic origins were mixed or unknown. In any case, the others were treated like them168.

That women from *Ti-nwa-to are among these alien women is a remarkable oddity that ought to have been noticed long ago. Tritsch did so notice it, and deduced from it that the women in these documents cannot have been slaves or captives: ‘the Ti-nwa-si-ja cannot possibly be captives, for they come from a Pylian township . . . whose ko-re-te brings a gold tribute about twice as large as those of the ko-re-te of Rouso, Pakijana, Akerewa, Karadoro, Timitija, Iterewa, Eree, etc.’169. Tritsch held that the women of *Ti-nwa-to cannot represent a population cleared out of their town by the Pylian king himself170: ‘the Pylian fleet, however large, did not aimlessly raid Pylian townships to bring Pylians as captives to Pylos’171. To our way of thinking, if these women came from within the kingdom they certainly should not have been slaves. However, at Od. 4. 174–7 Menelaus tells his guests that he had thought of ‘sacking a city’ (πόλιν ἐξαλαπάξας) of people ‘in Argos’ (ἐν Ἄργεϊ) who ‘dwell round about, and are ruled by me’ (περιναιετάουσιν, ἀνάσσονται δ’ ἐμοὶ αὐτῷ), in order to hand it over to his foreign ally Odysseus and all his retinue; evidently he did not actually do so. Yet, although we do not know whether actual Mycenaean kings ever behaved so ruthlessly towards their own subjects, we cannot exclude it.

Instead Tritsch suggested that all these women were refugees or persons displaced by recent disturbances, who had fled from more exposed places in or beyond the kingdom and were gradually being found employment under emergency conditions within the palatial system shortly before the palace at Pylos was itself burned172. Such a situation existed at contemporary Ugarit, where women of Alašia (now proved to be Cyprus or in Cyprus, and at the time allied to the king of Ugarit) were taken in as refugees before that city too was destroyed173, apparently by an attack of the ‘Šikalayu who dwell on ships’174. This hypothesis has been rejected on the basis that there was no disorder in the Aegean at this time175 (this begs the question), that the terminology for the textile-workers is the same as at Knossos, where no state of emergency is documented, that these records cover more than twelve months, and that the women ought to have been dispersed for their safety176. Can this possibility be excluded?

The women of *Ti-nwa-to are exceptional in that they not only come from within the kingdom, but also have husbands. The scribe of Ad 684 adds on the edge that their children were ‘sons of the rowers at A-pu-ne-we’, a port in the Hither Province177. Chadwick called this addition ‘very remarkable, as being the only instance where the fathers of the children are mentioned’178. That the women and children were not living with their husbands confirms their humble status179, but their husbands’ existence was acknowledged by the palace in this afterthought, and suggests that the women did not have exactly the same status as other female workers employed by it. The sons of some of the other women were also rowers: thus forty men from the port Da-mi-ni-ja in the Further Province are listed as Da-mi-ni-jo among the rowers on An 610.13, and Ad 697 records ‘at Da-mi-ni-ja the sons of the linen-workers, being (?) rowers’180. If any of these women were displaced persons rather than slaves, it is the women of *Ti-nwa-to, since they, alone among such women, are recorded to have had husbands as well as sons. These men were serving as rowers at A-pu-ne-we; seven men were sent from A-po-ne-we, which is the same port, to Pleuron in tablet An 12, and An 19 lists thirty-seven rowers there. Can it be coincidence that the latter tablet includes men called po-si-ke-te-re ‘suppliants’, ’refugees’ or ’immigrants’, beside za-ku-si-jo ’Zacynthians’, ki-ti-ta’settlers’, and me-ta-ki-ti-ta ’new settlers’, who held land in exchange for service in the fleet181? There is no indication, however, that the rowers who were married to the women of *Ti-nwa-to owned any land182.

In the kingdom of Knossos women from a place called Ti-wa-to are listed among over a thousand female workers in the textile industry who were dependent on the palace. Tablet Ap 618 tallies five or more Ti-wa-ti-ja183. I suggest that Ti-wa-ti-ja may be a graphic variant of Ti-nwa-ti-ja /Tinwanthiai/, which is of course a variant of Ti-nwa-si-ja /Tinwansiai/ (above, §3); the n at the end of the first syllable would be omitted in accord with the usual orthographic conventions of Linear B, in which the sign nwa is exceptional184. Such is the length of the sign-group that a coincidence seems unlikely185. These women belong to, or are attributed to, two powerful members of the palatial élite, /Anorquhontās/ and /Komāwens/ (both often appear in the main archive from Knossos)186, together with a certain We-ra-to187. They are stationed at an otherwise unrecorded place called A-*79188. The tablet adds that two further women, who bear the names I-ta-mo and Ki-nu-qa189, are missing (/apeassai/) from two places that are familiar from the archive, Do-ti-ja and *56-ko-we190. Like the Pylian weavers from *Ti-nwa-to, they manufactured textiles191. Their status as corvée labourers, refugees, or slaves is clear.

To explain why women of *Ti-(n)wa-to are recorded in the main Knossian archive one might suggest that there was another place called Ti-(n)wa-to, not the one referred to in the Pylian archive. Normally one would not want to multiply entities unnecessarily. However, many prehellenic place-names recur in different regions of Greece, such as Leuktron and Orchomenos in Arcadia and Boeotia, Thebai in Boeotia and Phthiotis, or Korinthos in the Further Province and on the Isthmus192; so there could have been two places with this same name. However, if these women came from the Pylian *Ti-nwa-to, this would have startling implications, since the coincidence might support the latest possible dating of the main archive at Knossos, i.e. within LM IIIB. Although this dating is currently out of favour, it is yet to be decisively disproved193.

5. The location of *Ti-nwa-to

No later toponym in the Peloponnese, or indeed anywhere in Greece, corresponds to or resembles *Ti-nwa-to, whether in ancient, Medieval or modern times. Even were one attested, this would not in itself establish where *Ti-nwa-to was. Place-names often changed their location over time, above all the case of Pylos itself, which formerly lay under Mount Aigaleon (Mycenaean /Aigolaion/) at Ano Englianos, as the tablets prove, then in classical times at Coryphasium on the north side of the bay of Navarino, and now on its SE side, not to mention the traditions about other places further north in Triphylia that were also called Pylos194. Again, in classical times there was a place called Leuctrum in the Outer Mani south of Kalamata, i.e. beyond the E. boundary of the Further Province, the river Nedon, yet in the Pylian archives Re-u-ko-to-ro was a major town within the kingdom195. Again, the Ro-u-so /Lousoi/ south of Pylos in the Hither Province has the same name as classical Λουσοί in northern Arcadia east of Mount Erymanthus196. As we saw in §4, many place-names may have been taken to Arcadia by refugees from the Pylian kingdom, and there is a notable concentration of such names around Mount Erymanthus.

The geography and frontiers of the Pylian kingdom have proved surprisingly hard to reconstruct with confidence197. This is owed to two factors. First, there was a radical discontinuity in settlement at the end of the Bronze Age, when the number of settlements in Messenia declined massively198. The region changed its dialect from Mycenaean, the closest ancestor of Arcado-Cypriot, to West Greek, or Doric, a change which has seemed to many hard to explain without an influx of new people199. The discontinuity is compounded by poor sources for Messenian history in the classical period and the high proportion of Slavic toponyms200. Thus the list of nine towns in the Homeric Catalogue of Ships notoriously fails to correspond to the towns in the Pylian tablets201. and Strabo claims that Nestor’s Pylos was in Triphylia202. Secondly, the Linear B tablets were created as economic records: the network of settlements underlying them has to be deduced from their sequence in the documents, their recorded products, and the links between them, and some of these links may be hierarchical or arbitrary rather than simply geographical203. To relate them to archaeological remains on the ground, in the absence of inscriptions that tell us the names of their findspots, is even harder204.

All scholars agree that the kingdom was divided into two provinces, the Hither Province and the Further Province, by the mountains called /Aigolaion/ by the Mycenaeans and Αἰγαλέον by Strabo, and that the Hither Province lay to the west, the Further Province to the east, with its eastern border on the river Nedon205. The relative locations of places in the Hither Province close to Pylos and further south are also fairly secure, since it is agreed that they are listed from north to south206. However, the location of the northern border of the Hither Province seems less certain: did it lay in the Soulima (Kyparissia) valley, or on the river Neda, or yet much further north on the river Alpheus207?

Two main arguments have been advanced for restricting the Pylian kingdom to Messenia. First, for security and ease of communications its capital ought to have been centrally located; however, one may contrast, for instance, Britain, France, Germany, Russia, or the United States)208. Secondly, few Late Mycenaean settlements are known between the Soulima valley and the Alpheus, with a particularly noticeable gap at the Neda; however, this is an argumentum e silentio, since Triphylia is not well explored209. The best evidence for the river Neda is that the commander of the northernmost command on the ‘coastguard’ tablets (the An series) is named Ne-da-wa-ta /Nedwātās/, a name formed from ‘Neda’210. But even the first securely located place in the north-south series of towns in the Hither Province, ku-pa-ri-so (PY Na 514), which is thought to correspond to modern Kyparissia, refers to a tree that must have been very common in the landscape; therefore its location does not seem secure211. The northernmost town in the Hither Province, 𐀠𐁚 Pi-*82, may have been inland; it does not appear on the ‘coastguard’ tablets, what that fact is worth. If Pi-*82 is to be read Pi-swa212, as is likely, its name is ‘Pisa’ like the later Pisa near Olympia on the Alpheus; its products, sheep and flax, might suit the latter location213, but these products were widespread in Mycenaean Messenia too. The second town in the Hither Province, Me-ta-pa, was on the coast214 and rich in barley and textile production215; on tablet Cn 595 it is next to a place Ne-de-we-e, which is properly linked with the name of the River Neda and likely to be near it216. Both centres controlled sizable territories217. Me-ta-pa reappears as the name of an otherwise unknown town called Metapa that is attested by a treaty of the early 5th century BC, found at Olympia, between τὸς Ἀναίτ[ς] καὶ τὸ[ς] Μεταπίς218. Since this pact is in Elean dialect and officials at Olympia were to oversee it, like the treaty between the Eleans and their neighbours the Ἐϝαοῖοι219, this Metapa was not the town of the same name in Acarnania220 but must have been in the western Peloponnese. Classical Metapa was, perhaps, south of classical Pisa221. The coincidence that Pisa and Metapa were located near to each other in the classical period reduces the odds that their collocation in the tablets is random, and makes it possible that these place-names were in much the same area in Mycenaean times, or that they were both taken to Elis by refugees from the same region in the Pylian kingdom. Dyczek puts Bronze Age Metapa at Kato Samikon, and Lukermann and Eder locate it at or near Kakovatos222. However, most scholars continue to locate Mycenaean Pisa and Metapa south of the River Neda223. We shall shortly see that Metapa also had ties to the North West sector of the Further Province.

Tritsch held that *Ti-nwa-to lay in the Further Province, probably on the Messenian Gulf rather than inland on the Laconian border224. Chadwick supposed that it was not fully part of the Pylian state, but ‘a distant possession (colony or island?) which was administratively attached to the Further Province’225. He later rejected the idea that it was an island: ‘it must have been of some size, since its assessment for gold on Jo 438 is one of the higher ones on the list. There are only two islands within easy reach of Pylos which are large enough, Zakynthos and Kythera, both of which appear to be mentioned on the tablets under these names’226. Deriving *Ti-nwa-to from *στενϝός, he suggested instead that it was in ‘the hill country immediately to the north of the Messenian valley’, i.e. above the Stenyclarus plain227; whatever the merits of this location, the proposed etymology is unconvincing228. Finally, evidently still perplexed, he proposed that it was in a part of the Mani, i.e. the east coast of the Messenian Gulf, that was not accessible by land from the kingdom’s eastern frontier229. Thus Agamemnon offered Achilles as a dowry seven towns in a peripheral area outside the kingdom of Nestor in the Outer Mani, i.e. the east coast of the Messenian Gulf230. This region was hard to reach overland from Kalamata until a generation ago; historically the Mani has always resisted subordination to centralizing powers. But better arguments can be made by reexamining the tablets.

The sequence of entries in the tablets provides several clues to the location of *Ti-nwa-to. Unfortunately tablet Jo 438, recording the gold-tax on governors and vice-governors, does not itemise the towns in the usual order, and mixes up towns from the two Provinces231. It lists the governor of *Ti-nwa-to between entries for the first town from the Further Province, namely e-re-e (/Helos/ ‘marsh’), and the last town of the Hither Province, Ti-mi-ti-ja232. The location of these places depends on the organization of the four tax-districts of the Further Province in the Ma series of flax-tablets (Table 1), in which the Pamisos is the north-south division, and the Skala hills the east-west233.

Table 1. The tax districts of the Further Province on the Ma tablets (after Chadwick 1973a).

Thus Jo 438 mentions the governor of *Ti-nwa-to between tax districts b1 and a2 of Table 1. This is puzzling, since in the standard reconstruction these districts are not adjacent. Ti-mi-ti-ja or Te-mi-ti-ja (/Terminthia/?) is the same as Ti-mi-to-a-ke-e, i.e. /Tirminthōn ankos/ ‘glen of terebinth trees’234, a coastal town on the western border of the Further Province; it has often been identified with the major settlement at Nichoria (Rizomylo)235, Chadwick showed that, since on tablet Cn 595 sheep from the station at E-ra-te-re-wa in district b2 are recorded as at Metapa in the north of the Hither Province, districts b2 and a2 are likely to be in northern rather than southern Messenia. Hence Za-ma-e-wi-ja and the other towns in its district are in the N.E. quadrant of the Province. Helos is listed after Za-ma-e-wi-ja on tablet Jn 829; it does not appear in the Ma series, but has its place taken by E-sa-re-wi-ja, and is also likely to be in the N.E. quadrant236. There are links on tablet Aa 779 between A-te-re-wi-ja and Metapa, on An 830 between A-te-re-wi-ja and Pi-*82 (/Piswa/?), the northernmost town of the Hither Provice, and on Ma 225 between Pi-*82 (/Piswa/?) and Re-u-ko-to-ro /Leuktron/, an important place in the further province237. Hence Helos is split into two in the Ma texts, and may have had ties to both northern tax districts238; it was probably the marshes at the source of the River Pamisos between both districts239.

Tablet On 300, transactions involving the governors of all the towns in both Provinces in commodity *154, probably hides, is also helpful in locating *Ti-nwa-to. The name of its governor, Te-po-se-u, is the final entry, after the governors of two towns that belong to the Further Province, namely a-si-ja-ti-ja ko-re-te ‘the governor of Asiatia’ and [e-re-o du]-ma ‘the official of Helos’240. Again, exactly as on Jo 438, the entry for *Ti-nwa-to appears with that for Helos.

This seems the best clue to the location of *Ti-nwa-to. It lay inland, on or over the northern borders of the Further Province, close to Helos. Whether the kingdom’s northern frontier lay on the Alpheus, or (more probably) on the Neda itself, *Ti-nwa-to must have been located in the northernmost districts of Messenia or in what one can call southern Triphylia or south-western Arcadia.241 Although Chadwick rejected most of the suggestions for locating Pylian place-names in Arcadia, he conceded that the Pylians may have occupied ‘the extreme south-western fringe of Arcadia, so as to control the few passes leading into Messenia’242.

The interior of southern Triphylia, i.e. south-western Arcadia, was so poor that it was famous for its mercenaries in historical times243. It is so lacking in fertile land that it can hardly have been any richer in the Bronze Age. Cooper has shown that Apollo Epikourios was worshipped in Ictinus’ temple at Bassae, with all its military dedications, as god of mercenaries (ἐπίκουροι)244. Such poverty may explain why women of *Ti-nwa-to went or were taken to Pylos and perhaps to Knossos to work as weavers alongside slaves from afar.

6. From the Peloponnese to Bavaria: some hypotheses

If the amber from Bernstorf was incised with Linear B in the western Peloponnese, how did it reach Upper Bavaria, and why? Even in the Middle Bronze Age, valuable artifacts could travel vast distances245. One can only offer hypotheses, since it is not clear on what basis we could decide between them, but at least only a limited number of them are available; considering them will shed light on several aspects of Mycenaean long-distance relations. If these objects are genuinely from Mycenaean Greece, they must either have been traded by Mycenaeans, taken from them by force, or paid by them for services of some kind, the most obvious of which is service in a force of mercenaries. They could then of course have been traded great distances, as far as Bernstorf, by other intermediaries. Let us start with trade.

Vianello proposed that the amber objects from Bernstorf were tokens sent from Greece along the trade-route for amber to ask for ‘more of the same’, and that the signs (which he does not interpret) signify ‘some commercial agreement’246. Indeed, names on the inscriptions could perhaps have functioned as guides to illiterate merchants or travellers; once they went back to Greece, they could have shown the inscriptions to literate officials in order to find the place or the person that they were seeking. We simply do not know how Mycenaean trade with such remote regions operated.

The piece of gold wire found deep within the suspension-hole of Object B247, which links it with the gold treasure (see §1 above), suggests that this item was at some point worn by a member of the Mycenaean élite, presumably around the wrist like the seal seen in the fresco from the shrine of the Citadel House at Mycenae (Fig. 7)248. A young man buried in a wooden coffin in a chamber-tomb in the agora at Athens in LH IIIA1 wore an amygdaloid amber bead and a seal around his wrist249. Could the gold and amber have been insignia of office, carried by rulers or lesser officials like the ko-re-te-re to enhance their authority? We are not certain what Mycenaean symbols of royal authority looked like, but it is easy to suppose that the crown and sceptre in the Shaft Graves were such regalia250. One may compare the famous LM I seal-impression from Khania which shows a large and muscular male figure holding a staff and standing on top of a two-gated city.251 For a sceptre, such as would be borne by a σκηπτοῦχος βασιλεύς, one may compare the celebrated sceptre made of enamelled gold from Kourion in Cyprus,252 or those of gold and of ivory wrapped in gold from Shaft Grave Circle A at Mycenae.253 Amber was rare and highly prized254, no doubt for its electrical properties, which would have been considered magical, as well as for its golden colour and beauty. Could the bearded face on the ‘obverse’ of Object A even depict the ruler of *Ti-nwa-to?

Fig. 6. Mycenae (Greece). Detail of fresco from the Citadel Jouse Mycenae. Archaeological Museum Mycenae.

A variation on trade is that these objects became obsolete for some reason and sent to remote Bernstorf as diplomatic gifts. If political reorganization or conflict led to a diminished status for *Ti-nwa-to, perhaps its precious insignia of power, if this is what the amber and golden objects were, came to need a safe and lucrative disposal. Although scholars assume that the great increase during LH IIIA–IIIB1 in the size and number of settlements in the central regions of Mycenaean Greece indicates a time of general peace, archaeological and textual evidence points to the expansion of the kingdom of Pylos in LH IIIA2 and trouble in peripheral areas255. A strong argument has been advanced, on the basis of both archaeological indications and internal evidence from the Pylian archives, that the Further Province was brought into the kingdom during LH IIIA2; Bennet dates its incorporation to between 1350 and 1300 BC256. The fresco from the megaron of Mycenaean warriors by a river fighting rustics clad in hides and armed only with daggers may depict such a conflict257. The authorities at Pylos could have converted the royal insignia of the subjected town of *Ti-nwa-to into material for a diplomatic gift-exchange and sent them, directly or indirectly, to remote trading-partners in contemporary Germany.

For such a scenario one may compare the collection of gems and cylinder-seals made of Afghan lapis lazuli which were found in a LH IIIB context at Thebes in the so-called Treasure Room on the Kadmeia Hill, where they had ended up as raw material in a Mycenaean palatial workshop258. The latest of the numerous Kassite seals from Babylon, some with dedications to Marduk, date stylistically from c. 1250 BC. Porada proposed that this cache was a diplomatic gift to the Thebans from King Tukulti-Ninurta I of Assyria, who would have taken it from Babylon after he pillaged the temple of Marduk there in 1225 BC259. This hoard, which included numerous heirlooms, would have had high value to the Assyrians. However, the seals were no longer usable for their initial purpose; the Assyrian king had nullified their utility as sources of power, and it became convenient, or even wise and necessary, to dispose of them safely as scrap. The solution adopted was to send them far away, presumably as part of a mercantile exchange so that no loss was incurred. If it were doubted whether the Assyrians would have wanted to establish a close relationship with Mycenaean Thebes by sending such an expensive gift260, one must remember the Hittites’ determination, expressed in the treaty between Tudḫaliya IV of Hatti and Šaušgamuwa of Amurru in Syria, to interdict trade between Tukulti-Ninurta I and the land of Aḫḫiyawa.261

Let us turn to the second possibility, that these materials were seized by force. The gold treasure represents about 46% by weight of the 250 g which, according to tablet Jo 438, the governor of *Ti-nwa-to was expected to send to the palace, but which did not arrive there in time to be recorded before the palace was destroyed (see §4). Were the treasures from Bernstorf that very same consignment, with the amber meant to make up the rest of the payment, seized during the catastrophe of c.1190 BC and then taken, either directly or indirectly, to Bavaria? This scenario would be part of a pattern of contacts between western Greece, Italy and the Adriatic that manifested itself from LH IIIB2 onwards in such phenomena as Naue II swords and fibulae262. That would entail that the enceinte at Bernstorf was burned far later than in c.1300, as archaeologists believe it was (see §1). But these materials could have been seized at some earlier date, perhaps in LH IIIA 2 when the Pylian kingdom was expanding263.

A final option is that these materials were brought to Bernstorf, whether directly or indirectly, after they had been paid to (or taken by) mercenaries in the service of the palace. Such warriors could carry treasures great distances, like the gold and ivory sword-hilt brought to Lesbos by the poet Alcaeus’ brother Antimenidas after he had served in Judaea under the Babylonians264. Chadwick already proposed that the Pylian levies of gold recorded on tablet Jo 438 were needed for buying off hostile forces or paying mercenaries265. Mycenaean warriors were depicted far away, both in Anatolia at Boğazköy and in Egypt at El Amarna266. Like their Near Eastern counterparts, the rulers of Pylos and Knossos both employed such forces267. Gschnitzer has shown that Mycenaean armies consisted of three elements: chariotry, the general levy of the /lāwos/ ‘host’, and specialized forces that were, at least originally, of foreign origin268. Driessen pointed out that contingents of such troops called Ke-ki-de, Ku-re-we (/Skurēwes/ ‘Scyrians’?)269, O-ka-ra* (o-ka-ra3) ’Oechalians’, and U-ru-pi-ja-jo* were serving at both Pylos and Knossos270. Moreover, Gschnitzer identifies the Pe-ra3-qo at Pylos as /Pe(r)raigwoi/ ‘Perraebians’ and the I-ja-wo-ne* at Knossos as /Iāwones/ ’Ionians’; neither group would have originated within their respective kingdoms271. We do not know where the other groups came from, but the various contingents of the coastguard at Pylos, collectively called e-pi-ko-wo272, are not named after the toponyms of Bronze Age Messenia. Chadwick deemed them ‘communities resident within the kingdom of Pylos but not part of the normal Greek population’, i.e. pre-hellenic subject groups273, but this does not account for the groups recorded at both Pylos and Knossos. According to the Na series of tablets, the Pylian contingents held flax-producing land and were associated with textile production274. The e-pi-ko-wo* on tablet As 4493 at Knossos, who like their Pylian counterparts appear with an e-qe-ta /hequetās/ ’follower’, were also associated with textile production275. In both kingdoms they apparently held land in exchange for military service276, like some of the rowers at Knossos and Pylos (rowers, of course, could also fight)277.

The coastguard tablets from Pylos bear the heading o-u-ru-to o-pi-a2-ra e-pi-ko-wo, i.e. /hō wruntoi opihala e-pi-ko-wo/ ‘thus the e-pi-ko-wo* are protecting the coast’278. Ever since the decipherment of Linear B, e-pi-ko-wo* has been read as ἐπίκο(ϝ)οι ‘watchers’279. The later word ἐπίκουρος, taken to mean ‘allies’ in Homer, has been derived from a cognate of Latin currō ‘run (to assist)’, from the Proto-Indo-European root *kors-280. This root, however, is otherwise unattested in Greek, and one can readily interpret e-pi-ko-wo as /epikorwoi/ ἐπίκουροι, from /korwos/ ‘boy’281. Melena proposed that e-pi-ko-wo* means ’those in charge of young apprentices’, taking the prefix epi-* as ‘over’282. However, if one understands epi- as ‘additional’ the compound would mean ‘extra lads’, i.e. ‘extra warriors’, which is perfectly acceptable in semantic terms283. Cooper proposed that the term evolved from ‘allies’ to ‘mercenaries’, which is its sense in late 5th century authors284. In fact it already means ‘mercenary’ in Archilochus285 and in the Iliad, even though the Trojans’ ἐπίκουροι are always translated ‘allies’286. However, Homeric ἐπίκουροι are clearly ‘mercenaries’ who are allies or ‘allies’ who are mercenary. Thus Hector points out to them that the Trojans’ payments of ‘gifts’ and provisions to them are excessive if they will not fight:

κέκλυτε μυρία φῦλα περικτιόνων ἐπικούρων· οὐ γὰρ ἐγὼ πληθὺν διζήμενος οὐδὲ χατίζων ἐνθάδ’ ἀφ’ ὑμετέρων πολίων ἤγειρα ἕκαστον, ἀλλ’ ἵνα μοι Τρώων ἀλόχους καὶ νήπια τέκνα προφρονέως ῥύοισθε φιλοπτολέμων ὑπ’ Ἀχαιῶν. τὰ φρονέων δώροισι κατατρύχω καὶ ἐδωδῇ λαούς, ὑμέτερον δὲ ἑκάστου θυμὸν ἀέξω.

‘Listen, you myriad tribes of allies who dwell round about: I did not gather each of you here from your cities because I needed or wanted a crowd, but for you to protect with zeal from the warlike Achaeans the Trojans’ wives and innocent children. To that end, I wear out my people with gifts and food, but nourish the pride of each one of you’287

These ἐπίκουροι ‘protect’ (ῥύοισθε) the city with exactly the same verb, wruntoi = ῥύ(ο)νται288, as on the heading of the coastguard tablets, /hō wruntoi opihala epikorwoi/. Again, Hector tells Poulydamas that they must capture the Achaeans’ ships because the city’s payments of gold and bronze have bankrupted the city:

πρὶν μὲν γὰρ Πριάμοιο πόλιν μέροπες ἄνθρωποι πάντες μυθέσκοντο πολύχρυσον πολύχαλκον· νῦν δὲ δὴ ἐξαπόλωλε δόμων κειμήλια καλά, πολλὰ δὲ δὴ Φρυγίην καὶ Μῃονίην ἐρατεινὴν κτήματα περνάμεν’ ἵκει, ἐπεὶ μέγας ὠδύσατο Ζεύς.

‘For once all articulate people used to call the city of Priam rich in gold and bronze. But now the fine heirlooms are perished from our halls; many are the possessions traded to Phrygia and lovely Maeonia, since great Zeus got angry’289

Thus ἐπίκουροι already connotes ‘mercenaries’ in the Iliad. Expeditionary troops were paid either by plundering cities, or, if they were on the defending side, by gifts of what would otherwise have been looted. Kings like Peleus and Menelaus could also give land within their kingdoms to foreign warriors like Phoenix and Odysseus, in the latter case with his retainers, in exchange for military service.290 We have seen that the situation was similar in the Bronze Age.

Thus ἐπίκουροι is the easiest interpretation of e-pi-ko-wo. Chadwick refused to interpret e-pi-ko-wo as ἐπίκουροι on the historical ground that the Mycenaeans would have been imprudent to employ alien ‘allies’ for anything but non-combatant duties291. However, the reliance of Late Bronze Age kingdoms on such troops is well documented. It was certainly imprudent if they contributed to the collapse of around 1200 BC, but imprudent actions are all too common in human history. In this case one should remember the Romano-Britons’ reliance on Germanic mercenaries for the defence of the ‘Saxon shore’ in eastern England, where these mercenaries eventually invited in their friends and relatives and took the country over292. The heading of Pylos tablet Cn 3 gives the troops of the coastguard the collective name me-za-na293, which is rightly read as /Metsānai/ ’Messenians’294. Does this not suggest that these warriors took control of the region after the fall of the palace and gave their name to it? This was certainly done by the Franks, who gave their name but not their language to France, and the Huns and Bulgars who did likewise to Hungary and Bulgaria. We should be alert to such possibilities.

As we saw in §5 above, *Ti-nwa-to was in southern Triphylia or south-western Arcadia, a region famous for mercenaries in historical times295. Such a location for *Ti-nwa-to is also attractive because it was rich in gold and amber—but not, of course, because these substances occurred there naturally. Large amounts of Baltic amber, as well as gold, appear in the tholos tombs at Pylos, Routsi (Myrsinochori), Koukounara, Peristeria, and above all Kakovatos, down to LH IIB296. The heyday of the traffic in amber was in LH I–IIA (as well as later, from c. 1200 BC onwards)297. It percolated through Mycenaean society more widely, but in smaller quantities, during LH IIIA–B; there is none from the Palace of Nestor298. Although some amber was still being traded by sea in c. 1305, since at least forty beads of Mycenaean type made of Baltic amber were recovered from the shipwreck at Uluburun299, it has been suggested that this was simply by a redistribution of the plenteous supplies which had arrived in Early Mycenaean times300. The tholos tombs at Kakovatos were extremely rich in both gold and amber, and surely some of them had already been robbed of their wealth by Late Mycenaean times.

The whole story may never be known, but the discovery of Linear B in Upper Bavaria opens a surprising new window onto the Mycenaeans and their far-flung connections.

7. Appendix: the Inscription on Object A

The text on Object A was assigned the number BE Zg 1. It is very obscure, since two of its three signs are unclear (Fig. 4), and there are high odds against achieving an assured interpretation of even two signs without a context.

The first sign | or ↾ looks like an upright arrow or spear with something of a point at the top, like the ideogram 𐃆 has ‘spear’ but with a different orientation. This upright can hardly be a word-divider, since it is too tall and redundant in the absence of a second sign-group. Might it be represent a sceptre, conceivably as a symbol of sovereignty or rank? We can compare the gold-wrapped wooden sceptre from Bernstorf: just as Object B seems to bear a representation of the crown with its five projections, so too Object A may represent the sceptre that was found with the crown. Thus this seems the best interpretation of this sign.

The second sign is the familiar wheel 𐀏 ka. One may also compare the ideogram 𐀏 rota.

The third sign Screen shot 2014-02-10 at 20 consists of a square, occupying the upper half of the sign, that is bisected by a single central vertical line which runs from the very top right down to the base-line, like the ideogram 𐂎 gra ’wheat’ but with straight sides. It is not 𐀷 wa, where the lateral verticals always continue to the bottom and the box is not bisected. The sign 𐀒 ko is once written φ by the scribe from wa-to in Crete who painted some stirrup-jars found at Thebes301, but this cannot be relevant, since our scribe could draw curves. The sign 𐁀 a2 always has distinct curves or, as in Hand 1 at Pylos, angles, and is never simplified to a box bisected by a vertical line. The Bernstorf sign does not correspond to 𐀀 a, even though many variants of this have a second horizontal above the first one, since in 𐀀 a the space between these horizontals is never bisected by the upright. It does correspond to the rare variant of the sign 𐀇 di which has a medial cross-bar in Hand 91 at Pylos302. In addition, the sign 𐀚 ne is very similar in Hand 11 at Pylos, but still has distinct curves to the side-bars that the Bernstorf sign lacks.

Its discoverer, Manfred Moosauer,303 read the inscription from left to right as 𐀈𐀏𐀕 do-ka-me, but this does not seem likely. Olivier suggested 𐀏𐀀 ka-a304, but the 𐀀 a would have had to be very badly written. The reading could be 𐀏𐀇 ka-di, but the sign-group is unparalleled in Linear B305. If this inscription too is dextroverse, it might read 𐀇𐀏 di-ka; the closest parallel in Linear B is Mount Dicte in Crete (di-ka-ta)306, but the match is poor. If the reading were 𐀀𐀏 a-ka, there is an obscure place called a-ka in the Knossos sheep tablets307, or the name /Arkas/ Ἀρκάς, the mythical founder of Arcadia, might be read. None of this is very convincing, and I suspect that the scribe was simply not very literate, which would not be so surprising if *Ti-nwa-to lay on the periphery of the Pylian kingdom, perhaps indeed in what was later called Arcadia.

Notes

  • * I warmly thank Rupert Gebhard of the Archäologische Staatssammlung in Munich, who kindly shared with me Figs. 2–5 and much other valuable information, Olga Krzyszkowska for Fig. 1 and for other help, and Helen Hughes-Brock, and two anonymous experts on Linear B for critical readings of this manuscript. I am also grateful to Margaret Beeler, Manfred Moosauer, Sarah P. Morris, and Malcolm Wiener. None of them necessarily agrees with my findings, which challenge the standard orthodoxies at multiple points.

    D. D. Klemm, in: Moosauer/Bachmaier 2000, 74. See also Gebhard et al. 2004.↩︎

  • Gebhard/Rieder 2002, 115–117. Moosauer/Bachmaier (2000, 71–72) gave calibrated 14C dates for the beams of 1675–1510, 1515–1410 and 1515–1330 BC; these must represent the interiors of the beams and date the construction too high. Hence Marazzi (2009, 142) gives the objects an excessively early terminus ante quem of c. 1350.↩︎

  • Moosauer/Bachmaier 2000, 67, who report that a nearby urnfield with bronze arrowheads and spearheads had already been found and destroyed during the building of a CD-factory in the 1980s; presumably these finds date from the Hallstatt reoccupation.↩︎

  • Moosauer/Bachmaier 2000, 61 with figs. 87–89; Gebhard et al. (2014, 763–765) confirm the circumstances of the finds.↩︎

  • Gebhard et al. 2014, 765–766.↩︎

  • David 2001, 70 Abb. 9.↩︎

  • Test-no. OxA–8361, uncalibrated date 2995 ± 40 bp, using the Oxcal calibration curve of 1986 (Gebhard 1999, 5).↩︎

  • For a parallel from Shaft Grave IV at Mycenae cf. Karo 1930, 81 Abb. 19 (no. 296).↩︎

  • Gebhard et al. 2014, 767.↩︎

  • C. Lühr, in: Bähr/Krause/Gebhard 2012, 30 with Abb. 25.↩︎

  • Gebhard 1999, 9; David 2007a, 435.↩︎

  • The best parallel for the triangles is the gold disc from Moordorf near Aurich in northern Germany (Gebhard 1999, Taf. 8), which is also made of 99.9 % pure gold with 0.1 % silver and 0.03% lead (Hartmann 1970, 108–109, item Au 1122). There are rows of hatched triangles on the gold lunulae from St Juliot in Cornwall and Mangerton in county Kerry (Schulz 2012, 114–115 with Abb. 11). In the Aegean there are hatched triangles on the gold sceptre from Shaft Grave IV at Mycenae (no. 308–309 in Karo 1930, 84, Abb. 20, Pl. XVIII), but the hatching is horizontal rather than diagonal; similarly the gold dress-ornament from Shaft Grave IV, no. 302 (Karo 1930, 81 Abb. 19, Pl. XLV). The triangles are hatched in opposite directions about a central divider on the button no. 325 from Shaft Grave IV (Karo 1930, Pl. LIX). There are alternating hatched triangles on a gold sword-attachment from Shaft Grave Λ (Mylonas 1972–1973, πίν. 125β).↩︎

  • Gebhard et al. 2014, 770–771, citing parallels from Germany and the Aegean.↩︎

  • Gebhard 1999, 12 with Abb. 10.↩︎

  • Hence Marazzi (2009, 142) gave the upper limit for their dating as c. 1600 BC.↩︎

  • David 2007a, 435–6.↩︎

  • Gebhard 1999, 5.↩︎

  • Gebhard et al. 2014, 767 with Abb. 3 (samples MAMS 16186, 16187).↩︎

  • Kristiansen/Larsson 2005, 204 fig. 94. For the distribution of diadems of sheet gold in the Aegean, and an argument that their use was not exclusively funerary, since a woman appears to be wearing one on a fresco from Xeste 3 at Thera, see Zavadil 2009, 101–103 with Abb. 6–7. A lozenge-shaped gold diadem with stamped circles and zigzags is known from Binningen near Basel (item Au 445 in Hartmann 1970, 106–107, with Taf. 41).↩︎

  • Gebhard 1999, 16; likewise David 2007a, 435–436.↩︎

  • David 2003, 38; 2007a, 435.↩︎

  • Gebhard 1999, 17; Bähr/Krause/Gebhard 2012, 38 with Abb. 33.↩︎

  • Analysis by M. Koller using gas chromatography (Gebhard 1999, 7 n. 11). Since the results were not published, the test is being repeated on other objects which also have this resin (Gebhard et al. 2014, 772).↩︎

  • Gebhard/Rieder 2002, 118–120 with Abb. 3. For their own account of the discovery see Moosauer/Bachmaier 2005, 99–131, 140–143.↩︎

  • Hughes-Brock (2011, 104) uses the comparison as an argument against the authenticity of the amber seal, suggesting that the forger copied the well-known ‘Agamemnon’.↩︎

  • Gebhard/Rieder 2002, 131. Hughes-Brock (2011, 104) interprets the resemblance as an argument against authenticity, as if the seals were created to authenticate the crown. However, there is a striking parallel for an interaction between the treasures in a hoard and the images found in them in the Tiryns Treasure, where a gold ring depicting a goddess holding a chalice was found, with the other objects, inside a highly unusual bronze chalice (Maran 2012, 123–124; 2013, 160).↩︎

  • Gebhard/Rieder 2002, 130–131, in consultation with J.-P. Olivier. BE stands for BE(rnstorf) and Zg indicates an inscription on amber rather than clay.↩︎

  • Gebhard/Rieder 2002, 129–130.↩︎

  • Bähr/Krause/Gebhard 2012, 37–38.↩︎

  • R. Gebhard, pers. comm., 1 March 2013. Herzig/Seim (2011, 121) report a range 1515–1330 BC for the timbers.↩︎

  • Herzig/Seim 2011, 121; Bähr et al. 2012, 19.↩︎

  • Bähr/Krause/Gebhard 2012, 38–39.↩︎

  • Bähr/Krause/Gebhard 2012, 37–38 with n. 89.↩︎

  • Gebhard/Rieder 2002, 126–128; Bähr/Krause/Gebhard 2012, 37; Gebhard et al. 2014, 772.↩︎

  • Cited by Diodorus Siculus 3. 11–12.↩︎

  • Gebhard 1999, 9–10.↩︎

  • This method has been proved to have used in sector Pactolus North, but it is often thought not to have been invented before that time: see Craddock 2000, 31–32, who argues that there was no motive for refining gold before the invention of coinage, so the method would not have been invented before (likewise Pernicka 2014, 251). But this is an argumentum e silentio, and earlier experimentation can hardly be excluded. Thus Craddock showed that treatments to enhance the surface of gold go back to the 4th millennium BC (2000, 27–30).↩︎

  • C. Lühr, in: Bähr/Krause/Gehard 2012, 27–30. The presence of sulphur and antimony, known in gold from Early Dynastic Egypt, may indicate that the gold derived from deposits of auriferous pyrites, which are often rich in these elements (Craddock 2000, 71 n. 68).↩︎

  • Gebhard/Rieder 2002, 125 Abb. 9.↩︎

  • C. Lühr, in: Bähr/Krause/Gebhard 2012, 28–30 with Abb. 23–25.↩︎

  • C. Lühr, in; Bähr/Krause/Gebhard 2012, 27–30.↩︎

  • Pernicka 2014.↩︎

  • Gebhard et al. 2014, 773; for its purity, and similarity to the Bernstorf gold, Pernicka 2014, 251–253 with Abb. 3; he notes however that it contains silver and platinum, as one would expect if it is a product of salt cementation. To the possibility that the Moordorf disk proves that salt cementation was used in the Bronze Age, Pernicka objects that it is dated even earlier than the gold from Bernstorf (2014, 253); this cannot be a decisive objection, and he himself seems not to exclude that the Moordorf disk is genuine (2014, 255).↩︎

  • Item Au 3249/3250 in Hartmann 1982, 31–36, 150, with Tab. 36; cf. Åström 1977, 18 with Taf. VII,2. However, Hartmann’s study by emission spectrography relied on scrapings taken from the objects’ surfaces, which could have been enhanced by surface treatment (Craddock 2000, 51 n. 32).↩︎

  • Uda et al. 2007, 75, who showed that the face itself has a veneer of alloy.↩︎

  • Troalen et al. 2009.↩︎

  • D.D. Klemm, in: Grimm/Schoske 2001, 81–85. See now Klemm/Klemm 2012, 44–46, with figs. 4.3–4.4.↩︎

  • Pernicka 2014, 251.↩︎

  • J. D. Muhly, pers. comm., Dec. 2013. Pernicka suggested that the gold is 99.99% pure, without the bismuth, and hence is from electrolysis and of modern origin (oral comm., conference Metalle der Macht: Frühes Gold und Silber, 17–19 Oct. 2013 at Halle). However, subsequent testing by K. T. Fehr has confirmed the original analyses, and detected an inhomogeneous distribution of bismuth up to 3000 ppm, a phenomenon familiar to him from placer gold (R. Gebhard, pers. comm., Dec. 2013). Further tests are being done. One question that needs further exploration is whether all the varieties of the salt-cementation process always remove bismuth and antimony, as has been suggested on the basis of experimental archaeology (Wunderlich/Lockhoff/Pernicka 2014).↩︎

  • There seem to be many possible sources, but the presence of mercury as a trace-element is unusual: see Lehrberger 1995. The earliest mined gold seems to have been from the eastern desert of Egypt (Weisgerber/Pernicka 1995, 177–178), where it occurs with mercury (El-Bouseily et al. 1983).↩︎

  • For references see Zavadil 2009, 111–112.↩︎

  • C. Lühr, in: Bähr/Krause/Gebhard 2012, 30–35.↩︎

  • Gebhard/Rieder 2002, 123, 125, 126.↩︎

  • Gebhard/Rieder 2002, 127–128.↩︎

  • Kristiansen/Larsson 2005, 125–128, 235–236.↩︎

  • Kristiansen/Larsson 2005, 101–102. For the finds see Yalçın/Pulak/Slotta 2005, 589.↩︎

  • See now Czebreszuk 2011, who does not, however, mention the items from Bernstorf; likewise Maran 2013.↩︎

  • I refer above all to the ‘late Middle Helladic’ inscribed pebble, OL Zh 1, found at Kafkania near Olympia in Elis (Arapojanni et al. 1999), which was discovered during the excavations of 1998 on April Fools’ Day – a highly suspicious datum (Palaima 2002–2003).↩︎

  • Harding 2006, 463–465, and 2007, 52; Del Freo 2008, 221–222; Hughes-Brock 2011, 105–106; Harding 2013, 10, who, however, remarks that ‘the gold finds from Bernstorf have an unimpeachable provenance’. Cf. Facchetti/Negri 2003, 185–186.↩︎

  • Hughes-Brock 2011, 106.↩︎

  • Hughes-Brock 2011, 106–107, referring to Moosauer/Bachmaier 2000.↩︎

  • Bähr/Krause/Gehard 2012, 37–38 with n. 89.↩︎

  • Hughes-Brock 2011, 104–105.↩︎

  • Hughes-Brock 2011, 106, citing Moosauer/Bachmaier 2005, 112–116.↩︎

  • They are reported (in German translation) by Gebhard/Rieder 2002, 128–131.↩︎

  • ‘Ich muß Ihnen sagen, daß ich — wäre dieses Objekt in der Ägäis, an einer bronzezeitlichen Fundstelle entdeckt worden — nicht gezögert hätte, die vorliegende Gravur für authentisch zu halten’ (letter to Gebhard, 12 Dec. 2000, in: Gebhard/Rieder 2002, 129).↩︎

  • ‘Es sich unmöglich um Fälschungen handeln kann’ (letter to Gebhard, 11 Mar. 2001, in Gebhard/Rieder 2002, 130).↩︎

  • Gebhard/Rieder 2002, 130–131.↩︎

  • Hughes-Brock 2011, 106.↩︎

  • Hughes-Brock 2011, 104.↩︎

  • On the date see Driessen 2008, 71–72.↩︎

  • Hughes-Brock 2011, 106 (cf. Godart and Olivier in: Gebhard/Rieder 2002, 129–130). She notes that seals were used for Cretan Hieroglyphic script, but does not address the fact that the sign-group read in Linear A as (j)a-sa-sa-ra also appears on Cretan Hieroglyphic seals (e.g. CMS VI 13); this fact surely proves that Linear A is simply the cursive version of Cretan Hieroglyphic, just as Hieratic is the cursive version of Egyptian Hieroglyphics.↩︎

  • Zavadil 2009, 105–106; Simeonoglou 1985, 231–233 (site 4).↩︎

  • David 2007a, 435 with fig. 8, showing that the Shaft Grave style is quite different from the Bernstorf goldwork; cf. David 2007b, 416.↩︎

  • So, e.g., de Fidio 2008, 82 n. 3; Duhoux 2008, 313.↩︎

  • So, e.g., Palaima 2011, 116, 124.↩︎

  • See Adrimi Sismani/Godart 2005; both objects are in the Archaeological Museum at Volos (for other inscribed sherds from Mycenae, Tiryns, Knossos and Chania see Killen 2011, 105). In the same region, at least three Linear B tablets have been found in the quarter Kastro-Palaia in Volos (Skafida et al. 2010). However, the symbolic wheels on the lintel of the tholos tomb at Kazanaki north of Volos seem purely decorative.↩︎

  • CMS I no. 154 (the database is on the internet at http://arachne.uni-koeln.de); cf. Krzyszkowska 2005, 239, no. 448. This is from Chamber Tomb 518, and is LH I–II in date.↩︎

  • Karachalios 1926, 44 describes a rock-cut tholos with a relieving triangle, but gives no plan or section.↩︎

  • Karachalios 1926, 43 fig. 3, with Harding/Hughes-Brock 1974, 164. Hughes-Brock (1985, 259 n. 26) thinks the description (ἑνὸς σφραγιδολίθου ἐξ ἠλέκτρου μετὰ δυσκρίτου παραστάσεως) is unclear, since ἤλεκτρον means ‘amber’ or ‘electrum’ in Greek, but electrum seems unlikely. The seal is not in CMS, and seems to have been misplaced in the Archaeological Museum of Sparta.↩︎

  • This was pierced and was perhaps a damaged spacer-plate (Harding/Hughes-Brock 1974, 155–156, 164, 166); it has been suggested that it bears an incised sign in Linear A or B (Deshayes/Dessenne 1959, 74), but this must remain doubtful. For a poor photograph see Marinatos 1957, Εἰκ. 1, who describes the design as ‘a skull with the lines of the palate’ (κρανίον μὲ τὰς γραμμώσεις τοῦ οὐρανίσκου), but also says that the whole design might be illusory; perhaps these lines were either side of the central design, like the hair depicted on either side of the rare frontal portrait which appears on a carnelian seal from the tholos tomb at Nichoria (McDonald/Wilkie 1982, Pl. 5–59, = CMS V no. 431). There is little resemblance to the other ‘portrait-heads’ that we find on a few well-known seals, since all of these are Minoan, show a high level of artistic talent and are much earlier: see Krzyszkowska 2005, 114–115 with no. 195, 121 with nos. 236–237.↩︎

  • Hughes-Brock 1985, 259.↩︎

  • No. Me/D 52, = CMS V 2 no. 415; cf. Müller 1997, 84–85 (with colour plate).↩︎

  • On such heirlooms cf. Krzyszkowska 2005, 271–273, 306. A recent example is the first Mainland Popular Group seal known from Laconia; this object, from a LH IIIC Early tomb at Ayios Stephanos, is dated to LH IIIA–B and became very worn before it was interred (item no. 7126 in French 2008, 458). For the distribution and significance of these seals see Eder 2007.↩︎

  • I thank Olga Krzyszkowska for this information.↩︎

  • Olivier Pelon with an excess of scepticism describes these as ‘Lineare Zeichen, Schriftzeichen imitierend’ (CMS loc. cit.), but the sole problem with reading them as Linear B is the oblique trident-shaped mark at the upper left side in the impression, which is unexplained.↩︎

  • Data on the direction of reading of signs in Aegean seals is scarce, since the only corpus is that of Cretan Hieroglyphic; seals can be read in either direction, with the direction of reading indicated by a special sign × (so already Evans 1909 (I) 251–253). In the earliest Cretan writing the direction of reading was probably boustrophedon rather than from left to right, as also in the earliest Cypro-Minoan text and in those from Ugarit (Janko 1987).↩︎

  • Olivier 1999, 434.↩︎

  • It has also been suggested that CMS VI no. 395, a haematite lentoid seal in the Ashmolean Museum stylistically dated to LH IIIA 1 or LH III A 2, bears a Linear B sign (see CMS ad loc.), namely the wavy line separating the two griffins that face each other over the bull, which might be interpreted as the ideogram 𐂕 ole ’oil’; but this interpretation seems unlikely.↩︎

  • Duhoux 2011, 10–14.↩︎

  • Gebhard/Rieder 2002, 131.↩︎

  • Gebhard/ Rieder 2002, 124, Abb. 8.↩︎

  • Letter of Olivier to Gebhard, 17 Dec. 2000, in: Gebhard/Rieder 2002, 130.↩︎

  • cf. e.g. Duhoux 2011, 8.↩︎

  • Ilievski 1965, 49–51.↩︎

  • e.g. *o-na-te-re ‘leaseholders’ written as o-to-te-re* in PY En 659.9 and possibly pi-ri-na-jo (KN C 911.1) for pi-ri-to-jo ’of Philistos’.↩︎

  • e.g. a-re-ro (PY Un 718.8) for a-re-pa ‘unguent’ and ro-we-a in KN X 5949 instead of pa-we-a ’cloths’.↩︎

  • e.g. e-ra-ti-ja-o (PY Un 1317) for e-ra-pi-ja-o ’of deerskin’ (Aura Jorro 1985, 237).↩︎

  • Gebhard/Rieder 2002, 124, with Abb. 8.↩︎

  • For the shapes see the tables in Olivier 1967 and Palaima 1988.↩︎

  • a-ro-to was at first misread as a-pa-to on KN Gg 5185.1. Ilievski (1965, 48) gives an extensive list of such errors.↩︎

  • William of Malmesbury, Gesta Regum Anglorum ii. 467.↩︎

  • This form appears in tablets PY Ea 810, nominative singular (perhaps a man’s name), Fn 324.12, dative singular (describing the man called a-ta-o), and Jo 438.21, nominative singular or genitive plural; see Tritsch 1957, 160–2.↩︎

  • See tablets PY Aa 699 and Ab 190, both in hand 1.↩︎

  • So tablet PY Ad 684 in hand 23 and perhaps Xa 633 in hand 13 (?) (ti-nwa-ti-[).↩︎

  • KN L(9) 761 (hand 213). The asterisk denotes a reconstructed linguistic form. Some have seen in the non-assibilated adjectival forms evidence for West Greek (i.e. Doric) in the Mycenaean archives (Nagy 1968, cf. Woodard 1986), but this interpretation of them is neither necessary nor desirable (so Hajnal 1997, 214–224), and independently Thompson 1998, 2002–2003.↩︎

  • Ventris/Chadwick 1956, 161. For discussion of such names see Georgiev 1961, 38–41.↩︎

  • I have deliberately departed from the convention that capitals are never used in transcribing Linear B. This convention arose out of caution, because it is often uncertain whether sign-groups are proper nouns; it makes perfect sense in our editions of reference. However, there is no reason to adhere to it in an interpretative article, and Ventris and Chadwick did not.↩︎

  • In theory it could be /(S)Tirnwanthos/ or /(S)Thirnwanthos/; it cannot have been /Dinwanthos/, since the script has a separate d-series of signs. Heubeck (1963, 16–17) instead interpreted the name of the town as Greek /Thinwantios/, from *thīnu̯ṇtii̯os ‘sandy’, a derivative of θίς ‘sand’; he is followed by García Ramón (2011, 240). But this does not explain the fluctuation between -asios and -atios, since he has to reconstruct the name of the town itself as *Thīnwon(t)s. Chadwick (1988, 83–84) tried to relate the name to *στενϝός and so perhaps to Στενύκλαρος in Messenia, but this is unconvincing on phonological grounds.↩︎

  • So Davies 2010, 517, with a complete list; she notes that most of them are attested at Knossos.↩︎

  • Ἄκανθος and Φάλανθον are irrelevant, since they are compounds of ἄνθος, which is of Indo-European origin. The cities called Ἄκανθος are derived from the common noun ἄκανθα; the Mycenaean man’s name a-ka-to on KN Dv 5256 and Sc 256, may perhaps be related, but may also be read as Ἀγαθός, Ἀγαθών, or Ἄκαστος (Aura Jorro 1985, 34). Similarly, from φάλανθος ‘bald’ comes the place in Thessaly called Φαλανθία, also transmitted as Φαλαγαθία, near Cypaera west of Lamia in central Greece (Ptol. Geog. 3. 12. 42), and the mountain called Φάλανθον and a town of the same name in Arcadia (Paus. 8. 35. 9). The man’s name pa-ra-ti-jo on KN C 914.A may be formed from this, but could instead be read *Παλα(ι)στιος (cf. Παλαίστη in Illyria). The name Μέλανθος is also in Mycenaean as me-ra-to on PY Jn 832.11 (Aura Jorro 1985, 437).↩︎

  • Charax FHG fr.7; Steph. Byz. s.v. Ψωφίς; cf. Paus. 8. 24. 3–4.↩︎

  • Tablet Cn 3.6 lists o-ru-ma-to u-ru-pi-ja-jo bos 1, under the heading jo-i-je-si me-za-na / e-re-u-te-re di-wi-je-we qo-o ‘thus the Messenians are sending oxen to inspector (?) Diwyeus’. Cf. Wa 917 (o-da-sa-to a-ko-so-ta / e-qe-ta e-re-u-te-re); for the meaning of e-re-u-te-re see Killen 2007, 264 and Nakassis 2010, 280. Diwyeus was a Follower (An 656.8–9).↩︎

  • An 519.10–12: a2-te-po de-wi-jo ko-ma-we / o-*34-ta-qe U-ru-pi-ja-jo / O-ru-ma-si-jo vir 30. At first scholars tried to relate these U-ru-pi-ja-jo to Ὀλυμπία: so still Eder 2011, 112. But the initial vowel makes this difficult, and P. B. S. Andrews’ interpretation /Wrupiaioi/ is better (Chadwick 1973b, 43); cf. perhaps classical Rhypes, Rhypai or Rhypaea in Achaea near Aigion.↩︎

  • Stavrianopoulou 1989, Beilage XVI. O-ru-ma-to remains in the Hither Province if we accept Lang’s proposal (Lang 1990, 123–125) that An 519 belongs immediately before An 661, which more effectively groups the places represented on tablet Cn 3. She is followed by Bennet 1999, 141 with table 3.↩︎

  • Σ Τ ad Il. 16. 345, τινὲς δὲ “Ὀρύμαντα” (perhaps from Didymus).↩︎

  • W. Ruge in RE VI.1, 1907, 570. Cf. perhaps the alternation in the Arcadian toponym Orchomenos/Erchomenos (Nielsen 2005, 578).↩︎

  • Eder 2011, 112 favours this location, and regards the fact that in An 519.10–12 (supra, n. [103]) U-ru-pi-ja-jo are stationed at O-ru-ma-to as a supporting argument. See further Parker 1993, 53 n. 62.↩︎

  • Cn 3.5–7 run: e-na-po-ro i-wa-si-jo-ta bos 1 / o-ru-ma-to u-ru-pi-ja-jo bos 1 / a2-ka-a-ki-ri-ja-jo u-ru-pi-ja-jo{-jo} bos 1. With this compare An 661.3, 12: e-na-po-ro i-wa-so vir 70 ... a2-ka-a-ki-ri-jo u-ru-pi-ja-jo ne-do-wo-ta-de vir 30, which suggests that O-ru-ma-to was in the same vicinity (cf. Sainer 1976, 48).↩︎

  • It is also known as Ra-u-ra-ti-ja /Lauranthia/ on On 300.9, in the Further Province, and is also written ra-wa-ra-ta2 (An 298.1, Jn 829.14 (damaged), Ma 216.1) and ra-wa-ra-ṭị-ja (An 830.11); cf. Aura Jorro 1993, 232.↩︎

  • Chadwick 1988, 87 infers from the absence of a form in -si-ja that the dental was preceded by a sibilant, which would hinder assimilation, and that the form was therefore /Laurastios/, but this must remain doubtful.↩︎

  • Chadwick 1973a, 278; see Table 1 below.↩︎

  • Hrd. Prosod. 146,21 Lentz and Steph. Byz. Ethn. s.v., with K. Ziegler, RE XXIV, 1963, 11.↩︎

  • The most salient example is the sound-change of Mycenaean /en/ to ιν (Dubois 1988, 17–22).↩︎

  • Georgiev 1961, 40.↩︎

  • Haley in: Blegen/Haley 1928, 141–145.↩︎

  • See further Killen 2001.↩︎

  • So Lindgren 1973, i. 33.↩︎

  • PY Ea 810, ti-nwa-si-jo gra 3 t 5.↩︎

  • Chadwick in: Ventris/Chadwick 1973, 586.↩︎

  • Lindgren (1973, i. 188) notes both possibilities.↩︎

  • This land did not belong to a male relative or relatives of the Ti-nwa-si-ja who were working as weavers at Pylos (Ad 684), since we will see that these women were of low status.↩︎

  • I thank an anonymous reviewer for this point.↩︎

  • On this purpose see §6 below.↩︎

  • The commodity is given ‘to’ the officials of the Hither Province, whose titles appear in the dative, whereas the titles of those from the Further Province appear in the nominative, as was noted by Palmer 1963, 374. Chadwick (in: Ventris/Chadwick 1973, 467) puts the variation down to ‘scribal inconsequence’, i.e. error, but does not make it clear whether he thinks the dative with the locatival ending in -i (given at least 4× in the first paragraph) or the nominative (given 7× in the second paragraph) is correct.↩︎

  • Chadwick 1998–1999, 35; see below §5.↩︎

  • Chadwick 1998–1999, 35 posited /Thelphōseus/, but the loss of the nasal with compensatory lengthening of the preceding vowel would not yet have occurred (Lejeune 1972, 129–130, 222). For the formation cf. the Knossian name te-ra-po-si-jo /Theraponsios/ from θεράπων (KN Lc 466 etc.).↩︎

  • The root is Proto-Indo-European *dhelbh- ‘dig’, cf. English ‘delve’ (G. Neumann in: Beekes 2010, ii. 1464). Δελφοί, i.e. ‘wombs’, ‘caves’, is unrelated.↩︎

  • Dubois 1988, i. 51–53.↩︎

  • Hom. Hy. Pyth. Ap. 243–276, 375–387.↩︎

  • Paus. 8.25 (Θέλπουσα); Steph. Byz. s.v. Τέλφουσα. Nielsen 2005, 597–599. The forms of the ethnic Θελπούσιος, Τελφούσιος and Θελφοίσιος (SEG 11.1254a) point to original *Θελφόνσιος (Dubois 1988, ii. 227–228).↩︎

  • Cf. Bennet 2011, 144, 152, with §5 below.↩︎

  • Pausanias 8. 25. 2.↩︎

  • Tablet PY An 657.8, with Sainer 1975, 35.↩︎

  • Heubeck 1976, 131.↩︎

  • For the total, which allows for missing documents, see Chadwick 1988, 76.↩︎

  • PY Ad 684: pu-ro ti-nwa-ti-ja-o i-te-ja-o ko-wo vir 5 ko-wo 2. On edge: a-pu-ne-we e-re-ta-o ko-wo.↩︎

  • PY Aa 699: ti-nwa-si-ja mul 9 ko-wa 4 ko-wo 3 DA 1 TA [1.↩︎

  • PY Ab 190: gra 3 ⟦τ 9⟧ DA TA

    pu-ro / ti-nwa-si-ja mul 9 ko[-wa ]2 ko-wo 1

    NI 3 ⟦τ 9⟧.

    The quantities of gra (grain) and NI (figs) were both corrected from 2 t 9 to 3 (Chadwick 1988, 55).↩︎

  • Tritsch (1958, 431–437) argues that they are taken for granted and are with the women, but see below, this §.↩︎

  • Stavrianopoulou (1989, 84), in seeking to deny this, proposes instead that they were all within the kingdom, but the absence of all these places from the other records is in that case problematic.↩︎

  • Aa 506, Ab 562, Ad 390, Ad 679.↩︎

  • Carystus was in Euboea. On Ad 671, this is a derivative of the man’s name Καρύστιος, just as A-da-ra-te-ja on Aa 785 and Ab 388 may be derived from the man’s name Ἄδραστος rather than just be the single woman’s name (Chadwick 1988, 78–79). The toponym Ka-ru-to /Karustos/ is now known at Thebes (TH Wu 55.β).↩︎

  • Aa 60; but this need not refer to the Euripus near Chalcis in Euboea, since the place E-wi-ri-po on An 610 has been identified as the strait between Methone and the islands off the SW tip of Messenia, and this may instead be the ethnic formed from that place-name (Chadwick 1988, 86). Evidently the toponym was found in different straits which had strong currents.↩︎

  • i.e. /Kswiai/ (Chadwick 1988, 80).↩︎

  • Aa 701, Ab 515, Ad 315, Ad 326. This roughly corresponds to later Lydia.↩︎

  • Ab 186.↩︎

  • Aa 798, Aa 1180, Ab 382, Ab 573, Ad 380, Ad 689.↩︎

  • Aa 792, Ab 189, Ad 683, also [An 292.4].↩︎

  • Aa 61, Ad 664.↩︎

  • Aa 354, Ab 372, Ad 680, and also An 292.3. This place is unidentified.↩︎

  • So Ventris/Chadwick 1956, 156; Chadwick 1976, 80–81.↩︎

  • So Ventris/Chadwick 1956, 156. This hypothesis, advanced by T. B. L. Webster, is widely accepted: cf. Shelmerdine 2008, 340–341. For an attempt at rebuttal see Tritsch 1958, 423–427.↩︎

  • Chadwick 1988, 92.↩︎

  • Homer, Iliad 21. 81.↩︎

  • Chadwick 1988, 92, who proves that these women are at a place Ke-re-za that is close to Pylos rather than are Κρῆσσαι ‘Cretans’, because the word does not become †ke-re-za-o on Ad 686 and Ad 318 [+] 420.↩︎

  • Tritsch 1958, 428.↩︎

  • Chadwick 1988, 92.↩︎

  • Tritsch 1958, 429. Four further cases that he alleges of ethnics for women from townships within the Pylian kingdom are all incorrect. A woman a-da-ra-te-ja is recorded on Aa 785 and Ab 388, but rather than be an ethnic this may be the individual name /Adrāsteia/, since only one woman is recorded (Chadwick 1988, 78). Pa-wo-ke is apparently a descriptive /panworges/ ‘maids of all work’ (Chadwick 1967). The A-*64-ja* are the /Aswiai/ or ’women of Asia’ whom we encountered above. Lastly, three women are recorded at Metapa in the Hither Province on Aa 779, where A-te-re-wi-ja* is added on the lower edge. This is not an ethnic, but refers to the Pylian town of A-te-re-wa or A-te-re-wi-ja in the Further Province, whence or whither the women at Metapa had been transferred (Chadwick 1988, 85).↩︎

  • Tritsch 1958, 429 n. 44.↩︎

  • Tritsch 1958, 431.↩︎

  • Tritsch 1958, 437–443, building on a suggestion of L. R. Palmer.↩︎

  • Tritsch 1958, 443, citing RS 11.857.↩︎

  • RS 34.129.↩︎

  • So Stavrianopoulou 1989, 92.↩︎

  • So Chadwick 1988, 90–91; however, Tritsch (1958, 437 n. 63) showed that in antiquity the safest places were usually nucleated centres such as Athens during the Archidamian War.↩︎

  • So Ventris/Chadwick 1956, 161. Stravrianopoulou (1989, 88) takes ko-wo as ‘männliche Arbeitskraft’ rather than ‘men and boys’, and thinks the men and boys have already been sent to A-pu-ne-we, but Chadwick 1988 points out that the addition of the number of ‘boys’ on the Aa and Ad sets produces a total very similar to that of the girls (179 + 82 = 261 boys versus 251 girls), whereas the sex-ratio is otherwise unequal (cf. Shelmerdine 2008, 340–341). This leaves no room for husbands within the numbers who are receiving rations.↩︎

  • Chadwick 1988, 87.↩︎

  • Ventris/Chadwick 1956, 156.↩︎

  • PY Ad 697, Da-mi-ni-ja ri-ne-ja-o ko-wo ‘e-re-[ta] qe-ro-me-no’ vir, with Chadwick 1988, 58, 87–88, who notes that the lack of a numeral shows that all the men were absent serving with the navy.↩︎

  • Cf. Gschnitzer 1999, 262–263; Shelmerdine 2008, 147; Nakassis 2010.↩︎

  • Shelmerdine 2008, 147.↩︎

  • KN Ap 618, ṭị-wa-ti-ja / a-*79 ‘a-no-qo-ta’ mul 3[ ] ko-ma-we-to mul 2 we-ra-te-ja mul 2 [, with an upper line adding a-pe-a-sa / i-ta-mo ‘do-ti-ja’ mul 1 ki-nu-qa ‘*56-ko-we’ mul 1. There is really no doubt over the ṭị. The names of the ‘collectors’ A-no-qo-ta and Ko-ma-we-to, who also owns a slave on KN B 988+, appear variously in the nominative and genitive. The tablet is in hand 103, from findspot F14 in the West Magazines (Olivier 1967, 106).↩︎

  • Aura Jorro 1993, 356, commented ‘probablemente se trata de un adj. étnico, quizá una grafía irregular por *ti-nwa-ti-ja (d. ti-nwa-ti-ja-o, s.u. ti-nwa-si-jo)’. For the omission of n in medial -nw- compare pa-wo-ke, interpreted as /panworgēs/ (Chadwick 1967). To a reviewer’s objection that /ksenwios/ is always written ke-se-ni-wi-jo and never †ke-se-wi-jo, and /perusinwos/ pe-ru-si-nu-wo and never †pe-ru-si-wo, I would reply that both are Indo-european words, in which the syllabification may have differed.↩︎

  • Chadwick (in Ventris/Chadwick 1973, 586) compared the two ethnics, but the implications are not considered.↩︎

  • A-no-qo-ta is in KN Ak 615, Da 1289, Dq 45, E 847, Vc 173 and elsewhere, Ko-ma-we at C 913, Cn 925, Dk 920, 1049 (?), Dv 1272 etc.↩︎

  • We-ra-te-ja is probably the feminine possessive adjective based on the name We-ra-to, which is attested in KN De 1136 (Rougemont 2009, 375, 498–499).↩︎

  • A-*79 is a woman’s name at Mycenae (Oe 123) and is held to be so at Knossos also (Chadwick in Ventris and Chadwick 1973, 536, with Aura Jorro 1985 s.v.). However, for the scribe at Knossos to have given the name of just one woman would violate the format of the main entry on the tablet, which does not declare the names of the three sets of women, who are each time a plurality. Since their owners’ names are stated, and toponyms are included in the line added above (along with the women’s names, since only one woman is missing in each case), the sole possibility left is that A-*79 is a place-name.↩︎

  • I-ta-mo is to be read as /Itamō/ from ἰταμός, but Ki-nu-qa is opaque.↩︎

  • *56-ko-we was probably in West-Central Crete, as we know from the stirrup-jars with Linear B labels painted before firing (Bennet 2011, 150).↩︎

  • Olivier 1967, 131.↩︎

  • Chadwick 1988, 86.↩︎

  • For a summary of the controversy over the dating of the main archive at Knossos see Driessen 2008, 70–72; the lowest chronologies that have been offered lately are in the first half of LM IIIB/LH IIIB.↩︎

  • Chadwick 1973b, 40.↩︎

  • In the Hither Province according to Stavrianopoulou (1989, 85–6), who argues that it was not the capital of the Further Province, as Chadwick proposed (in: Ventris/Chadwick 1973, 418); cf. Bennet 1998–1999; Hope Simpson 2014, 65.↩︎

  • For the location of Ro-u-so, which is uncontroversial, see e.g. Bennet 1999, 140.↩︎

  • For the reconstruction of Pylian geography see Chadwick 1976, 41–48, and Bennet 2011, 151–155. On the difficulties of determining the land frontiers to the N. and E. see Hope Simpson 1981, 144–146, and especially Rougemont 2009, 59–60. Cosmopoulos (2006, 206 n. 2) accepts the standard view, but see now Eder 2011, 111–114.↩︎

  • McDonald and Hope Simpson 1972, 141–143 with maps 8–14 and 8–15.↩︎

  • Duhoux 1983, 44–57; Bartoněk 2003, 471–487, esp. 483–484.↩︎

  • Georgacas/McDonald 1967.↩︎

  • Chadwick 1976, 185–186.↩︎

  • 8. 3. 14. Hiller (1972, 214–216) suggested that the Iliad presupposes that Nestor’s capital was in Triphylia, while the Odyssey locates it in Messenia, and that the capital was actually moved south when the palace at Ano Englianos was built. There is also Ma-to-ro-pu-ro/Ma-to-pu-ro ‘mother Pylos’ (Cn 595, Mn 1412), a small place in the Further Province (Hiller 1972, 168).↩︎

  • Chadwick 1976, 42. For a good account of the standard view Cosmopoulos 2006, 205–213.↩︎

  • For recent and very promising attempts see Cosmopoulos 2006 and Hope Simpson 2014.↩︎

  • This last detail is known from the last entry in the o-ka coastguard tablets, PY An 661.12–13: a2-ka-a2-ki-ri-jo u-ru-pi-ja-jo / ne-do-wo-ta-de vir 30, ‘at A2-ka-hakrion, 30 U-ru-pi-ja-jo men to the Nedwon’.↩︎

  • Palmer 1963, 65–70; Carothers 1992, 238–245 with figs. 7–9; Cosmopoulos 2006, 211.↩︎

  • In favour of the latter hypothesis see Lukermann 1972, 168–170, with his map, fig. 9–6; Parker 1993, 42–54; Dyczek 1994, 60–63 with his fig. 18; Gschnitzer 1999, 261; Eder 2011, 111–114 with Abb. 5.↩︎

  • Chadwick 1976, 39, opposed by Rougemont 2009, 59.↩︎

  • Chadwick 1976, 39. Hope Simpson (1981, 88, 92) notes that many more Mycenaean sites are to be expected both in western Arcadia, especially near the Alpheus and Ladon rivers, and in coastal Triphylia; cf. Lukermann 1972, 162; Hope Simpson 2014, 8.↩︎

  • An 657.6, ne-da-wa-ta-o o-ka. It does not follow, of course, that the ‘man from the Neda’ actually lived there (Parker 1993, 44–45). An 657.13–14, which read o-ka-ra ‘o-wi-to-no’ vir 30 ke-ki-de-qe a-pu2-ka-ne / vir 20 me-ta-qe pe-i ai-ko-ta e-qe-ta, form an appendix to o-ka I, in order to give a detailed breakdown of the 50 men there listed in line 4 and to supply the name of the accompanying e-qe-ta.↩︎

  • Palmer 1963, 73; Parker 1993, 44.↩︎

  • So Chadwick 1968, with strong arguments; he prefers, of course, to regard it as a homonymous town well south of the Alpheus, and to posit that the name moved after the Mycenaean period, as in many other cases. Cf. the name Pi-sa-wa-ta /Piswātās/ at Knossos (B 1055.2).↩︎

  • So Dyczek 1994, 62; Eder 2011, 112–113. Pausanias (5. 14. 3) remarked that Elis is the only region where flax grows well in Greece.↩︎

  • It is listed in the coastguard tablets (An 654.3).↩︎

  • Dyczek 1994, 62–63.↩︎

  • Parker 1993, 66 with n. 110.↩︎

  • Parker 1993, 48–54 has shown that the very productive territory of the next centre to the south, Pe-to-no, extended from the palace up to the Neda, and that both Pisa and Metapa were north of that river; cf. Eder 2011, 113–114.↩︎

  • Schwyzer 1923, 414 = SEG 11.1183, 38.364.↩︎

  • Meiggs/Lewis 1969, no. 17 (c. 500), with the misreading Ἐρϝαοῖοι, and Nielsen 2005, 188, 558; they are not the Heraeans in Arcadia.↩︎

  • Herodian, Prosod. 258,28, Μέταπα πόλις Ἀκαρνανίας. Πολύβιος πέμπτῳ; Steph. Byz. s.v. has the same wording, but adds τὸ ἐθνικὸν Μεταπαῖος ἢ Μεταπεύς διὰ τὰ ἐπιχώρια. The fragment of Polybius has passed unnoticed, as has this city in the records of the Copenhagen Polis Centre. The name is prehellenic (Haley, in: Blegen/Haley 1928, 145 with Pl. 1).↩︎

  • So Palmer 1963, 65, 74; Virgilio 1972, 71–72; Eder 2011, 113. Chadwick (Gnomon 36 [1964] 325) objected that another inscription found at Olympia records a treaty between Sybaris and another Italian city, and by this logic we might think Sybaris was near Olympia. However, the dialect is local to Elis, as Kroll and Barkowski noted (RE XV.2, 1932, 1326; RE Suppl. III, 1918, 95). There are no grounds for emending the text to Μεσσαπίς.↩︎

  • Dyczek 1994, 63; Lukermann 1972, fig. 9–6; Eder 2011, Abb. 5.↩︎

  • Hope Simpson 2014, 58–60, puts Pi-*82 at Siderokastro: Sphakoulia and Metapa at Mouriatadha: Elliniko.↩︎

  • Tritsch 1957, followed by Heubeck 1963, 17.↩︎

  • Chadwick 1972, 105.↩︎

  • Chadwick 1988, 83.↩︎

  • Chadwick 1988, 84; the derivation is untenable, but the conclusion may be right.↩︎

  • See above §3.↩︎

  • Chadwick 1998–1999, 34–35. The well-built Mycenaean tholos-tomb at Kambos should not be forgotten in this context, since tholoi are associated with local rulers (Bennet 1998, 125–127).↩︎

  • Homer, Iliad 9. 149–53 = 290–5; cf. Bennet 2011, 155.↩︎

  • Chadwick 1973b, 54.↩︎

  • PY Jo 438.19–24: e-re-e po-ro-ko-re-te aur p 3 X / a-ke-ro qa-si-re-u aur P 3 X / te-po-se-u ti-nwa-si-jo ko-re-te aur n 1 / po-ki-ro-qo aur n 1 / au-ke-wa aur n 1 / ti-mi-ti-ja ko-re-te aur p 6 / (Ventris and Chadwick 1973, 358–9, 514). The places associated with A-ke-ro and Augewas, who was the da-mo-ko-ro, are unknown, but according to An 654.11–12 Poikiloqus may be from To-wa.↩︎

  • Shelmerdine 1973, whose conclusions are applied to a map by Chadwick 1973a; cf. Chadwick 1976, 47–48. Parker (1993, 60–75) confirms these conclusions with new evidence, save that he locates Sa-ma-ra to the north of Ra-wa-ra-ta2.↩︎

  • From τέρμινθος (Palaima 2000, 14–18).↩︎

  • Shelmerdine 1998, 142–144; cf. also Parker 1993, 60–4.↩︎

  • Chadwick 1973a, where ‘Cn 594’ is a misprint. The start of Cn 595 reads: e-ra-te-re-wa-pi ta-to-mo o-pe-ro / me-ta-pa a-we-ke-se-u vir 1 ovis+TA 5. Likewise Dyczek (1994, 69–70) puts Helos in the Stenyclarus plain to the N.E.↩︎

  • Bennet 1999, 148, with his very useful fig. 3; Eder 2011, 113 n. 42. ‘Like me-ta-pa, pi-*82 reaches in one step towns from both provinces’ (Carothers 1992, 258–259); similarly Eder 2011, 113.↩︎

  • So Parker 1993, 68–69, who compares East Anglia with its two subdivisions Norfolk and Suffolk.↩︎

  • Hope Simpson 2014, 67. Bennet tentatively locates A-te-re-wi-ja in the Soulima valley at Peristeriá in N.W. Messenia, and Helos at Mouriatada (1998–1999, 24–25, 30, and 1999, 148–149 with fig. 3). Cherry (1977, 80 with his Fig. 7) suggested a location for Helos in the S.E. corner near the marshy mouth of the Pamisos.↩︎

  • PY On 300.12. Relying on the other lists of towns, Chadwick plausibly restores the first half of the line as [e-re-o du-]ma ‘the mayor of Helos’, since du-ma is a title comparable to ko-re-te (in: Ventris/Chadwick 1973, 466–468). Palaima (1995, 631–632) proposed that Te-po-se-u was listed in this place because he was also da-mo-ko-ro of the Further Province.↩︎

  • For the classical settlement of Triphylia see Nielsen 2005, 603–612; Eder 2011, 105.↩︎

  • Chadwick 1977, 226.↩︎

  • See Nielsen 2005, 79–83.↩︎

  • Cooper 1996, 77–79, who shows that, pace Pausanias 8. 41. 9, ἐπικούριος did not mean ‘healer’ or ‘helper’ against the plague. At least 4,000 of Xenophon’s Ten Thousand were Arcadians (Roy 1967, 308–309).↩︎

  • Compare the votive seal-case of King Naram-Sin (middle of the 18th century BC) of Ešnunna (Tell Asmar, north-east of Baghdad), which was found at Kastri on Kythera (Janko 2008, 584–586).↩︎

  • Vianello 2008, 20.↩︎

  • Gebhard/Rieder 2002, 125 Abb. 9.↩︎

  • Cf. Taylour 1983, 56 Fig. 33 (the dark blob worn by a cord around the right wrist of the smallest female figure). The Vapheio prince was buried with clusters of seal-stones around each wrist (Vermeule 1972, 128).↩︎

  • Vermeule and Travlos 1966, 66, 78, pls. 24–25; Harding and Hughes-Brock 1974, 159.↩︎

  • De Fidio 2008, 88.↩︎

  • CMS V Suppl. 1A no. 142; cf. Krzyszkowska 2005, 140, no. 247. Mycenaeans often appropriated Minoan ideological symbols.↩︎

  • Castleden 2005, 75–76 with his Fig. 3.6.↩︎

  • Karo 1930, 81 Abb. 19 (no. 296), 84 Abb. 20 with Taf. XVIII (nos. 308–309), 84 with Taf. XLIII (no. 310).↩︎

  • Harding and Hughes-Brock 1974, 152; Kristiansen/Larsson 2005, 139, 236.↩︎

  • Cf. Bennet 1998, 126–129, on changes at Nichoria and in the Soulima valley on the northern edge of the kingdom. Ayios Stephanos in southern Laconia, a peripheral zone where there had been much interaction with Knossos and earlier with Minoan Crete, was burned and largely abandoned in LH IIIA2 Early, as if it was subjected by a rising power in the vale of Sparta (Janko 2008, 595–597), perhaps centred at the newly discovered palace at Ayios Vasilios near Xirokambi.↩︎

  • Bennet 1998 and 2011, 155; he holds that the northern border of the kingdom may even have continued to be unstable until the collapse of the palatial system. Cf. Bennet/Shelmerdine 2001.↩︎

  • Lang 1969, 71–73 (nos. 22 H 64, 25 H 65), with plates M–N.↩︎

  • Krzyszkowska 2005, 304 with Fig. 10.4.↩︎

  • Porada 1981, 68–70.↩︎

  • Krzyszkowska 2005, 304.↩︎

  • KUB XXIII.1, col. IV; cf. Beckman 1996, 101; Bryce 2005, 309; de Fidio 2008, 102.↩︎

  • Cf. e.g. Bouzek 2007, 358, Papadopoulou 2007, Teržan 2007.↩︎

  • Hope Simpson 2014, 53–54.↩︎

  • Alcaeus fr. 350, with Strabo 13. 2. 3.↩︎

  • Chadwick 1976, 145; 1998–1999, 36–37.↩︎

  • Niemeier 2003, 105, fig. 4; Schofield/Parkinson 1994.↩︎

  • Catling 1961, 121; Driessen 1984; Drews 1993, 147–157; Gschnitzer 1999; M. H. Wiener, in: Karageorghis/Morris 2001, 247–248.↩︎

  • Gschnitzer 1999.↩︎

  • Ventris/Chadwick 1956, 191.↩︎

  • Driessen 1984, referring to KN B 164 (from the early archive of the Room of the Chariot Tablets), F 7362 v., Fh <392>, X 7631, X 7668, Xd 70.↩︎

  • Gschnitzer 1999, 259–260 with n. 16, citing PY Ma 195.3 for the Perrhaebians from northern Thessaly and the Pindus, KN B 164 for the Ku-re-we and Ionians, who were perhaps in central Greece at this early period (cf. Driessen 1984, 50–51). Gschnitzer also suggests that the Ạ3-wo-re-u-si of KN Wm 1707.a may be ‘Aeolians’. Other contingents are the I-wa-so /Iwasoi/ or I-wa-si-jo-ta /Iwasiōtai/ and Ko-ro-ku-ra-i-jo, i.e. /Krokulaioi/ or /Krokuraioi/ (‘Corcyreans’?) at Pylos (An 656, 661, Cn 3.5), and the unidentified ạ-ḍạ-wo-ne[ at Knossos (B 164.3).↩︎

  • PY An 657.1.↩︎

  • Chadwick 1976, 115.↩︎

  • Killen 2007, 265.↩︎

  • Melena 1975, 37–42; Killen 2007, 265, who rightly observes that the evidence of KN As 4493 undermines the view that the Pylian coastguard was an emergency measure.↩︎

  • Cf. Gschnitzer 1999, 262–263; Killen 2008, 170 with n. 31; Nakassis 2010.↩︎

  • Killen (2007, 265) has proved that the rowers on KN As(1) 5941 were also textile workers, because the tablet is written by the scribe 103, who was concerned only with the production of textiles. For Pylos see Gschnitzer 1999, 262–263.↩︎

  • PY An 657.1.↩︎

  • Ventris/Chadwick 1956, 189, 392; Killen 2007, 263. Deroy (1968, 19) took it as ἐπίκουροι but regarded these ‘helpers’ as tax-collectors.↩︎

  • So e.g. Beekes 2010, i. 442.↩︎

  • So Negri 1977–1978.↩︎

  • Melena (1975, 37–42), regarding KN As 4493, which will be discussed later in this §.↩︎

  • Janko 1992, 140; cf. e.g. e-pi-de-da-sa-to /epidedastoi/ ’has been distributed in addition’.↩︎

  • Cooper 1996, 76–77, with LSJ9 s.v. I.2.↩︎

  • καὶ δὴ ‘πίκουρος ὥστε Κὰρ κεκλήσομαι, ’I will be called a mercenary like a Carian’ (Archilochus fr. 216 West, cf. fr. 15.1). This is not noted by LSJ9. Caria was famous for its mercenaries (Adiego 2007, 1–2).↩︎

  • LSJ9 s.v. I.1, who rightly note that this meaning is unique to the Iliad, and Snell et al. 1969–2010, ii. 640. As the scholia observe (schol. D on Iliad 3. 188), only those helping the Trojans are called ἐπίκουροι, whereas those helping the Achaeans are σύμμαχοι.↩︎

  • Homer, Iliad 17. 220–226.↩︎

  • An 657.1. Mycenaean preserves the athematic conjugation, which Homer has modernized (Ventris/Chadwick 1956, 189).↩︎

  • Homer, Iliad 18. 288–92.↩︎

  • Homer, Iliad 9. 478–84, Od. 4. 174–7 (quoted above, §4).↩︎

  • Chadwick 1976, 67, 175.↩︎

  • Johnson 1982, 125, 134–158.↩︎

  • jo-i-je-si me-za-na / e-re-u-te-re di-wi-je-we qo-o /hō hihensi Metsānai ereutērei Diwiei gwōns/ ’thus the Messenians are sending oxen to the inspector Diwyeus’ (cf. n. 104 supra).↩︎

  • Chadwick, in: Ventris/Chadwick 1973, 435–436.↩︎

  • Nielsen 2005, 79–83.↩︎

  • Harding/Hughes-Brock 1974, 162, 164, 166 with Fig. 1; Dickinson 1994, 249–250; Eder 2007, 40–45, and 2011, 108. A large quantity of unworked amber even reached the palace at Qatna near Homs in Syria at some date (perhaps centuries) prior to c. 1340 BC (Hughes-Brock 2011, 107–109).↩︎

  • Harding/Hughes-Brock 1974, 152–153. For recent scepticism that the trade followed any one particular route see Hughes-Brock 2011, 108, with references.↩︎

  • Harding and Hughes-Brock 1974, 150–151, Figs. 2–3.↩︎

  • Pulak 1998, 218; Kristiansen/Larsson 2005, 101–102. Since some amber floats, more pieces may have been lost.↩︎

  • Harding/Hughes-Brock 1974, 149–153.↩︎

  • TH Z 849, 851, 852, 882, with Sacconi 2010, 129–131.↩︎

  • Palaima 1988, 259. In Hand 14 at Pylos, the same sign 𐀇 di has the side bars angled diagonally.↩︎

  • www.praehistorica.eu/pdf/DasBernsteingesichtvonBernstorf.↩︎

  • In: Gebhard/Rieder 2002, 130–131.↩︎

  • ka-di-ti-ja describes women at Knossos (KN V 1003), and is doubtfully taken as /Kadistiai/ (Ventris/Chadwick 1973, 549).↩︎

  • KN F 866, Fp 7 etc.↩︎

  • KN Da 1078, Dn 5318.↩︎

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Originally published as

Richard Janko: “Aber inscribed in Linear B form Bernstorf in Bavaria. New light on the Mycenaean Kingdom of Pylos”, in Bayerische Vorgeschichtsblätter 80 (2015), 39-64.

Image: Archäologische Staatssammlung, Munich (© Photographer: Manfred Eberlein)
Disk fibulas of Unterhaching

The Bavarian-Salzburgian state exhibition “Die Bajuwaren. Von Severin bis Tassilo 488–788” (“The Bajuwaren. From Severinus to Tassilo 488–788”) in 1988 marked a temporary end to an intense debate on the Early History of the Baiern in years before. It conveyed an image of the beginnings of Baiern that has been widely received by the public and remained prevalent up to the present day. Based on an interpretation of the Baiern-name as ‘men from Bohemia’, it was believed that a ‘kernel of tradition’ (‘Traditionskern’) immigrated from there, initiating the ethnogenesis of the Baiern from different ‘Germanic’ tribes and local population. Moreover, since this assumption seemed to correspond to the archaeological Friedenhain-Přešt’ovice group of finds, the impression was created that “… after centuries of efforts the mystery of the origin of the Bavarians had been solved”.1

In the almost 25 years that passed since then, all disciplines involved in protohistory (Frühgeschichte) have been dealing intensely with theoretical and methodological principles for the interpretation of their relevant sources. In this context, the concepts of ‘tribal formation’ (‘Stammesbildung’) and ‘ethnogenesis’ (‘Ethnogenese’) have been developed further so that today the formation of the identity of protohistorical groups is under discussion. While archaeological sciences increasingly question whether ethnic identities manifest themselves in the archaeological record (burial habits or style of clothing), historical research deals with the problem of how (historical) tradition and its reception throughout the centuries created these ethnic identities in the first place. Eventually intense onomastic and etymological research in language border and interference areas proved the one-sided ethnic view of language also to be a product of national ideas of the 19th century.

This scholarly debate puts a different complexion on the beginnings of Baiern and poses new questions. A critical assessment of the sources in conjunction with newly gained insights toppled many an older ‘certainty’, so that the ‘mystery’ cannot be regarded as solved by any means – on the contrary: The early history of Baiern is more open than ever!

Against this background, the aim of the conference in Benediktbeuern in March of 2010 together with the present volume was to re-initiate the debate on this topic. It was not intended to replace the older model with a new one – at the current state of research this also would not be possible. In fact, the main focus was to take stock of the current debate and reveal different points of view. This is being reflected by the contributions in the present volume, which introduces numerous new approaches as well as different competing and to some extent, contradicting views.

On one hand, the development in recent years was characterized by a vast increase of archaeological finds and findings in conjunction with improved capabilities for analysis, for example regarding detailed chronology or the use of methods of natural sciences. Even the field of linguistics accesses a significantly broader and methodically more thoroughly edited material-base today. On the other hand, methodological principles for the interpretation of primary sources were discussed intensely in individual disciplines, with the result that the validity of one’s own sources is being evaluated differently today than before. Hence, a problem arising in the related disciplines is that it is impossible to keep track of either the abundance of individual results or their methodological realization. This has significant consequences for interdisciplinary cooperation. In some cases, the lack of transparency in the research-progress causes the adoption of results from related disciplines without the necessary awareness of the problem. In other cases, related subject areas are treated with great skepticism, in extreme cases to the point of complete disregard.

In view of this development, it seems absolutely essential not only to converse between disciplines about the results, but also about their realization and methodological principles. Ultimately, specific primary source material of the individual disciplines only allow a certain view on protohistory. Therefore, no discipline is able to present a comprehensive historical picture based solely on their specific perspective. Only in an active interdisciplinary debate, which also includes methodological aspects, is it possible to recognize not only the potential but also the pitfalls of the interdisciplinary approach.

As indicated before, in the past the category of ethnos appeared to be suitable to integrate contributions of various disciplines. In a way, the question of how the Baiern emerged as a tribe or people constituted a common point of focus for all subjects. However, his approach has become questionable due to findings of recent decades regarding the structure of ethnic communities in the Early Middle Ages. In addition, by focusing on ethnos, another category, which, from a present-day perspective, is considerably better suited to serve as a common reference for interdisciplinary research, has faded from the spotlight: Space. Primary sources of all disciplines involved in the research of the early history of the Baiern possess notable spatial reference: Archaeological material usually is located in space precisely; the same is true for skeleton finds that are addressed by anthropology. Toponyms are inherently space-related and written sources refer to specific places and regions in many cases. Therefore, it is not a coincidence that in contrast to the state exhibition of 1988 the colloquium in Benediktbeuern was entitled “From Raetia and Noricum to early medieval Baiovaria”. With this in mind, the present volume also focuses on the historical territory of Baiern, with its beginnings in the Alpine Foreland of Bavaria-Upper Austria between Iller and Lech in the west and the Enns River in the east, as well as its subsequent expansion into the Alpine Region in the south.

In recent times, the so-called ‘spatial turn’ in historical research raised awareness for the potential of an examination under spatial aspects. Space in its various forms is more than just a common reference point for all disciplines involved: it offers general geographical preconditions for settlement, commerce, and transportation, for strategic and political importance – consequently providing substantial information for the comprehension of historical developments. As early as in Late Antiquity, a region like early Baiern constitutes a human-made ‘cultural area’ (‘Kulturraum’) with structures of administration and political power that are, for instance, reflected in names of the Roman provinces. It is subject to debate to what extent these structures provide the basis of early medieval Baiovaria. Ultimately, almost all primary sources pertaining to protohistory are not to be interpreted without regard to location or geographical reference. Last but not least, this is true for the ‘onomastic landscape’ (‘Namenlandschaft’), which obtains further validity due to its spatial manifestation. Thereby, space itself becomes a primary source and it must be examined which ‘notions of history’ (‘Geschichtsbilder’) can be constructed plausibly on this basis.

As a visual aid to this methodological approach, the present volume provides various topical maps intending to facilitate the notion of spatial constellations as well as the comprehension of subsequent developments. The fact that historical content sometimes is pinned down more precisely than the state of discussion actually allows for needs to be considered individually.

The contributions of this volume can be divided into two groups: The first group of articles deals with questions directly related to early Baiern in terms of time and space. The second group is made up of contributions that illuminate problems of the early period of Baiern in comparison with examples from other contexts.

Michaela Konrad’s contribution sketches the different developments of the two provinces Raetia and Noricum since the Early Principate. While Noricum came under Roman influence early and experienced radical urbanization, Raetia remained a province dominated by the military with considerably less ‘Romanized’ conditions of living – preconditions whose consequences on the further development have not been discussed yet.

Roland Steinacher summarises the current state of discussion about identity formation in early medieval communities, elaborating that protohistorical identities are a highly complex and, in many cases, situationally constructed phenomenon. Thereby, they barely have anything to do with the concept of a culturally and linguistically homogeneous group, that developed as late as the Modern Period.

Jochen Haberstroh discusses the concept of the archaeologically defined Friedenhain-Přešt’ovice group of finds. Therewith, the so far predominant model of the immigration of a Baiovarian ‘kernel of tradition’ (‘Traditionskern’) is – from an archaeological perspective – deprived of its basis. At the same time, he demonstrates ways for a systematic study of plastically decorated fine-ceramic from the Migration Period, which still remains to be done despite numerous approaches on the topic of Friedenhain-Přešt’ovice.

Ludwig Rübekeil succeeds in offering new explanations for the very name Baiern. He analyses the ethnonym with a comparative approach, taking into consideration other names with the ending -varii. This typological study illustrates that these names are not based on ethnic, but rather on military structures. Furthermore, their spatial reference does not allude to a place of origin but to an area of military action. The lack of ethnic continuity becomes manifested in the Baiern name, whereby ,on-site’ identity formation is proved also from a linguistical point of view.

Alheydis Plassmann examines the ‘legend of origin’ of Baiern (‘Stammessage’), which is problematic due to its late tradition in medieval manuscripts. On one hand, she points out that the non-tradition of an early origin legend of the Baiern must not constitute an argument of research in either in a positive or a negative way. On the other hand, Plassmann emphasizes that the high medieval narrative possibly drew on older material, but a 12th century contextualization is also justified, which is why the legend can by no means be applied for the early period of Baiern.

Taking up Carl I. Hammer’s recent argument2, who trenchantly points out that the earliest dukes’ affiliation to the Agilolfings is not verifiable, while vice versa the eldest known Agilolfings were not dukes of Baiern, Britta Kägler discusses the axiom that the dukes of Baiern always were Agilolfings since the mid-6th century.

The following two contributions address the early onomastic landscape. Christa Jochum-Godglück discusses toponyms including ‘Walchen’ – a group of toponyms that has been seen as evidence for ‘residual roman culture’ (‘Restromanentum’) in older research. Composed with the Germanic ethnonym *walh-oz- (equated with Romanus in glosses), they are a phenomenon of bilingual language border areas. In addition, they frequently contain a location that reminds one of a development in the context of fiscal organisation of space. This conclusion of a contextual appearance limits the importance of the Walchen names for settlement patterns.

Dealing with the area of Iller, Danube, and Lech, Andreas Schorr turns to the western fringe of Baiovaria. He poses the question of whether specific elements of early Bairisch or Alemannic can be found in toponyms as well as personal names (‘Namengut’) of this Bairisch-Alemannic intersection area. Schorr also discusses the state and tendencies of the etymological debate – in particular for even earlier periods – based on various categories of toponyms. He fathoms the consequences for an interdisciplinary conversation by discussing their respective statements concerning communication range and questions of continuity.

Brigitte Haas-Gebhard’s contribution regarding the grave field of Unterhaching presents one of the most significant new archaeological discoveries of recent years in Bavarian early medieval archaeology. Furthermore, she demonstrates the wide spectrum of modern archaeological investigation methods. The archaeological record shows that around the year 500 C.E., a high-ranking group of people resided on the Munich gravel plain – an important location in terms of traffic and administration. According to the evidence, this group also was of Christian faith.

On a larger scale, Arno Rettner addresses the testimony of archaeological sources in Raetia. He points to the gravestone of Pierius as a little-known evidence of one of the main protagonists of the late 5th century, discussing the problem of archaeologically perceived breaks as a result of methodological deficits. Regarding the potential of the grave field, Rettner presents new arguments for the Germanic or Romanic interpretation of certain burial attributes from the Early Middle Ages. In conclusion, he emphasizes the significance of Augsburg due to early Christian evidences.

Opposingly, Hubert Fehr postulates that the concept of the immigration of the Baiovarii and the extensive resettlement of the Alpine Foreland by Germanic immigrants during the Migration Period is a master narrative, that can not be proven from an archaeological point of view. Neither would the typical linear cemeteries hint to such an immigration, nor could grave goods like weapons or bow-fibulas be labeled as Germanic.

Barbara Hausmair looks into the problem of the hiatus, which is suggested by the archaeological record in Upper Austria for the period from the Roman retreat from the province of Noricum Ripense in 488 C.E. to the second half of the 6th century. She raises the question of whether there was an actual discontinuity of settlement – which was frequently presumed based on the Vita Severini – or rather a research gap. Structural and partially stratigraphic coherences of the findings indicate that particularly the numerous graves without goods in late Roman and again in early medieval cemeteries could be the missing link.

Archaeological sources of the Migration Period in Bohemia as well as its ties to neighbouring areas are being addressed in Jaroslav Jiřík’s article. He is able to demonstrate that intense archaeological connections to present-day Southwest Germany and the Middle Danube Region become apparent; however archaeological proof for immediate contacts between Bavaria and Bohemia is rather sparse and therefore stands in contrast to the traditional assumption of an immigration from this area.

Based on the example of the early medieval grave field of Enkering, Eva Kropf’s contribution explores the potential and limits of the anthropological study of protohistoric skeleton finds. On one hand, traditional morphometric methods still have great potential. On the other hand, in recent times there is the risk of repeating old mistakes in the interpretation of data due to a noncritical usage of new scientific methods.

From the viewpoint of economic history, Josef Löffl points out Baiern’s central location and accessibility via the Danube as a fast waterway and the access to various Alpine passes. He emphasizes that organisational continuities are to be expected, especially in the context of shipping and freight traffic. Due to a period of unfavorable weather conditions in the 5th and 6th century as well as unstable political development, the focus in agriculture changed to animal husbandry, which is less prone to external threats.

Stefan Esders discusses the late Roman ducate (ducatus) as a military organisation of frontier areas like Raetia, which can be considered as a predecessor of early medieval duchies. Using the examples of the Libyan dux Pentapoleos around the year 500 C.E. and the dux Histriae around 800, Esders illustrates their institutional preconditions and financial resources. The ducate of Istria also serves as an example of a seamless transition from the Byzantine Empire to the Francs, while changing opponents, which also needs to be taken into consideration for Raetia. To comprehend the preconditions of the ducate in Baiern, as for other Merovingian duchies, it is necessary to study long-term substructures diachronically and analyse them in local operational contexts.

Based on the question, what the background of the equation of Baiern with Noricum in early to high medieval sources could be, Irmtraut Heitmeier develops the model of a dual formation of the duchy of Baiern. Since in late Roman administration Raetia was part of the Italian dioceses and Noricum part of the Illyrian, the Inn River received a superior function in the organisation of space, which separated different spheres of sovereignty already in the Ostrogothic and later in the Merovingian period. The integration of parts from both territories can help to explain the structural dichotomy of the subsequent duchy as well as the peculiarities of the dukeship of Baiern.

In the discussion on the nature of the dukeship as a hereditary sovereignty, the parallel of Aquitaine has been referenced particularly. For this reason, Philippe Depreux looks at the princeps in Aquitaine in the 7th and 8th centuries. Thereby, he points out contradictions and chronological problems in the “principautés périphériques” – as evolved by Karl Ferdinand Werner. By analysing the Miracula sancti Martialis accurately, Depreux shows that the principatus in Aquitaine is a construction of the 8th century and therefore much later than the postulated peak of the “principautés périphériques”. Ultimately, it was a title granted by the Carolingians in retrospect to those in power in Aquitaine, when it had already become a minor kingship.

With the question ‘Christians or Pagans?’, the following two contributions stress the problem of early Baiern’s identity once more. Christian Later explores the question of how religious denominations and Christianity in particular can become apparent in archaeological evidence. He not only deals with the different types of sources but also – based on the cross pins of the Aschheim thermae – offers the theory that those cross pins could constitute a reference to local forms of Christian denomination. The archaeological evidence is hardly conclusive but easily compatible with the conception that Christianity has long been widespread as the official religion in the Roman provinces of Raetia and Noricum Ripense and therefore did not need to be expressed explicitly in burial rituals.

This is Roman Deutinger’s thesis, based on a critical analysis of written sources. He exposes the reports of a Christianization of Baiern not until the 7th and 8th centuries as a master narrative. Its premises are, on one hand, the idea of individual conversions, and on the other hand, the assumption that an ethnic and religious (Pagan) identity of the Baiern already existed before the integration into Christian empires. The latter had already been refuted, but it still needs to be done with the former. In a long Christianized settlement area headed by a Christian duke, in the 6th century the Baiern could not have been pagans anymore. The primary question concerns the quality of their Christianity.

The volume is concluded by four short articles on Regensburg and its hinterland by Silvia Codreanu-Windauer, Arno Rettner, Wolfgang Janka, and Alois Schmid. These contributions originated from a roundtable debate during the conference in Benediktbeuern and discuss the previously approached questions in the specific case of the metropolis Baioariae. Their main emphases lie on the continuity or transformation of the population, the question of the early ‘capital’ of Baiern, and the issue of the transformation of the Roman territorium legionis as a basis of power for the Agilolfing dukes. These short contributions are intended to serve as material for further discussions.

At last, the spelling of the Baiern-name needs to be addressed briefly: The territory of the early Baiern covered in this volume reached far beyond the borders of the modern-day Free State of Bavaria, especially in the east and south, whereas it was bounded on the north by the Danube. To signify this in writing too, the spelling Baiern with <ai> is being used. In linguistics, it correlates with the customary spelling of ‘bairische Sprache’ (Bavarian language), whose geographical distribution in central and southern dialect areas of Bavaria corresponds to the early Baiern more or less. In early medieval sources, Baioaria/Baiovaria was commonly used as the toponym, and the residents were referred to as Baiovarii. Today’s popular spelling Bajuwaren originates in a 19th century misconception of the word Baiuuarii, where <uu> stands for <w> and not for <uw> (Rübekeil). When Ernst von Schwind entitled his edition of the Code of Baiern ‘Lex Baiwariorum’, he did not make this mistake, for which reason his title is given preference to the prevalent ‘Lex Baiuvariorum’ in this volume. Altogether, it seemed desirable to revise a problematic conception of the 19th century and to restore the names of people and territory in accordance to the sources: Baiovarii and Baiovaria.

Notes

  • SZ Nr. 299 vom 24./25/26.12.2004 S. 51.↩︎

  • Carl I. Hammer, From Ducatus to Regnum, 2007, 49.↩︎


Originally published as

Hubert Fehr, Irmtraut Heitmeier, “Ein Vierteljahrhundert später…” in Die Anfänge Bayerns: Von Raetien und Noricum zur frühmittelalterlichen Baiovaria, ed. Hubert Fehr, Irmtraut Heitmeier (St. Ottilien: EOS Verlag, 2012), 13-20.

Image: SZ Photo
Bavarian Constitutional Assembly at the Main Auditorium (Große Aula) at the University of Munich, 1946

For many of the West German states founded in the wake of World War II, 2016 and 2017 marked the seventieth anniversary of their founding. The degree to which they chose to commemorate these events varied widely: North Rhine-Westphalia organized a grand ceremony attended by Chancellor Angela Merkel and Britain’s Prince William, and Hesse held numerous events commemorating the history of its founding and regional successes, but other states, perhaps regarding seventy years as a rather unorthodox milestone, were more restrained in their celebrations or saw little need to mark the anniversary at all. Schleswig-Holstein, for instance, organized only a small celebration, which was unceremoniously pushed back from the actual anniversary of the state’s founding, August 23, to October so as to coincide with the end of the State Horticultural Show in Eutin.1 The state’s former minister-president, Björn Engholm, thought this was perfectly adequate: “After all, seventy years is no reason to have all the world’s choirs take to the stage,”2 he was reported as saying in the press. However, this attitude also came in for criticism. Wolfgang Kubicki, leader of the FDP faction in the state parliament, complained that in Schleswig-Holstein “celebrations of our own achievements are always given the lowest priority.”3

One striking thing about the commemorations was the marked emphasis on issues that had remarkably little to do with the states’ founding or the crucial groundwork for the future that had been laid seventy years earlier. Most representatives of the states understood the seventy years since their state’s founding primarily as a story of economic success. This was something to which Hesse, for instance, was keen to draw attention, emphasizing that, based on certain economic parameters, it was doing even better than Bavaria or Baden-Württemberg.4 Another commonly mentioned topic was the integration of refugees and displaced persons after 1945, with parallels being drawn to the present-day refugee crisis. For example, Hannelore Kraft, then minister-president of North Rhine-Westphalia, credited the various waves of immigration as a factor behind the “economic strength, … social cohesion, and … cultural diversity”5 that her state now enjoyed, seventy years after its founding.

Clearly, the German states found it difficult to celebrate the history of their own founding and those who had been central in these historical events. They also struggled to establish their own democratic tradition worthy of celebration.

It would appear that the same problem that has long affected the historiography of the Federal Republic of Germany as a whole was being repeated at the level of the states. According to Axel Schildt, there exist five (competing and in some cases contradictory) ways to narrate the history of the Federal Republic: 1) as a history of success, 2) as a history of failure, 3) as a history of modernization, 4) as a “burdened” history [Belastungsgeschichte], and 5) as a history of Westernization.6 Given these divergent interpretations, it is no wonder that “celebrating” has proven difficult. This article will therefore focus specifically on the establishment of statehood in the German states after 1945 and investigate how this history should be classified in light of recent research, so that it can be seen more clearly what exactly there is to “celebrate” seventy years on.

Because the examination and comparison of specific examples results in more detailed understanding of the historical developments, the German states of Bavaria and Rhineland-Palatinate will serve as case studies. The circumstances and general conditions surrounding the foundation of these two states varied in ways that allow for a productive juxtaposition. For reasons of space, however, this comparison of the two states’ early years focuses on three key aspects: a) the establishment of statehood and democracy, b) economic reconstruction, and c) efforts to address the burden of the National Socialist past.

I.

To properly assess the establishment of statehood and democracy in Germany after 1945, it is necessary to consider the background against which it took place, for—in the words of political scientist Hans-Peter Schwarz—our recent history is “only fully comprehensible … if one attempts … to understand it from the perspective of catastrophe, as a response to the physical, political, economic, and moral chaos out of which West German society emerged.”7 This background cannot be described as anything less than a total catastrophe of previously unimaginable scope. Allied-occupied Germany was in a state of complete collapse, without any state structures: many of the Third Reich’s political leaders had eluded responsibility for their crimes by fleeing the country or taking their own lives. Until literally the last minute, they had continued to issue senseless orders to keep on fighting and dying, thereby adding to the tally of their crimes and driving the German state as a whole into utter ruin. National Socialism had long eroded regional political identities, as the case of Bavaria illustrates especially clearly. Although there had still been a state by the name of “Bavaria” and a Bavarian minister-president, Ludwig Siebert, during the Third Reich, Siebert governed Bavaria as little more than a puppet of the National Socialist regime, overseen by a Reichsstatthalter (Reich governor). After he was succeeded by Gauleiter Paul Giesler in 1942, the last remnants of Bavarian sovereignty disappeared completely, since Giesler for all intents and purposes ceased to exercise the office.8 His counterpart in the Palatinate region, Josef Bürckel, proceeded in a similar manner, attempting to loosen the ties between the Palatinate and Bavaria so he could build up a realm along the French border in which he could exercise unlimited power.9

The dissolution of state structures was accompanied by the wholesale destruction of infrastructure and industry by the Allied air campaign and the combat operations in the final weeks of the war. While rural areas were spared the worst destruction, urban areas in Bavaria were devastated: around 33 percent of Munich and 51 percent of Nuremberg were destroyed, and the latter’s population after the war was less than half of what it had been before. On March 16, 1945, three weeks before the city was occupied by American forces, 75 percent of Würzburg was destroyed by an aerial bombardment that left 90 percent of homes in ashes and killed almost five thousand people.10

Matters were similar—or even worse—in the areas that were incorporated into the state of Rhineland-Palatinate in 1947. This was where, even as the war was in its final stages, the utterly senseless Ardennes Counteroffensive had been launched, resulting in high casualties and destruction on a massive scale. Ninety thousand soldiers perished on the German side alone in this insanity. The BASF chemical plant complex in Ludwigshafen, the region’s only major industrial site, was subjected to sixty-five aerial attacks with a combined total of some forty thousand bombs: these attacks completely destroyed one-third of the complex and damaged the remaining two-thirds so badly that no further production was possible. Moreover, after the war the company was sequestered by the French military administration, meaning its future was completely uncertain. All the bridges over the Rhine and twenty of the twenty-one bridges over the Mosel had been destroyed.11

On top of the destruction of the economic infrastructure, a global food crisis that was particularly acute between 1946 and 1948 meant the Allies were not always able to provide the Germans with sufficient food. The crisis hit the French occupation zone, in which the region that became Rhineland-Palatinate was located, harder than the American zone, in which Bavaria was located, because the weakest member of the anti-Hitler coalition did not even have enough food for its own population. Thus, there were protests over food shortages both in Ludwigshafen in the Palatinate and over the border in Lyon.12

Alongside the collapse of the state, the wholesale economic ruin, and the devastated livelihoods of many, Germans were also faced with the moral guilt their nation had brought upon itself. Before long, there could be no doubt in any honest person’s mind about the terrible toll of the war, with previously unimaginable war crimes and the murder of six million Jews and many other groups of victims now coming to light. People at the time had no idea how the victors would deal with a nation that had committed such crimes, or how, in the face of this guilt, a new German statehood, however constituted, could even be contemplated.13

It would be hard to overstate the bleakness of the situation. Even if we bear in mind only these few, by no means exhaustively described aspects, it is astonishing that there was anybody at all willing to take over from the Allied authorities and accept responsibility for the unenviable task of making a new start. It could hardly have been the prospect of success, fame, material reward, or even simply gratitude that motivated them—from the perspective of 1945/46, there was scant hope of any of these things.

II.

It is striking that the re-establishment of statehood in Germany in the years that followed, culminating in the founding of the Federal Republic of Germany in 1949, came from the bottom up out of the individual occupation zones, under the oversight of the Allied military commanders. This is especially clear in the case of Rhineland-Palatinate, where Ordinance No. 57 decreed the founding of a “Rhenish-Palatinate [Rheinpfälzisches Land]” on August 30, 1946. Following elections for the Gemeinderat (municipal council, September 15, 1946) and Kreisversammlung (district assembly, October 13, 1946), an advisory state constituent assembly was formed out of these two bodies (elected on November 17, 1946). The constituent assembly drafted a constitution, which was put to a referendum on May 18, 1947.14 In Bavaria, the state constituent assembly was directly elected on June 30, 1946, following local and municipal elections in the first half of the year. The assembly approved the draft version of the constitution on October 26, 1946, and it was subsequently accepted by 71 percent of Bavarian voters in the parliamentary elections on December 1, 1946. Although both constitutions were produced under Allied oversight, they were based on preliminary work carried out long before, which could now finally be put to use. Wilhelm Hoegner in Bavaria and Adolf Süsterhenn in Rhineland-Palatinate are thus rightly considered these states’ respective “constitutional fathers.”15

The new Rhineland-Palatinate constitution did not enjoy the same relatively widespread acceptance as its Bavarian counterpart, winning the referendum by a narrow margin of 53 percent. This slim majority was only secured thanks to strong support in the predominantly Catholic districts of Koblenz and Trier. In Rheinhessen and the Palatinate, a majority of voters actually rejected the constitution: not because they were fundamentally opposed to democracy, but rather due, firstly, to doubts about whether the artificial construct of Rhineland-Palatinate could possibly have a future and, secondly, to a dispute over a reform to the school system that was also on the ballot; whereas the newly founded CDU wanted to reintroduce denominational schools, even in areas where they had been abolished prior to 1933, the SPD, FDP, and Communist Party favored interdenominational schools, and ultimately rejected the whole constitution.16

All the same, the constitutions of both states have survived down to the present day without any fundamental changes. One need look no further than the preambles to register a fundamental rejection of the recently fallen National Socialist dictatorship and a passionate commitment to erecting in its place a new, democratic state governed by rule of law—a commitment that did not need to be compelled by the victorious powers.17

“In the face of the scene of devastation into which the survivors of the 2nd World War were led by a godless state and social order which lacked any conscience and respect for human dignity”—so begins the preamble to the new Bavarian constitution—“the Bavarian people herewith bestows upon itself the following Democratic Constitution.”18 Thus, the very first words of the document make a conscious break with the past and express respect for human dignity. In line with these aims, the second part of the constitution is devoted to civil liberties. Very generally, the Bavarian constitution of 1946 is marked by its desire to help forge a Bavarian identity—a desire that it was at least partially successful in realizing. This is why, in a rhetorical move unusual in a constitution, the document refers to Bavaria’s long history and its population’s common roots in an attempt to unite Bavarians behind the nascent democracy. The constitution thus drew on historical tradition and Bavarian identity in the service of establishing a democratic order. How could the fundamental new start down a democratic path have been formulated any more clearly?19

The new, patched-together state of Rhineland-Palatinate had no such traditions and territorial continuities to which its constitution could refer, which may be one reason why the preamble refers to God at great length than any other German state constitution. The document’s opening phrase—“Conscious of their responsibility before God, the source of right and creator of all human community”—elevates its status above that of a merely human contract. Its stated aims are “to secure the freedom and dignity of man, to regulate community life according to the principle of social justice, to promote economic progress for all people, and to form a new democratic Germany as an active member of the community of nations.”20 Part one of the constitution then sets out the fundamental rights and freedoms of the people of Rhineland-Palatinate, which are justified on the basis of natural law.21

All the work that went into establishing these new principles of statehood within Germany clearly proved fruitful, as evidenced by how long the constitutions have endured. In Axel Schildt’s terms, we thus appear to have here a remarkable history of success—even if such a history may nowadays strike us as “boring” and arouse the suspicion that a kind of simplistic, apologetic foundational myth is being handed down.22 This suspicion can be countered by incorporating aspects of what Schildt terms the “history of failure.”23 In the worldviews of both Bavaria’s and Rhineland-Palatinate’s constitutional fathers, there were elements that appear strange and contradictory when viewed through the lens of our modern, developed conception of democracy, and which seem to suggest the existence of a “restorative” mood in the founding years.

One commonly cited example in this context is the draft of a law to “defend the Bavarian state” that was penned by the social democrat Wilhelm Hoegner, Bavarian minister-president and constitutional father. The proposed law, modeled on the Law for the Defense of the Republic from 1922, would have allowed preemptive indefinite detention of people without occupations, restrictions on freedom of expression, and many other measures in the event of a threat to the Bavarian state. Attempting to intimidate the Bavarian minister-president or any other minister or to prevent them from exercising their authority would have become punishable by death or life imprisonment. The American military government was swift to block any such proposals, which was a definite help in attaining the goal of democracy.24 The father of Rhineland-Palatinate’s constitution, Adolf Süsterhenn, also held some misguided views incompatible with a democratically constituted society: In 1952, he attempted to have the film Die Sünderin banned in Rhineland-Palatinate because he considered it immoral. Later, in the mid-1960s, he called for changes to article 5, paragraph 3 of German Basic Law, which declares that “art and scholarship, research, and teaching shall be free.”25 Süsterhenn wanted to confine this freedom to the bounds of the “general moral order” so as to ensure “decency in German cultural life.”26 This proposal did not win majority support in parliament.

It would be wrong, however, to allow these misguided views to discredit these men in general or suggest a weakness in the political systems they helped to create. Hoegner’s aim, against the backdrop of the experience of National Socialism, was to protect the new democratic order by all available means. He did not want to see German democracy threatened a second time and did all he could to protect it—including attempting to have three defendants who had been acquitted at the Nuremberg trials, Franz von Papen, Hjalmar Schacht, and Hans Fritzsche, rearrested by the Bavarian police.27 Süsterhenn’s ideas, meanwhile, were rooted in the ideological concept of a “Christian Occident” [christliches Abendland]; proponents of this notion—quite popular in the wake of the Second World War and National Socialism—sought to initiate a spiritual and moral revival based on Christian tradition. It was committed to reconciliation between peoples and rejected all nationalism and chauvinism.28

This fact alone suggests that, from a regional perspective, the history of the founding of the German states may perhaps not be adequately classified as what Schildt calls a “history of Westernization” in his list of five possible historical narratives for postwar Germany.29 Despite the occasional misguided step, the founding fathers of these German states made a genuine and constructive contribution to democratic development in their own right; this development cannot be attributed solely to the influence of the occupying powers.

It would be entirely mistaken to take such opinions to mean that the founding fathers’ ultimate goal was authoritarianism or even “renazification.” Hoegner was one of the National Socialists’ fiercest opponents during the Weimar period and later fled to Switzerland to escape the Gestapo. During his exile, he was influenced by Swiss direct democracy.30 Süsterhenn also became an opponent of the Nazis, serving as a lawyer to persecuted individuals in the courts of the Third Reich.31 Many of those who now assumed positions of responsibility had similar biographies. In Bavaria, the old elites were comprehensively ousted at the level of local governments. Around a third of representatives in the first Bavarian Landtag had been imprisoned or interred in concentration camps during the Nazi period,32 and recent studies of the political backgrounds of Landtag representatives overwhelmingly refute the thesis of renazification within the two states under consideration here. Of the 559 members of the Rhineland-Palatinate advisory state assembly of 1946 and the Landtag from 1947 to 1987, only 15 percent were former members of the NSDAP, of whom the vast majority had demonstrably not been actively involved in the party’s work.33 On the other hand, among the sixty-eight members of that initial advisory state assembly, fifteen members had lost their jobs during the Nazi period for political reasons, twenty-five had been detained as political prisoners, and six had been forced into exile.34 However, these figures are not representative of all the German states; in Schleswig-Holstein, over 50 percent of those serving in the Landtag between 1954 and 1967 were former NSDAP members, and the proportion of parliamentarians who had faced persecution by the Nazi regime dropped off dramatically after 1947.35 The figure for Hesse lies somewhere in between, with a total of ninety-two former NSDAP members out of 403 Landtag representatives in the postwar period or 22.8 percent.36 The situation in Lower Saxony was similar, with 27 percent of state parliamentarians between 1946 and 1994 having been NSDAP members prior to the end of the war.37

Schildt’s “history of failure,” which is based largely on the charge that the founding years of the Federal Republic had a “restorative” character, thus becomes relativized when differences between the individual German states are taken into account. Elements of this history are also captured in Christoph Kleßmann’s notion of “modernization under conservative auspices.”38 For despite all the “retarding” or retrogressive aspects, the social dynamism unleashed by the new statehood was so great that it ultimately resulted in a pluralist democracy—a remarkable turn of events, and one worthy of commemoration.

III.

In depicting the early years of the Federal Republic and the individual German states as a “history of modernization,” there is no doubt a risk of “nostalgic retrospectives on the heroic phase of reconstruction” that can easily be mistaken for the “apologetic” variant of the history of success.39 But this should not lead us to overlook the enormous accomplishments by the architects of the country’s reconstruction, despite the occasional misstep or failure.

Their first, overriding priority was to ensure that the population was fed and housed (many people did not even have a roof over their heads) and to rebuild essential economic infrastructure. The now-published minutes of the early meetings of Bavaria’s and Rhineland-Palatinate’s councils of ministers vividly illustrate the highly practical nature of the issues that politicians had to grapple with in this period, such as the supply of coal or the potato harvest—topics that could sometimes provoke intense debate. If we fully acknowledge what the business of reconstruction involved in practice—working day and night, dealing with everything from the small necessities of life to major economic problems, rebuilding out of virtually nothing—it cannot help but command astonishment and respect even today.40 As Anton Pfeiffer, state secretary at the Bavarian State Chancellery, summed up the prevailing situation in summer 1945: “The situation is more or less like that after the Thirty Years’ War. If we lose these chances now, people in Bavaria will have to bear it for centuries. There are tremendous opportunities to shape the future.”41

The very different starting conditions and options open to the states in 1945 is once again evident in a comparison. Rhineland-Palatinate, founded in 1947, was pieced together from former border regions that had historically been economically weak, and was administered by France, which, due to its own economic problems, was not only unable to provide economic assistance, but intended to use the occupation zone to bolster its own reconstruction, and hence was planning to dismantle the state’s already minimal industrial capability. Moreover, Rhineland-Palatinate had suffered heavy damage to infrastructure even in rural regions, necessitating extensive rebuilding.42

In Bavaria, the overall situation was more favorable. Although it had some of the same problems as Rhineland-Palatinate—a large number of traditionally agricultural regions that represented economic problem zones, mass devastation from the war, the threat of destruction of industrial capability—research by Stefan Grüner found that more industrial assets remained intact and that the American military administration was better able to provide assistance.43 However, Bavaria had to deal with the mass influx of over 1.9 million refugees, since for a long time the French simply refused to allow them into their zone. Refugees and displaced persons were only admitted into Rhineland-Palatinate in the early 1950s following protracted negotiations over how to share the burden more equally between the zones. Despite the far lower numbers involved, in Rhineland-Palatinate, too, feeding and housing the new arrivals posed an enormous challenge.44 Immigration had a substantial impact on Bavaria’s demographic structure, especially the arrival of Sudeten Germans, who were soon dubbed the fourth Bavarian tribe and made up well over 20 percent of Bavaria’s population by 1949. Like the evacuees who were sent to live in the Bavarian countryside (the “air raid shelter of the Reich,” as it came to be known) during the war, the refugees were also mostly placed in smaller towns and villages, drastically altering the existing social structures. This fostered hostility toward these fellow German citizens, who had lost everything, and led to the founding of parties and groups opposed to accepting refugees. This was, to be sure, a dark chapter in the history of postwar reconstruction,45 particularly given that the refugees ultimately (albeit a few years down the line) proved to be a boon to Bavaria’s economic growth and helped bring about positive changes in their host society. The Bavarian Refugee Act of 1947 and the churches’ pastoral care for displaced persons played a key role, as did initiatives by the refugees themselves and a broad spectrum of cultural policy measures. The result was that, by the 1950s, the first signs of successful integration were already in evidence.46

The question of how a successful new start was possible in the face of this dire economic situation has been better researched in relation to Bavaria than Rhineland-Palatinate. What politicians were able to do in the structurally weak Rhineland-Palatinate, which had practically no large-scale industry other than the chemical plants in Ludwigshafen, was to pass laws designed to stimulate the economy, to actively seek economic assistance from external sources such as the federal government and the Marshall Plan, and—above all—to rebuild the transportation infrastructure, which was essential for recovery. A lot of money went into rebuilding the dominant agricultural sector. This included investment in wine production: the new state contained around 70 percent of Germany’s vineyards, but vast sums of state aid were needed to make the wine crops phylloxera-resistant before the opportunities this offered could be harnessed. Rhineland-Palatinate probably pumped too much money into agriculture at first without taking advantage of the (albeit limited) opportunities to catch up in terms of industrialization. This was due in part to the state’s financial weakness: in the early 1950s, it struggled to provide a mere 58 million Deutschmarks [DM] in economic assistance. Moreover, NATO’s defense strategy saw eight new airbases being created in the region on the left bank of the Rhine, transforming it (in the words of Minister-President Bernhard Vogel) into “NATO’s aircraft carrier.” Although this helped in the economically weak areas, it prevented modern industries from becoming established in the region and meant that, when the NATO forces withdrew after 1990, the old problems returned. Solving these problems requires a process of structural transformation that is still ongoing to this day.47

Things developed very differently in Bavaria, which also started out with a dominant agricultural sector and economically weaker border regions to the east. Despite all the political debates about whether or not the state should intervene in the economy, the first structural funding measures began in 1946/47, and in the early 1950s, Bavaria became the first state after North Rhine-Westphalia to introduce a state development plan. Bavaria’s selling points were its business-friendly labor laws, cheap commercial building land, and prestigious, long-established educational institutions. There was also a huge housebuilding program, with 350,000 new homes constructed between 1950 and 1954. The amount of state assistance on offer was in an entirely different league than Rhineland-Palatinate: by 1954, Bavaria had issued DM 700 million of indemnity bonds, for example to support the founding of new companies that were low on capital. Further assistance was available from the Bavarian State Institute for Development Financing (LfA), which was given DM 40 million of initial capital by the state.48 There was also investment in research, despite Bavaria being branded at the time as a not very research-friendly state: the Fraunhofer Society, founded in 1949, soon shook off its reputation as a product of Bavarian exceptionalism and established a respected place for itself in the German research landscape—something that also benefited the Bavarian economy. Later, the “Rucker Plan,” a program launched by Wilhelm Hoegner to promote research in Bavaria in 1956, helped to revolutionize the state’s research sector.49

With its strategy to modernize industry, Bavaria avoided the mistakes made in other German regions. In particular, the state made attractive offers to industries fleeing the Soviet occupation zone and former German territories, and became home to modern, large-scale industries with promising future prospects: for example, Auto Union/Audi relocated to Ingolstadt in 1949.50 Schott, the glassmaking company from Jena in East Germany, was one of the rare cases where Rhineland-Palatinate managed to hold its own in the face of competition from Bavaria, with the company choosing Mainz as the site for its new West German headquarters, which opened in 1952.51

In summary: although by the mid-1950s Bavaria was still below average national GDP per capita,52 its economy was gradually recovering. Rhineland-Palatinate’s recovery was slower, not taking off until the early 1960s, when it was able to take advantage of opportunities opened up by the EEC. Relative to the point they started out from, both cases—each with its own peculiarities and limitations—represent remarkable histories of success and modernization, the crucial foundations for which were laid down during the period under consideration here.53 Why this should not have been commemorated in the anniversary celebrations is unclear.

IV.

It is sometimes argued that this unparalleled growth in prosperity was accompanied by collective amnesia and suppression of the Germans’ guilt for the crimes of the Nazi era, resulting in what Ralph Giordano provocatively termed a “second guilt”;54 this (disputed) claim lies at the heart of accounts that present the founding of the Federal Republic and/or the individual states as a “burdened history.”55 It is not hard to find evidence of such suppression at the state level, either: at a meeting of Rhineland-Palatinate’s advisory state assembly in Koblenz on December 6, 1946, Peter Altmeier (later minister-president) offered up an idiosyncratic interpretation of history that went on to enjoy great popularity in the state: “The political emphasis and the leading cultural center of future German state life must lie here on the Rhine, where the nationalistic and centralistic authoritarian state thinking never could take root, where militarism never had a home, [where] on the contrary—during the Nazi era as well—democratic, federalistic and peace-loving thinking always remained alive.”56 Although these words were clearly pandering to the political views of the French military administration, and were intended to somehow bring unity to the disparate state of Rhineland-Palatinate, it is difficult to read them without a sense of incredulity.

Turning now to an example from Bavaria: at a Dachau Symposium in 2013, Sybille Steinbacher57 described the difficulties survivors of the Dachau concentration camp encountered when trying to build new lives after liberation. Some sections of the population united against them, taking the side of those who had perpetrated the crimes in Dachau and Landsberg.58 Steinbacher’s findings form part of a vast body of research showing that the Germans failed for decades to adequately confront their guilt, that German politicians and judges were too reluctant to punish the crimes of the Nazi era, and that German society was prevented from coming to terms with its past by a host of myths and legends that only gradually dissipated.

A finer-grained examination of the histories and local situations of individual German states, however, brings the mechanisms and determinants of this development into sharper relief and helps to prevent overhasty generalizations of the historical findings.

For example, a study by Edith Raim, based on an extensive analysis of thousands of German judicial proceedings against Nazi criminals, begins by noting the many different things that had to be done all at once and under the most difficult of conditions in the first ten years or so after 1945: the international war crimes tribunal took place in Nuremberg; other military tribunals and German courts also heard cases concerning Nazi war crimes; the entire population was subjected to an unprecedented political screening program known as “denazification”; reparations had to be made for damage inflicted in other countries; and compensation and restitution had to be arranged for victims. One American observer described it as the “largest judicial enterprise recorded in the history of mankind.”59

If we focus our attention on the punishment of Nazi crimes, the surviving case files give an idea of the scale of the task that had to be accomplished: in Bavaria, for example, a total of 4,932 proceedings were instituted over the course of the years, while 2,374 such cases were brought in Rhineland-Palatinate. North Rhine-Westphalia bore the heaviest brunt, with 8,674 proceedings.60 Ultimately, judges handed down sentences against some 30,000 Nazi perpetrators. To take a specific example, the Würzburg district attorney’s office instituted 218 proceedings in the period that we are interested in here, 1945–1949. By no means did all of these proceedings result in the defendants’ prosecution, but some did end with severe punishments. In 1953, for instance, a Rapportführer [report leader] from the Groß-Rosen concentration camp was sentenced to life imprisonment.61 According to Raim’s research, never again were so many proceedings initiated against Nazi perpetrators than during this period from 1945 to 1950. She believes these public trials also had great educational value, since they gave people a concrete, up-close insight into the full reprehensibility of the National Socialist regime. She concludes: “One cannot help but respect the Justice Administration for its efforts to combat forgetfulness and seek justice despite the prevailing hardship of the early postwar years.”62

The major war crimes trials conducted by the Allies—in Bavaria most notably, of course, the Nuremberg trials, though there were also other trials held before American military tribunals—are now widely regarded, after years of research, as a key milestone in the history of bringing those complicit in the crimes of dictatorial regimes to justice; these trials have served as a reference point for all subsequent attempts to undertake similar proceedings in other countries.63 To give one example, Eugen Kogon described the Nuremberg trials as “a crucial step in world history toward using justice to tame violence.”64

Comparable, though far less well-known, trials also took place in Rhineland-Palatinate, namely, the Rastatt war crimes trials, which were conducted by the French military administration and resulted in several death penalties.65 Following these trials and the manhunts for German war criminals carried out by the French authorities in Germany and France, several hundred prisoners had to serve time at the war criminal prison in Wittlich, Rhineland-Palatinate—perpetrators who have long disappeared from public consciousness, but should nonetheless be included in a full account of efforts to address the crimes of the Nazi era.66

Recent regional and local studies have likewise resulted in a more nuanced assessment of the process of denazification. Instead of simply being sweepingly disparaged as a Mitläuferfabrik (a factory turning perpetrators into “fellow travelers”), more attention is now given to the individual phases of denazification and the problems that led to an unsatisfactory overall result. In Rhineland-Palatinate, for example, the first stage of denazification—the “Auto-Épuration” of 1945/46, overseen by the French with German involvement—was anything but lenient; while it did achieve remarkable results, it quickly became politically controversial. It was only when the French proceedings were replaced by the American Spruchkammer tribunals that political guilt began to be squeezed into overly rigid categories, resulting in the well-known homogenizing effect.67 As regards Bavaria, meanwhile, a recent study on denazification in Nuremberg, the city of the Nazi rallies, refutes any suggestion that the old Nazi elites were let off lightly there; instead, surviving Nazi leaders were rigorously brought to account for their crimes.68 This contrasts with research on Augsburg, where this was found at least in some instances not to be the case.69

The intensely debated topic of reparations (Wiedergutmachung, lit. “making good” [e.g., an injustice]) for the crimes of the National Socialists has also been analyzed with specific reference to Bavaria. On the one hand, the analysis confirms the much-discussed weaknesses of the process, which required victims to provide an unreasonable level of proof of the injustices done to them; this study found greater reluctance in Bavaria to pay reparations than in other states, such as Hesse. On the other hand, it also showed that Bavaria did undertake substantial efforts to make reparation right from an early stage: for example, by October 1945, a state commission for the care of Jewish people had already been set up under the auspices of the Bavarian Ministry of the Interior. Intended to alleviate the pressing everyday hardship of the victims of persecution, this commission provided some three million Reichsmarks of immediate aid in the first three months of 1946. As ambivalent and unsatisfactory for many victims as the overall result was, the reparation process did make those whom persecution had deprived of rights into “legitimate claimants,” and “changed the present” for all parties by addressing the injustices of the recent past.70

Another key aspect of addressing this legacy was public, societal confrontation with the National Socialist era. The Institute of Contemporary History (IFZ) played a key role here. The institute, which was given its present name in 1952, was founded in Munich in 1949 with the task of studying the National Socialist period. By actively supporting and funding the institute, “Bavaria proved to be a driving force in critical engagement with the National Socialist dictatorship,”71 according to Edgar Wolfrum. Informed by their own painful experiences in the Dachau concentration camp, Bavarian CSU politicians such as Alois Hundhammer championed a rigorously anti-totalitarian attitude in the political sphere too, and in the 1950s were early proponents of plans for a Dachau memorial.72

Although there was no institution comparable to the IFZ in Rhineland-Palatinate, the Johannes Gutenberg University Mainz—a “reform” university founded by the French military administration in 1946—was able to at least partially fill the gap with its broad-ranging studium generale (“general studies”; the s.g. typically takes the form of a series of interdisciplinary talks around a particular theme open to all students and the general public). Very early on, the university hosted well-attended discussion evenings run by Karl Holzamer (later director general of the television station ZDF), featuring guests such as the émigré Carl Zuckmayer, which compensated to some extent for lack of institutions of political education.73

None of this amounted to a process of confronting the legacy of the past of the scale and quality we are familiar with today—but it did provide an important impetus with lasting effects. It shows that the early years were not yet marked by the general mentality of suppression that Hermann Lübbe called “collective silence”74—a term others have challenged—and that there were at least some efforts to face up to the legacy of the National Socialist era.

Politically, probably the most critical issue for this process of coming to terms with the past was whether it would be possible to win over German society as a whole, and the many individual citizens with varying degrees of complicity in the Nazi crimes, to the new democratic and political system. Scholars of contemporary regional history have largely neglected the question of how this was achieved among the old, mainly Protestant, national conservative elites, whose political views were especially problematic. As the example of the pharmaceutical entrepreneur Dr. Ernst Boehringer from Rhineland-Palatinate shows, this process could take over a decade. A staunch national conservative and militarist, after 1945 Boehringer continued to cleave to the ideas of a group of like-minded national conservatives whose attitude toward German guilt was at the very least problematic or ambivalent. Its members included men such as the authors Ernst Jünger and Gerhard Nebel, the philosopher Martin Heidegger, and the later NATO general Hans Speidel. However, between 1945 and 1955, Boehringer became an increasingly ardent supporter of the new German state, of the CDU (the governing party both in Rhineland-Palatinate and at federal level), and the policy of reconciliation with France, as practiced at the regional level by Minister-President Peter Altmeier and at the national level in the economic policies of Ludwig Erhard. In the last ten years before his death in 1965, Boehringer even became a committed advocate for the cause of greater international understanding. This would not have been possible without the foundations laid down in the preceding years by the founding fathers and mothers of the German states and the confrontation with the past their efforts enabled.75

VI.

Taken together, these findings from recent research about the end of the war and the years that followed make clear that the establishment of a new concept of statehood and democracy that emerged out of the founding of the German states is no cause for unqualified jubilation. Neither the post-1945 history of the individual states nor that of Germany as a whole is a simple, linear success story. Forward steps and new democratic beginnings were often counteracted and reversed by retrogressive developments, before the pendulum swung back once again toward progress.

The history of the founding of the German states can therefore probably be best described as a “history of development”: a history with numerous regional and sectoral differences, a history that it is as crucial to scrutinize as it is to commemorate, so as to avoid descending into apologetics. That the states are where they are today is, in any case, not a product of mere chance, but rather of the foundations that were laid down in the postwar years. Hence, alongside the various defects, we can also highlight the considerable achievements of this experiment (whose success was anything but assured back in 1946/47) and commemorate them at anniversary celebrations—for doing so will help us to build what Thomas Hertfelder called a “republican legitimacy sui generis76 that is capable of counteracting an overwhelmingly negative, antidemocratic populism.

Notes

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Originally published as

Michael Kißener: “Zukunft in der Katastrophe. Die deutschen Länder nach dem Zweiten Weltkrieg” in Zeitschrift für bayerische Landesgeschichte (2016), 625-647.

Image: Bayerische Staatsbibliothek (CC BY-NC-SA 4.0)
Detail from Map of Alois von Coulon, Carl Schleich, Johann Baptist Seitz, Post-Karte von Baiern, (Munich, 1810)

By the end of 1813, Napoleon’s Grand Empire had collapsed in central Europe and, apart from a few isolated garrisons, French forces had withdrawn from all the territories east of the Rhine. With their coordinated military operations, the alliance between Russia, Prussia, Austria, and Britain had achieved its goal. Most recently, a series of uprisings had forced the French to withdraw from the territory of the Netherlands and present-day Belgium, which Napoleon had annexed in 1810. In Italy, Viceroy Eugène Beauharnais was struggling to hold his position on the Adige River; meanwhile, the Austrians had already regained control of the region to the east, Veneto, and the British field marshal, Lord Wellington, had retaken the Iberian Peninsula and advanced deep into southern France.

Significant differences emerged among the allies over whether to continue the offensive. Klemens von Metternich, Austria’s leading statesman, was willing to recognize the Rhine and the Alps as France’s “natural borders.” Tsar Alexander I of Russia, by contrast, pushed for an invasion of France, arguing that a lasting peace could only be agreed upon in Paris, and only with someone other than Napoleon. The British cabinet in London, primarily concerned with the fate of the Netherlands, was wary of offering overly generous concessions to the defeated French emperor and took the unusual step of dispatching the foreign secretary, Lord Castlereagh, to the continent.1

As 1813 drew to a close, the allied powers resolved to continue the military campaign, and Karl Philipp of Schwarzenberg’s and Gebhard Leberecht von Blücher’s armies marched into France, experiencing a series of victories and defeats in the early months of 1814. Meanwhile, Napoleon rebuffed all diplomatic overtures. When Russia, Prussia, Austria, and Britain signed the Treaty of Chaumont on March 9, 1814, Castlereagh was one step closer to achieving his great ambition of turning the wartime coalition into a “quadruple alliance” for peace. The terms of the treaty were utterly unprecedented in the diplomacy of the day: a twenty-year military alliance, a coordinated continuation of the war until Napoleon’s defeat, and jointly conducted peace negotiations. The intention, in Castlereagh’s words, was “not only to procure, but to preserve peace.2 The allied forces renewed their westward push and captured Paris on March 31, 1814; having lost the support of his marshals, Napoleon subsequently abdicated on April 6. Two weeks later, on April 23, the four allied powers—now joined by Portugal—signed an armistice with France, represented by the new French foreign minister, Charles-Maurice de Talleyrand, acting on behalf of Louis XVIII, who had been restored to the throne.

Austria’s War in Italy, 1813/14

The implosion of Napoleon’s Grand Empire in the second half of 1813 and his retreat to France left central Europe to the north and south of the Alps in a “limbo of unresolved questions.”3 The territories from which Napoleon’s troops had withdrawn found themselves facing very different fates. The governor of the Russian tsar asserted claims to Poland by right of military conquest, and the representative of the Austrian emperor laid claim to northern Italy for similar reasons. Meanwhile, the German territories recovered from the French were, except where the allies acknowledged their ruler, placed under the control of a provisional central administration for the transition period, which had been set up in 1813 under the leadership of Baron vom Stein on behalf of the alliance.4 Matters were different yet again in those south German members of the Confederation of the Rhine that had voluntarily switched to the side of the anti-French coalition; Bavaria led the way with the Treaty of Ried (October 8, 1813).

On both sides of the Alps, the decisive factor in the potential new state order was the political interests of the Austrian Empire. At the same time that the far better-known battles of the “Wars of Liberation” were taking place in in Saxony and along the Main River, Austrian forces were independently (with only occasional support from the British) waging war against the Italian viceroy Eugène, Napoleon’s stepson and general.

Vienna had never taken its eyes off the Duchy of Milan, an economically important territory that Austria had acquired in 1713 but been forced to cede to Napoleon’s Cisalpine Republic in 1797; the empire had likewise ruled the regions of Veneto, Istria, and Dalmatia from 1797 to 1805 before losing them to the Napoleonic Kingdom of Italy. The Austrians’ military victories against Eugène, a celebrated general, in 1813 and 1814 allowed them to secure control of northern Italy, paving the way for the proclamation of the Kingdom of Lombardy-Venetia in April 1815.

Italy was high on the political agenda of Emperor Francis I of Austria and his leading minister, Metternich. Metternich’s first “vision of a rebuilt Europe in a state of peace,” which he devised in May 1813 as Austria was tentatively drawing closer to the anti-Napoleon coalition, called for the restitution of the Papal States and for Austria to be given the region of Veneto to the east of the Adige.5 At the talks with Napoleon in February 1814, Metternich called for the restoration of Italy’s independent states (états indépendans).6

After prolonged hesitation, a phase of neutrality, and several attempts at mediation, the Habsburg Empire finally sided with Russia and Prussia in mid-August 1813 and declared war on France. The largest of the alliance’s three armies, the Army of Bohemia, with just under 240,000 troops under Schwarzenberg’s command, set off towards Dresden to the north, where an inconclusive engagement ensued in late August.7

At the same time, the far smaller Army of Inner Austria, an all-Austrian force of 50,000 men under the command of General Johann von Hiller, began operations against Viceroy Eugène along the border between Carinthia, Carniola, and Friuli. By mid-October 1813, when the Battle of the Nations was fought at Leipzig, the viceroy had been forced to abandon Illyria, Friuli, and eastern Veneto (apart from a few fortresses and the city of Venice) and withdraw his French–Italian troops beyond the Tagliamento.8

The Austrians now attempted to come at their enemies from behind through the Adige and Eisack valleys, a plan that required control of the road through the Puster valley, over which the Austrian lieutenant field marshal Franz Philipp Fenner von Fenneberg and Italian general Alessandro Gifflenga fought in October. This military situation explains Metternich’s interest in quickly concluding the Treaty of Ried with Bavaria; the seventh secret article of that document allowed the Austrians to conduct military operations in Tyrol.9 Austria could thus move troops and supplies through Bavarian territory in the Inn valley without disruption, and from there south via the Brenner Pass, even before a decision had been made about returning Tyrol to Austria. Moreover, the troops stationed in Upper Austria to defend against Bavaria—around 25,000 men under the command of the general Prince Heinrich XV of Reuss-Plauen—could now be redeployed to reinforce the Army of Inner Austria. Emperor Francis appointed Reuss military governor of all conquered territories in Italy.10

By the end of October, Hiller’s Austrian troops had passed through the Puster valley and occupied the cities of Bolzano and Trento. To circumvent Gifflenga’s blockade of the Chiusa di Verona, he advanced toward Vicenza via the Sugana valley, forcing Eugène to beat a rapid retreat to the west bank of the Adige, where he set up headquarters in Verona. The viceroy now found his position threatened from the south as well, for the Austrians, supported by the British Navy, had landed on the Adriatic coast and taken control of Ferrara.

In early 1814, as the allied forces were marching into France, the new commander-in-chief of the Austrian army in Italy, Field Marshal Heinrich von Bellegarde, initiated negotiations with King Joachim Murat of Naples. Bellegarde, who now had 55,000 men at his disposal, did not want to attack Eugène’s position on the Adige without the support of Murat, whose army controlled the areas south of the Po. In a treaty of alliance signed on January 11, 1814, the king pledged to send 30,000 men into battle against Eugène. He launched his first offensive near Ancona in mid-February.

Thereupon, Eugène withdrew from Verona, the southern Alpine passes, and the line of the Adige to a position on the far side of the Mincio, between Lake Garda and Mantua. Neither side advanced significantly at the Battle of the Mincio River on February 8. Clashes with Murat along the Po continued, and Eugène’s position came under a new threat when British troops under Lord William Bentinck landed in Tuscany in early March 1814 and occupied the Ligurian coast up to Genoa.

Eugène’s position in Italy finally became unsustainable with Napoleon’s abdication on April 13, 1814; the viceroy and Bellegarde formally ended armed conflict in Italy with the conventions of Schiarino-Rizzino and Mantua (on April 16 and 23, respectively). The whole of Lombardy (up to the old border along the Ticino) came under Austrian control, and the remaining French and Italian garrisons were ordered to surrender. Hostilities ceased and the French troops withdrew to the west. In the face of mass unrest in Milan, Eugène declared his abdication on April 26 and left Verona with his wife Augusta and two-week-old daughter Théodelinde. Accompanied by an Austrian escort, they set out for the court of Eugène’s Bavarian stepfather, King Maximilian I Joseph in Munich.11

Just as the Russian tsar now controlled most of Poland, the Austrian emperor, thanks to the conquests by his troops, had taken control of the region north of the Po, from the Adriatic to the Ticino (between Lake Maggiore and Pavia), which marked the border with Sardinia-Piedmont. This was the region granted to the Habsburg Empire in the second secret article of the First Peace of Paris of May 30, 1814: “Les possessions de Sa Majesté Impériale et Royale Apostolique en Italie seront limitées par le Pô et le Tesin et le lac majeur.”12 The public part of the treaty executed Metternich’s plan of dividing the rest of Italy into sovereign states (etats souverains).13

In the fluid situation during the campagne de France and the engagements along the Mincio in spring 1814, various plans were drawn up for reorganizing central Europe, based on the principles to which the four powers had agreed. For example, in April 1814, Karl August von Hardenberg, prime minister of Prussia, set out a “plan for the future arrangement of Europe” (Plan für die künftige Gestaltung Europas).14 Napoleon’s defeat, the document begins, has “undone his monstrous plans of world domination”; the victors must now, “through a just equilibrium and balanced distribution of power,” establish a European order that would ensure a stable, manageable peace. France was to be limited to its 1789 borders, while Russia had “every right to a considerable enlargement. Austria, Prussia, Sardinia, and Holland shall be restored, and receive the power and territorial expansion necessary to maintain both equilibrium and their […] independence.” Regarding Tuscany, Modena, the Papal States, and Naples, the document makes a less binding commitment: they were to be “restored as circumstances permit.” Switzerland would be “free and independent of any external influence,” while Germany was to be “a confederation of sovereign states united by a federal treaty.” Bavaria also gets a mention: as compensation for territories ceded to Austria, it was to receive Würzburg, Aschaffenburg, Hammelburg, districts in Baden and Hesse between the Main, Tauber, and Neckar, and territories on the left bank of the Rhine between Speyer, Landau, and Kaiserslautern.

Imaginary maps were a key component of the political plans. New borders were imposed on rulerless regions, with the promise of bringing stability and greater security to Europe and preventing a revival of French hegemony. The major German-speaking powers, Prussia and Austria, sought to compensate themselves for the extensive territories they had lost in the treaties of Pressburg (1805) and Tilsit (1807). Hardenberg’s plan aimed to restore both powers to the size they had been in 1805—measured not in terms of geographical area, but of population. The process of tallying up subjects and shuffling them around had its roots in cameralist resettlement theories and the mechanistic calculi born of the eighteenth-century faith in numbers. The Congress of Vienna was denounced even at the time for attempting it. Other powers articulated their interests more emphatically. For example, Britain insisted that the French withdraw from the Dutch-Belgian region and that the port of Antwerp be demilitarized; furthermore, the British delegation did not want colonial matters to so much as appear on the agendas at the peace talks or the congress.

The fundamental decisions about the new European order had already been made before the Congress of Vienna convened in late 1814 and early 1815. According to the First Peace of Paris,15 signed on May 30, 1814, the Netherlands were to be enlarged and ruled by the House of Orange, the independent states of Germany were to be united by a “federative bond,” Switzerland was to be constituted as independent of all external influences, and Italy was, in the document’s succinct formula, to be composed of sovereign states. These fundamental arrangements had first been formulated when the four allies met in February 1814; they arose out of an interest in creating a line of militarily strong buffer states along France’s eastern border to prevent any future incursions into central Europe and the Italian peninsula. Secret articles appended to the Paris treaty settled France’s Alpine border in favor of Sardinia-Piedmont and Austria, though Savoy was to remain in French hands for the time being. The former territories of the Holy Roman Empire on the left bank of the Rhine, which France had occupied since 1792 and now had to return, were to be used for the expansion of Holland and to compensate Prussia and other German states.

Italy’s Political Landscape in 1814/1815

Austria’s dominance in northern Italy was the result of the military developments between August 1813 and April 1814: Austria had fought the war against the Kingdom of Italy, which was collapsing along with Napoleon’s empire, singlehandedly, which meant that time-consuming diplomatic agreements or complex transitional administrations were not necessary. All the Great Powers were prepared to recognize the Austrian Empire’s exclusive control over northern Italy, provided that the House of Savoy’s legitimate claims in Piedmont-Sardinia were respected. Britain played a special role due to the superiority of its navy. It controlled the island of Sicily and gave protection to the Bourbons, the ruling family of Naples, who were living there in exile. Britain also supported the Austrians in the North Adriatic and intervened in the Tuscany-Liguria region.

As already noted, the peace treaty of May 1814 formalized the Habsburgs’ dominance, fixing Sardinia’s border along the line of the Ticino and awarding all the territories to its east, from the Alps to the Po, to the Austrian emperor. At the Congress of Vienna, Metternich was able, by doggedly exploiting disagreement among the Swiss cantons, to successfully assert a further claim to a small but strategically important Alpine region: in March 1815, the three districts of Valtellina (Bormio, Sondrio, and Chiavenna), located to the north of Lake Como, became part of Austria.16 Between 1822 and 1825, a new road was built there that directly linked Tyrol to Lombardy via the Stelvio Pass; at an elevation of 2,758 meters, it remains the second-highest paved Alpine pass to this day.

It was only the Peace of Paris that confirmed that not just Veneto but also Lombardy would return to Habsburg control.17 Already in March 1814, however, Emperor Francis had begun issuing decrees over what he termed his “conquered provinces” in Italy.18 Following the peace agreement, Field Marshal Bellegarde, commander-in-chief of the Austrian troops, was appointed commissioner of the occupied Italian territories. Returning from London to Vienna in July 1814, Metternich pushed for Austria’s sovereignty over the occupied territories in northern Italy to be formally recognized as soon as possible.19 Provisional civil administrations were set up in Milan and Venice. They assisted the Central Organizing Court Commission (Central-Organisirungs-Hof-Commission), established in Vienna in late July 1814 to reorganize the territories Austria had won back or newly acquired.

In February 1815, Emperor Francis decided on the proposals of the organizing commission, and in April 1815 awarded “my Italian states” the status of a kingdom, though the name Regno Lombardo-Veneto was only introduced at the last minute.20 As the name suggests, this kingdom, established by the highly condensed atto costitutivo of April 7, 1815, was a composite state, with two separate governors (Franz Joseph Graf Saurau in Milan and Peter Graf Goëss in Venice) and two advisory assemblies known as “congregations.”21 The final institutional arrangement, based on the structures of the Austrian states, was agreed upon during the emperor’s lengthy tour of the kingdom between October 1815 and May 1816; Metternich’s proposals on this matter consistently sought to strengthen the state’s rights to self-government.22 Francis’s younger brother Archduke Anton was appointed viceroy, but he never took up the office and was replaced by his brother Rainer in 1818.23

Austria’s “sphere of hegemony” on the Italian peninsula24 extended far beyond the new regno, encompassing Tuscany, Modena, Parma, and Piacenza as well. In summer 1814, Austria had contingents stationed throughout this region to defend the Habsburg Empire’s claims if necessary. Victor Emmanuel I of Sardinia–Piedmont, who was restored to his throne in May 1814 with the support and close involvement of Austria, immediately laid claim to western Lombardy and Parma. King Murat of Naples, despite having nominally been an ally of Austria since the start of 1814, was also considered a loose cannon, especially given that he had troops stationed far outside his territory.

Hence, Metternich’s political plans to stabilize Europe involved not just central Europe but also Italy in its entirety. In mid-1814, before the start of the Congress of Vienna, he considered founding a Lega Italica, which was intended to serve a twofold security function: firstly as a defensive military alliance to protect against France and secondly as a kind of “central police force” to ward off Jacobinism, which Metternich viewed as a perpetual threat. He saw the principles of the French Revolution and the possible foundation of a unified Italian state codified in a constitution as an ever-present danger that had to be “killed off.”25 Metternich’s policy on Italy was—from an earlier stage and to a more pronounced extent than his policy on the German Confederation—dominated by considerations of security. As a result of these concerns, he sought to maintain direct or indirect control over the peninsula so that Austria could maintain a military defense able to quash any effort to expand on France’s part while also keeping a watchful eye on the Italian territories, ready to intervene swiftly in the event of revolutionary unrest.26 The restitution of the individual states of the ancien régime (with minimal changes to borders) and a rejection of constitutions were further cornerstones of Metternich’s plans for Italy. Vienna avoided any policy or terminology that so much as hinted at “the idea of unifying Italy into a single power.”27 It was primarily for this reason that the Napoleonic Regno d’Italia was replaced by the Habsburgian Regno Lombardo-Veneto.

Metternich’s tactic for the negotiations at the Congress of Vienna, which began in September 1814, was to delay any discussion of Italian matters for as long as possible.28 He thereby intended to win time while developments unfolded in Naples, where King Murat was opposing French and Spanish demands for the restitution of the Bourbon monarchy. When, at the first official meeting of the decision-making Committee of Eight on November 13, 1814, the Spanish representative Pedro Gómez Labrador proposed the formation of a separate committee to specifically address Italy’s restructuring, along the same lines as had been done a month earlier for Germany, Metternich, who was chairing the meeting, rebuffed him with uncharacteristic verve: Italy, he said, had never been a “true political body” but “only a collection of independent states […] grouped under a single geographic designation,” and, moreover, unlike with Germany, no agreement had been made to form a “federative bond” for Italy. The territorial configuration of the individual Italian states should therefore be discussed “separately and successively,” going from north to south.29 Metternich’s characterization of Italy for tactical reasons as a mere “geographic designation” led to his being depicted as the archenemy of Italian unification during the Risorgimento.

Metternich succeeded in that the eight powers’ negotiations in Vienna began with a matter that had essentially already long been settled: the proposal that the king of Sardinia-Piedmont be given control of Genoa as compensation for having ceded territories in Savoy to France. After brief hearings on the precise arrangements, the congress agreed to this proposal on December 12, 1814, and King Victor Emanuel had annexed Liguria before the year was out. The disappearance of the ancient maritime republic from the map of Europe, without Genoa being given a special status within the kingdom of Piedmont or at least that of a free port, sparked outrage among the opposition in the British House of Commons. Victor Emanuel’s plans to annex parts of Lombardy, by contrast, quickly proved to be wishful thinking.

After arrangements for the two major northern territories, Lombardy-Venetia and Sardinia-Piedmont, and the Papal States in central Italy had been settled, Metternich introduced a master plan for the remaining territories on the peninsula in January 1815.30 The Austrians now gradually distanced themselves from King Murat of Naples and instead sided with the Bourbon claims. The fact that Napoleon’s brother-in-law had continued to station troops in central Italy, beyond the borders of his kingdom, was steadily eroding trust in his reliability as an ally.

To bypass dealing with Talleyrand in Vienna, Metternich did not negotiate his plans for the Italian peninsula at the congress but dealt directly with the French government in Paris. Metternich’s “principle of legitimacy,” according to which monarchs who had lost power under Napoleon’s reign should be restored, played a key role, but even more important was his fear that Murat could trigger a revolutionary war in Italy “under the banner of […] national freedom.”31 The British foreign secretary, Castlereagh, discussed Metternich’s plans with the French king Louis XVIII in person on his return journey to London and secured his support.

Napoleon’s escape from Elba in late February 1815 and the “Hundred Days” reign rendered all diplomatic plans for Italy obsolete. Murat sided with the returned emperor and issued the Rimini Proclamation, calling on all Italy, from the Alps to Sicily, to rise up against the Austrians and create an independent nation. In response, Austria declared war on Murat, and then defeated him in a brief but psychologically important campaign at the foot of the Apennines in April/May 1815; this lesser-known military action took place at the same time that allied forces were marching against Napoleon in Belgium. Based on this victory, in late May, the Bourbon monarch Ferdinand IV returned to Naples as king under the protection of the Austrian army and British navy. Formal treaties tied his political future closely to the interests of the Habsburg Empire.

In early June 1815, in the final days of the congress, the Committee of Five quickly agreed upon territorial arrangements for Italy based on Metternich’s program from the start of the year. No mention was made of Tuscany; the emperor and his family had already decided in early 1814 that Grand Duke Ferdinand III, the emperor’s brother, should return from Würzburg to Florence (though without actually consulting Ferdinand on the matter).32 Meanwhile, Archduke Francis IV of Austria-Este was finally able to assume the rule of the Duchy of Modena, more than a decade after his family had inherited the ducal title back in 1803.

In reality, the situation in Tuscany was extremely complex. In 1801, it had been elevated to the status of the Kingdom of Etruria, and, until Napoleon integrated the region directly into France in 1808, it was ruled by a branch of the Spanish Bourbons who had formerly ruled Parma. The Spanish infanta Maria Luisa, sister of the Spanish king, Ferdinand VII, laid claim to these lands, and one of the key tasks of Labrador, the chief Spanish delegate, and Talleyrand was to support her claims. Metternich had not originally included the Parma Bourbons in his plans for Italy, but was forced to revise these plans and concede the heritable Duchy of Lucca. Spain was not content with this meager territory, however, and was the only major European power to refuse to sign the congress’s Final Act. Ferdinand VII did not ratify the treaty until 1817, when a new treaty offered the Parma Bourbons succession rights to the duchies of Parma, Piacenza, and Guastalla. The Congress of Vienna had granted these duchies to Napoleon’s second wife, Marie Louise, daughter of the Habsburg emperor, but only ad personam and for her lifetime; the new treaty meant that after her death (which came in 1847), they would revert from the Habsburgs to the Bourbons.

A quick glance from Italy to the opposite coast to the east reveals that Austria conceived of itself not just as an Italian but as an Adriatic power. The reconstituted kingdoms of Illyria (including Laybach and Trieste) and Dalmatia, and the portion of Croatia returned to the Kingdom of Hungary, which included the port of Fiume, extended the full length of the Adriatic coast from Istria to Dubrovnik. Vienna also showed an interest in the protectorate of the Ionian islands off the west coast of Greece, which had been controlled by Britain since 1809, but Russia repeatedly vetoed this proposal during the negotiations.33

Bavaria’s Compensation and the Dispute over Salzburg

Metternich had to contend with a far greater range of interests during the negotiations over the areas of central Europe north of the Alps than he did during those over Italy: the “wing powers” of Russia and Britain; Austria’s traditional rival, Prussia, which had an interest in Saxony and its own ideas about what form the German Confederation should take; and “middle states” such as Bavaria, Württemberg, and Baden, which owed their elevation in status and sovereignty to Napoleon’s protectorate but had abandoned the French coalition before the end of 1813. Their prize for joining the alliance against the French was a guarantee that they would retain their territory and sovereign status. Thus, even before the Congress of Vienna, it was clear that the results of the territorial revolution that had transformed central Europe during the Napoleonic era between 1803 and 1810 would remain in place; there was no question of a “restoration” of the prerevolutionary status quo.

The discussion in this section will concentrate on the region of the eastern Alps, which was the subject of bilateral negotiations between the Habsburg Empire and the Kingdom of Bavaria. The key decisions in the territorial disputes between the two neighboring powers (whose relations had been marked by frequent conflict throughout the eighteenth century) were not hammered out at the Congress of Vienna, but before and afterwards. Hence, the final territorial configuration of the Wittelsbachs’ kingdom was only settled in April 1816—and it looked rather different than Bavaria had envisioned.

From April 1813 onward, the option of switching sides against Napoleon gained increasing ground in Munich.34 The question took on a new urgency when Austria declared war on France; in late summer 1813, Bavarian and Austrian troops were mustered against each other in the Innviertel and Upper Austria. The Russian tsar called on the Bavarian king Maximilian I Joseph to join the alliance against Napoleon, leading to direct negotiations between the two commanders-in-chief, General Karl Philipp von Wrede on the Bavarian side and Prince Heinrich XV of Reuss-Plauen on the Austrian side. From mid-September, any hopes that Bavaria could remain neutral in the ongoing conflict had disappeared, but it was only with considerable reservations, and at the last minute, that Max Joseph—having written that “betraying” Napoleon “would be a cowardice incongruous with the loyalty of my character”—assented to the signing of the Treaty of Ried, which took place on October 8, 1813.35

Max Joseph allied himself with Napoleon’s opponents just as the French emperor was planning his offensive against Bernadotte’s and Blücher’s armies to the north of Leipzig, making it a very risky move for the Bavarian king. In exchange for this volte-face, however, his kingdom’s powerful neighbor, Austria, guaranteed Bavaria absolute sovereignty and constitutional independence, as well as the retention of its territory. There was no time to reach agreement on specific questions of territory; Max Joseph had wanted Franconia and Swabia to be named as preferred territories in any compensation to Bavaria, but this did not make it into the final version of the text.36 All that was agreed upon was the principle that any adjustments of borders would be made without compulsion and through the exchange of territories that were of equal value and contiguous with existing possessions.

The allied forces received an additional 36,000 Bavarian soldiers as reinforcement. Moreover, Austria benefited from the immediate opening of Tyrol for military operations to support Hiller’s Italian campaign in the Puster and Eisack valleys; it was for this reason that Austria had repeatedly stressed its interest in controlling the Inn–Brenner route during the treaty negotiations.37

For Metternich, the main factors in the decision of October 1813 were calculability and stability: “any reversal of Napoleon’s new territorial order would have triggered a chaos of old and new claims.”38 He also needed Bavaria as an ally, as part of a “fixed system,” as he called it, that was intended to bring Bavaria to the side of Austria, Prussia, and Britain and thereby keep France and Russia in check.39 The priorities were to prize Bavaria away from the French coalition as quickly as possible, to gain access to the new ally’s military resources, and, hopefully, to trigger a domino effect that would bring further members of the Confederation of the Rhine over to the allies’ side. The principles of the Treaty of Ried, which ruled out both the dissolution of the large Rhine Confederation states and a return to the order of the Holy Roman Empire, prefigured the federal solution for central Germany that Metternich outlined shortly afterwards: “Allemagne composée de princes souverains uni par un lien fédératif qui assure et garantisse l’indépendance de l’Allemagne.40 Metternich had explicitly recognized the sovereign status of the princes of the Confederation of the Rhine ever since the Treaty of Teplitz, which founded the Coalition.41 Bavaria’s carefully worded proclamation of war on October 14 therefore justified the change of sides in terms of “securing the independence of the Germanic nation and the states comprising it.”42

Because it was too late for the Bavarian troops under Wrede’s command to be mobilized for the Battle of Nations at Leipzig, they occupied Würzburg instead. In late October 1813, they were defeated in the Battle of Hanau as they attempted to cut off Napoleon’s retreat to France, but they played a successful part in the invasion of France in February/March 1814. Max Joseph, his foreign minister Maximilian von Montgelas, and his commander-in-chief Wrede, who was sympathetic to the offensive course favored by the Russian tsar, thus earned a place in the allied powers’ inner circle.43

After the allied forces reached Paris and forced Napoleon’s abdication, peace talks began in the French capital in April 1814. Wrede—who had been promoted to field marshal and granted the status of prince—had been named Bavaria’s chief negotiator, despite his own vehement objections, because he was the “most credible” representative of “Bavaria’s new political position”44 and had proved himself a capable commander in the campagne de France. The Bavarian foreign ministry now contemplated various scenarios for an exchange of territories with Austria. It was considered certain that Bavaria would be able to hold on to the Innviertel, but the claim to Tyrol had already been as good as abandoned. The only part of Tyrol to remain under nominal Bavarian control was the Inn valley, which had been practically ungovernable due to unrest and revolts ever since Austrian troops had occupied the eastern and southern areas of the region until November 1813. Maximilian Graf Lerchenfeld, commissioner-general of the Innviertel, was removed from his post in January 1814.45

A question mark hung over Salzburg. The Peace of Pressburg of December 26, 1805, had granted the Duchy of Salzburg, as it was then, along with Berchtesgaden, to the Habsburg Empire as compensation for the loss of Tyrol to Bavaria. After the 1809 conflict and a prolonged French occupation, Salzburg and Berchtesgaden were awarded to Bavaria in early 1810, along with the Innviertel, the western part of the Hausruckviertel, Bayreuth, and Regensburg. Faced with the prospect of ever less palatable losses in the Alpine region, Munich increasingly looked north for suitable compensation: to Main-Franconia (especially Würzburg), the Neckar-Kreis, and other areas along the Main and Rhine.46

In May 1814, Wrede negotiated on these matters in parallel with the Paris peace talks: firstly with Johann von Wessenberg, the Austrian envoy in Munich, and then with Metternich himself.47 Wessenberg wanted Salzburg, the Innviertel, and the Hausruckviertel in their entirety for Austria, whereas Wrede wanted Bavaria to retain at least the northern parts of Salzburg (the city and the lower-lying parts of the Flachgau). Metternich steered Wrede’s gaze to Würzburg, Aschaffenburg, Fulda, and—repeatedly—Mainz. In the end, however, Prussia—represented by Karl August von Hardenberg—laid claim to Mainz, which was a key strategic fortress that controlled the line of the Main, had served on a number of occasions as an important base for Napoleon, and lay at the intersection between the two military defensive blocs that Austria and Prussia were seeking to establish within the German Confederation.

The treaty that Metternich and Wrede signed in Paris on June 3, 1814, fleshed out the declarations of principle in the Treaty of Ried with concrete details.48 The territorial arrangements were divided into two groups, according to when they would take effect:

– Bavaria had to immediately (within two weeks) relinquish Tyrol (excluding the district of Vils and Kufstein Fortress) and Vorarlberg (excluding the district of Weiler) to Austria; in return, it was to receive Würzburg and Aschaffenburg. This exchange was completed by the end of June; Wrede had already occupied the Franconian territories since October 1813.

– Bavaria would also have to return to Austria the Innviertel, the Hausruckviertel, and the Principality of Salzburg, except for the district of Laufen and the territory on the left banks of the Salzach and Saalach. However, Munich would only be obliged to hand over these territories once it had been given what it considered an acceptable “equivalent.” To this end, Metternich offered the city and fortress of Mainz and the “ancient Rhine-Palatinate” (l’ancien Palatinat du Rhin), which had passed to Baden in 1802/03. Other exchanges with Baden, Württemberg, Hesse-Darmstadt, and Nassau were considered in order to create a land bridge between the Main and the Palatinate.

To consolidate Bavarian claims on the left bank of the Rhine, too, Austria involved Bavaria in the provisional administration of the territories to the south of the Mosel that were being held in reserve to offer as compensation.

Neither Munich nor Vienna was especially happy with this compromise; Emperor Francis himself made a written note on Metternich’s report from Paris: “The treaty with Bavaria is bad. In particular, I do not like that we will not obtain Bertolsgaden or the Bohemian possessions [i.e., Redwitz in the Upper Palatinate].”49 In reply, Metternich reminded his emperor of the overarching political interests, especially the need to cultivate good relations between Bavaria and Austria, so as to prevent Munich from developing any sort of closer political ties with Prussia. His words, surprisingly for the man in charge of the Habsburg Empire’s foreign policy, have the air of a profession of faith: “We have only one fixed point in our relationship with Germany. That point is Bavaria.”50

Negotiations in Vienna

Despite reservations on both sides, Montgelas briefed the Bavarian king’s representative at the Congress of Vienna on the basis of the Peace of Paris. This representative was once again Marshal Wrede, since Montgelas himself refused to travel to the congress despite repeated urging from Max Joseph—a move he himself later conceded was a mistake. Montgelas hoped that Bavaria would be required to cede Salzburg and the Innviertel in exchange for the territories Austria had promised along the Main and Rhine. His instructions for the congress make explicit mention of Mainz, Wetzlar, Frankfurt, Hanau, and Fulda, as well as the “whole of the area on the left bank of the Rhine between this river, the new French border, and the Mosel.”51

The negotiations at the Congress of Vienna initially centered on Prussia’s claims to compensation—i.e., on Poland and Saxony. Once the crisis that threatened to derail the talks had been averted at the start of 1815, it was necessary to deal with Prussia’s territorial claims first, since these would determine the range of options available for all subsequent agreements. At the first meeting of the Committee of Five on January 12, 1815, Metternich had announced that Austria and Bavaria would deal with unresolved issues through bilateral talks.52 Wrede’s negotiations with Wessenberg and Metternich began on February 19 and centered once again on Frankfurt and Mainz. The Austrian minister consulted the Great Powers’ leading diplomats—Hardenberg for Prussia, Nesselrode for Russia, Wellington for Britain—to sound out the feasibility of meeting Bavaria’s demands. Wellington reported home that Wrede was not remotely interested in territories to the left of the Rhine for Bavaria and favored maintaining the status quo; he would in no case be given Mainz or Frankfurt.53 Wellington further noted that territory still had to be found for the former viceroy Eugène Beauharnais, which should remain subordinate to the sovereignty of the king of Bavaria. Salzburg—“to which both Austrians and Bavarians attach the utmost importance”—was the thorniest issue. The Bavarian crown prince, Ludwig, who was especially attached to Salzburg, had made the matter personal; resolving it would require—to quote Wellington—“a good deal of coolness.” Discussing the strategic position of Salzburg, the British marshal sided with Austrian representatives such as Field Marshal Schwarzenberg, who saw Bavarian control of Salzburg as a potential threat to the line of the Danube and Austria’s links to Italy.54 Therefore, Wellington concluded, “I conceive that Salzburg ought to belong to Austria.” In late February, Emperor Francis instructed his foreign minister to support all Bavarian claims in western Germany, and ordered him, with an air of finality, “to explain that I shall not concede the return of Salzburg under any circumstances.”55

In the subsequent course of the talks, Mainz was taken off the table as a bargaining chip and replaced by the parts of the Palatinate on the right bank of the Rhine around Mannheim and Heidelberg, an area that had long been ruled by the Wittelsbachs. For a while, despite the emperor’s order, plans were also discussed to divide the Duchy of Salzburg along a line from Radstadt to the Gerlos Pass, via St. Johann im Pongau and Zell am See; Bavaria would retain the territory to the north of this line, while the area to the south would go to Austria. Wellington shared the view that Salzburg’s chief strategic value for Austria lay in the intra-Alpine link from Styria to Tyrol along the Enns and the Salzach, and that it would thus suffice to cede the southern portion of the duchy to Austrian control.56

On April 23, 1815, representatives of the five powers in Vienna agreed to a treaty between Austria and Bavaria that had been negotiated by Wessenberg, Wrede, and Nesselrode; Metternich referred to it right from the outset with the qualifier “éventuelle.”57 This treaty would have allowed Bavaria to retain the northern part of the Duchy of Salzburg and part of the Innviertel. The expansive potential gains for Bavaria along the Rhine and Main were subject to the results of as-yet-unconcluded negotiations with the governments of Baden (from which Munich hoped to obtain the entire Main-Tauber-Kreis and part of the Neckar-Kreis), Württemberg (where it hoped to obtain Nördlingen, Dinkelsbühl, Isny, Leutkirch, and other towns), the Grand Duchy of Hesse-Darmstadt (Alzenau, Seligenstadt, Miltenberg, Amorbach, Wimpfen, etc.), and the Electorate of Hesse (the city of Hanau).58 However, it could scarcely be expected that the princes of these states would consent to cede these territories to Bavaria. Especially unlikely was that the rulers of Baden would agree to return the Electoral Palatinate to Bavaria (“la réversibilité des parties de l’ancien Palatinat”) in the event that the male line of the ruling ducal house died out (article 16 of the treaty).59 The text of the treaty was never formally ratified and thus is not included in the Congress of Vienna’s Final Act. As Wrede sarcastically yet clear-sightedly remarked to Montgelas: “It is a veritable sea we have to drink up. Now it is the turn of Baden, Württemberg, and Hesse to make difficulties for us.”60

The Congress of Vienna thus “failed to resolve the Bavarian border and compensation problem.”61 As if that were not enough, on Metternich’s initiative the Austrian promises from April were quietly dropped in the final days of the congress. Article 51 of the Final Act gave Austria sole possession of the territories held in reserve on the left bank of the Rhine, which it had co-governed with Bavaria since summer 1814. On June 12, 1815, by which time the official negotiations were already over, Wilhelm von Humboldt signed a secret agreement (to which Russia and Britain were privy) in which Prussia supported Austria’s claims to Salzburg, the Innviertel, and even the Palatinate. A series of other reserve territories that might conceivably also have been used to compensate Bavaria were instead awarded to Austria, with full rights of sovereignty. Vienna and Berlin planned to share provisional command of the Fortress of Mainz; the city itself would later pass to the Grand Duke of Hesse-Darmstadt.62

Given this closing of ranks by the Great Powers over the settlement of south German affairs, the only political avenue left to Bavaria was to bide its time, engage in tactical maneuvers, and score the occasional pinprick against Austria. Wrede’s refusal to withdraw Bavarian troops from the left bank of the Rhine initially prompted displeasure and threats from Vienna. Later, when Metternich, in the course of the protracted, complicated negotiations over a second peace treaty with France in the fall of 1815, was looking for ways to curb Prussia’s aggressive claims, an unexpected opportunity opened up for Bavaria to retain the northern part of Salzburg. In a long memorandum from Paris in September, Metternich once again tried to persuade his emperor to claim the strategically important Mainz for Austria, and give up part of Salzburg by way of compensation: “If Austria wishes to play a worthy role in Germany, and not wholly relinquish this arena to Prussia, then there can be no doubt that it is essential to have possessions in Germany, specifically on the Rhine. Were Austria to hold Mainz with ample surrounding lands, it would truly rule the politics of all south German courts […] Acquiring the whole Bishopric of Salzburg, by contrast, will always be faced with considerable difficulties.”63 Having presented Emperor Francis with the alternative of giving up either Salzburg or Mainz, Metternich was informed in a meeting with Field Marshal Schwarzenberg and General Duka, the emperor’s adjutant general, that the emperor had rejected his advice and that “for military reasons, the possession of Salzburg would have to take precedence over the possession of Mainz.”64 Thus—as the Austrian emperor ordered with uncharacteristic bluntness and finality on September 28, 1815—the city itself and the entire Principality of Salzburg, the whole Innviertel, “every last village,” and the ceded part of the Hausruckviertel must be returned to Austria. Even the matter of the “Rupertiwinkel” was reopened, the cluster of judicial districts on the west banks of the Salzach and Saalach whose cession to Bavaria had been taken for granted since the bilateral negotiations began.65 Ultimately, despite further appeals in which he went so far as to elevate the Austrian acquisition of Mainz to the status of a “moral question,”66 Metternich had no choice but to reluctantly execute the decision to retain Salzburg, as ordered by the emperor in ever-sharper words. On November 3, 1815, the minister agreed to a treaty with the other Great Powers requiring Munich to immediately cede Salzburg and the territories around the Inn, and in return to accept the territory on the left bank of the Rhine, including the Fortress of Landau, that Austria offered as compensation. Metternich sent his emperor the following report on Ludwig’s reaction: “The crown prince of Bavaria is in a mighty rage over the cession of the city of Salzburg. He is [practically] knocking on the doors of all my colleagues in a blind fervor to assert his right.”67 Count Aloys von Rechberg, who Montgelas had authorized to undertake further negotiations in Paris in the causa Salzburg, lodged a protest, but stood no chance against the united front of the Great Powers.68

Lower Franconia, the Palatinate, and the Consequences of the Treaty of Munich (1816)

The final act of the territorial dispute between Bavaria and Austria—which proved brief but highly dramatic—began after the signing of the Second Peace of Paris with France on November 20, 1815.69 Emperor Francis instructed Metternich: “I must order you to press through the Salzburg, Innviertel, and Hausruckviertel matter, if not by gentle means, then by force, and to do so soon.”70 Before the year was out, Metternich had dispatched a high-ranking military official familiar with the area to Munich for bilateral talks,71 namely, Lieutenant Field Marshal Johann Peter von Wacquant de Geozelles, who had been Austria’s commissioner for handing over Salzburg and Berchtesgaden in 1810. Montgelas began the talks with a show of intransigence, insisting that Salzburg remain under Bavarian control and demanding better compensation, referring among other things to the claims of Eugène Beauharnais. This provoked a note of protest from the Great Powers and an advance of Austrian troops along the Enns at the beginning of 1816. In his comments on Metternich’s reports, Emperor Francis worked himself up into an uncharacteristically agitated state, declaring that he would “put an end to the affair with Bavaria” and assert his rights, by force if need be, and with “no half measures.”72 However, he did not believe the breakdown in relations was irreparable, and wanted to limit the military measures to threatening gestures.73 In the end, it was the Bavarian king who backed down: in late January, he sent Crown Prince Ludwig, escorted by Rechberg, to speak directly with Emperor Francis, who was touring his new Kingdom of Lombardy-Venetia. It was “not exactly a pleasure trip” (voyage de plaisir), Ludwig wrote to his father.74 The emperor was unwilling to concede anything except in regard to Bavaria’s claims to the Main-Tauber-Kreis, to the south of the new Bavarian possessions on the Main between Würzburg and Aschaffenburg. This area, around Boxberg, Wertheim, and Tauberbischofsheim, currently belonged to Baden. In a letter to Max Joseph, dated February 7, 1816, Emperor Francis offered the king an annual compensation of 100,000 gulden if the Main-Tauber-Kreis were not ceded to Bavaria.75

In February 1816, while the final negotiations were taking place, preparations were made in Munich for the withdrawal from Salzburg. Furniture from Schloss Mirabell and important documents were transported to Munich, and the quarries near Fürstenbrunn at the foot of the Untersberg were declared the private property of the Bavarian crown prince. In Munich, Prime Minister Montgelas refused with increasing stubbornness to be the sole signatory to the treaty with Austria, as he did not want to become the scapegoat for the loss of Salzburg. He bluntly declared, “I hate the treaty,”76 and demanded that Rechberg, the envoy in Vienna, sign it instead. Rechberg sent his superior a barbed reply: “If one has had the rare fortune to idle around in the foreign ministry for seventeen years, it is scarcely comprehensible that one should fear a momentary storm.”77 The king summoned the two quarreling officials, whereupon his minister said to his face that he had three portfolios to manage and hence no time for negotiations; Rechberg, who had been the king’s friend since his Zweibrücken days, responded that, as a Swabian who did not own an inch of land in Bavaria, he feared the nation would accuse him of having sold Bavaria to Austria. The agitated Max Joseph took to bed with colic; he had failed to “mediate between his two old confidants.”78 It was Crown Prince Ludwig who finally managed to broker a compromise a few days later; as a result of his efforts, the Treaty of Munich of April 14, 1816, was signed not by the usual two parties, but by three: Montgelas and Rechberg both added their signatures next to that of the Austrian envoy Wacquant.79

The provisions of the Treaty of Munich have shaped Bavaria’s outline on the map right down to the present day. The Innviertel, including Braunau, Ried, and Schärding, and the regions bordering it to the east, from the Hausruck to Vöcklabruck, returned to Austrian control, as did the Tyrolean district of Vils and the greater part of the Duchy of Salzburg. However, as agreed in 1814, Bavaria retained the areas of Salzburg on the left banks of the Salzach and the Saalach (and, as article 19 mentions in passing, Berchtesgaden). This area, known as the “Rupertiwinkel” and comprising the judicial districts of Tittmoning, Laufen, Waging, and Teisendorf, which have been part of Bavaria ever since, was equivalent to around 15 percent of the old archbishopric by population, 20 percent by area, and moreover contained the region’s best farmland—and therefore represented a significant loss for Salzburg.

Consequently, the new Bavaria of the nineteenth century expanded not southeastwards, but northwestwards. Numerous legal titles and lands belonging to myriad former owners were amalgamated into a new Lower Main District (Untermain-Kreis), which in 1817 comprised no fewer than forty-six judicial districts (Landgerichte) and thirteen judicial districts of the nobility (Herrschaftsgerichte).80 From 1814, the chief part of the territory was made up of the “Grand Duchy” of Würzburg, which had formerly been under Bavarian control in 1802 and from 1803 to 1805 and then granted to the Habsburgian grand duke of Tuscany, and the “Principality” of Aschaffenburg, which in the Holy Roman Empire had formed the core of the Mainzer Oberstift, and, since 1803, had been part of the succession of states ruled by the archbishop, archchancellor, and prince-primate Karl Theodor von Dalberg (most recently, in 1810, the Grand Duchy of Frankfurt). Bavaria had been able to take possession of these two large territorial units following the Peace of Paris of May 30, 1814. Only two years later, with the Treaty of Munich of April 14, 1816, did (parts of) the districts of Hammelburg, Brückenau, and Bieberstein, nestled between Würzburg and Aschaffenburg, pass to Bavaria. This strip of land in the Rhön Mountains—which in the past had changed hands between the Bishopric of Fulda, the Principality of Nassau-Orange-Fulda, and the Grand Duchy of Frankfurt—had been occupied by Austrian troops since late November 1813, meaning that Vienna could cede it directly to Munich.81 With regards to the other areas mentioned in the Treaty of Munich, by contrast, Austria could merely promise to intercede with their current owners and attempt to persuade them to make concessions to Bavaria. These efforts bore fruit very quickly in the case of the Grand Duchy of Hesse-Darmstadt, which on July 7, 1816, transferred to Bavaria several districts on the Main that consolidated the Aschaffenburg territory. These were Alzenau (which Darmstadt had acquired from Mainz in 1803), and then—up toward the Odenwald Mountains—Miltenberg and Amorbach (both of which had also originally belonged to Mainz and passed to Darmstadt in 1810, having been held by the Principality of Leiningen and by Baden in the interim), and Kleinheubach, which in the eighteenth century had belonged to the princes of Löwenstein-Wertheim-Rochefort.82 Only in the Frankfurt General (Territorial) Recess of July 20, 1819, did Baden, with the mediation of the Great Powers and in exchange for an extensive package of political guarantees (articles 6–10), cede the part of the district of Wertheim situated around Steinfels to the south of Lohr on the left (east) bank of the Main, which before 1806 had also been a Löwenstein possession (article 1).83

It was not just Lower Franconia (known from 1837 as “Lower Franconia and Aschaffenburg”) that was born from the spirit of a provisorium; the Austrian reserve territories on the left bank of the Rhine, chiefly comprising the districts of Zweibrücken, Kaiserslautern, and Speyer and the city of Landau, became the “Rhine Circle” (Rheinkreis). Although Ludwig I renamed this Bavarian Rhine Circle of 1816 “the Palatinate,” so as to suggest a historical continuity, in reality it was a new construct, assembled from territories previously belonging to over forty non-Wittelsbach owners during the Holy Roman Empire; that is to say, Bavaria was not having old lands restored to it, but rather being given a package of territories pieced together to compensate for the loss of Salzburg. However, the “old” Electoral Palatinate on the right bank of the Rhine did make a reappearance in the Treaty of Munich, whose first secret article confirmed the Wittelsbachs’ right of succession should the House of Baden die out (“la reversion de la partie du Palatinat du Rhin dite le cercle de Neckar”).84 This clause was long a cause of tension in southern Germany, particularly between Baden and Bavaria, until it was revoked by the Congress of Aix-la-Chapelle in 1818, which recognized the succession rights of the morganatic Hochberg line (the issue had assumed particular urgency following the death of Grand Duke Karl Ludwig Friedrich of Baden that same year). The Frankfurt Recess (July 1819) revoked any further claims Bavaria might have been able to derive from the treaty of 1816, which is why Ludwig I never formally acknowledged it, instead repeatedly pressing his claims to the Palatinate.85

Bavaria was included in the French reparation payments, but there was no direct land link between the new territories on the Main and those on the Rhine. The treaty of April 14 provided only for a military road running from Würzburg to Frankenthal through Baden’s territory; secret article 5 also gave the option of a second military road through Hessian territory. The lack of a direct land bridge (Amorbach and Mannheim were separated by a distance of just under fifty kilometers, as the crow flies) violated the terms of the Treaty of Ried of 1813, and this was why the Austrian emperor had in principle recognized Bavaria’s claims to the Main-Tauber-Kreis (supplementary article 2). The territory remained under Baden’s control, but from 1820 onward Austria paid Bavaria an annual sum of 100,000 gulden (the expected annual revenue from the region, as calculated by the crown prince) as indemnity for there being no land bridge between Franconia and the Palatinate. This “contiguity compensation” (Kontiguitätsentschädigung) was not paid directly, but instead offset against the cost of the 200,000 centners of salt from Hallein that Austria supplied to Bavaria each year at a preferential price (supplementary articles 2–4).

As a result of the territorial exchanges between 1814 and 1816, Bavaria made a net gain of just under 100,000 inhabitants, meaning that, within borders more or less corresponding to those of the present day (apart from the Rhine Circle, a few towns along the Kinzig and in the Rhön Mountains, and the town of Coburg), it was home to a population of 3.5 million; by way of comparison, the equivalent figure today stands at 12.7 million, while at the start of the Napoleonic period, in 1801, the total population of the Wittelsbach possessions had been 2.3 million.

Like Prussia, Bavaria was not compensated in the east, as it had hoped and expected to be, but rather with territories to the west. It thus became part of the barrier of “middle states” (Mittelstaaten; mid-sized German states smaller than Prussia and Austria) established on the left bank of the Rhine in line with British policy so as to curb future expansion attempts by France, and thereby also a player in one of Europe’s central political arenas. The political and economic dynamism of the territories on the Rhine provided crucial impulses and challenges that fueled Bavaria’s modernization in the nineteenth century; by contrast, Salzburg, after its return to Austria on May 1, 1816, was downgraded to a district (Kreis) of Upper Austria, and, in 1825, Franz Schubert reported that grass was growing between the cracks of the paving stones in the city’s plazas.86

Unlike the dispute over Poland and Saxony, which involved all the European powers and dominated the negotiations at the Congress of Vienna, Bavaria’s territorial claims and disputes were strictly between itself and Austria. This meant they could be resolved through bilateral agreements before and after the congress, in June 1814 and April 1816—though Viennese politicians did not shy away from mobilizing the support of Britain, Russia, or Prussia on the emperor’s behalf at critical moments, as in June and November 1815. At the congress itself, the Bavarian representative, Rechberg, played a key role in the final phase of negotiations in May/June 1815 in ensuring that the sovereignty of former members of the Confederation of the Rhine was recognized, that the results of the territorial consolidation of 1803/1806 were preserved, and that the German Confederation—i.e., the concrete realization of the “federative bond” stipulated by the earlier Peace of Paris, the details of which were fleshed out during the “second German conferences” in May/June 1815—only took the form of a very loose association.87

The Treaty of Munich is, in many respects, better than the bad reputation it enjoyed in some quarters at the time—indeed, it proved, in the words of Eberhard Weis, to be a “real stroke of fortune for Bavaria.” The provisions of this treaty, signed precisely two hundred years ago, allowed Bavaria to develop lasting “good neighborly relations” with Austria,88 following almost constant military confrontation between Munich and Vienna in the eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries, from the War of the Spanish Succession through to the Tyrolean rebellion of 1809.

In late 1816, Emperor Francis I married the second daughter of King Max Joseph, Princess Caroline Augusta (it was his fourth and final marriage).89 This marked the start of a series of better and lesser-known marital unions between the Habsburgs and Wittelsbachs in the nineteenth century. Personal relations never recovered between Metternich, who described the territorial negotiations with Bavaria as a “wretched” business, the “trickiest” and “most arduous” of his political life (the emperor seconded this view, describing them in March 1816 as “highly disagreeable” and thanking God they were over),90 and the Bavarian crown prince, the later Ludwig I; the two men had taken too high a toll on each other’s nerves in the years from 1814 to 1816.91 However, there was gradual progress in terms of concrete economic collaboration: a series of treaties governing the borders around Berchtesgaden were agreed (the last coming in 1851), and salt production in the neighboring districts was coordinated. The Bavarian–Austrian Salt Treaty of 1829, which is still valid to this day (albeit revised in 1957), regulates mining and forestry rights in Hallein and Pinzgau in the mutual interest of both sides—a subtle continuation of premodern traditions that not only established Bavarian-owned woodlands on Austrian soil, but also respected the rights of the local population to the use of the land.92 The Munich–Salzburg–Vienna telegraph line was opened in 1850, and subsequent planning for the railway line connecting Munich to the east was coordinated across borders between the Maximilian Railway (Munich–Salzburg) and Empress Elisabeth Railway (Salzburg–Linz–Vienna). In 1860, the first train from Bavaria arrived at the new railway station in Salzburg.93

The treaties of Ried, Paris, and Munich, concluded between 1813 and 1816, thus ushered in a profound transformation of relations between Bavaria and Austria.94 A “secular rivalry” that just a few decades earlier, under Joseph II, had posed a very real threat to the integrity of the Wittelsbach possessions, came to an end in 1813. Austria “moderated its political interests,” “respected Bavaria’s independence,” and accepted the neighboring kingdom as a “strategic partner,”95 as reflected in Metternich’s above-quoted description of Bavaria as a “fixed point” in Vienna’s relations with Germany.

Despite the conflicts described here in the years 1813–1816, in the critical situation in the second half of 1813, when Bavaria became the first member of the Confederation of the Rhine to join the alliance against Napoleon, it was Bavaria’s old rival Austria that recognized its status as a consolidated “middle power,” which Napoleon had initially granted it, respected its sovereignty, and became the guarantor of its continued existence in the new European order—and thus, as Michael Doeberl puts it, became Bavaria’s “savior.”96

Notes

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Originally published as

Reinhard Stauber, “Die Neuordnung Europas nördlich und südlich der Alpen. Bayern, Österreich und die italienischen Staaten 1814–1816” in Zeitschrift für bayerische Landesgeschichte (2015), 481-512.

Image: UPI/Süddeutsche Zeitung Photo
The Bavarian Prime Minister Hans Ehard with the French President Charles de Gaulle at his state visit in Munich, 1962

Even if Bavaria’s central location between European powers has provided fertile grounds for thinking and acting on a European level throughout its history, it cannot be denied that Europe took on a new significance in Bavarian politics and civil society after 1945. The notion that the future of Bavaria and Germany was as “European states” in the “United States of Europe” began to gain traction. Bavaria increasingly sought to distance itself from nationalism and the tradition of German-national and national-liberal political thought and to draw on the state’s long history of exchange with Romance-language culture.1 Unified Europe2 became a dominant idea in political discourse, and the realization of European unification in the European Communities and later the European Union created a new forum for Bavarian politics3 and civil society.4 Federalism5 was seen as the organizing principle that would enable Bavaria to maintain its relative political and cultural autonomy within the Federal Republic of Germany and the Europe of the future.6 Indeed, this conception of federalism was complex: it was embedded within Western Christian and humanist traditions7 and clearly set itself apart from Soviet Communism; but, it was also heavily influenced by a view of Bavarian history that centered on Bavarian statehood8 and by Bavaria’s long-standing reliance on the Catholic principle of subsidiarity. At the same time, Bavaria wanted to make a contribution to a renewed, united Europe that would rest on principles of individual freedom, rule of law and democracy and aim to promote international understanding and respect for the diversity of its member nations and regions while ensuring for peace and prosperity as well as trade standards and social rights.9 Many Bavarians have identified with these goals. They have travelled the “Road to Europe”10 at the state, national, and European level by taking trips, learning foreign languages, joining in on Europe-themed events, meeting people from different countries, participating in student exchange programs, volunteering in civil society organizations and sister city programs, becoming engaged in politics, church life, and the local community, working in trade, science, education, media, and the cultural sphere, and organizing cultural events. In doing so, they have created new social relations, practices, and a singularly European discourse.11

Regional historians have as yet paid little attention to the European dimensions of society, culture, economics and politics in contemporary Bavarian history,12 despite the fact that they have done considerable research on Bavaria’s relation to Europe in previous epochs13 and documented the increasing influence of Europe on Bavaria since the 1957 Treaty of Rome. Individuals and the economy have benefited from the new rights and possibilities afforded by a unified Europe, but this has also cost states and nations some of their old authority.14 Moreover, Bavaria has developed political initiatives to foster the idea of Europe both inside and outside of its own borders, becoming itself a player in the process of European unification. To name just a few examples: In September 1948, after Bavarian representatives Friedrich von Prittwitz und Gaffron (CSU) and Waldemar von Knoeringen (SPD) had returned from participating in the Congress of the European Parliamentary Union in Interlaken, Switzerland,15 Bavarian Landtag representatives of all political parties passed a resolution demanding that the Bavarian government do everything in its power to promote the idea of a United States of Europe and support its practical implementation.16 In 1946, the first party platform of the new CSU supported a European confederation and a European trade and currency union.17 Later, Bavaria helped develop the concept of a “Europe of Regions”18 and played an important role in making the subsidiarity principle part of the Treaty of Maastricht.19 Heinrich Aigner, a member of the European Parliament from Amberg, also worked tirelessly to establish the European Court of Auditors.20 Finally, Bavaria was instrumental in the passage of the so-called Europe Article (Article 23) of the German constitution in 1992,21 which lays out the obligations of the German states in matters concerning the European Union, and it modified its own constitution in light of the developments at the European level by adopting Article 3a.22 As the Euro was being introduced, two high-ranking Bavarian CSU politicians – Federal Minister of Finance Theo Waigel, who was immediately responsible for the Euro’s implementation, and, as a critic of the Euro project, Bavarian Minister President Edmund Stoiber – played opposing yet important roles that extended well beyond Bavarian borders.23 By providing a nuanced perspective on the role of states, communes and municipalities in the multi-level European system and on the processes that intertwine the various levels of state on the one hand and civil society on the other,24 regional history promises to give us a better understanding of both the changes that Bavaria underwent in the second half of the twentieth century and the more general, multi-faceted and by no means linear process of Europeanization.25

Since 2014, the Institute for Bavarian History at the Ludwig Maximilian University Munich has been working on a project called “Roads to Europe.” The project aims to analyze discourses of European unification, the steps taken to make it reality, and the various forms of criticism and resistance directed against it. Moreover, it seeks to study the changes in regional politics brought about by European unification and the effects that Europeanization has had on the lives of people living in Bavaria.26 Raphael Gerhardt is doing research on agricultural policy, which was delegated to the authority of the European Economic Community – and, later, the European Union – to a high degree at a very early stage; as the Bavarian economy was traditionally heavily reliant on agriculture, Bavaria had to undertake a number of measures to conform to the new supranational rules and regulations.27 Rudolf Himpsl is studying the history of Bavaria’s international trade relations, which were increasingly shaped by the EEC after the Treaty of Rome was signed. His research suggests that considerable reservations surfaced over the fact that only six states were part of the EEC.28 Thomas Jehle is doing work on Bavaria’s interstate and international cultural policies, which sought to support both Bavaria’s autonomy as well as Germany’s reintegration into Europe and the international community.29 Claudia Schemmer is seeking to understand the effects that Europeanization and internationalization have had on rural Bavaria by conducting a case study on the Traunstein region. More generally, her work aims to provide insights into the ways municipalities and civil society have influenced one another in their efforts to support the European idea.30 Laura Ulrich is conducting research on politicians who have entered European politics in order to support the project of European unification as well as to promote Bavarian interests and perspectives.31 Finally, Alexander Wegmaier is analyzing Bavaria’s policies towards Europe, the various conceptions of and discourses on European politics represented and promoted by political parties, unions and civil society initiatives, and the ways these groups have sought to achieve their agendas.32 The articles collected here thus shed light on just a few aspects of the multi-faceted research sponsored by the project “Roads to Europe.”

Notes

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  • Gehler, Michael and Silvio Vietta, Europa—Europäisierung—Europäistik: Neue wissenschaftliche Ansätze, Methoden und Inhalte (Wien, 2010).

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  • Goppel, Alfons, “Föderalismus: Bauprinzip Europas,” in Alfons Goppel and Karl Assmann, eds., Föderalismus: Bauprinzip einer freiheitlichen Grundordnung in Europa, (Müchen, 1978), 9–19.

  • Goppel, Alfons, Rückblicke 1957–1984, eds. Claudia Friemberger and Ferdinand Kramer (St. Ottilien, 2005).

  • Grossmann, Johannes, Die Internationale der Konservativen: Transnationale Elitenzirkel und private Außenpolitik in Westeuropa seit 1945 (München, 2014).

  • Grüner, Stefan, Geplantes Wirtschaftswunder? Industrie- und Strukturpolitik in Bayern 1945 bis 1973 (München, 2009).

  • Haus der Bayerischen Geschichte in cooperation with the museums of the city of Regensburg, ed., Bavaria, Germania, Europa (Augsburg, 2000).

  • Härtel, Ines, Handbuch Föderalismus: Föderalismus als demokratische Rechtsordnung und Rechtskultur in Deutschland, Europa und der Welt (Berlin, 2012).

  • Hierl, Hubert, Europa der Regionen: Eine Idee setzt sich durch; Ausschuß der Regionen (Bonn, 1995).

  • Himpsl, Rudolf, Europäische Integration und internationalisierte Märkte: Die Außenwirtschaftspolitik des Freistaats Bayern 1957–1982 (München, 2020).

  • Hoegner, Wilhelm, Der Schwierige Außenseiter: Erinnerungen eines bayerischen Sozialdemokraten (München, 1959).

  • Hübler, Martin, Bayern in Europa: Determinanten der bayerischen Europapolitik bis zur EU-Osterweiterung (München, 2003).

  • Hübler, Martin, Die Europapolitik des Freistaates Bayern (München, 2002).

  • Jehle, Thomas, Die auswärtige Kulturpolitik des Freistaats Bayern 1945-1978 (München, 2018).

  • Kiessling, Andreas, Die CSU: Machterhalt und Machterneuerung (Wiesbaden, 2004).

  • Kock, Peter J., Der Bayerische Landtag: Eine Chronik (Würzburg, 2006).

  • Köhler, Heinz, “Die europäische Einigung gehört in die Bayerische Verfassung,” Bayerische Staatszeitung (1995),

  • Kramer, Ferdinand and Sigrid Hirbodian, “Landesgeschichte in europäischer Perspektive,” in Sigrid Hirbodian, Christian Jörg, and Sabine Klapp, eds., Methoden und Wege der Landesgeschichte, (Ostfildern, 2015), 209–18.

  • Kraus, Andreas, “Das Haus Wittelsbach und Europa: Ergebnisse und Ausblick,” Zeitschrift für bayerische Landesgeschichte, 44 (1981), 425–52.

  • Kraus, Andreas, “Die geistige Welt des Johannes Aventinus: Bayern und der europäische Humanismus,” in Gerhard-Helmut Sitzmann, ed., Aventinus und seine Zeit, (Abensberg, 1977), 41–61.

  • Kremer, Harry Andreas, Landesparlamente im Spannungsfeld zwischen europäischer Integration und europäischem Regionalismus (München, 1988).

  • Lanzinner, Maximilian, Kulturfestspiele mit politischem Anspruch: Europäische Wochen Passau 1952–2002 (Passau, 2002).

  • Lehning, Norbert, Bayerns Weg in die Bildungsgesellschaft: Das höhere Schulwesen im Freistaat Bayern zwischen Tradition und Expansion 1949/50–1972/73 (München, 2006).

  • Liebhart, Wilhelm, “Bayern und Europa: Beobachtungen und Gedanken zu einem aktuellen Thema,” in Paul Hoser and Wolf D. Gruner, eds., Wissenschaft—Bildung—Politik: Von Bayern nach Europa; Festschrift für Ludwig Hammermayer zum 80. Geburtstag, (Hamburg, 2008), 495–505.

  • Loth, Wilfried, Der Weg nach Europa: Geschichte der Europäischen Integration 1937–1959 (Göttingen, 1990).

  • Loth, Wilfried, Europas Einigung: Eine unvollendete Geschichte (Frankfurt am Main, 2014).

  • Michelmann, Hans J., “The Federal Republic of Germany,” in Hans J. Michelmann and Panayotis Soldatos, eds., Federalism and International Relations: The Role of Subnational Units, (New York, 2001), 211–44.

  • Mittag, Jürgen, “Europäische Profilbildung im Widerstreit: Der Haager Kongress 1948 und der Europagedanke in der deutschen Sozialdemokratie,” in Volker Depkat and Piero S. Graglia, eds., Entscheidung für Europa: Erfahrung, Zeitgeist und politische Herausforderungen am Beginn der europäischen Integration, (Berlin, 2010), 263–90.

  • Patel, Kiran Klaus and Martin Conway, eds., Europeanization in the Twentieth Century: Historical Approaches (New York, 2010).

  • Posselt, Martin, Richard Coudenhove-Kalergi und die europäische Parlamentarier Union (Graz, 1987).

  • Raffalt, Reinhard, “Europa—von Bayern aus gesehen,” in Ludwig Huber, ed., Bayern. Deutschland. Europa: Festschrift für Alfons Goppel, (Passau, 1975).

  • Rieder, Stefan, Vom Armenhaus zur Aufsteigerregion: Der wirtschaftliche und gesellschaftliche Strukturwandel in Niederbayern und dessen kulturelle Deutung (1949–2008) (Regensburg, 2015).

  • Rösch, Karl, Franz Josef Strauß—Bundestagsabgeordneter im Wahlkreis Weilheim 1949–1978 (München, 2014).

  • Ruge, Undine, Die Erfindung des “Europa der Regionen”: Kritische Ideengeschichte eines konservativen Konzepts (Frankfurt am Main, 2003).

  • Salzmann, Bernhard, Europa als Thema katholischer Eliten: Das katholische Europa-Netzwerk der Schweiz von 1945 bis Mitte der 1950er Jahre (Fribourg, 2006).

  • Schelter, Kurt and Joachim Wuermeling, Europa der Regionen: Eine Idee gewinnt Gestalt (München, 1995).

  • Schemmer, Claudia, Internationalisierungsprozesse im ländlichen Raum Bayern: Traunstein 1945–1989 (Kallmünz, 2016).

  • Schildt, Axel, Zwischen Abendland und Amerika: Studien zur westdeutschen Ideenlandschaft (München, 1999).

  • Schindler, Herbert, ed., “Bayern in Europa,” in “Bayern in Europa,” Unbekanntes Bayern, (München, 1965).

  • Schmid, Alois, Max III Josef und die europäischen Mächte: Die Außenpolitik des Kurfürstentums Bayern von 1745–1765 (München, 1987).

  • Schmid, Alois and Katharina Weigand, eds., Bayern mitten in Europa: Vom Frühmittelalter bis ins 20 Jahrhundert (München, 2005).

  • Spindler, Max, “Grundlagen der Kulturentwicklung in Bayern,” in Andreas Kraus and Max Spindler, eds., Erbe und Verpflichtung: Aufsätze und Vorträge zur bayerischen Geschichte, (München, 1966), 3–23.

  • “Stenographischer Bericht über die Verhandlungen des bayerischen Landtags, 88 Sitzung, 23 September 1948.”

  • Stoll, Ulrike, Kulturpolitik als Beruf: Dieter Sattler (1906–1968) in München, Rom und Bonn (Paderborn, 2005).

  • Strauss, Franz Josef, Entwurf für Europa (Stuttgart, 1966).

  • Strauss, Franz Josef, Herausforderung und Antwort: Ein Programm für Europa mit einem Vorwort von Jean-Jaques Servan-Schreiber (Stuttgart, 1968).

  • Traut, Julian, Ein Leben für die Kultur—Reinhard Raffalt (1923–1976) zwischen Deutschland, Bayern und Italien (Regensburg, 2015).

  • Ulrich, Laura, Wege nach Europa: Heinrich Aigner und die Anfänge des Europäischen Rechnungshofes (St. Ottilien, 2015). English Translation: Ulrich, Laura, Roads to Europe: Heinrich Aigner and the Genesis of the European Court of Auditors (Luxembourg, 2016), https://doi.org/10.2865/759383.

  • Vollhardt, Ulla-Britta, Staatliche Heimatpolitik und Heimatdiskurse in Bayern 1945–1970: Identitätsstiftung zwischen Tradition und Modernisierung (München, 2008).

  • Walter, Christoph, Jakob Fischbacher und die Bayernpartei: Biographische Studien 1886–1972 (München, 2006).

  • Wege nach Europa: Diskurse—Akteure—Politik: Länder und Regionen vor der Herausforderung der Europäischen Integration 1945−1989, Conference held from 12-13 November in Munich, (2015).

  • Wegmaier, Alex, “Karl Schwend und Ernst Deuerlein—Steuermänner im Schatten Hans Ehards,” Zeitschrift für bayerische Landesgeschichte, 76 (2013), 563–602.

  • Wegmaier, Alex, 'Europäer sein und Bayern bleiben': Die Idee Europa und die bayerische Europapolitik 1945-1979. (München, 2018).

  • Zorn, Wolfgang, “Das Land Bayern in der Welt- und Europapolitik des 20 Jahrhunderts,” in Heinz Dollinger, ed., Weltpolitik, Europagedanke, Regionalismus, (Münster, 1982), 449–60.


Originally published as

Ferdinand Kramer: “‘Wege nach Europa’ – Forschungen zur neuesten Geschichte Bayerns” in Zeitschrift für bayerische Landesgeschichte (2015), 1-6.

Introduction

In the course of my work at the Institute of Bavarian History at the University of Munich, I have developed the following bibliography, which is intended as a working aid for international scholars and students. It covers the range of English-language publications on Bavarian history but does not claim to be complete. Suggestions to supplement and complete the bibliography are welcome and can be submitted via the feedback form at the end of this text.

The bibliography adheres to the following guidelines:

  • The bibliography systematically considers academic publications from 1968 to 2018 in addition to especially significant publications outside of this period.
  • Studies on all areas and regions within the present Free State of Bavaria are recorded, regardless of their territorial affiliation in the period under consideration. Therefore, the regions Upper and Lower Bavaria, Franconia, Upper Palatinate, and Bavarian Swabia are included, whereas the former Rhenish Palatinate is not.
  • The publications included focus specifically on Bavarian history; studies which only briefly or incidentally deal with historical events in Bavaria are not included.
  • The list does not include research on events that took place in Bavaria but are not inherently linked to Bavarian history (e.g., Nuremberg Trials, Munich Agreement, etc.).
  • Titles of publications which do not clearly indicate how the study is related to Bavarian history are expanded to include the corresponding information in square brackets.
  • Doctoral dissertations on Bavarian history are marked with the abbreviation “PhD.”
  • In order to ensure better clarity, titles are classified by epoch, except in the case of the categories “Theory and Methodology” and “Source Editions.”

Some general remarks: Most of the works listed were originally written in English; little German-language research in these fields is currently available in English translation. The large number of studies on the early modern era is also particularly striking. The publications identified deal mainly with the following fields of research:

  • Political history of Bavaria and the territories that have merged into Bavaria
  • History of religion and church history: monasteries, Reformation and confessionalization, Jewish history
  • Economic history: guilds, trading houses and trade relations, history of large enterprises
  • History of the free imperial cities, in particular: Augsburg, Nuremberg, Regensburg
  • Cultural and art history (e.g., Dürer, Munich around 1900)
  • International networks (e.g., relations with other countries)
  • History of education and schools (especially in the nineteenth century)
  • Military and war history
  • Superstitions and witch-hunts
  • Denazification after World War II

Bibliography

Content

Theory and Methodology of Regional History

  • Aston, Michael, Interpreting the Landscape. Landscape archaeology and local history, London 2006.

  • Atkins, Peter - Simmons, Ian G. - Roberts, Brian (eds.), People, Land and Time. An historical introduction to the relations between landscape, culture and environment, London etc. 1998.

  • Atkinson, David, Cultural Geography. A critical dictionary of key concepts, London etc. 2005.

  • Balée, William L. (ed.), Advances in Historical Ecology, New York 1998.

  • Börzel, Tanja Anita - Risse, Thomas (eds.), The Oxford Handbook of Comparative Regionalism, Oxford 2016.

  • Calcatinge, Alexandru, The need for a Cultural Landscape Theory. An architect's approach, Wien etc. 2012.

  • Classen, Albrecht (ed.), Rural space in the middle ages and early modern age. The Spatial Turn in Premodern Studies, Berlin etc. 2012.

  • Crang, Mike, Thinking Space, London etc. 2000.

  • Crumley, Carole L. (ed.), Historical Ecology. Cultural knowledge and changing landscapes, Santa Fe 1994.

  • Crumley, Carole L. – Lennartsson, Tommy – Westin, Anna (eds.), Issues and Concepts in Historical Ecology: The past and future of landscapes and regions, Cambridge / New York 2017.

  • Doyle, Barry M., Introduction, in: Ibid. (ed.), Urban Politics and Space in the Nineteenth and Twentieth Centuries. Regional Perspectives, Newcastle 2007, 1-29.

  • Flint, Colin, The Theoretical and Methodological Utility of Space and Spatial Statistics for Historical Studies. The Nazi Party in Geographic Context, in: Historical Methods 35 (2002), 32-42.

  • Gamper, Anna, Regions and Regionalism(s): An Introduction, in: Grabher, Gudrun M. - Mathis-Moser, Ursula (eds.), Regionalism(s). A Variety of Perspectives from Europe and the Americas, Wien 2014, 3-24.

  • Hönninghausen, Lothar (ed.), Regionalism in the Age of Globalism, 2 Volumes, Madison/WI 2005.

  • Hroch, Miroslav, Regional Memory. Reflections on the Role of History in (Re)Constructing Regional Identity, in: Ellis, Steven G. (ed.), Frontiers, Regions and Identities in Europe, Pisa 2009, 1-14.

  • Hroch, Miroslav, National history in opposition to regional history? In: Eberhard, Winfried - Lübke, Christian (eds.), The Plurality of Europe. Identities and Spaces, Leipzig 2010, 83-96.

  • Jacobson, Stephen et al., What is a Region? Regions in European History, in: Ellis, Steven G. et al. (ed.), Regional and Transnational History in Europe (Creating a new historical perspective: EU and the wider world / Clioworld readers 8), Pisa 2011, 11-66.

  • Ickerodt, Ulf, The Term “Cultural Landscape”, in: Meier, Thomas (ed.), Landscape Ideologies (Archaeolingua / Series minor 22), Budapest 2006, 53-80.

  • Keating, Michael, Regionalism in the Alps: Subnational, Supranational, and Transnational, in: Caramani, Daniele (ed.), Challenges to consensual politics: Democracy, identity, and populist protest in the Alpine region (Regionalism and Federalism 6), Bruxelles etc. 2005, 53-70.

  • Knoll, Martin - Boscani Leoni, Simona (eds.), An Environmental History of the Early Modern Period: Experiments and Perspectives, Wien etc. 2014.

  • Koch, Andreas, Identity and Space. Construction and Interdependency of Local Neighborhood, in: Coelsch-Foisner, Sabine (ed.), Raum in Wandel: L’espace en metamorphose: Space in change (Wissenschaft und Kunst 14), Heidelberg 2011, 33-41.

  • Kolen, Jan etc. (eds.), Landscape Biographies. Geographical, historical and archaeological perspectives on the production and transmission of landscapes, Amsterdam 2015.

  • Lancaster, Bill et al. (ed.), An Agenda for Regional History, Newcastle 2007.

  • Lehmkuhl, Ursula (ed.), Historians and Nature. Comparative approaches to environmental history, Oxford etc. 2007.

  • Loughlin, John - Kincaid, John - Swenden, Wilfried (eds.), Routledge Handbook of Regionalism & Federalism, London / New York 2013.

  • Muir, Richard, The New Reading the Landscape. Fieldwork in Landscape History, Exeter 2000.

  • Muir, Richard, Landscape Encyclopaedia. A reference guide to the historic landscape, Bollington 2004.

  • Muir, Richard, How the Read a Village, London 2007.

  • Nieuwenhuis, Marijn - Crouch, David (eds.), The Question of Space. Interrogating the spatial turn between disciplines, London 2017.

  • Nuñez Seixas, Xosé-Manuel, Historiographical Approaches to Sub-National Identities in Europe: A Reappraisal and Some Suggestions, in: Augusteijn, Jost - Storm, Erich (eds.), Region and State in Nineteenth-Century Europe. Nation-building, regional identities and separatism, Basingstoke 2012, 13-35.

  • Nuñez Seixas, Xosé-Manuel - Storm, Eric (eds.), Regionalism and Modern Europe. Identity Construction and Movements from 1890 to the Present Day, London etc. 2019.

  • O´Keeffe, Tadhg, Landscape and Memory: Historiography, Theory, Methodology, in: Moore, Niam et al. (eds.), Heritage, Memory and the Politics of Identity. New Perspectives on the Cultural Landscape, Aldershot etc. 2007, 3-18.

  • Rippon, Stephen, Making Sense of an Historic Landscape, Oxford 2012.

  • Söderbaum, Fredrik, Rethinking Regionalism, Basingstoke 2016.

  • Sonkoly, Gabor, Historical Urban Landscape, New York 2017.

  • Thomas, Alexander W., Critical Rural Theory. Structure, Space, Culture, Lanham etc. 2011.

  • Umbach, Maiken (ed.), Municipalism, Regionalism, Nationalism: Hybrid Identity Formations and the Making of Modern Europe, in: European Review of History 15 (2008) – Special Issue, 235-330.

  • Warf, Barney et al. (ed.), The Spatial Turn. Interdisciplinary perspectives, London etc. 2009.

Source Editions

  • Anderson, Roberta - Bellenger, Dominic Aidan (ed.), Medieval Religion. A Sourcebook, London etc. 2007.

  • Baynes, Norman Hepburn (ed.), Speeches of Adolf Hitler. Representative Passages from the Early Speeches, 1922-1924, New York 2006.

  • Brown, John C. - Guinnane, Timothy W., The Munich Polizeimeldebogen as a source for quantitative history, in: Historical Methods 26 (1993), 101-118.

  • Cohen, Adam S. (ed.), The Uta Codex. Art, Philosophy, and Reform in eleventh-century Germany, University Park 2000.

  • Crew, David F., Hitler and the Nazis. A History in Documents, Oxford 2005.

  • Dannemann, Gerhard - Böttcher, Lorenz (eds.), German Law Archive (University of Oxford) [URL: <https://germanlawarchive.iuscomp.org/>]

  • Flemming, Barbara, The diary of Karl Süssheim 1878–1947. Orientalist between Munich and Istanbul (Verzeichnis der orientalischen Handschriften in Deutschland, Supplementband 32), Stuttgart 2002.

  • German Historical Institute, Washington D.C. (ed.), German History in Documents and Images [URL: <http://germanhistorydocs.ghi-dc.org/Index.cfm?language=English>]

  • Godman, Peter, Rethinking the Carmina Burana (I): The Medieval Context and Modern Reception of the Codex Buranus, in: Journal of Medieval & Early Modern Studies 45 (2015), 245-286.

  • Halsall, Paul (ed.), Internet Medieval Sourcebook (Fordham University Center for Medieval Studies) [URL: <https://sourcebooks.fordham.edu/sbook.asp>]

  • Halsall, Paul (ed.), Internet Modern History Sourcebook (Fordham University) [URL: <https://sourcebooks.fordham.edu/mod/modsbook.asp>]

  • Kidder, Annemarie S. (ed.), Ultimate Price. Testimonies of Christians who resisted the Third Reich, Maryknoll 2012. [Alfred Delp, Sophie Scholl, Rupert Mayer]

  • Klemperer, Victor, Munich 1919. Diary of a Revolution, Cambridge / Malden 2017.

  • Kuhn, Gabriel, All Power to the Councils! A documentary history of the German Revolution of 1918-1919, Oakland/CA 2012. [Landauer, Mühsam]

  • Liess, Albrecht, History of reorganisation and rearrangement of the holdings of the State Archives in Bavaria, in: Archivalische Zeitschrit 84 (2001), 123-154.

  • Lindberg, Carter (ed.), The European Reformations Sourcebook, Chichester 22014.

  • Loud, Graham A. - Schenk, Jochen (eds.), The Origins of the German Principalities, 1100-1350. Essays by German Historians, London - New York 2017. [Privilegium Minus 1156, Gelnhausen Charter 1180 (Deposition of Henry the Lion), Confoederatio cum Principibus Ecclesiasticis 1220, Statutum in Favorem Principum 1230, Mainz Land Peace 1235]

  • Malzahn, Manfred, Germany 1945-1949. A Sourcebook, London etc. 1991.

  • Marshall, Tariq (ed.), The Carmina Burana: Songs from Benediktbeuren: a full and faithfull translation with critical annotations, [s.l.] 2011.

  • Medick, Hans - Marschke, Benjamin (ed.), Experiencing the Thirty Years War. A Brief History with Documents, Boston / New York 2013.

  • Noble Society. Five lives from twelfth-century Germany. Selected sources translated and annotated by Jonathan R. Lyon (Manchester Medieval Sources Series), Manchester 2017 [Mechthild von Dießen; Otto von Bamberg]

  • Otto Frisingensis, The Two Cities: A chronicle of universal history to the year 1146 A.D., translated by Charles Christopher Mierow, edited by Austin P. Evans, New York 2002.

  • Rabinbach, Anson - Gilman, Sander L. (eds.), The Third Reich Sourcebook, Berkeley / Los Angeles 2013.

  • Rivers, Theodore John (ed.), Laws of the Alamans and Bavarians (Leges Alamannorum - Lex Baiuvariorum), Philadelphia 1977.

  • Rosemann, Philipp W. - McEvoy, James J., Robert Grosseteste at Munich: the "Abbreviatio" by Frater Andreas, O.F.M., of the Commentaries by Robert Grosseteste on the Pseudo-Dionysius (Dallas medieval texts and translations 14), Paris etc. 2012.

  • Sauer, Hans, Angelsächsisches Erbe in München: Angelsächsische Handschriften, Schreiber und Autoren aus den Beständen der Bayerischen Staatsbibliothek in München = Anglo-Saxon heritage in Munich, Frankfurt am Main u.a. 2005.

  • Scholl, Inge, The White Rose. Munich 1942-1943, Middletown 1983.

  • Scott, Tom, The German Peasants' War: A history in documents, Atlantic Highlands 1991.

  • Seidensticker, Tilman, How Arabic manuscripts moved to German libraries, in: Manuscript Cultures 10 (2017), 73-82. [Widmannstetter]

  • Tlusty, B. Ann (ed.), Augsburg during the Reformation era. An anthology of sources, Indianapolis etc. 2012.

  • Toorians, Lauran, The Earliest Inventory of Mexican Objects in Munich, 1572, in: Journal of the History of Collections 6 (1994), 59-67.

  • Wagner, Bettina, Bodleian Incunables from Bavarian Monasteries, in: Bodleian Library Record 15 (1995), 90-107.

  • Wagner, Bettina, “Libri impressi bibliothecae monasterii Sancti Emmerammi”. The incunable collection of St Emmeram, Regensburg, and its catalogue of 1501, in: Jensen, Kristian (ed.), Incunabula and Their Readers: Printing, Selling and Using Books in the Fifteenth Century, London 2003, 179-205.

  • Wagner, Bettina, Collecting, Cataloguing, and Digitizing Incunabula at the Bayerische Staatsbibliothek Munich, in: Papers of the Bibliographical Society of America 101 (2007), 451-479.

  • Wagner, Bettina - Booton, Diane E., Worlds of Learning: The Library and World Chronicle of the Nuremberg Physician Hartmann Schedel (1440-1514) (Ausstellungskataloge - Bayerische Staatsbibliothek 89), München 2015.

  • Waldmann, Glenys A., The Wessobrunn Prayer manuscript CLM 22053: a transliteration, translation and study of parallels, Ann Arbor 1975.

  • Wilson, Peter H., The Thirty Years War: A Sourcebook, Basingstoke etc. 2010.

Cross-Epochal

  • Applegate, Celia, A Nation of Provincials. The German Idea of Heimat, Berkeley 1990. [Bavarian Palatinate]

  • Bähr, Johannes - Banken, Ralf - Flemming, Thomas, MAN. The history of a German industrial enterprise, München 2009.

  • Bähr, Johannes - Kopper, Christopher, Munich Re. The company history 1880-1980, München 2016.

  • Bähr, Johannes - Erker, Paul - Rieder, Maximiliane, 180 Years of KraussMaffei. The History of a Global Brand, München 2018.

  • Bauernfeind, Walter - Woitek, Ulrich, Agrarian Cycles in Germany 1339-1670: A spectral analysis of grain prices and output in Nuremberg, in: Explorations in Economic History 33 (1996), 459-478.

  • Beattie, Andrew, The Danube. A cultural history (Landscapes of imagination), Oxford 2010.

  • Brockmann, Stephen, Nuremberg. The imaginary capital (Studies in german literature, linguistics, and culture), Rochester 2006.

  • Burkhard, Marianne, Stability and Adaptation: The History of St. Walburg Abbey in Eichstätt, in: American Benedictine Review 64 (2013), 178-197.

  • Dittscheid, Hans Christoph - Berger-Dittscheid, Cornelia, The Jewish settlement in Floß, Upper Palatinate (Bavaria), in: Cohen-Mushlin, Aliza - Thies, Harmen - Narkiss, Bezalel (eds.), Jewish Architecture in Europe (Schriften der Bet Tfila-Forschungsstelle für jüdische Architektur in Europa 6), Petersberg 2010, 175-188.

  • Eggenkämper, Barbara - Modert, Gerd - Pretzlik, Stefan (ed.), Allianz. The Company History 1890-2015, München 2015.

  • Flachenecker, Helmut, The Christian Landscape in Southern Germany in the Aftermath of the Reformation. Religious Separation as a Source of Regional Identity, Bindas, Kenneth J. - Ricciardelli, Fabrizio (eds.), Regional History as Cultural Identity, Roma 2017, 151-166.

  • Fouse, Gary C., Erlangen. An American's History of a German Town, Landham etc. 2005.

  • Gaab, Jeffrey S., Munich: Hofbräuhaus & History - beer, culture, & politics, New York etc. 2006.

  • Gingerich, Josef, The Amish Mennonites in Bavaria, in: The Mennonite Quarterly Review 56 (1982), 179-188.

  • Grunert, Manfred - Triebel, Florian (eds.), BMW since 1916, München 2006.

  • Gürtler, Daniel - Urban, Markus - Jenkins, John, The Main-Danube-Canal. Idea - History - Technology, Nürnberg 2013.

  • Haas, Michaela, History of the Franciscan Sisters of Dillingen from 1241 to 1900, Lindenberg 2018.

  • Harwood, Jonathan. Technology’s Dilemma: Agricultural Colleges between Science and Practice in Germany, 1860–1934, Bern / Frankfurt / New York 2005. [among others: Munich and Weihenstephan]

  • Hiley, Ann, Regensburg. A short history, Regensburg 2013.

  • Keller, Tait, Apostles of the Alps. Mountaineering and nation building in Germany and Austria, 1860-1939, Chapel Hill 2016.

  • Klahr, Douglas, Munich as Kunststadt, 1900-1937: Art, Architecture, and Civic Identity, in: Oxford Art Journal 34 (2011), 179-201.

  • Knodel, John, Two and a Half Centuries of Demographic History in a Bavarian Village, in: Population Studies 24 (1970), 353-376. [Anhausen]

  • Lepovitz, Helena Waddy, Gateway to the Mountains: Tourism and Positive Deindustrialization in the Bavarian Alps, in: German History 7 (1989), 293-318.

  • Lepovitz, Helena Waddy, Pilgrims, Patients, and Painters: The Formation of a Tourist Culture in Bavaria, in: Historical Reflections 18 (1992), 121-145.

  • LMU (ed.), Ludwig-Maximilian University Munich, Haar bei München 22001.

  • Loester, Barbara, The Pluricentric Borders of Bavaria, in: Andrén, Mats et al. (eds.), Cultural Borders of Europe: Narratives, Concepts and Practices in the Present and the Past, New York / Oxford 2017, 85-99.

  • Mahl, Tobias, Cosmopolite meeting place and artists' house: The Villa Waldberta. A mirror of the 20th century, München 2010.

  • Magocsi, Paul R., Historical Atlas of Central Europe. From the early fifth century to the present, London 2002.

  • Meier, Lars, Industrial, urban and worker identity transitions in Nuremberg, in: Kirk, John et al. (eds.), Changing work and community identities in European Regions. Perspectives on the Past and Present, Houndmills 2012, 23-56.

  • Michels, Eckard, Deutsch als Weltsprache? Franz Thierfelder, the Deutsche Akademie in Munich and the Promotion of the German Language Abroad, 1923-1945, in: German History 22 (2004), 206-228.

  • Mueller, Steven, The Wittelsbach Dynasty, Broadview 2007.

  • Pindl, Kathrin, Grain policies and storage in Southern Germany: The Regensburg Hospital (17th-19th centuries), in: Jahrbuch für Wirtschaftsgeschichte 59 (2018), 415-445.

  • Ó Riain, Diarmuid, An Irish Jerusalem in Franconia: The Abbey of the Holy Cross and Holy Sepulchre at Eichstätt, in: Proceedings of the Royal Irish Academy. Section C: Archaeology, Celtic Studies, History, Linguistics, Literature 112 (2012), 219-270.

  • Ó Riain, Diarmuid, The Schottenklöster in the World: Identity, Independence and Integration, in: Hovden, Eirik - Lutter, Christina - Pohl, Walter (eds.), Meanings of Community across Medieval Eurasia: Comparative Approaches, Leiden / Boston 2016, 388-416. [Focus on Bavaria]

  • O`Sullivan, Michael E., Disruptive Power. Catholic Women, Miracles, and Politics in Modern Germany, 1918-1965, Toronto 2018. [Therese Neumann of Konnersreuth]

  • Rosenbaum, Adam T., Timeless, Modern, and German? The Re-Mapping of Bavaria through the Marketing of Tourism, 1800-1939, in: Bulletin of the German Historical Institute, Washington D.C. 52 (2013), 37-54

  • Rosenbaum, Adam T., Bavarian tourism and the modern world 1800-1950, New York 2016.

  • Rudnytzky, Leonid, Ukrainian Free University of Munich - 90th Anniversary: Crescat scientia, vita excolatur, in: Ukrainian Quarterly 67 (2011), 99-106.

  • Smith, Jeffrey, The changing American perceptions of Nuremberg and its artistic heritage, in: Maué, Hermann et al. (ed.), Quasi centrum Europae, Nürnberg 2002, 17-43.

  • Spotts, Frederic, Bayreuth: A History of the Wagner Festival, New Haven / London 1994.

  • Stein, Mary Beth, Wilhelm Heinrich Riehl and the Scientific-Literary Formation of “Volkskunde”, in: German Studies Review 24 (2001), 487-512.

  • Storm, Eric, The culture of regionalism. Art, architecture and international exhibitions in France, Germany and Spain, 1890-1939, Manchester etc. 2010.

  • Umbach, Maiken, German Federalism. Past, Present, Future, Basingstoke etc. 2002.

  • Vorländer, Hermann, Church in Motion. The History of the Evangelical Lutheran Mission in Bavaria (Missional Church, Public Theology, World Christianity 8), Eugene/Oregon 2018.

  • Wagner, Jonathan F., The Hard Lessons of a Political Life: The Career of Socialist Hans Dill (1887-1973), in: Internationale Wissenschaftliche Korrespondenz zur Geschichte der Deutschen Arbeiterbewegung 29 (1993), 194-207.

  • Wetmore, Kevin J., The Oberammergau Passion Play. Essays on the 2010 performance and the centuries-long tradition, Jefferson / NC 2017.

  • Wheatley, Paul, Munich. From Monks to Modernity, München 2010.


9th to 13th Century: Early and High Middle Ages

  • Airlie, Stuart, Narratives of triumph and rituals of submission: Charlemagne's mastering of Bavaria, in: Transactions of the Royal Historical Society ser.6,9 (1999), 93-119.

  • Airlie, Stuart, The Nearly Men: Boso of Vienne and Arnulf of Bavaria, in: Duggan, Anne (ed.), Nobles and Nobility in Medieval Europe. Concepts, Origins, Transformations, Woodbridge 2000, 25-42.

  • Airlie, Stuart, True teachers and pious kings: Salzburg, Louis the German, and Christian order, in: Gameson, Richard - Leyser, Henrietta (eds.), Belief and Culture in the Middle Ages: Studies presented to Henry Mayr-Harting, Oxford 2001, 89-105.

  • Agus, Irving A., Rabbi Meir of Rothenburg: his life and his works as sources for the religious, legal, and social history of the Jews of Germany in the thirteenth century. Two volumes in one, New York 21970.

  • Alexander, Paul J., The Papacy, the Bavarian Clergy and the Slavonic Apostles, in: Slavonic and East European Review 20 (1971), 266-293.

  • Arnold, Benjamin, Count and bishop in medieval Germany. A study of regional power 1100-1350, Philadelphia 1991. [Eichstätt]

  • Beach, Alison I., Claustration and collaboration between the sexes in the twelfth-century scriptorium, in: Farmer, Sharon - Rosenwein, Barbara H. (eds.), Monks and Nuns, Saints and Outcasts: Religion in Medieval Society. Essays in Honor of Lester K. Little, Ithaca 2000, 57-75. [Admont and Schäftlarn]

  • Beach, Alison I., Women as scribes. Book production and monastic reform in twelfth-century Bavaria, Cambridge u.a. 2004.

  • Bennett, Camille E., Historiography as historical event: Otto of Freising's use of the past for religious restoration, PhD. Cornell University 1985.

  • Bernhardt, John W., King Henry II of Germany: royal self-representation and historical memory, in: Althoff, Gerd - Fried, Johannes - Geary, Patrick J. (ed.), Medieval concepts of the past: ritual, memory, historiography, Washington DC 2002, 39-69.

  • Brown, Warren, The use of norms in disputes in early medieval Bavaria, in: Viator. Medieval and Renaissance Studies 30 (1999), 15-40.

  • Brown, Warren, Unjust Seizure: Conflict, Interest, and Authority in an Early Medieval Society, Ithaca u.a. 2001.

  • Brown, Warren, The idea of Empire in Carolingian Bavaria, in: Weiler, Björn (ed.), Representations of Power in medieval Germany 800-1500 (International Medieval Research 16), Turnhout 2006, 37-55.

  • Bowlus, Charles R., Italia - Bavaria- Avaria: The Grand Strategy behind Charlemagne's Renovatio Imperii in the West, in: Journal of Medieval Military History 1 (2002), 43-60.

  • Bowlus, Charles R., The Battle of Lechfeld and its Aftermath, August 955. The End of the Age of Migrations in the Latin West, Aldershot 2006.

  • Chinca, Mark, Uses of the past in twelfth-century Germany: The case of the middle high german Kaiserchronik, in: Central European History 49 (2016), 19-38.

  • Cohen, Adam S., The Art of Reform in a Bavarian Nunnery around 1000, in: Speculum 74 (1999), 992-1020. [Niedermünster]

  • Couser, Jonathan, A Usable Past: early Bavarian Hagiography in Context, in: Studies in Medieval and Renaissance History ser. 3 4 (2007), 1-56.

  • Couser, Jonathan, Inventing Paganism in Eighth-Century Bavaria, in: Early Medieval Europe 18 (2010), 26-42.

  • Couser, Jonathan, The changing fortunes of early medieval Bavaria to 907 AD, in: History Compass 8 (2010), 330-344.

  • Couser, Jonathan, "Let Them Make Him Duke to Rule that People": The "Law of the Bavarians" and Regime Change in Early Medieval Europe, in: Law and History Review 30 (2012), 865-899.

  • Diesenberger, Maximilian, Repertoires and Strategies in Bavaria: Hagiography, in: Pohl, Walter - Heydemann, Gerda (eds.), Strategies of Identification. Ethnicity and Religion in Early Medieval Europe (Cultural Encounters in Late Antiquity and the Middle Ages 13), Turnhout 2013, 209-232.

  • Diesenberger, Maximilian u.a. (ed.), The Prague Sacramentary. Culture, Religion, and Politics in late Eight-Century Bavaria, Turnhout 2016.

  • Dilworth, Mark, The first Scottish monks in Ratisbon, in: The Innes Review 16 (1965), 180-198.

  • Dockray-Miller, Mary, The Books and the Life of Judith of Flanders, Farnham etc. 2015.

  • DuBruck, Edelgard et al. (ed.), Crossroads of medieval civilization: The City of Regensburg and its intellectual milieu. A collection of essays (Medieval and Renaissance monograph series 5), Detroit 1984.

  • Ettel, Peter, Karlburg am Main (Bavaria) and its role as a local centre in the late Merovingian and Ottonian periods, in: Henning, Joachim (ed.), Post-Roman Towns, Trade and Settlement in Europe and Byzantium, Vol. 1: The Heirs of the Roman West (Millennium-Studien 5), Berlin etc. 2007, 319-340.

  • Fehr, Hubert - Heitmeier, Irmtraut, Introduction and summary: A quarter of a century later ..., in: Ibid. (eds.), Die Anfänge Bayerns. Von Raetien und Noricum zur frühmittelalterlichen Baiovaria (Bayerische Landesgeschichte und europäische Regionalgeschichte 1), 665-672.

  • Flint, Valerie I., The career of Honorius Augustodunensis: some fresh evidence, in: Revue Bénédictine 82 (1972), 63-83.

  • Flint, Valerie I., The chronologie of the works of Honorius Augustodunensis, in: Revue Bénédictine 82 (1972), 215-242.

  • Flint, Valerie I., Anti-Jewish literature and attitudes in the twelfth century, in: The Journal of Jewish Studies 37 (1986), 183-205.

  • Freed, John B., The Counts of Falkenstein. Noble self-consciousness in 12th-century Germany (American Philosophical Society: Transactions of the American Philosophical Society 74,6), Philadelphia 1984.

  • Freed, John B., Artistic and literary representations of family consciousness, in: Althoff, Gerd - Fried, Johannes - Geary, Patrick J. (eds.), Medieval Concepts of the Past: Ritual, Memory, Historiography (Publications of the German Historical Institute), Washington D.C. 2002, 233-252.

  • Freed, John B., Bavarian wine and woolless sheep. The "Urbar" of Count Sigiboto IV of Falkenstein (1126-ca. 1198), in: Viator 35 (2004), 71-112.

  • Freed, John B., The creation of the "Codex Falkensteinensis" (1166). Self-representation and reality, in: Weiler, Björn – MacLean, Simon (eds.), Representations of power in medieval Germany 800-1500 (International medieval research 16), Turnhout 2006, 189-210.

  • Fries-Knoblach, Janine - Steuer, Heiko (eds.), The Baiuvarii and Thuringi. An ethnographic perspective (Studies in historical archaeoethnology 9), Woodbridge 2014.

  • Geary, Patrick H. - Freed, John B., Literacy and Violence in twelth-century Bavaria: The "murder letter" of Count Sibito IV, in: Viator 25 (1994), 115-129.

  • Godthardt, Frank, The Philosopher as Political Actor - Marsilius of Padua at the Court of Ludwig the Bavarian: The Sources Revisited, in: Moreno-Riaño, Gerson, The World of Marsilius of Padua (Disputatio 5), Turnhout 2006, 29-46.

  • Grabowski, Antoni T., The “Duel” between Henry I and Arnulf of Bavaria according to Liudprand of Cremona, in: Czaja, Roman - Mühle, Eduard - Radziminski, Andrzej (eds.), Konfliktbewältigung und Friedensstiftung im Mittelalter - Przezwyciężanie konfliktów i ustanawianie pokoju w Średniowieczu, Torun 2012, 387-400.

  • Haas-Gebhard, Brigitte, The Unterhaching grave finds: Richly dressed burials from sixth-century Bavaria, in: Netherton, Robin - Owen-Crocker, Gale R. (eds.), Medieval Clothing and Textiles, Woodbridge 2012, 1-23.

  • Hakenbeck, Susanne, Local, regional and ethnic identities in early medieval cemeteries in Bavaria, Florenz 2011.

  • Hammer, Carl I., Country Churches, Clerical Inventories and the Carolingian Renaissance in Bavaria, in: Church History: Studies in Christianity and Culture 49 (1980), 5-17.

  • Hammer, Carl I., Family and familia in early-medieval Bavaria, in: Wall, Richard - Robin, Jean - Laslett, Peter (eds.), Peter Family Forms in Historic Europe, Cambridge 1983, 217-248.

  • Hammer, Carl I., Servile names and seigneurial organization in early-medieval Bavaria, in: Studi Medievali ser. 3 36 (1995), 903-915.

  • Hammer, Carl I., The Handmaid's Tale. Morganatic relationships in early-medieval Bavaria, in: Continuity and Change 10 (1995), 345-368.

  • Hammer, Carl I., Land sales in eight- and ninth-century Bavaria: Legal, economic, and social aspects, in: Early Medieval Europe 6 (1997), 47-76.

  • Hammer, Carl I., A large-scale Slave Society of the Early Middle Ages: Slaves and their Families in Early Medieval Bavaria, Aldershotu.a. 2002.

  • Hammer, Carl I., “For all the Saints”. Bishop Vivolo of Passau and the eighth-century origins of the feast, in: Revue Mabillon: Revue internationale d'histoire et de littérature religieuses 15 (2004), 5-26.

  • Hammer, Carl I., Arbeo of Freising's Life and Passion of St. Emmeram. The martyr and his critics, in: Revue d'histoire ecclésiastique 101 (2006), 5-36.

  • Hammer, Carl I., From Ducatus to Regnum: Ruling Bavaria under the Merovingians and Early Carolingians, Turnhout 2007.

  • Hammer, Carl I,, Crowding the King: Rebellion and Political Violence in Late Carolingian Bavaria and Italy, in: Studimedievali 48 (2007), 493-541.

  • Hammer, Carl I., "A suitable place for putting up a mill". Water power landscapes and structures in Carolingian Bavaria, in: Vierteljahrschrift für Sozial- und Wirtschaftsgeschichte 95 (2008), 319-334.

  • Hammer, Carl I., "Pipinus Rex": Pippin's plot of 792 and Bavaria, in: Traditio 63 (2008), 235-276.

  • Hammer, Carl I., Hoc and Hnaef in Bavaria? Early-medieval prosopography and heroic poetry, in: Medieval Prosopography: History and Collective Biography 26 (2009), 13-50.

  • Hammer, Carl I., Early Merovingian Bavaria. A late antique Italian Perspective, in: Journal of Late Antiquity 4 (2011), 217-244.

  • Hammer, Carl I., Town and Country in early-medieval Bavaria. Two studies in urban and comital structure, Oxford 2012.

  • Hammer, Carl I., Huosiland. A Small Country in Carolingian Europe, Oxford 2018.

  • Hardt, Michael, The Bavarians, in: Goetz, Hans Werner et al. (eds.), Regna and Gentes. The relationship between late antique and early medieval peoples and kingdoms in the transformation of the Roman world (The Transformation of the Roman World 13), Leiden etc. 2003, 429-461.

  • Hubby, John Clifton, Lordship and Rural Society in Medieval Bavaria. The Estates of the Abbey of Tegernsee, c. 979-c. 1450, PhD Columbia University 2000.

  • Kohl, Thomas, “Presbyter in parochia sua”: Local Priests and their Churches in Early Medieval Bavaria, in: Patzold, Steffen - van Rhijn, Carine (eds.), Men in the Middle: Local Priests in Early Medieval Europe (Reallexikon der Germanischen Altertumskunde, Ergänzungsbände 93), Berlin / Boston 2016, 50-77.

  • Kulzer, Linda, Erentrude: Nonnberg, Eichstätt, America, in: Schmitt, Miriam - Ibid. (eds.), Medieval Women Monastics: Wisdom's Wellsprings, Collegeville 1996, 49-61.

  • Kyle, Joseph D., Sankt St. Emmeran, Regensburg, as a center of culture in the late tenth century, Diss. Pittsburgh 1976.

  • Lavoie, Raymond V., Saints, kings, and religious reformers. Texts, social ties, and identity in the religious communities of eleventh- and twelfth-century Regensburg, PhD. Los Angeles 1999.

  • Lifshits, Yosef Yitsḥaḳ, Rabbi Meir of Rothenburg and the Foundation of Jewish Political Thought, Cambridge 2016.

  • Lyon, Jonathan R, Cooperation, compromise and conflict avoidance: Family relationships in the House of Andechs, ca. 1100-1204, PhD. Notre Dame / Indiana 2004.

  • Merta, Brigitte, Why royal charters? A look at theiruse in Carolingian Bavaria, in: Pohl, Walter (ed.), Vom Nutzen des Schreibens: Soziales Gedächtnis, Herrschaft und Besitz im Mittelalter (Forschungen zur Geschichte des Mittelalters 5), Wien 2002, 183-191.

  • Mews, Constant J., Accusation of Heresy and Error in the Twelth-Century Schools: The Witness of Gerhoh of Reichersberg and Otto of Freising, in: Hunter, Ian - Laursen, John Christian - Nederman, Cary J. (eds.), Heresy in Transition. Transforming Ideas of Heresy in Medieval and Early Modern Europe, London / New York 2005, 43-58.

  • Nelson, Janet L., Staging integration in Bavaria, 791-793, in: Pohl, Walter - Diesenberger, Maximilian - Zeller, Bernhard (eds.), Neue Wege der Frühmittelalterforschung - Bilanz und Perspektiven (Forschungen zur Geschichte des Mittelalters 22), Wien 2018, 225-237.

  • Notari, Tamás, On Bishop Virgil's Litigations in Bavaria, in: Acta Juridica Hungarica 48 (2007), 49-71.

  • Notari, Tamás, Bavarian Historiography in Early Medieval Salzburg, Passau 2010.

  • Notari, Tamás, Criminal Law in Lex Baiuvariorum, in: Acta Universitatis Sapientiae, Legal Studies 2 (2013), 67-90.

  • Notari, Tamás, Law and Society in Lex Baiuvariorum, Passau 2014.

  • Obrist, Barbara, Cosmological iconography in twelfth-century Bavaria. The earthly zones and their circling serpent in Munich, Bayerische Staatsbibliothek, CLM 7785, in: Studi Medievali ser. 3 48 (2007), 543-574.

  • Parsons, David, Some churches of the Anglo-Saxon missionaries in southern Germany: a review of the evidence, in: Early Medieval Europe 8 (1999), 31-67. [Eichstätt, Solnhofen]

  • Pearson, Kathy Lynne, Land and family in Bavaria: A social history of the landowning class in the eight and ninth centuries, PhD. Emory University 1990.

  • Pearson, Kathy Lynne, Rulers, magnates, and outsiders in Bavaria and its marches, in: Gosman, Martin - Vanderjagt, Arjo - Veenstra, Jan (eds.), The Propagation of Power in the Medieval West: Selected Proceedings of the International Conference, Groningen 20-23 November 1996 (Mediaevalia Groningana, 23), Groningen 1997, 177-189.

  • Pearson, Kathy Lynne, Conflicting loyalities in early medieval Bavaria. A view of social-political interaction, 680-900, Aldershot 1999.

  • Phelan, Owen M., The Carolingian Renewal and Christian Formation in ninth-century Bavaria, in: Corradini, Richard et al. (eds.), Texts andidentities in the Early Middle Ages (Forschungen zur Geschichte des Mittelalters 12), Wien 2006, 389-399.

  • Pohl, Walter - Diesenberger, Maximilian (eds.), Eugippius und Severin. Der Autor, der Text und der Heilige (Forschungen zur Geschichte des Mittelalters 2), Wien 2001 [5 articles in English]

  • Reuter, Timothy, Charlemagne and the world beyond the Rhine, in: Story, Joanna (ed.), Charlemagne: Empire and Society, Manchester 2005, 183-194.

  • Rivers, Theodore John, Contributions to the criticism and interpretation of the Lex Baiuvariorum: Acomparative study of the Alamannic and Bavarian codes, PhD. New York 1973.

  • Scharer, Anton, Duke Tassilo of Bavaria and the Origins of the Rupertus Cross, in: Gameson, Richard - Leyser, Henrietta (ed.), Belief and culture in the Middle Ages. Studies presented to Henry Mayr-Harting, Oxford 2001, 69-75.

  • Scharer, Anton, Bishops in Ottonian Bavaria, in: Ibid. (ed.), Changing Perspectives on England and the Continent in the Early Middle Ages (Variroum Collected Studies Series 1042), Farnham 2014, 1-17.

  • Schmitt, Miriam, St. Irmengard: no poor on the isle of Chiemsee, in: Ibid. - Kulzer, Lina (eds.), Medieval Women Monastics: Wisdom's Wellsprings, Collegeville 1996, 117-134.

  • Schmitz-Esser, Romedio, The Bishop and the Emperor: tracing narrative intent in Otto of Freising's "Gesta Frederici", in: The Medieval Chronicle 9 (2014), 297-324.

  • Toch, Michael, The formation of a Diaspora: the settlement of Jews in the medieval German "Reich", in: Aschkenas 7 (1997), 55-78.

  • Toch, Michael, The peasant community and its laws: Medieval Bavaria, in: Hen, Yitzhak (ed.), De sionexibitlex et verbum domini de Hierusalem (Cultural encounters in late antiquity and the middle ages 1), Turnhout 2001, 183-196.

  • Walter, James K., The Upper German Servatius. Secular Influences on the Art of a Saint's Life in the late Twelfth Century, in: Hintz, Ernst Ralf (ed.), Nu lôn' ich iu der gâbe: Festschrift for Francis G. Gentry (Göppinger Arbeiten zur Germanistik 693), Göppingen 2003, 285-298.

  • Weber, Andreas Otto, The organisation of wine-production and wine-transport in the Middle Ages: the example of Bavarian monasteries and their vineyards in Bavaria, Austria, and South Tyrol and general conclusions on comparative wine-history, in: Maldonado, Javier (ed.), Actas del I Simposio de la Asociación Internacional de Historia y Civilización de la Vid y el Vino, 1999, El Puerto de Santa María 2001, 435-444.

  • Winckler, Katharina, Romanness at the Fringes of the Frankish Empire: The Strange Case of Bavaria, in: Pohl, Walter et al. (eds.), Transformations of Romanness. Early Medieval Regions and Identities, Berlin / Boston 2018, 419-436.

  • Wolfram, Herwig, Bavaria in the tenth and early eleventh century, in: McKitterick, Rosamond (ed.), The new Cambridge medieval history. Volume 3, Cambridge 1999, 293-309.

  • Wood, Ian, The Missionary Life. Saints and the evangelization of Europe, 400-1050, Milton Park / New York 2001. [Virgil, Rupert, Korbinian, Arbeo, Kilian]

  • Wright, Stephen K., Was there a twelfth-century play at St. Emmeram? in: Medieval English Theatre 18 (1998), 74-84.


13th to 15th Centuries: Late Middle Ages

  • Adamson, Melitta Weiss, Lost in translation? The arrival of Byzantine viniculture in fifteenth-century Bavaria, in: Medium Aevum Quotidianum 67 (2014), 26-36.

  • Boer, Dick E.H. de, Ludwig the Bavarian and the Scholars, in: Drijvers, Jan Willem - MacDonald, Alasdair A. (eds.), Centres of Learning: Learning and Location in Pre-Modern Europe and the Near East (Brill’s Studies in Intellectual History 61), Leiden 1995, 229-244.

  • Brown, Thomas Andrew, Ludwig the Bavarian and the German estates, PhD. Syracuse University 1975.

  • Cassidy-Welch, Megan, Pilgrimage and embodiment: captives and the cult of saints in late medieval Bavaria, in: Parergon. Journal of the Australian and New Zealand Association for Medieval and Early Modern Studies 20 (2003), 47-70. [Inchenhofen]

  • Erb, James R., Fictions, realities and the fifteenth-century Nuremberg "Fastnachtspiel", Eisenbichler, Konrad et al. (eds.), Carnival and the carnivalesque (Ludus 4), Amsterdam etc. 1999, 89-116.

  • Flachenecker, Helmut, Eichstätt: abbey, diocese, lordship, in: Loud, Graham A. - Schenk, Jochen (eds.), The Origins of the German Principalities, 1100-1350. Essays by German Historians, London - New York 2017, 121-136.

  • Ghosh, Shami, Rural commercialisation in fourteenth-century southern Germany: The evidence from Scheyern Abbey, in: Vierteljahrschrift für Wirtschafts- und Sozialgeschichte 104 (2017), 52-77.

  • Graf, Wolfgang, Nürnberg: World-Trade-Center forspice, in: Protzner, Wolfgang - Köglmaier-Horn, Christiane (eds.), Culina Franconiae (Beiträge zur Wirtschafts- und Sozialgeschichte 109), 73-90.

  • Groebner, Valentin, Black money and the language of things: Observations on the economy of the labouring poor in late fifteenth-century Nuremberg, in: Tel Aviver Jahrbuch für Deutsche Geschichte 22 (1993), 275-291.

  • Groos, Arthur, The city as community and space: Nuremberg Stadtlob, 1447-1530, in: Stock, Markus – Vöhringer, Nicola (eds.), Spatial practices: medieval / modern (Transatlantische Studien zu Mittelalter und Früher Neuzeit 6), Göttingen 2014, 187-206.

  • Hoffmann, Richard C., Fishers in late medieval rural society around Tegernsee, Bavaria: a preliminary sketch, in: DeWindt, Edwin Brezette - Raftis, James Ambrose (eds.), The Salt of Common Life: Individuality and Choice in the Medieval Town, Countryside and Church. Essays Presented to J. Ambrose Raftis (Studies in Medieval Culture 36), Kalamazoo 1995, 371-408.

  • Klepper, Deeana Copeland, Pastoral literature in local context: Albert of Diessen’s Mirror of Priests on Christian-Jewish coexistence, in: Speculum: A Journal of Medieval Studies 92 (2017), 692-723.

  • Liebhart, Wilhelm, 500 years Birgittine Convent Altomünster (1497-1997), in: Brigittiana 2 (1996), 223-234.

  • Lutter, Christina, The Babenbergs: from frontier march to principality, in: Loud, Graham A. - Schenk, Jochen (eds.), The Origins of the German Principalities, 1100-1350. Essays by German Historians, London - New York 2017, 312-328.

  • McQuillen, John T., In manuscript and print. The fifteenth-century library of Scheyern Abbey, PhD. Toronto 2012.

  • Merback, Mitchell B., Cleansing the Temple. The Munich Gruftkirche as converted synagogue, in: Ibid. (ed.), Beyond the yellow badge. Anti-Judaism and antisemitism in Medieval and early modern visual culture (Brill's series in Jewish studies 37), 305-345.

  • Meyer-Schlenkrich, Carla, The Imperial City: The example of Nuremberg, in: Loud, Graham A. - Schenk, Jochen (eds.), The Origins of the German Principalities, 1100-1350. Essays by German Historians, London - New York 2017, 68-82.

  • Miller, Michael L., The Bavarian Episcopacy in the Fourteenth Century, PhD. Ohio State University 1980.

  • Minagawa, Taku, Border conflicts between Bohemia and Bavaria and their solutions. Comparative considerations, in: Bellabarba, Marco - Obermair, Hannes (eds.), Communities and conflicts in the Alps from the late Middle Ages to Early Modernity (Annali dell'Istituto Storico Italo-Germanico in Trento / Contributi 30), Berlin / Bologna 2015, 73-90.

  • Miner, John N., Change and Continutiy in the Schools of Later Medieval Nuremberg, in: The Catholic Historical Review 73 (1987), 1-22.

  • Mixson, James D., Poverty's Proprietors: Ownership and Mortal Sin at the Origins of the Observant Movement (Studies in the history of Christian Traditions 143), Leiden etc. 2009.

  • Modestin, Georg, The Making of a Heretic: Pope John XXII's campaign against Louis of Bavaria, in: Bailey, Michael D. - Field, Sean L. (eds.), Late Medieval heresy: New perspectives. Studies in honor of Robert E. Lerner, Rochester/NY 2018, 76-95.

  • Moody, D. Branch, Healing Power in the Marian Miracle Books of Bavarian Healing Shrines, 1489-1523, in: Journal of the History of Medicine & Allied Sciences 47 (1992), 68-90.

  • Olesen, Jens E., Christopher of Bavaria, King of Denmark, Norway and Sweden (1440-1448): Scandinavia and Southern Germany in the 15th century, in: Ibid. (ed.), Erich von Pommern und Christopher von Bayern - Studien zur Kalmarer Union (Publikationen des Lehrstuhls für Nordische Geschichte 21), Greifswald 2016, 239-269.

  • Pope, Ben, Nuremberg's Noble Servant: Werner von Parsberg (d. 1455) between Town and Nobility in Late Medieval Germany, in: German History 36 (2018), 159-180.

  • Rasmussen, Ann Marie, Reading in Nuremberg's fifteenth-century carnival plays, in: Downing, Eric et al. (ed.), Literary studies and the pursuits of reading, Rochester 2012, 68-83.

  • Reinle, Christine, Peasants' feuds in medieval Bavaria (fourteenth-fifteenth century), in: Netterstrøm, Jeppe - Poulsen, Bjørn (eds.), Feud in Medieval and Early Modern Europe., Aarhus 2007, 161-174.

  • Sargent, Steven D., Religion and society in late medieval Bavaria: The cult of Saint Leonard, 1258-1500, PhD. University of Pennsylvania 1982.

  • Sargent, Steven D., Miracle Books and Pilgrimage Shrines in Late Medieval Bavaria, in: Historical Reflections 13 (1986), 455-471.

  • Scales, Len, Wenceslas Looks Out: Monarchy, Locality, and the Symbolism of Power in Fourteenth-Century Bavaria, in: Central European History 52 (2019), 179-210.

  • Schmidt, Peter, The use of prints in German convents of the fifteenth century: the example of Nuremberg, in: Studies in iconography 24 (2003), 43-69.

  • Sheffler, David L., Schools and schooling in late medieval Germany: Regensburg, 1250-1500 (Education and society in the Middle Ages and Renaissance 33), Leiden etc. 2008.

  • Simon, Anne, The cult of Saint Katherine of Alexandria in late-medieval Nuremberg: Saint and the City, Farnham etc. 2012.

  • Smelyansky, Eugene, Urban order and urban other: Anti-Waldensian inquisition in Augsburg, 1393, in: German History 34 (2016), 1-20.

  • Stromer von Reichenbach, Wolfgang, Nuremberg in the international economics of the Middle Ages, in: Business History Review 44 (1970), 210-221.

  • Stromer von Reichenbach, Wolfgang, Muremberg as Epicentre of Invention and Innovation towards the End of the Middle Age, in: History of Technology 19 (1997), 19-45.

  • Toch, Michael, Local credit in an agrarian economy: the case of Bavaria, 14th to 15th centuries, in: Ibid. (ed.), Peasants and Jews in medieval Germany. Studies in cultural, social, and economic history (Collected studies series 757), Burlington 2003, 793-803.

  • Toch, Michael, Hauling away in late medieval Bavaria. The economics of inland transport in an agrarian market, in: Ibid. (ed.), Peasants and Jews in medieval Germany.Studies in cultural, social, and economic history (Collected studies series 757), Burlington 2003, 111-123.

  • Toch, Michael, Ethics, emotion and self-interest: rural Bavaria in the later middle ages, in: Ibid. (ed.), Peasants and Jews in medieval Germany. Studies in cultural, social, and economic history (Collected studies series 757), Burlington 2003, 135-147. [Indersdorf]

  • Wagner, Bettina, The Windberg Accounts. A Premonstratensian Monastery and its Library in the 15th century, in: Bibliologia 3 (2008), 17-34.

  • Weiß, Dieter J., Spiritual life in the Teutonic order. A comparison between the commanderies of Franconia and Prussia, in: Luttrell, Anthony (ed.), La commanderie. Institution des ordres militaires dans l'Occident medieval (Archélogie et d'histoire de l'art14), Paris 2002, 159-173.

  • Westphal-Wihl, Sarah, Kunigunde of Bavaria and the "Conquest of Regensburg". Politics, gender, and the public sphere in 1489, in: Emden, Christian J. et al. (eds.), Changing perceptions of the public sphere, New York etc. 2012, 35-56.

  • Wranovix, Matthew, Priests and Their Books in Late Medieval Eichstätt, Lanham 2017.


16th to 18th Century: Early Modern Ages (General)

  • Berger, Albrecht, Byzantium in Bavaria, in: Marciniak, Przemyslaw - Smythe, Dion C. (eds.), The Reception of Byzantium in European culture since 1500, Farnham etc. 2016, 115-131.

  • Bubenik, Andrea, Reframing Albrecht Dürer. The Appropriation of Art, 1528-1700, Farnham etc. 2013.

  • Babel, Rainer, The courts of the Wittelsbachs c. 1500-1750. The duchy of Bavaria, in: Adamson, John (ed.), The princely courts of Europe. Ritual, politics and culture under the Ancien Régime 1500 - 1750, London 1999, 188-209.

  • Becker, Rainald, New worlds turning southern German: Knowledge of the Americas in Early Modern Bavaria, in: Lachenicht, Susanne (ed.), Europeans engaging the Atlantic. Knowledge and Trade 1500-1800, Frankfurt am Main etc. 2014, 89-109.

  • Becker, Rainald, Catholic Print Cultures: German Jesuits and Colonial North America, in: Scheiding, Oliver - Bassimir, Anja Maria (ed.), Religious periodicals and publishing in transnational contexts, Cambridge 2017, 25-48.

  • Behringer, Wolfgang, Witchcraft prosecution in Bavaria. Popular Magic, Religious Zealotry and Reason of State in Early Modern Europe, Cambridge 1997.

  • Blickle, Renate, From Subsistence to Property: Traces of a Fundamental Change in Early Modern Bavaria, in: Central European History 25 (1992), 377-385.

  • Creasman, Allyson F., Side-stepping the censor. The clandestine trade in prohibited texts in early modern Augsburg, in: Crane, Mark et al. (eds.), Shell games. Studies in scams, frauds, and deceits (1300-1650), Toronto 2004, 211-237.

  • Dahlem, Andreas, Late Fifteenth Century Architectural Manifestations of Ducal Authority in the Vicinity of Munich, in: Anderson, Emily Jane (ed.), Visible Exports / Imports. New Research on Medieval and Renaissance European Art and Culture, Newcastle upon Tyne 2012, 239-259.

  • Dilworth, Mark, Benedictine monks of Ratisbon and Wurzburg in the 17th and 18th centuries, emigres from the highlands of Scotland, in: Transactions of the Gaelic Society of Inverness 44 (1965), 94-110.

  • Dilworth, Mark, The Scots in Franconia. A century of monastic life, Edinburgh etc. 1974.

  • Durrant, Jonathan B., Witchcraft, gender and society in early modern Germany (Studies in medieval and reformation traditions 124), Leiden 2007 [Prince-Bishopric of Eichstätt]

  • Gantet, Claire, Peace festivals and the culture of memory in early modern South German Cities, in: Friedrich, Karin (ed.), Festive Culture in Germany and Europe from the sixteenth to the twentieth century, Lewiston etc. 2000, 57-71.

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  • Thomas, Andrew J., A House Divided: Wittelsbach Confessional Court Cultures in the Holy Roman Empire, c. 1550-1650 (Studies in medieval and reformation traditions 150), Leiden u.a. 2010.

  • Tlusty, B. Ann, The devil's altar: The tavern and society in early modern Augsburg, PhD. University of Maryland 1994.

  • Tlusty, B. Ann, Water of Life, Water of Death: The Controversy over Brandy and Gin in Early Modern Augsburg, in: Central European History 31 (1998), 1-30.

  • Tlusty, B. Ann, Bacchus and civic order: The culture of drink in early modern Germany (Studies in early modern German history), Charlottesville etc. 2001.

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16th Century: Renaissance and Reformation

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  • Close, Christopher W., The Urban Reformation in Kaufbeuren, in: Ibid. (ed.), The negotiated Reformation. Imperial cities and the politics of urban reform, 1525-1550, Cambridge etc. 2009, 144-178.

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  • Kinzelbach, Annemarie, Hospitals, medicine, and society: Southern German imperial towns in the sixteenth century, in: Renaissance Studies 15 (2001), 217-228.

  • Kirwan, Richard, The Conversion of Jacob Reihing: Academic Controversy and the Professorial Ideal in Confessional Germany, in: German History 36 (2018), 1-20.

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  • Kuhn, Christian, Urban laughter as a "counter-public" sphere in Augsburg: The case of the city mayor, Jakob Herbrot (1490/95-1564), in: International review of social history 52 (2007), 77-93.

  • Kuhn, Christian, Generational discourse and images of urban youth in private letters: The Nuremberg Tucher family around 1550, in: Cochelin, Isabelle et al. (ed.), Medieval life cycles (International medieval research 18), Turnhout 2013, 211-238.

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  • Stewart, Alison G., Taverns in Nuremberg prints at the time of the German reformation, in: Kümin, Beat et al. (ed.), The word of the tavern, Aldershot 2002, 95-115.

  • Stewart, Alison G., The beginning of peasant festival imagery: Sebald Beham and the reform of festivals in Nuremberg, in: Ibid. (ed.), Before Bruegel, Aldershot etc. 2008, 15-57.

  • Stievermann, Dieter, Southern German Courts around 1500, in: Asch, Ronald G. - Birke, Adolf M. (eds.), Princes, Patronage and the Nobility: The Court at the Beginning of the Modern Age c.1450-1650 (Studies of German Historical Institute London), Oxford 1991, 157-172.

  • Strauss, Gerald, Nuremberg in the sixteenth century. City politics and life between Middle Ages and Modern Times, Bloomington 1976.

  • Trüter, Johannes, Johannes Eck (1486-1543). Academic career and self-fashioning, in: Kirwan, Richard (ed.), Scholary Self-Fashioning and Community in the Early Modern University, Farnham etc. 2013, 59-78.

  • Vice, Roy L., The German Peasants' War of 1525 and its aftermath in Rothenburgob der Tauber and Würzburg, PhD. Chicago 1984.

  • Vice, Roy L., Vineyards, vinedressers, and the peasants' war in Franconia, in: Archiv für Reformationsgeschichte 79 (1988), 138-157.

  • Vice, Roy L., The leadership and structure of the Tauber Band during the Peasant's War in Franconia, in: Central European History 21 (1988), 175-195.

  • Vice, Roy L., The Village Clergy near Rothenburg ob der Tauber and the Peasants' War, in: Archiv für Reformationsgeschichte 82 (1991), 123-146.

  • Vice, Roy L., Ehrenfried Kumpf: Karlstadt's patron and peasants' war rebel, in: Archiv für Reformationsgeschichte 86 (1995), 153-174.

  • Vice, Roy L., Iconoclasm in Rothenburg ob der Tauber in 1525, in: Archiv für Reformationsgeschichte 89 (1998), 55-78.

  • Vice, Roy L., The politics of blame in the aftermath of the Peasants' War in Franconia: Andreas Bodenstein von Karlstadt and Rothenburg ob der Tauber, in: Borchardt, Karl et al. (ed.), Städte, Regionen, Vergangenheiten (Quellen und Forschungen zur Geschichte des Bistums und Hochstifts Würzburg 59), Würzburg 2003, 243-262.

  • Walton, Michael T., Anthonius Margaritha and the Jewish Faith. Jewish Life and Conversion in Sixteenth-Century Germany, Detroit 2012.

  • Wieland, Christian, German aristocracies and social discipline. Noble hierarchies, the state, and the law in sixteenth-century Bavaria, in: Evans, Richard J. - Schaich, Michael - Wilson, Peter W. (ed.), The Holy Roman Empire 1495-1806 (Studies of the German Historical Institute London), Oxford etc. 2011, 263-281.

  • Wilson, Norman J., Implicit Meanings and Self-Representations in Official Correspondence and Accounting: Regensburg, 1467-1561, PhD. Los Angeles 1992.

  • Wolfart, Johannes C., Religion, government and political culture in early modern Germany: Lindau, 1520-1628 (Early modern history: society and culture), Basingstoke 2002.

  • Wolfart, Johannes C., Sex, lies and manuscript. On the "castration" of the Lindau archives, in: Crane, Mark et al. (eds.), Shell games. Studies in scams, frauds, and deceits (1300-1650), Toronto 2004, 271-285.

  • Zapalac, Kristin E., In His Image and Likeness: Political Iconography and Religious Change in Regensburg, 1500-1600, Ithaca 1990.

  • Zelinsky Hanson, Michele, Religious Identity in an Early Reformation Community: Augsburg, 1517 to 1555, Leiden / Boston 2009.

  • Zika, Charles, Nuremberg. The city and its culture in the early sixteenth century, in: Zdanowicz, Irena (ed.), Albrecht Dürer in the collection of the National Gallery of Victoria (The Robert Raynorpublications in prints and drawings 5), Melbourne 1994, 28-44.

  • Zmora, Hillay, Princely state-making and the "crisis of the aristocracy" in late medieval Germany, in: Past and Present 153 (1996), 37-63.

  • Zmora, Hillay, State and nobility in early modern Germany: the knightly feud in Franconia, 1440-1567 (Cambridge Studies in Early Modern History), Cambridge etc. 1997.

  • Zophy, Jonathan, Patriarchal politics and Christoph Kress 1484-1535 of Nuremberg (Studies in German thought and history 14), Lewiston etc. 1992.

17th and 18th Centuries: Counter-Reformation, Thirty Years’ War, and Absolutism

  • Anderson, Alison D., On the verge of war: International relations and the Jülich-Kleve succession crisis (1609-1614) (Studies in Central European histories), Boston 1999.

  • Bangert, Anette, Elector Ferdinand Maria of Bavaria. Bavarian imperial politics during the interregnum 1657-58, München 2008.

  • Beisel, David R., The Bavarian nobility in the seventeenth century, PhD. New York 1969.

  • Blickle, Renate, Peasant protest and the language of women´s petitions: Christina Vend´s supplications of 1629, in: Rublack, Ulrike (ed.), Gender in Early Modern History, Cambridge 2002, 177-199.

  • Calvi, Giulia, Connected Courts. Violante Beatrice of Bavaria in Florence and Siena, in: Benadusi, Giovanna - Brown, Judith C. (eds.), Medici Women. The Making of a Dynasty in Grand Ducal Tuscany, Toronto 2015, 302-321.

  • Cole, Richard Glenn, What did the Lutheran Reformation look like a hundred years after Martin Luther? Community and culture in Ansbach, Germany in the seventeenth century, Lewiston 2014.

  • Davis, Margaret Daly, Munich in 1663. Notes from a "Bildungsreise" through Germany, in: Augustyn, Wolfgang - Diemer, Peter - Lauterbach, Iris (ed.), Rondo: Beiträge für Peter Diemer zum 65. Geburtstag (Veröffentlichungen des Zentralinstituts für Kunstgeschichte 25), München 2010, 131-144.

  • Dugan, Eileen T., Images of marriage and family life in Nördlingen: Moral preaching and devotional literature 1589-1712, PhD. Ohio State University 1987.

  • Dugan, Eileen T., The Funeral Sermon as a key to familial values in early modern Nördlingen, in: Sixteenth Century Journal 22 (1989), 631-645.

  • Falkner, James, Blenheim 1704, Stroud 2015.

  • Fisher, Alexander J., Music, Piety, and Propaganda. The soundscapes of counter-reformation Bavaria, Oxford u.a. 2014.

  • Friedrichs, Christopher R., Urban Society in an Age of War: Nördlingen 1580-1720, Princeton 1979.

  • Gaeddert, Dale Albert, The Franco-Bavarian alliance during the War of the Spanish Succession, Diss. Ohio State University 1969.

  • Garland, John L., Irish Officers in the Bavarian Service during the War of Spanish Succession, in: Irish Sword: Journal of the Military History Society of Ireland 56 (1981), 240-255.

  • Göttler, Christine, The art of solitude: environments of prayer at the Bavarian court of Wilhelm V, in: Art History 40 (2017), 404-429.

  • Göttler, Christine, ‘Sacred Woods’: Performing Solitude at the Court of Duke Wilhelm V of Bavaria, in: Enenkel, Karl A.E. - ibid. (eds.), Solitudo. Spaces, Places, and Times of Solitude in Late Medieval and Early Modern Cultures, Leiden / Boston 2018, 140-176.

  • Hattendorf, John B., English Grand Strategy and the Blenheim Campaign of 1704, in: International History Review 5 (1983), 3-19.

  • Haude, Sigrun, War - A Fortuitous Occasion for Social Disciplining and Political Centralization? The Case of Bavaria under Maximilian I, in: Mladek, Klaus (ed.), Police forces. A cultural history of an institution, New York 2007, 13-24.

  • Haude, Sigrun, Social control and social justice under Maximilian I of Bavaria (R. 1598-1651), in: Ocker, Christopher (ed.), Politics and reformations. Communities, polities, nations, and empires. Essays in honor of Thomas A. Brady (Studies in medieval and Reformation traditions 128), Leiden 2007, 423-439.

  • Haude, Sigrun, Experiencing the Thirty Years War. Autobiographical writings by members of religious orders in Bavaria, in: Spinks, Jennifer - Zika, Charles (eds.), Disaster, death and the emotions in the shadow of the apocalypse, 1400-1700, London 2016, 135-153.

  • Hsia, Ronnie Po-Chia, Two types of politics. A comparative study of Jesuits at courts in 17th century Bavaria and France, in: Meinhardt, Matthias et al. (eds.), Religion, Macht, Politik. Hofgeistlichkeit im Europa der Frühen Neuzeit (1500-1800) (Wolfenbütteler Forschungen 137), Wiesbaden 2014, 249-266.

  • Jeggle, Christof, Coping with the crisis: Italian merchants in seventeenth-century Nuremberg, in: Bonoldi, Andrea (ed.), Merchants in times of crises (16th to mid-19th century) (Beiträge zur Wirtschafts- und Sozialgeschichte 127), Stuttgart 2015, 51-78.

  • Johnson, Trevor, Defining the confessional frontier: Bavaria, the Upper Palatinate and counter-reformation "Historica Sacra", in: Ellis, Steven G. et al. (eds.), Frontiers and the writing of history 1500-1850 (The formation of Europe 1), Hannover-Laatzen 2006, 151-166.

  • Johnson, Trevor, Magistrates, Madonnas, and Miracles: The Counter-Reformation in the Upper Palatinate, Farnhamu.a. 2009.

  • Kenworthy-Browne, Christina (ed.), Mary Ward (1585-1645): 'A Briefe Relation', with Autobiographical Fragments and a Selection of Letters (Catholic Record Society publications / Records series 81), Woobridge 2008.

  • Leuschner, Eckhard, Propagating St. Michael in Munich: The new Jesuit church and its early representations in the light of international visual communications, in: Oy-Marra, Elisabeth – Remmert, Volker R. (eds.), Le monde est une peinture. Jesuitische Identität und die Rolle der Bilder (Beiträge zu den Historischen Kulturwissenschaften 7), Berlin 2011, 177-202.

  • Mason, Hugh J., „Salmonella Typhi" and the Crown of Spain, in: Canadian Bulletin of Medical History 7 (1990), 31-52.

  • Miller, James, "nothing else than fire and smoke": Bavaria, 1632, in: Ibid. (ed.), Swords for hire. The Scottish Mercenary, Edinburgh 2007, 169-185.

  • Newman, Jane O., Institutions in the pastoral: The Nuremberg Pegnesischer Blumenorden (1644), PhD. Princeton 1983.

  • Newman, Jane O., Pastoral Conventions. Poetry, Language and Thought in seventeenth-century Nuremberg, Baltimore etc. 1990.

  • Noreen, Kirstin, Replicating the Icon of Santa Maria Maggiore: The Mater ter admirabilis and the Jesuits of Ingolstadt, in: Visual Resources: An International Journal of Documentation 24 (2008), 19-37.

  • Oba, Haruka, Using the Past for the Church's "Present" and "Future". The remembrance of catholic Japan in drama and art in the southern German-speaking area, in: Schmale, Wolfgang - Romberg, Marion - Köstlbauer, Josef (ed.), The language of continent allegories in Baroque Central Europe, Stuttgart 2016, 71-85.

  • Over, Berthold, From Munich to ‘Foreign’ Lands and Back Again.: Relocation of the Munich Court and Migration of Musicians (c. 1690-1715), in: zur Nieden, Gesa - Ibid. (eds.), Musicians' mobilities and music migrations in early modern Europe, Bielefeld 2016, 91-134.

  • Paas, John Roger, From Respected Guest to persona non grata: The engraver and Broadsheet Publisher Peter Isselburg in Nuremberg, 1612 to 1622, in: German Life and Letters 48 (1995), 292-310.

  • Paas, John Roger, Joachim von Sandrart as Entrepreneur. The Months as print series with verses, in: Ebert-Schifferer, Sybille - Mazzetti di Pietralata, Cecilia (eds.), Joachim von Sandrart: ein europäischer Künstler und Theoretiker zwischen Italien und Deutschland. Akten des internationalen Studientages der Bibliotheca Hertziana, Rom, 3.-4. April 2006 (Römische Studien der Bibliotheca Hertziana 25), München 2009, 123-131.

  • Paas, John Roger, The changing landscape of the competitive Nuremberg print trade: The rise and fall of Paulus Fürst (1608-1666), in: Kirwan, Richard et al. (eds.), Specialist markets in the early modern book world (Library of the written word 40), Leiden etc. 2015, 35-68.

  • Place, Richard, Bavaria and the Collapse of Louis XIV´s German Policy, 1687-1688, in: Journal of Modern History 49 (1977), 369-393.

  • Pursell, Brennan C., The Winter King. Frederick V of the Palatinate and the coming of the Thirty Years' War, Aldershot 2003.

  • Reifsnyder, Kristen L., Encountering the enemy: Two women's personal narratives from Seventeenth-Century Germany, in: Daphnis 33 (2004), 267-284. [Klara Staiger]

  • Rowlands, Alison, ‘In Great Secrecy’. The Crime of Infanticide in Rothenburg ob der Tauber, 1501–1618, in: German History 15 (1997), 179-199.

  • Rowlands, Alison, Witchcraft narratives in Germany: Rothenburg, 1561-1652, Manchester 2003.

  • Safley, Thomas Max, Production, transaction, and proletarianization. The textile industry in upper Swabia, 1580–1660, in: Ibid. et al. (eds.), The workplace before the Factory. Artisans and Proletarians 1500 - 1800, Ithaca etc. 1993, 118-145.

  • Smith, Jeffrey, The Jesuit Church of St. Michaels in Munich: The story of an angel with a mission, in: Reinhart, Max (ed.), Infinite Boundaries. Order, disorder, and reorder in early modern German culture (Early Modern German Studies 1), Kirksville 1998, 147-170.

  • Smith, Jeffrey, The art of salvation in Bavaria, in: O’Malley, John et al. (ed.), The Jesuits. Cultures, Sciences, and the Arts, Toronto 2000, 568-599.

  • Smith, Jeffrey (ed.), Sensous Worship. Jesuits and the Art of Early Catholic Reformation in Germany, Princeton etc. 2002. [several Bavarian churches]

  • Smith, Jeffrey, A tale of two cities: Nuremberg and Munich, in: Cohen, Gary B. - Szabo, Franz A. (ed.), Embodiments of Power. Building Baroque Cities in Europe, New York/Oxford 2008, 164-190.

  • Smith, Jeffrey, Rebuilding faith through art. Christoph Schwarz`s “Mary Altarpiece” for the Jesuit College in Munich, in: Hall, Marcia B. - Cooper, Tracy Elizabeth (ed.), The sensuous in the Counter-Reformation Church, New York 2013, 230-251.

  • Soergel, Philip M., Spiritual Medicine for Heretical Poison: The Propagandistic Uses of Legends in Counter-Reformation Bavaria, in: Historical Reflections 17 (1991), 125-149.

  • Soergel, Philip M., Wondrous in his Saints. Counter-Reformation Propaganda in Bavaria, Berkeley 1993.

  • Spring, Laurence, The Bavarian Army during the Thirty Years War, 1618-1648. The backbone of the Catholic League, Solihull 2017.

  • Strasser, Ulrike, Aut murus aut maritus? Women's lives in counter-reformation Munich (1571-1651), PhD. University of Minnesota 1997.

  • Strasser, Ulrike, Bones of contention: Cloistered nuns, decorated relics, and the contest over women’s place in the public sphere of counter-reformation Munich, in: Archiv für Reformationsgeschichte 90 (1999), 255-288.

  • Strasser, Ulrike, Cloistering women´s past: conflicting accounts of enclosure in a seventeenth-century Munich nunnery, in: Rublack, Ulrike (ed.), Gender in Early Modern History, Cambridge 2002, 221-246.

  • Vignau-Wilberg, Thea, In Europa zu Hause - Niederländer in München um 1600 = Citizens of Europe: Dutch and Flemish Artists in Munich c. 1600, München 2005.

  • Walinski-Kiehl, Robert, Prosecuting witches in early modern Germany, with special reference to the bishopric of Bamberg: 1595-1680, Master Thesis Portsmouth 1981.

  • Walinski-Kiehl, Robert, The devil's children. Child witch-trials in early modern Germany, in: Levack, Brian P., New perspectives on witchcraft, magic, and demonology, Volume 2, New York etc. 2001, 413-431.

  • Walinski-Kiehl, Robert, "Godly states", confessional conflict and witch-hunting in early modern Germany, in: Levack, Brian P., New perspectives on witchcraft, magic, and demonology, Volume 2, New York etc. 2001, 483-494.

  • Walinski-Kiehl, Robert, Witch-hunting and state-building in the bishoprics of Bamberg and Würzburg: c. 1570-1630, Dillinger, Johannes etc. (ed.), Hexenprozess und Staatsbildung (Hexenforschung 12), Bielefeld 2008, 245-264.

  • Wallace, David, Holy Amazon: Mary Ward of Yorkshire, 1585-1645, in: Ibid., Strong Women. Life, text, and territory 1347-1645, Oxford 2011, 133-200.

  • Wolfart, Johannes C., Why was private confession so contentious in early seventeenth-century Lindau? In: Scribner, Bob et al. (ed.), Popular Religion in Germany and Central Europe 1400-1800, Basingstoke etc. 1996, 140-165.


18th Century: Age of Enlightenment

  • Baten, Jorg, Climate, Grain Production and Nutritional Status in Southern Germany during the XVIIIth Century, in: Journal of European Economic History 30 (2001), 9-47.

  • Bernard, Paul P., Joseph II and Bavaria. Two Eighteenth Century Attempts at German Unification, The Hague 1965.

  • Black, Jeremy, Britain and the Wittelsbachs in the Early Eighteenth Century, in: Mitteilungen des Österreichischen Staatsarchivs 40 (1987), 92-127.

  • Black, Jeremy, The Problems of the Small State: Bavaria and Britain in the Second Quarter of the Eighteenth Century, in: European History Quarterly 19 (1989), 5-36.

  • Broline, Duane M. – Selig, Robert, Emigration and the "safety-valve" theory in the eighteenth century: Some mathematical evidence from the Prince-Bishopric of Würzburg, in: Yearbook of German-American Studies 31 (1996), 137-155.

  • Corpis, Duane J., Marian pilgrimage and the performance of male privilege in eighteenth-century Augsburg, in: Central European History 45 (2012), 375-406.

  • Doney, John Christopher, The Catholic Enlightenment and Popular Education in the Prince-Bishopric of Würzburg 1765-95, in; Central European History 21 (1988), 3-30.

  • Doney, John Christopher, Reform and the enlightened Catholic state. Culture and education in the Prince-Bishopric of Wuerzburg, 1731-1795, PhD. Atlanta 1989.

  • Garberson, Eric, Eighteenth-century monastic libraries in southern Germany and Austria. Architecture and decorations (Saecula spiritalia 37), Baden-Baden 1998.

  • Harries, Karsten, The Bavarian Rococo Church: Between faith and aestheticism, New Haven etc. 1983.

  • Hertel, Christiane, Pygmalion in Bavaria. The sculptor Ignaz Günther and eighteenth-century aesthetic art theory, University of Pennsylvania 2011.

  • Hofmeister-Hunger, Andrea, Provincial political culture in the Holy Roman Empire. The Franconian Margravates of Ansbach and Bayreuth, in: Hellmuth, Eckhard (ed.), The transformation of Political Culture. England and Germany in the Late Eighteenth Century (Studies of the German Historical Institute London), Oxford etc. 1990, 149-164.

  • Hsia, Ronnie Po-Chia, Noble patronage and Jesuit missions. Maria Theresia von Fugger-Wellenburg (1690-1762) and Jesuit missionaries in China and Vietnam (Societas Jesu: Monumenta historica Societatis Jesu - Series nova 2), Rom 2006.

  • Johnson, Trevor, Blood, Tears and Xavier-water. Jesuit missionaries and popular religion in the eighteenth-century Upper Palatinate, in: Scribner, Bob et al. (eds.), Popular religion in Germany and Central Europe 1400-1800, Basingstoke etc. 1996, 183-202.

  • Johnson, Trevor, "Trionfi" of the Holy Dead. The Relic Festivals of Baroque Bavaria, in: Friedrich, Karin (ed.), Festive Culture in Germany and Europe from the Sixteenth to the Twentieth Century, Lewiston etc. 2000, 31-56.

  • Kramer, Ferdinand, Bavaria and "Staatsintegration", in: Ingrao, Charles W. (ed.), Imperial Principalities on the Eve of Revolution: The Lay Electorates (German History, Special Issue), London 2002, 354-372.

  • Kramer, Ferdinand, Bavaria: Reform and Staatsintegration, in: German History 20 (2002), 354-372.

  • Kramer, Ferdinand, Piety at Court: The Wittelsbach Electors in Eighteenth-Century Bavaria, in: Schaich, Michael (ed.), Monarchy and Religion. The transformation of Royal Culture in Eighteenth-Century Europe, Oxford etc. 2007, 283-308.

  • Lepovitz, Helena Waddy, The Industrialization of Popular Art in Bavaria, in: Past & Present 99 (1983), 88-122 [Glass Painting]

  • Maerker, Anna, Political Order and the Ambivalence of Expertise: Count Rumford and Welfare Reform in Late Eighteenth-Century Munich, in: Osiris 25 (2010), 213-230.

  • Melanson, Terry, Perfectibilists: The 18th century Bavarian Order of the Illuminati, Walterville 2009.

  • Redlich, Fritz, Science and Charity: Count Rumford and his followers, in: International Review of Social History 16 (1971), 184-216.

  • Schindler, Norbert, Dog Wars and Human Rights: Perceptions of Political Despotism at the End of the Ancien Régime, in: German History 24 (2006), 1-38.

  • Schlögl, Daniel, Cartography in the Service of Reform Policy in Late Absolutist Bavaria, c.1750-1777, in: Imago Mundi 49 (1997), 116-128.

  • Selig, Robert, The price of freedom: Poverty, emigration and taxation in the Prince-Bishopric of Würzburg in the eighteenth century, in: Yearbook of German-American Studies 26 (1991), 105-126.

  • Sokolow, Jayme A., Count Rumford and the Late Enlightenment Science, Technology and Reform, in: Eighteenth Century: Theory & Interpretation 21 (1980), 67-86.

  • Szczepaniak-Kroll, Agnieszka, The problem of emigration from Bamberg to Poland, Russia, and Hungary in the 18th century, in: Ethnologia Polona 23 (2002), 85-109.

  • Thomas, Marvin E., Karl Theodor and the Bavarian succession 1777-1778, Lewiston 1989.

  • Thomas, Marvin E., The Saxon aspect of the Bavarian Allodial Succession 1777-1779. The history of a legal dispute, Lewiston 2015.

  • Wijaczka, Jacek - Kreczmar, Agnieszka, Franconia as seen by Prince Stanislaw Poniatowski in 1784, in: Acta Poloniae Historica 90 (2004), 77-96.

  • Wolfart, Philip Daniel, The Bishop's Peasants and the Lands below the Grünten: The Origins of Territoriality in the Late Eighteenth Century, PhD. Queens University 1997.

  • Yonan, Michael, The Wieskirche: Movement, Perception, and Salvation in the Bavarian Rococo, in: Studies in Eighteenth Century Culture 41 (2012), 1-25.

1806–1871: The Kingdom of Bavaria: Napoleon and the German Confederation

  • Baten, Jörg - Murray, John E., Women's stature and marriage markets in preindustrial Bavaria, in: Journal of Family History 23 (1998), 124-135.

  • Baten, Jörg - Murray, John E., Heights of men and women in 19th-century Bavaria: Economic, nutritional, and disease influences, in: Explorations in Economic History 37 (2000), 351-367.

  • Baumann, Reinhard, The Walhalla: Bavarian integration monument, Germanic hall of fame, expression of European patronage, in: Beller, Manfred - Leersen, Joep (ed.), The Rhine. National Tensions, Romantic Visions, Leiden 2017, 168-181.

  • Bendix, Regina, Moral Integrity in Costumed Identity: Negotiating "National Costume" in 19th-Century Bavaria, in: The Journal of American Folklore 111 (1998), 133-145.

  • Bernsee, Robert, Privatisation and Corruption in Historical Perspective: The Case of Secularisation in Bavaria and Prussia in the Early Nineteenth Century, in: Business History 60 (2018), 321-342.

  • Bidwell, James K., In the Service of the State: The Bavarian 'Volksschul' and Nation-Building, 1800-1871, PhD. Boston 2002.

  • Carpenter, Kim Newak, "Sechs Kreuzer sind genug für ein Bier!" The Munich Beer Riot 1844: Social Protest and Public Disorder in mid 19th century Bavaria, PhD. Washington DC 1998.

  • Collins, Mary, Sisters Professing Sisters: Retrieving a Lost Tradition, in: American Benedictine Review 47 (1996), 284-309. [Saint Walburga Eichstätt]

  • Conklin, Robert D., Politics and politicians in Baden and Bavaria, 1815-1848, PhD. Kent State University 1972.

  • Coumbe, Arthur T., The reputation of an Army: Foreign opinion of the Bavarian army in the Franco-German war. An ill. case study, PhD. Duke University 1985.

  • Cronenberg, Allen T. - Gray, Marion W. Jr., Montgelas and the Reorganization of Napoleonic Bavaria, in: Consortium on Revolutionary Europe 1750-1850: Proceedings 20 (1990), 712-719.

  • Davis, John R., The Bamberg Conference of 1854. A Re-Evaluation, in: European History Quarterly 28 (1998), 81-107.

  • Davis, John R., The Coburg connection: Dynastic relations and the House of Coburg in Britain, in: Urbach, Karina (ed.), Royal kinship Anglo-German family networks (Prinz-Albert-Forschungen4), München 2008, 97-115.

  • Davis, John R., Liberalisation, the parliamentary system, and the Crown. The role of the Coburg dynasties in nineteenth-century constitutional debate, in: Kroll, Frank-Lothar – Munke, Martin (eds.), Hannover - Coburg-Gotha – Windsor. Probleme und Perspektiven einer vergleichenden deutsch-britischen Dynastiegeschichte vom 18. bis in das 20. Jahrhundert, Berlin 2015, 259-274.

  • Donakowski, Conrad L. - Rock, Kenneth W., Enlightenment to Romanticism in Bavaria: Johann Michael Sailer and the Wunderhorn Circle, in: Consortium on Revolutionary Europe 1750-1850: Selected Papers, Tallahassee 1994, 123-133.

  • Embree, Michael, Too little, too late: the campaign in West and South Germany, June - July 1866, Solihull 2015.

  • Ermischer, Gerhard, Early industrialisation in a typical German upland Region, in: Belfort, Paul et al. (ed.), Footprints of Industry. Papers from the 300th anniversary conference at Coalbrookdale (British archaeological reports / British series 523), Oxford 2010, 27-42. [Spessart]

  • Eyck, F. Gunther, Loyal Rebels.Andreas Hofer and the Tyrolean Uprising of 1809, Lanham 1986.

  • Fink, Erwin, For Country, Court and Church: The Bavarian Patriots' Party and Bavarian Regional Identity in the Era of German Unification, in: Speirs, Ronald - Breuilly, John (ed.), Germany's two Unifications. Anticipations, Experiences, Responses (New perspectives in German Studies), Basingstoke 2005, 155-171.

  • Fodor, Stefan, What Kind of Nation? Political Associations in Bavaria during the Revolution of 1848-1849, PhD. San Diego 1992.

  • Frisch, Lutz - Schiffmann, Dieter, The Hambach Festival 1832. Cradle of German Democracy, Regensburg 2014.

  • Gottfried, Paul Edward, Catholic Romanticism in Munich 1826-1834, Diss. Yale University 1968.

  • Gottfried, Paul Edward, Conservative Millenarians: The Romantic Experience in Bavaria, New York 1979.

  • Hagen, Joshua, Architecture, urban planning, and political authority in Ludwig I's Munich, in: Journal of Urban History 35 (2009), 459-485.

  • Hagen, Joshua, Shaping public opinion through architecture and urban design: Perspectives on Ludwig I and his building program for a "new Munich", in: Central European History 48 (2015), 4-30.

  • Harford, Lee S., The Bavarian Army under Napoleon 1805-1813, PhD. Florida State University 1988.

  • Harford, Lee S. Jr. - Holtman, Robert B., Carl Philip von Wrede: Bavarian General of the French Empire, in: Consortium on Revolutionary Europe 1750-1850: Proceedings 19 (1989), 659-674.

  • Harries-Schumann, Lisa, Between Orthodoxy and Reform, Revolution and Reaction: The Jewish Community in Ichenhausen, 1813-1861, in: Leo Baeck Institute Year Book 42 (1997), 29-48.

  • Harris, James F., Bavarians and Jews in conflict in 1866: Neighbours and enemies, in: Yearbook of the Leo Baeck Institute 32 (1987), 103-117.

  • Harris, James F., Public Opinion and the Proposed Emanciaption of the Jews in Bavaria 1849-1850, in: Leo Baeck Institute Year Book 34 (1989), 67-79.

  • Harris, James F., Arms and the people: The Bürgerwehr of Lower Franconia in 1848 and 1849, in: Jarausch, Konrad (ed.), In search of a liberal Germany. Studies in the history of German liberalism from 1789 to the present, New York etc. 1990, 133-160.,

  • Harris, James F., Rethinking the Categories of the German Revolution of 1848: The Emergence of Popular Conservatism in Bavaria, in: Central European History 25 (1992), 123-148.

  • Hausmann, Franz Joseph, A soldier for Napoleon. The campaigns of Lieutenant Franz Joseph Hausmann, 7th Bavarian Infantry. Transl. by Cynthia Joy Hausmann, London 1998.

  • Herbstritt, Helen - Hollermann, Ephrem, Record of a Journey: Mother Benedicta Riepp and Campanions travel to North America, in: American Benedictine Review 64 (2013), 67-92 and 198-213.

  • Jackson, Myles W., Spectrum of Belief: Joseph von Fraunhofer and the Craft of Precision Optics, Cambridge / Mass. 2000.

  • Jelavich, Barbara, Russia, Bavaria and the Greek Revolution of 1862-1863, in: Balkan Studies 2 (1961), 125-150.

  • Kaiser, Michael, A matter of Survival: Bavaria becomes a Kingdom, in: Forrest, Alan (ed.), The Bee and the Eagle. Napoleonic France and the End of the Holy Roman Empire, New York 2009, 94-111.

  • Katz, Jacob, The Hep-Hep Riots in Germany of 1819: The Historical Background, in: Zion 38 (1973), 62-115.

  • King, David J., The Ideology Behind a Business Activity: The Case of the Nuremburg-Fürth Railway, in: Business & Economic History 20 (1991), 162-170.

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1871–1914: Bavaria in the German Empire

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1914–1933: The First World War and Bavaria under the Weimar Republic

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  • Bischoff, William Ludwig, Artists, Intellectuals and Revolution. Munich 1918-1919, PhD. Cambridge/Mass. 1970.

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  • Ellis, Robert, Ernst Toller and German Society. Intellectuals as Leaders and Critics, 1914-1939, Madison 2013.

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  • Geyer, Martin H., Munich in turmoil. Social protest and the revolutionary movement 1918-19, in: Wrigley, Chris (ed.), Challenges of labour, London etc. 1993, 51-71.

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  • Gordon, Harold J., Hitler and the Beer Hall Putsch, Princeton 1972.

  • Ham, Paul, Young Hitler. The Making of the Führer, Sydney 2017.

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  • Hölzl, Richard, Nature Conservation in the age of Classical Modernity: The LandesausschussfürNaturpflege and the Bund Naturschutz in Bavaria 1905-1933, in: Scala, Stephen J. (ed.), From "Heimat" to "Umwelt": New perspectives on German environmental history (Bulletin of the German Historical Institute, Supplement 3), Washington DC 2006, 27-52.

  • Holmes, Kim M., The NSDAP and the crisis of agrarian conservatism in Lower Bavaria. National socialism and the peasants road to modernity, New York 1991.

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  • Ihrig, Stefan, "Ankara in Munich". The Hitler Putsch and Turkey, in: Ibid. (ed.), Atatürk in the Nazi imagination, Cambridge etc. 2014, 68-107.

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  • King, David, The Trial of Adolf Hitler. The Beer Hall Putsch and the Rise of Nazi Germany, New York / London 2017

  • Koepp, Roy G., Conservative Radicals: The Einwohnerwehr, Bund Bayern und Reich, and the Limits of Paramilitary Politics in Bavaria, 1918-1928, PhD. Lincoln / Nebraska 2010.

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  • Large, David Clay, Where Ghosts Walked. Munich's road to the Third Reich, New York etc. 2017.

  • Lamb, Stephen, Intellectuals and the challenge of power: The case of the Munich "Räterepublik", in: Phelan, Anthony (ed.), The Weimar dilemma: Intellectuals in the Weimar Republic, Manchester / Dover 1985, 132-161.

  • Layton, Roland V., The Völkischer Beobachter, 1920–1933: The Nazi Party Newspaper in the Weimar Era, in: Central European History 3 (1970), 353-382.

  • Liang, Oliver, The Biology of Morality: Criminal Biology in Bavaria, 1924-1933, in: Becker, Peter (ed.), Criminals and their Scientists: The history of Criminology in International Perspective, Cambridge etc. 2006, 425-446.

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  • McGee, James H., The Political Police in Bavaria, 1919-1936, PhD. University of Florida 1980.

  • Memming, Rolf B., The Bavarian governmental district Unterfrankenand the city Burgstadt 1922-1939. A study of the national socialist movement and party-state affairs, PhD. Lincoln 1974.

  • Menke, Martin, Multiple Caesars? Germany, Bavaria, and German Catholics in the interwar period, in: Budde, Michael L. (ed.), Beyond the borders of baptism (Studies in World Catholicism 1), Eugene 2016, 91-103.

  • Menze, Ernest A., War Aims and the Liberal Conscience: Lujo Brentano and Annexationism During the First World War, in: Central European History 17 (1984), 140-158.

  • Mitchell, Otis C., The Munich matrix of right radicalism, in: Ders. (ed.), Hitler´s stormtroopers and the attack on the German Republic, Jefferson/NC 2008, 38-45.

  • Mitchell, Otis C., The Bavarian paramilitary scene (1919-1923), in: ders. (ed.), Hitler´s stormtroopers and the attack on the German Republic, Jefferson/NC 2008, 57-71.

  • Mitchell, Otis C., The failed putsch, in: Ders. (ed.), Hitler´s stormtroopers and the attack on the German Republic, Jefferson/NC 2008, 72-82.

  • Morris, Douglas G., Justice Imperiled: The Anti-Nazi Lawyer Max Hirschberg in Weimar Germany, Ann Arbor 2005.

  • Mühlberger, Detlef, Hitler´s Voice. The Völkischer Beobachter 1920-1933, 2 Bde., Oxford 2004.

  • Munro, Gregory, Hitler's Bavarian antagonist: Georg Moenius and the Allgemeine Rundschau of Munich 1929-1933, Lewiston/NY 2006.

  • Nastasă-Matei, Irina, A Chapter of Student Migration History: Romanians at the University of Munich before Second World War, in: Romanian Journal of Population Studies 12 (2018), 99-118.

  • Nelson, Otto M., “Simplicissimus” and the Rise of National Socialism, in: Historian 40 (1978), 441-462.

  • Orlow, Dietrich, The History of the Nazi Party: 1919-1933, Pittsburgh 1969.

  • Osmond, Jonathan, Rural Protest in the Weimar Republic. The Free Peasantry in the Rhineland and Bavaria, Basingstoke etc. 1993.

  • Pridham, Geoffrey, Hitler´s Rise to Power. The Nazi Movement in Bavaria, New York / London 1973.

  • Reiche, Eric G., The Development of the SA in Nürnberg, 1922-1934, Cambridge 1986.

  • Richter, Michaela W., Resource mobilisation and legal revolution. National socialist tactics in Franconia, in: Childers, Thomas (ed.), The formation of the Nazi constituency, Totowa 1986, 104-130.

  • Rosenfeld, Gavriel D., Monuments and the Politics of Memory. Commemorating Kurt Eisner and the Bavarian Revolutions of 1918/19 in Postwar Munich, in: Central European History 30 (1997), 221-251.

  • Sackett, Robert Eben, Popular entertainment, class and politics in Munich, 1900 –1923, Cambridge/ Mass. u. a . 1982.

  • Scheck, Raphael, Alfred von Tirpitz and German Right-Wing Politics 1914-1930, 1998

  • Schröder, Wilhelm, Max Weber in Munich (1919/20). Science and Politics in the last year of his life, in: Max Weber Studies 13 (2013), 15-37.

  • Schützeichel, Rainer, Expressing Politics in Urban Planning: Two Projects by Herman Sörgel for Munich between the Monarchy and Republic, in: Ruhl, Carsten - Dähne, Chris - Hoekstra, Rixt (eds.), The Death and Life of the Total Work of Art: Henry van de Velde and the Legacy of a Modern Concept, Berlin 2015, 105-127.

  • Seipp, Adam R.,'Scapegoats for a lost war': Demobilisation, the Kapp Putsch, and the politics of the streets in Munich, 1919-1920, in: War & society 25 (2006), 35-54.

  • Seipp, Adam R., "An immeasurable sacrifice of blood and treasure": Demobilization, reciprocity, and the politics of the streets in Munich and Manchester, 1917-1921, in: Reiss, Matthias (ed.), The street as a stage (Studies of the German Historical Institute London), Oxford etc. 2007, 127-145.

  • Seipp, Adam R., The Ordeal of Peace. Demobilization and the Urban Experience in Britain and Germany 1917-1921, Farnham 2009.

  • Smith, Bradley F., Heinrich Himmler: A Nazi in the making 1900-1926, Stanford 1971.

  • Stachura, Peter D., Gregor Strasser and the rise of Nazism, London 1983.

  • Stehlin, Stuart A., Weimar and the Vatican 1919-1933. German-Vatican diplomatic relations in the interwar years, Princeton 1983.

  • Sutterlin, Siegfried H., Munich in the Cobwebs of Berlin, Washington, and Moscow: Foreign political tendencies in Bavaria 1917-1919 (Studies in Modern European History 12), New York u.a. 1995.

  • Urbach, Karina, Go-betweens for Hitler, Oxford 2015, 165-216.

  • Weber, Thomas, Hitler’s First War. Adolf Hitler, the men of the List Regiment, and the First World War, Oxford etc. 2010.

  • Weber, Thomas, Becoming Hitler. The making of a Nazi, New York 2017.

  • Wenninger-Richter, Michaela, The National Socialist Electoral Breakthrough: Opportunities and limits in the Weimar party system. A regional case study of Franconia, PhD. New York 1982.

  • Wiecki, Stefan, Undertakers of the Weimar Republic? The Nazification of Munich Professors, 1918-1933, in: Proceedings of the South Carolina Historical Association 2011, 73-88.

  • Zehetmair, Sebastian, Disputed memory: The Munich Council Republic and the KPD's Politics of History (Geschichtspolitik), in: Twentieth Century Communism 5 (2013), 41-64.

  • Ziemann, Benjamin, War experiences in rural Germany 1914-1923 (The legacy of the Great War), Oxford 2007.

1933–1945: Nazi Germany

  • Becker, Winfried, The Nazi Seizure of Power in Bavaria and the Demise of the Bavarian People’s Party, in: Beck, Hermann - Jones, Larry Eugene (eds.), From Weimar to Hitler. Studies in the Dissolution of the Weimar Republic and the Establishment of the Third Reich, 1932-1934, New York / Oxford 2019, 111-140

  • Benz, Wolfgang (ed.), Dachau and the Nazi Terror 1933-1945. 2 Vol. Dachau 2002/2004.

  • Berrinberg, Elisabeth von, The City in Flames. A child's recollection of World War II in Würzburg, Germany, Minneapolis 2013.

  • Delaney, John Joseph, Rural Catholics, Polish Workers and Nazi racial policy in Bavaria, PhD. University of New York 1995.

  • Delaney, John Joseph, Social contact and personal relations of German catholic peasants and polish workers (POWs, civilian, and forced laborers) in Bavaria's rural war economy, 1939-1945, in: Annali dell'Istituto Storico Italo-Germanico in Trento 28 (2002), 389-404.

  • Dillon, Christopher, Dachau and the SS. A schooling in violence, Oxford 2015.

  • Donohoe, James, Hitler's conservative opponents in Bavaria 1930-1945. A study of catholic, monarchist, and separatist anti-Nazi activities, Leiden 1961.

  • Dumbach, Annette E., Shattering the German night: The story of the White Rose, Boston etc. 1986.

  • Eiber, Ludwig, The persecution of the Sinti and Roma in Munich 1933-1945, in: Tebbut, Susan (ed.), Sinti and Roma (Culture and society in Germany 2), New York etc. 1998, 17-33.

  • Fischer, Stefanie, Economic trust in the "Racial State". A case study from the German countryside, in: Bajohr, Frank - Löw, Andrea (eds.), The Holocaust and European societies, London 2016, 47-67. [Middle Franconia]

  • Fritz, Stephen G., “This is the way wars end, with a bang not a whimper”. Middle Franconia in April 1945, in: War and Society 18 (2000), 121-153.

  • Gellately, Robert, The Gestapo and German Society: Enforcing Racial Policy, 1933-1945, New York 1990. [Würzburg, Unterfranken]

  • Gregor, Neill, A Schicksalsgemeinschaft? Allied bombing, civilian morale, and social dissolution in Nuremberg, 1942-1945, in: The historical journal 43 (2000), 1051-1070.

  • Gregor, Neill, Siegmund von Hausegger, the Munich Philharmonic Orchestra and Civic Musical Culture in the Third Reich, in: German History 36 (2018), 544-573.

  • Hagen, Joshua - Ostergren, Robert, Spectacle, Architecture and Place at the Nuremberg Party Rallies: Projecting a Nazi Vision of Past, Present and Future, in: Cultural Geographies 13 (2006), 157-182.

  • Hagen, Joshua, Parades, Public Space, and Propaganda: The Nazi Culture Parades in Munich, in: Geografiska Annaler. Series B: Human Geography 90 (2008), 349-369.

  • Harrison, E. D. R., Gauleiter Bürckel and the Bavarian Palatinate, 1933-40, in: Proceedings of the Leeds Philosophical & Literary Society: Literary & Historical Section 20 (1986), 271-291.

  • Harrison, E.D.R., The Nazi Dissolution of the Monasteries: A case-study, in: English Historical Review. 109 (1994), 323-355.

  • Helmreich, Ernst C., The Arrest and Freeing of the Protestant Bishops of Württemberg and Bavaria, September-October 1934, in: Central European History 2 (1969), 159-169.

  • Jucovy, Jon, The Bavarian Peasantry under National Socialist rule 1933-1945, PhD. New York 1985.

  • Kaplan, Thomas Pegelow, “In the Interest of the Volk…”: Nazi-German Paternity Suits and Racial Recategorization in the Munich Superior Courts, 1938–1945, in: Law & History Review. 29 (2011), 523-548.

  • Kater, Michael H., Composers of the Nazi Era: Eight Portraits, New York / Oxford 2000. [Hans Pfitzner, Richard Strauss, Carl Orff]

  • Kedar, Binyamin Zeev, A Bavarian historian reinvents himself: Karl Bosl and the Third Reich, Jerusalem 2011.

  • Kershaw, Ian, Popular opinion and political dissent in the Third Reich: Bavaria 1933-1945, Oxford u.a. 2002.

  • Kuller, Christiane, The demonstrations in support of the protestant provincial bishop Hans Meiser: A successful protest against the Nazi regime? In: Stoltzfus, Nathan – Maier-Katkin, Birgit (eds.), Protest in Hitler's "national community", Oxford 2016, 38-54.

  • Large, David Clay, Nazi games: The Olympics of 1936, New York etc. 2007.

  • Link, Fabian - Hornburg, Mark W., "He Who Owns the Trifels, Owns the Reich": Nazi Medievalism and the Creation of the Volksgemeinschaft in the Palatinate, in: Central European History 49 (2016), 208-239.

  • Loiperdinger, Martin - Culbert, David, Leni Riefenstahl, the SA, and the Nazi Party Rally Films, Nuremberg 1933-1934: “Sieg des Glaubens” and “Triumph des Willens”, in: Historical Journal of Film, Radio & Television 8 (1988), 3-38.

  • Loval, Werner, We were Europeans. A personal history of a turbulent century, Jerusalem etc. 2010.

  • Marrus, Michael Robert, The Holocaust at Nuremberg, in: Yad Vashem Studies 26 (1998), 5-41.

  • Maurer, Hansjörg - Memming, Rolf B., A dissident Nazi. Hans-Jörg Maurer's Würzburg diary, in: Wisconsin Magazine of History 50 (1967), 347-391.

  • McDonough, Frank, Sophie Scholl. The real story of the woman who defied Hitler, Stroud 2009.

  • McManus, John C., Hell before their very eyes: American soldiers liberate concentration camps in Germany, April 1945, Baltimore 2015. [Dachau]

  • Megargee, Geoffrey P. (ed.), The United States Holocaust Memorial Museum Encyclopedia of Camps and Ghettos, 1933-1945. Volume I: Early Camps, Youth Camps, and Concentration Camps and Subcamps under the SS-Business Administration Main Office (WVHA), Bloomington 2009.

  • Middlebrook, Martin, The Nuremberg raid, 30-31 March 1944, London 1973.

  • Middlebrook, Martin, The Schweinfurt-Regensburg mission. The American raids on 12 August 1943, Barnsley 2012.

  • Mitchell, Arthur, Hitler´s Mountain. The Führer, Obersalzberg and the American occupation of Berchtesgaden, Jefferson 2010.

  • Norton, Donald H., Karl Haushofer and the German Academy, 1925-1945, in: Central European History 1 (1968), 80-99.

  • Perekrestov, Elena, Alexander Schmorell: Saint of the German resistance, New York 2017.

  • Peters, Olaf (ed.), Degenerate Art. The attack on modern art in Nazi Germany, 1937, Munich / London / New York 2014.

  • Philpott, Colin, Relics of the Reich: The buildings the Nazis left behind, Barnsley 2016.

  • Rushton, Alan R., Charles Edward of Saxe-Coburg: Tthe German Red Cross and the plan to kill "unfit" citizens 1933-1945, Newcastle upon Tyne 2018.

  • Ryback, Timothy W., Hitler's First Victims: The Quest for Justice, New York 2014.

  • Schlenker, Ines, Hitler's Salon. The Große Deutsche Kunstausstellung at the Haus der Deutschen Kunst in Munich 1937-1944 (German linguistic and cultural studies 20), Oxford etc. 2007.

  • Schrafstetter, Susanna, Submergence into Illegality: Hidden Jews in Munich, 1941-1945, in: Ibid. - Steinweis, Alan E. (eds.), The Germans and the Holocaust. Popular responses to the persecution and murder of the Jews, New York / Oxford 2016, 106-128.

  • Siefken, Hinrich (ed.), Die Weiße Rose. Student Resistance to National Socialism 1942-1943. Forschungsergebnisse und Erfahrungsberichte. A Nottingham Symposion (University of Nottingham monographs in the humanities 7), Nottingham 1991.

  • Smith, Dana, Female Musicians and the „Jewish" Music in the Jewish Kulturbund of Bavaria, 1934-38, in: Gregor, Neil - Irvine, Thomas (eds.), Dreams of Germany. Musical Imaginaries from the Concert Hall to the Dance Floor (Spektrum 18), New York / Oxford 2019, 123-144.

  • Spiller, Harry (ed.), Prisoners of Nazis. Accounts by American POWs in World War II, Jefferson / NC 1998. [Camps Memmingen, Moosburg, Nuremberg]

  • Szejnmann, Claus-Christian - Umbach, Maiken, Heimat, Region, and Empire. Spatial identities under national socialism, Basingstoke etc. 2012.

  • Thamer, Hans Ulrich, The Orchestration of the National Community. The Nuremberg Party Rallies of the NSDAP, in: Berghaus, Gunter (ed.), Fascism and theatre. Comparative studies on the aesthetics and politics of performance in Europe, 1925-1945, Providence etc. 1996, 172-190.

  • Thomas, Donald E. Jr., Nazi “Coordination” of Technology: The Case of the Bavarian Polytechnical Society, in: Technology and Culture 31 (1990), 251-264.

  • Vahrenkamp, Richard, Constructing the Autobahn Munich-Salzburg, in: Ibid. (ed.), The German Autobahn, Lohmar etc. 2010, 197-222.

  • Vistrits, Robert, Weekend in Munich. Art, Propaganda and Terror in the Third Reich, London 1995.

  • Waddy, Helena, Oberammergau in the Nazi era. The fate of a Catholic village in Hitler's Germany, New York etc. 2010.

  • Walter, Lawrence D., "Young Priests" as Opponents: Factors Associated with Clerical Opposition to the Nazis in Bavaria, 1933, in: The Catholic Historical Review 65 (1979), 402-413.

  • Zeller, Guillaume, The priest barracks: Dachau, 1938-1945. Translated by Michael J. Miller, San Francisco 2017.

Bavaria after 1945

  • Ahonen, Pertti, The Curious Case of Werner Weinhold: Escape, Death, and Contested Legitimacy at the German-German Border, in: Central European History 45 (2012), 79-101.

  • Bauer, Yehuda, The Initial Organization of the Holocaust Survivors in Bavaria, in: Yad Vashem Studies on the European Jewish Catastrophe & Resistance 8 (1970), 127-157.

  • Bauridl, Birgit, From Grafenwoehr to ‘Graf’. A Transnational American Region in Bavaria, in: Lösch, Klaus – Paul, Heike – Zwingenberger, Meike (eds.), Critical Regionalism, Heidelberg 2016, 103-130.

  • Bauridl, Birgit M. - Gessner, Ingrid - Hebel, Udo J. (ed.), German-American Encounters in Bavaria and beyond, 1945-2015, Berlin etc. 2018.

  • Boehling, Rebecca L., A question of priorities. Democratic reforms and economic recovery in postwar Germany: Frankfurt, Munich, and Stuttgart under U.S. occupation 1945-1949 (Monographs in German history 2), Providence etc. 1996.

  • Brown, Antje C., EU Environmental Politics in Subnational Regions: The case of Scotland and Bavaria, Aldershot et al. 2001.

  • Burianek, Otto Bedrich, From liberator to guardian: The US Army and displaced persons in Munich 1945, PhD. Emory 1992.

  • Canoy, Jose Raymund, The discreet charm of the Police State: The Landpolizei and the Transformation of Bavaria 1945-1965 (Studies in Central European Histories 41), Leiden u.a. 2007.

  • Chaney, Sandra, Nature of the Miracle Years: Conservation in West Germany, 1945-1975 (Studies in German History 8), New York etc. 2008. [Chapter 7: Bavarian Forest National Park]

  • Cohen, Boaz, Representing the experiences of children in the Holocaust. Children’s survivor testimonies in “Fun Letsten Hurbn”, Munich, 1946-49, in: Patt, Avinoam - Berkowitz, Michael (eds.), “We are here”. New Approaches to Jewish Displaced Persons in Postwar Germany, Detroit 2010, 74-97.

  • Connor, Ian, The attitude of the ecclesiastical and political authorities in Bavaria to the refugee problem, 1945-50, PhD. Norwich 1983.

  • Connor, Ian, The Churches and the Refugee Problem in Bavaria 1945-49, in: Journal of Contemporary History 20 (1985), 399-421.

  • Connor, Ian, The Bavarian Government and the Refugee Problem 1945-50, in: European History Quarterly 16 (1986), 131-153.

  • Crago-Schneider, Kierra, Antisemitism or Competing Interests? An Examination of German and American Perceptions of Jewish Displaced Persons Active on the Black Market in Munich's Möhlstrasse, in: Yad Vashem Studies 38 (2010), 167-194.

  • Cummings, Richard H., The Ether War: Hostile intelligence activities directed against Radio Free Europe, Radio Liberty, and the emigre community in Munich during the Cold War, in: Journal of Transatlantic Studies 6 (2008), 168-182.

  • Dastrup, Boyd L., Crusade in Nuremberg: Military occupation 1945-1949 (Contributions in military studies 47), Westport 1985.

  • Davis, Joel, Rebuilding the Soul: Churches and Religion in Bavaria, 1945-1960, PhD. University of Missouri 2007.

  • Elzey, Christopher Clark, Munich 1972: Sport, Politics and Tragedy, PhD. Purdue University 2004.

  • Farr, Ian - Ford, Graham, Bavaria's "German Mission": the CSU and the politics of regional identity, 1949-c. 1962, in: Lancaster, Bill et al. (ed.), An agenda for regional history, Newcastle 2007, 165-179.

  • Ford, Graham, Constructing a Regional Identity: The Christian Social Union and Bavaria's Common Heritage, 1949-1962, in: Contemporary European History 16 (2007), 277-297.

  • Gaab, Jeffrey S., Justice Delayed: The restoration of justice in Bavaria under American occupation, 1945-1949 (Studies in modern European History 35), New York 1999.

  • Gehring, Hansjörg, Educational Reconstruction of Bavaria under U.S. Occupation, in: Paedagogica Historica 33 (1997), 247-263.

  • Gienow-Hecht, Jessica C., Transmission impossible: American journalism as cultural diplomacy in postwar Germany, 1945-1955 (Eisenhower Center studies on war and peace), Baton Rouge 1999.

  • Goschler, Constantin, The Attitute towards Jews in Bavaria after the Second World War, in: Leo Baeck Institute Year Book 36 (1991), 443-458.

  • Greene, Joshua, Justice at Dachau: The trials of an American prosecutor, New York 2003.

  • Gregor, Neill, "The Illusion of Remembrance": The Karl Diehl affair and the memory of national socialism in Nuremberg, 1945-1999, in: The journal of modern history 75 (2003), 590-633.

  • Gregor, Neill, "Is he still alive, or long since dead?" Loss, absence and remembrance in Nuremberg, 1945-1956, in: German History 21 (2003), 183-203.

  • Gregor, Neill, Haunted City: Nuremberg and the Nazi past, New Haven etc. 2008.

  • Gunnlicks, Arthur B., The Länder and German Federalism, Manchester 2003.

  • Hagen, Joshua, Rebuilding the middle ages after the Second World War: The cultural politics of reconstruction in Rothenburg ob der Tauber, Germany, in: Journal of Historical Geography 31 (2005), 94-112.

  • Hagen, Joshua, Preservation, tourism and nationalism: The jewel of the German past (Heritage, culture and identity), Aldershot etc. 2006.

  • Hasenöhrl, Ute, Postwar Perceptions of German rivers. A Study of the Lech as energy source, nature preserve, and tourist attraction, in: Mauch, Christof (ed.), Rivers in History. Perspectives on waterways in Europe and North America (History of the Urban Environment), Pittsburgh 2008, 137-148.

  • Hepburn, Eve, Bavarian defence of the Heimat in Europe, in: Ibid. (ed.), Using Europe. Territorial Part Strategies in Multi-level System, Manchester 2010, 99-141.

  • Höschler, Christian, The IRO Children’s Village Bad Aibling. A refuge in the American Zone of Germany, 1948–1951, PhD. München 2017.

  • Holian, Anna Marta, Displacement and the post-war reconstruction of education. Displaced persons at the UNRRA University of Munich, 1945-1948, in: Contemporary European History 17 (2008), 167-195.

  • Holian, Anna Marta, Jews, foreigners, and the space of the postwar economy: The case of Munich's Möhlstrasse, in: Lässig, Simone - Rürup, Miriam (eds.), Space and spatiality in modern German-Jewish history (New German historical perspectives 8), New York / Oxford 2017, 263-279.

  • Hudson, Walter M., The US Military Government and democratic reform and denazification in Bavaria 1945-1947, PhD. Fort Leavenworth 2001.

  • Hooper, Kathleen R., America houses - the buildings: Munich, in: Ibid. (ed.), Designing democracy:Re-education and the America Houses (1945-1961), Frankfurt am Main etc. 2014, 241-255.

  • Jardim, Tomasz, The Mauthausen Trial. American military justice in Germany, Cambridge / Mass. 2012.

  • Jasmand, Stephanie - Maennig, Wolfgang, Regional Income and Employment Effects of the 1972 Munich Summer Olympic Games, in: Regional Studies. Journal of the Regional Studies Association 42 (2008), 991-1003.

  • Johnson, Ian, A Mosque in Munich: Nazis, CIA and the Muslim Brotherhood in the West, Boston etc. 2010.

  • Ischinger, Wolfgang - Bunde, Tobias (eds.), Towards mutual security. Fifty years of Munich Security Conference, Göttingen 2014.

  • James, Peter, The Politics of Bavaria - an exception to the rule. The special position of the Free State of Bavaria in the New Germany, Aldershot etc. 1995.

  • Jaskot, Paul B., The Reich party rally grounds revisited: The Nazi past in postwar Nuremberg, in: Rosenfeld, Gavriel D. (ed.), Beyond Berlin. Twelve German cities confront the Nazi Past, Ann Arbor 2008, 143-162.

  • Jelinek, Yeshayahu A., Like an Oasis in the Desert: The Israel Consulate in Munich, 1948-1953, in: Studies in Zionism 9 (1988), 81-98.

  • Johnson, Jason B., Divided Village. The Cold War in the German borderlands (Routledge studies in modern European history 44), London / New York 2017.

  • Johnson, Jason B., “Wild and Fear