Religion, Government and Poltical Culture in Early Modern Germany: Lindau, 1520-1628 (Early Modern History)

Religion, Government and Political Culture in Early Modern Germany Lindau, 1520–1628

Johannes C. Wolfart

Early Modern History: Society and Culture General Editors: Rab Houston, Professor of Early Modern History, University of St Andrews, Scotland; Edward Muir, Professor of History, Northwestern University, Illinois; and Bob Scribner, sometime Professor for the History of Western Christianity, Harvard Divinity School, Cambridge, Massachusetts This series encompasses all aspects of early modern international history from 1400 to c.1800. The editors seek fresh and adventurous monographs, especially those with a comparative and theoretical approach, from both new and established scholars. Titles include: Rudolf Dekker CHILDHOOD, MEMORY AND AUTOBIOGRAPHY IN HOLLAND From the Golden Age to Romanticism Steve Hindle THE STATE AND SOCIAL CHANGE IN EARLY MODERN ENGLAND, c. 1550–1640 Craig M. Koslofsky THE REFORMATION OF THE DEAD Death and Ritual in Early Modern Germany, 1450–1700 A. Lynn Martin ALCOHOL, SEX AND GENDER IN LATE MEDIEVAL AND EARLY MODERN EUROPE Samantha A. Meigs THE REFORMATIONS IN IRELAND Tradition and Confessionalism, 1400–1690 Craig Muldrew THE ECONOMY OF OBLIGATION The Culture of Credit and Social Relations in Early Modern England Niall Ó Ciosáin PRINT AND POPULAR CULTURE IN IRELAND, 1750–1850 Thomas Max Safley MATHEUS MILLER’S MEMOIR A Merchant’s Life in the Seventeenth Century Johan Verberckmoes LAUGHTER, JESTBOOKS AND SOCIETY IN THE SPANISH NETHERLANDS Johannes C. Wolfart RELIGION, GOVERNMENT AND POLITICAL CULTURE IN EARLY MODERN GERMANY Lindau, 1520–1628

Early Modern History: Society and Culture Series Standing Order ISBN 0–333–71194–7 (outside North America only) You can receive future titles in this series as they are published by placing a standing order. Please contact your bookseller or, in case of difficulty, write to us at the address below with your name and address, the title of the series and the ISBN quoted above. Customer Services Department, Macmillan Distribution Ltd, Houndmills, Basingstoke, Hampshire RG21 6XS, England

Religion, Government and Political Culture in Early Modern Germany Lindau, 1520–1628 Johannes C. Wolfart Assistant Professor Department of Religion University of Manitoba Winnipeg, Canada

© Johannes C. Wolfart 2002 All rights reserved. No reproduction, copy or transmission of this publication may be made without written permission. No paragraph of this publication may be reproduced, copied or transmitted save with written permission or in accordance with the provisions of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, or under the terms of any licence permitting limited copying issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency, 90 Tottenham Court Road, London W1T 4LP. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages. The author has asserted his right to be identified as the author of this work in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. First published 2002 by PALGRAVE Houndmills, Basingstoke, Hampshire RG21 6XS and 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N. Y. 10010 Companies and representatives throughout the world PALGRAVE is the new global academic imprint of St. Martin’s Press LLC Scholarly and Reference Division and Palgrave Publishers Ltd (formerly Macmillan Press Ltd). ISBN 0–333–73144–1 This book is printed on paper suitable for recycling and made from fully managed and sustained forest sources. A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Wolfart, J. C. (Johannes C.), 1966– Religion, government and political culture in early modern Germany : Lindau, 1520–1628 / J. C. Wolfart. p. cm. Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN 0–333–73144–1 1. Lindau (Bavaria, Germany)—Politics and government– –16th century. 2. Lindau (Bavaria, Germany)—Church history. 3. Lindau (Bavaria, Germany)—Intellectual life. 4. Social classes– –Germany—Lindau (Bavaria)—History—16th century. I. Title. II. Series. DD901.L7 W65 2001 943’.37—dc21 2001036101 10 11

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Printed and bound in Great Britain by Antony Rowe Ltd, Chippenham, Wiltshire

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For Elisabeth, Anni and Donna

‘ “You think you run an archive,” Meadowes said. “You don’t. It runs you.” ’ —John Le Carré, A Small Town in Germany (London: Heinemann, 1968, p. 96) ‘To talk of the certainty of faith seems all one to me as to talk of the knowledge of believing: a way of speaking not easy to me to understand.’ —John Locke to the Bishop of Worcester (Remarks on John Locke by Thomas Burnet with Locke’s Replies, ed. George Watson (Doncaster: Brynmill, 1989, p. 48)

Contents List of Maps and Figures

x

Acknowledgements

xi

Maps of Lake Constance and Lindau 1

xii

Introduction The ‘storied’ event The wages of curiosity The structure of the argument: narrative and analysis The point of the argument: political culture and bourgeois republican ideology A note on presentation

1 1 2 3

2

The ‘Hows’ and ‘Whys’ Considered: Then and Now Introduction A guildsman’s view An ‘official’ view A city secretary’s view A mayor’s view

9 9 11 14 19 23

3

Historiographical Contours Introduction The ‘guild-constitution’ (Zunftverfassung) Reformation or confessionalization? The case of anti-clericalism Religious reform and ‘sovereign authority’ (Obrigkeit) The civic clergy and the opposition to ‘sovereign authority’ (Obrigkeit) Conclusions

35 35 36 46 50 53

The Macro-Political Contexts in Lindau Introduction The role of the eight guilds in the life of Lindau Production and consumption: Were ‘guild’ concerns ‘minority’ concerns? An exemplary contest of authorities: The Butchers’ Guild versus the Council

64 64 67

4

vii

6 7

59 62

69 73

viii Contents

Internal guild politics: the Schweizer family versus the Fishermen’s Guild The wine excise (Umgeld) Religious minorities and politics: Catholics and Jews in confessional Lindau External and internal resistance to Lindau’s territorial consolidation 5

6

7

The Micro-Politics of Inter-Personal Relations in Lindau Introduction The politics of youth Parents and children Trusteeship Symbolic and material aspects of trusteeship in the uprising of 1626 Step-parents Succession A Harvest of Bureaucracy: Practical Politics in Lindau Introduction Taking sides: litigation as a model of contestation The Lindavian committee meeting: the education committee Ad hoc committees and the flexibility of administrative practice Writing and rewriting A bone of contention: private confession The dual appeal to bourgeois emotion: religion and republicanism The war of the words The ‘lost protocol’ ‘Party’ becomes ‘opposition’ Appeals to ‘higher’ authority: the argument of specialist qualification ‘Public’ authority and ‘spiritual’ authority: confusing schemes 5 November: Neukomm’s last sermon The fateful suspension of Magister Alexius Neukomm After the Uprising: Obrigkeit Regained Introduction

76 78 81 85 93 93 95 101 106 109 113 118 121 121 123 127 130 131 136 141 143 148 150 152 153 156 159 160 160

Contents ix

8

The ‘provisional government’ of Lindau The role of the clergy Delegations from neighbouring cities The advocates’ advice The Imperial Commission Conclusion

161 163 165 168 169 171

Conclusions

172

Notes

175

Appendix I: Glossary of Some Key Lindavian Terms Appendix II: Important Government Offices and Bodies (up to c.1551) Appendix III: Important Government Offices and Bodies (after c.1551) Appendix IV: Chronology

234

Lindau Manuscript Sources

242

References

243

Index

254

236 237 242

List of Maps and Figures Maps A Lake Constance region B Lindau and environs, 1626 C Plan of Lindau

xii xiii xiv

Figures 3.1 Distribution of public officers by length of tenure, 1519–49 3.2 Distribution of public officers by length of tenure, 1588–1636 3.3 Band distribution of tenures by length, 1588–1636

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Acknowledgements The profound influence of my teacher Bob Scribner will be evident throughout. Less visible, perhaps, is the effect of other members of his Cambridge seminar, especially Scott Dixon, Ulinka Rublack, Eric Wilson and Hillay Zmora, had on the early stages of my work. In Lindau I was sometimes aided and often abetted by Herr Werner Dobras and Frau Brigitte Schaar of the Stadtarchiv, and by Charly Schweizer, Andreas Kurz and Rolf Siller. At Princeton University Anthony Grafton, Peter Lake and William Jordan all showed a keen interest in my work; along with David, Sandeep, Cliff and Mick, they did more than they know to make me feel welcome in yet another small town. Thanks, also, to my colleagues at the University of Manitoba, to my former colleagues at Erindale College and, especially, to the graduate students of the University of Toronto’s Centre for the Study of Religion, many of whom remain friends and colleagues. Support of a different kind came in the form of a postdoctoral fellowship from the Social Sciences and Humanities Research Council of Canada (SSHRCC) and grants for summer study and research from the Istituto Italiano per gli Studi Filosofici, Naples, and SSHRCC. In writing a book one also incurs debts to critics. For their judgement and generosity, special thanks are due to Lyndal Roper, Miri Rubin and John Walter. In the final stages of production the research assistance of Esther Toews was invaluable. Above all, I am grateful to Ed Muir and Rab Houston, without whose wisdom and editorial direction this book might never have been completed. For what remains unreadable, of course, I alone take responsibility. Finally, I owe my greatest debt to Clarice; she alone knows the cost of her support. This book is dedicated to the memory of three people who tried to teach me what one cannot learn from books: tolerance, persistence and the real meaning of encouragement. Hei’nomal! JOHANNES C. WOLFART

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• Augsburg

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Iller Boundary of the Empire

Danube

• Memmingen

Lech

SWABIA Leutkirch Überlingen Radolfzell

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Rhine

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Zurich

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Weingarten ••Ravensburg

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ALLGÄU Meersburg • • Wangen Isny Argen •Constance Tettnang • • Leimnau •• • Hergensweiler Langnau • Langenargen• Gießen Lake Leiblach Constance • Lindau • Bregenz • Fussach Bischofszell • Bregenzer Ach • St. Gallen

SWISS CANTONS

• Kempten

• Feldkirch

Ill

Map A Lake Constance region Source:

•

Innsbruck VORARLBERG

• Einsiedeln

Inn TYROL

Rhine

M. Ott, Historischer Atlas von Bayern (Lindau, Munich: Teil Schwaben, 1968).

• Bechtersweiler

KEY

• Oberreitnau • Unterreitnau

territorial boundary jurisdictional boundary

Sigmarszell •

LORDSHIP WASSERBURG

Weissensberg • Egghalden • Witzigmann •

• Schönau

• Wasserburg

• Bösenreutin Schachen • Degelstein • Aeschach •

LAKE CONSTANCE

• Reutin

• Rickenbach Oberhochsteg

Lindau

LORDSHIP BREGENZ

5km Unterhochsteg

Lindau and environs, 1626

Source: A. Rauch, Abrisß deß heyl. Reichs Statt Lindaw … Oberkeit. Reproduction by Landesvermessungsamt Baden-Württemberg (Stuttgart, 1988).

xiii

Map B

13 • 6 • 14

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0.25km

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LAKE CONSTANCE

KEY 1 Cramergasse 2 Fischergasse 3 Gerberschanze 4 Grub 5 Hauptstrasse 6 Schmiedgasse

7 ‘Cron’ Inn 8 Diebsturm 9 Marienkirche 10 Neukomm’s House 11 St. Peter 12 Rathaus

13 Spital 14 St. Stephan 15 Stift 16 Sünfzen 17 Gardens / Vineyards

Map C Plan of Lindau Source: H. Götzger, Das Bürgerhaus der Stadt Lindau im Bodensee. Das deutsche Bürgerhaus, vol. 11 (Tübingen, 1969).

xiv

MAINLAND

1 Introduction

The ‘storied’ event By all accounts, events in Lindau on the morning of 7 November 1626 centred on the City Pastor, Magister Alexius Neukomm, and his household. On the evening of 6 November the City Council had issued a decree prohibiting Neukomm from delivering the next morning’s sermon, an ultimatum which Neukomm said he would defy. At that time a considerable crowd of friends and neighbours had already gathered at Neukomm’s house in the Fishermen’s Alley (Fischergasse), considered the poorest street in the city. The following morning several of those who had been at the house were summoned and questioned by the Council about what had been said and done behind closed doors. They were also issued with a writ of admonition by the City Syndic, Dr Daniel Heider. Around the same time a member of the Council and a junior clerk were sent to the Fischergasse, probably to pacify the crowd gathering there. A watch armed with lances and halberds was stationed in front of the Neukomm residence. Finally, a Privy Councillor, a Councillor and the City Secretary, individuals who had conducted negotiations on behalf of the Council on several recent occasions, were sent back to the Neukomm house. Apparently their mission this time was to engage and distract Neukomm and his supporters until after the time for the sermon had passed. When the seven o’clock bell rang on the morning of 7 November, a crowd of citizens began assembling in front of Alexius Neukomm’s house. When the bells sounded a second time, indicating the beginning of the sermon, the crowd forced its way past the watch and stormed into the house. The three Council delegates were forced from the house and Neukomm, in the company of a large armed escort of citizens, 1

2 Religion, Government and Political Culture

began to make his way towards the church of St Stephan. On the way the crowd’s path was blocked by the Lieutenant Mayor and a City Bailiff who exhorted the crowd to be mindful of their oath and duty, and implored them to turn back. Although the Mayor wore a breastplate, his hat or helmet lay on the ground, presumably having been knocked from his head. As several blows had landed on him already, he retreated, having failed to dissuade the crowd. The citizens proceeded along the alley and, arriving at St Stephan’s south entrance, found it barred. Magister Hager, another one of the five pastors employed by the city, had already mounted the pulpit and commenced preaching his sermon. Those outside made such a din that those in the church fled via the main (west) portals, leaving the crowd to smash their way in through the side (south) door. A group of men shattered the Syndic Heider’s pew and threw it down from the balcony. Hager, who had retreated to the chancel with his wife and daughter when the crowd had entered, and another town pastor, Magister Müller, thereupon sought refuge in the church tower. Alexius Neukomm sat in his usual place, but he did not approach the pulpit, and neither did he preach. He was eventually escorted back home by some of the armed citizens who were also congregating in ever-increasing numbers in the squares and outside the municipal armoury across town. As crowds continued to grow, especially in the street in front of Neukomm’s house, bold speeches were made and oaths of allegiance were sworn. Having sent out messages soliciting aid to the peasants of Lindau’s mainland territories, as well as to a recently deposed Mayor named Miller, the rebels secured the city gates and the municipal armoury and swore to remain loyal to one another and to their cause. The latter seems to have shaped up gradually in several lists of demands articulated by the citizenry or in the form of concessions offered by the Council. Yet by noon the Council and the citizenry had managed to come to a tentative agreement, and after the Council had issued two sealed copies of a capitulation document, one to the Stadtamman Andreas Neukomm and one to the aforementioned Mayor Miller, the citizens put down their arms and dispersed.

The wages of curiosity This book began as an innocent question, born of simple curiosity: why had some Lindauers risen against their government on the morning of

Introduction 3

7 November 1626? The answer to that question, which follows below, is surprisingly complicated. Moreover, while the question remains, it can no longer be considered ‘innocent’. Indeed, both the question and the answer now appear deeply implicated in both the historical and historiographical surroundings of Lindau. The fundamental purpose, however, is to explore both the expression and regulation of social conflict in relation to ‘confessionalization’, the process whereby early modern people acquired, negotiated and expressed early modern religious identities. This book addresses, together (which is unusual), these two recent themes in the historiography of early modern Europe. The micro-historical perspective on Lindau is crucial to this consideration, as it permits such detailed reconsiderations of both social conflict and confessionalization as are necessary in order to view them as equal parts of the same history. Thus Lindavian social conflict appears as an expression, but certainly not the only expression, of a ‘political culture’.1 This is presented in terms of the claustrophobic institutional and social relations of Lindauers, especially as circumscribed by Lindau’s artisanal economy and the so-called ‘guild constitution’. It is also understood, however, in terms of the cultural habits and ideologies of early modern Lindauers. The term bourgeois republican ideology has been coined to identify the most significant of these non- or less material aspects of Lindavian political culture. Confessionalization is then also viewed in light of this political culture, rather than in the more conventional setting of the politics of early modern territorial statebuilding. Historiographically, this has two purposes. First, it seeks to address the anachronistic tendency to over-ascribe cultural significance to the emerging nation state in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. Indeed, it would be an understatement to say that, in early modern Germany, small urban polities still mattered; yet, in terms of recent discussions of confessionalization, it seems it still does need to be said, pace A.G. Dickens, that confessionalization was an urban process. Second, a consideration of confessionalization in conjunction with Lindau’s political culture renders the former an infinitely more complicated process than has generally been assumed. In particular, this addresses the problem, real or imagined, of ‘reductionism’ in social historical approaches to religion.

The structure of the argument: narrative and analysis What follows is a close study of historical narrative recording practice.2 It is also an attempt at historiographical integration of narrative and

4 Religion, Government and Political Culture

analysis (which is also necessitated, admittedly, by the very obscurity of Lindau and its past). Yet this integration also speaks, broadly, to recent anti-universalist theories and micro-historical practices. The debate over micro-history in Anglo-American historiography has cooled somewhat, even if key questions remain unresolved, especially the ‘vexed question of how to integrate micro-level data into macro-level explanations’.3 Indeed, many historians once paralysed by theoretical (that is, epistemological and hermeneutical) considerations are now learning to leave the question open, in pursuit of ‘multiple dynamic explanations’.4 In German historiography, on the other hand, the debate remains very hot indeed.5 In Germany the politics of debate are particularly complicated by widespread confusion of micro-history with much older traditions of regional and local history (Landesgeschichte and Lokalgeschichte). The unhappy consequence is that micro-historical studies are frequently viewed with suspicion by ‘conservative’ and ‘progressive’ historians alike. The present study should not be read as either Landes- or Lokalgeschichte. Chapter 2 offers a close reading of four narrative accounts, which serves to introduce the Lindavian situation. The narratives of Caspar Mezler and Ulrich Miller represent major divergent perspectives on what became known as the ‘Neukomm uprising’. Yet both the guildsman’s narrative, rendered from a very local perspective, as well as the mayor’s narrative, which engages more generally with issues of regional or even imperial relevance, indicate many sites and levels of conflict. The two ‘official’ narratives, likewise, are informative; but they also serve to illustrate politically and culturally salient aspects of the Lindavian habit of narrative. Chapter 3 addresses dominant modes of history writing and uses the Lindau example to illuminate the deficiencies of historiography which remains all but determined, even in its chronological conception, by the dual influences of confessionalism and nationalism. In particular, the mid-century Religious Peace of Augsburg and Charles V’s constitutional reforms have been seen as terminal nodes, thereby consigning the later sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries to obscurity. Here, an argument for a south German ‘long sixteenth century’ is developed against the strong tendencies of both traditional Reformation/church histories and constitutional histories. In addition to chronological integration, this chapter argues that such ostensibly religious discourses as ‘anti-clericalism’ can be appreciated, specifically, as part and parcel of political culture. Generally, then, this chapter also advances the paradigm of ‘authoritarian Reformation’ as a way of bridging the gap between ‘Reformation’ and ‘confessionalization’.

Introduction 5

Chapter 4 explores the struggles of the Lindauers’ collective social relations, especially of economic production and consumption in an increasingly archaic guild-based system. Issues of taxation and territorialization appear particularly pressing, since generally ineffectual attempts at economic management collided with the expectations of the ‘moral economy’ of Lindauers. Thus, events in Lindau are located in relation to broader geographical and chronological contexts, the general conjunctural crisis of the early seventeenth century and long-standing traditions of urban political protest and revolt. Chapter 5 analyses key Lindavian attitudes to inter-personal conflicts. Generational conflicts, in particular, were both a very real or material, as well as a strong ideological, factor in the political culture of Lindau. Significantly, these conflicts emerged at the conjunction of ongoing cultural – or even psychological – concerns with specific, historical social-demographic conditions. Chapter 6 tracks quotidian governmental procedure and bureaucracy in Lindau during the year leading up to the uprising. The description seeks to avoid the rigidity of structural analysis revealing, instead, an extraordinarily complex dynamic revolving around authority. Indeed, what Bruce Lincoln has called the ‘construction and corrosion’ of authority6 proceeded in Lindau via the interaction of powerful commonplace distinctions – especially ‘private versus public’ and ‘spiritual versus secular’ – in relation to a host of more specifically salient distinctions: for example, ‘native versus foreign’, ‘honourable versus dishonourable’, and so on. Thus this chapter also marks the culmination of efforts to unpack in English the crucial (but extremely elusive) German term Obrigkeit, translated here as ‘sovereign authority’. Chapter 7 probes beneath the superficial ‘resolution’ of the conflict in Lindau, concluding that the political culture of Lindau afforded remarkable continuity in the face of apparent critical disruption. Here, the term ‘continuity’ is not meant to communicate an absence of change. Instead, it is used in the sense of, say, ‘glacial persistence’, to emphasize the predictability of certain outcomes. For example, the winners and losers in the aftermath of the uprising were obvious. Known rebels were punished, generally by fine or banishment. Magister Alexius Neukomm was vilified and died within a few months, whereas the City Syndic, Daniel Heider, was celebrated in perpetuity (450 years after his death, the Lindau council re-named its girls’ high school after him). The Imperial City of Lindau, collectively, was punished by the agents of the Emperor. A more remarkable outcome, however, was the ‘translation’ of the term republic from the discourse of the rebels to the vocabulary of the reconstituted sovereign authority of Lindau.

6 Religion, Government and Political Culture

The point of the argument: political culture and bourgeois republican ideology Ultimately, as already stated, this book addresses a tendency which continues to divide the historical study of religion and culture from the historical study of politics and society. Nearly 20 years ago, William Monter drew attention to this tendency and its compartmentalizing effect on historiography.7 Moreover, it seems that in Anglo-American historiography in particular, subsequent developments in early modern cultural history have continued to segregate (and often neglect) the ‘religious’, by favouring the Renaissance over the Reformation as a subcategory of ‘early modern’.8 Likewise, recent work in German, although critical of traditional confessional and traditional positivist historiographies, as well as of reductionism in general, actually attempts to re-establish the autonomy of religious and political discourses. Thus, for example, Norbert Haag’s approach ultimately approximates very closely an older, confessional historiography. On the basis of Lindau evidence, at least, it appears that Haag is overemphasizing the independent operation of religious and political spheres (of discourse).9 This book seeks to address, in general, such shortcomings in the scholarship on confessionalization. Finally, this book addresses very broad issues of common concern to humanists and social scientists alike. Over the last decades a range of theories (known collectively as ‘postmodernism’) and practices (known generally as ‘deconstruction’) have touched all areas of scholarly inquiry. Perhaps their most significant consequence has been the subversion of faith in the stability of meaning, and hence in the validity of common methods for the ascription/extraction and transmission of meaning, especially the creation and definition of categories. This, in turn, has profound implications for the most basic operations of high modernity, including historiography: (1) the categorical differentiation of religion from politics; (2) likewise, the differentiation of the economic and social from the political and cultural; (3) the attendant forced choice between analyses and explanations based on stratification (politico-cultural) and those based on class formation (socio-economic). After an initial phase of either radical rejection or dogged defence of modern differential ‘constructs’ on quasi-philosophical grounds, some scholars are now subjecting them to careful historical study.10 Here, then, lies the most general import of the case of early modern Lindau, which illustrates a crucial phase in the development of arguments about the relative boundaries of several species of authority,

Introduction 7

especially those commonly called ‘public and private’ and ‘secular and spiritual’. This development coincided with the formulation, in political practice, of increasingly abstract distinctions between religion and politics, as well as a new level of debate concerning the legitimate extent of government and the reach of the state. At the same time early modern Lindauers engaged in analysis of the intra-community or partisan conflicts in their city, employing complex taxonomies based on both social stratification as well as on cultural values such as ‘estate’ and ‘honour’.11 There is, therefore, also a crude empirical rationale for a holistic consideration of Lindavian discourse on social, economic, political and religious subjects as a ‘political culture’. Moreover, the formulation locates ‘power’ as the central concern of all Lindauers, without turning it into a mysterious autonomous agent.12 Furthermore, it acknowledges that the Lindauers, while they were certainly aware of the differences – social, economic, political and so on – in their city, could share in a common language of criticism. In an important way this puts paid to the lingering discussion about the relations of ‘high’ and ‘low’ or ‘popular’ and ‘elite’ cultures. Finally, such a formulation brings the Lindau evidence directly to bear on discussions of early modern ‘republicanism’ which have been raging in the Anglo-American academy for some years.13 There is also a burgeoning discussion in German historiography, but this material has not entered into discussion of the seventeenth-century Anglo-Dutch and, somewhat later, American or French scenes.14 Instead, it is assumed, apparently, that fifteenth- and sixteenth-century Italian political theory arrived at the Atlantic edge of Europe completely free of gloss or cultural ‘transmission noise’ from the German-speaking lands. At the very least, a careful consideration of the Lindau case is a first step towards a more balanced, European (or even Atlantic) view of things.

A note on presentation All scholarly monographs are shadowed by the structure of their socalled ‘critical apparatus’. This book casts a very long shadow indeed. There are several good reasons for this. First, the vast majority of sources for Lindau are unpublished manuscripts and are relatively inaccessible. Nevertheless, the transcription and translation of these, here, should be subjected to scrutiny.15 This is particularly the case since Lindauers obviously used their discursive abilities to great effect, and much of the analysis of their political culture hinges on very close interpretations of such Lindavian discourse. For the casual reader of

8 Religion, Government and Political Culture

German, hopefully the language of early modern Lindauers will transmit some of the ‘flavour’ or ‘texture’ which has helped to sustain my enthusiasm over the years.16 Second, the endnotes contain commentary on the general evaluation of the sources, including genre, adminstrative practice and function, as well as technical details on datings, ascriptions and so on. Third, because the fullest integration of narrative and analysis is sometimes awkward structurally, the endnotes have been used to provide occasional cross-references. Last, but not least, the notes serve to locate the work, in customary fashion, in relation to a wider historiographical context.

2 The ‘Hows’ and ‘Whys’ Considered: Then and Now

Introduction The introductory account of events (above) is obviously a narrative, a story organized first and foremost around the passage of time. The resulting impression is one not only of sequences but also of certain consequences. For example, one could conclude with some justification that the rebels went home because they were satisfied with the provisions of the document signed by the Council (and not simply because it was lunchtime). The account is also a ‘fiction’ in the archaic sense resurrected by Natalie Davis.1 That does not mean the account is merely a product of creative imagination or simply a false invention; rather, the account has been shaped in accordance with the aim of interpreting and analysing a range of narrative (and likewise ‘fictive’) accounts produced by participants and observers in Lindau in 1626. This chapter examines four of these accounts in greater detail. How, or even if, historians can write valid narrative histories has been the subject of particularly heated debate for several decades now. The status of narrative accounts as historical sources has been in dispute for much longer.2 The two issues are inextricably linked, it seems, via the positivist inheritance, which left us a choice between the two poles of ‘absolute objectivity and totally arbitrary interpretation of the world of object’.3 This dichotomy has had profound theoretical and methodological implications for historians. The most radical materialists or empiricists, for example, can know nothing whatsoever of the past. As Jane Austen’s Humean Miss Tilney observed: ‘In the principal facts they [historians] have sources of intelligence in former histories and records, which may be as much depended on, I conclude, as any thing that does not pass under one’s own observation.’4 Ironically, the 9

10

Religion, Government and Political Culture

most radical idealists or textualists also trumpet the impossibility of finding a real referent in the past.5 Most historians, therefore, cannot afford to be so theoretical. Some of the most eminent practioners of the historian’s craft over the last decades have managed to maintain the basic dichotomy, even while according equal value to narrative and non-narrative historiography and championing the value of narrative sources. For example, Lawrence Stone distinguished ‘narrative history’ from ‘structural history’ on the grounds that: ‘its arrangement is descriptive rather than analytical and that its central focus is on man not circumstances’.6 Similarly, Natalie Davis categorically distinguished the sphere of the social historian from that of the cultural historian.7 One of Davis’ most significant findings, nevertheless, was that her cultural artefacts, pardon tales, were shaped by legal institutions and practices, social stratifications and gender alike. What she demonstrated is that the cultural is not detached from the social, at least not in her source narratives. Moreover, she found that her subject represented a ‘mixed genre’ of both judicial supplication and story.8 The pardon tales thus defied the categorical distinction between forensic fact and literary fiction attributed to Aristotle, recast into Renaissance rhetorical and genre theory and ultimately reified and naturalized, via the Enlightenment, in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries.9 The four narrative accounts of the uprising examined below differ widely in cast and character, and even disagree on particular details, yet they all convey a sense of a community struggling to compose and define itself in the face of both external and internal pressures. At the heart of each narrative there are refractions of key religious and political terms or concepts, as a function of this process of collective identity formation. The narrative of Caspar Mezler represents a non-official point of view on the events of 7 November. Mezler was a citizen, a supporter of Neukomm and, as a leatherworker, probably his neighbour. As a whole Mezler’s account reveals some basic Lindavian assumptions about religion, politics and the social composition of Lindau, and thus sheds light on the foundations of conflict in Lindau. The governance of Lindau as an Imperial City produced documents (Reichsstädtische Akten) which included official consultations and reports on the uprising communicated to neighbouring cities. The files contain two unsigned, but presumably ‘diplomatic’, narrative accounts of the uprising, one in the hand of a city secretary. Both accounts emphasized theories of government in relation to the entire urban community; thus these two narratives are particularly noteworthy for their attempts to ‘articulate’ or ‘analyse’ that urban community. Finally, the narrative of

The ‘Hows’ and ‘Whys’ Considered: Then and Now 11

the Mayor Ulrich Miller represents an elite point of view: one which demonstrated a much broader, regional awareness of political relations. Moreover, since Miller appears to have had a keen personal interest in religion, in addition to his business dealings with neighbouring Catholic authorities, his narrative most comprehensively illuminates processes of confessionalization.10

A guildsman’s view The cordwainer Caspar Mezler described the outbreak of hostilities as an Aufflauff of both the citizenry (Bürgerschafft) and the peasantry (Landschafft).11 In short, there was a rising of all those who were subject to the jurisdiction of the Council. Furthermore, the resistance was aimed at the rulers of Lindau and the riot was described as taking place against the whole Council. In a second contraposition Mezler identified another key dichotomy in Lindau society: the antipathy between the leading cleric, Alexius Neukomm, and the city’s lawyers. Mezler pointed to the suspension of the pastor, Neukomm, as the immediate reason for the outbreak of open hostilities; this, in turn, he explained as the result of Neukomm rubbing the noses of the jurists into the truth.12 But the conflict between the clergy and the legal profession was, for Mezler, merely a corollary of the crisis of government described at the outset. The pastor represented the interests of the citizenry as ‘our, the citizenry’s, pastor and preacher for these past twenty-eight years’.13 On the other hand, the enmity between pastor and lawyers, engendered by the exposure and humiliation of the latter at the hands of the former, led the lawyers to stir up the Council (Obrigkeit) against Alexius Neukomm. This eventually resulted in his fateful suspension.14 The second reason for the riot explicitly identified by Mezler similarly involved the unjustified interference of the Council in the domain of the citizenry: ‘Our [the citizenry’s] Mayor had been for a time removed from the office of Mayor, and the citizenry never knew a proper/legal reason why this should have been done.’15 While Mezler here identified points of contradiction between coextensive theories of government,16 he was also aware of the fact that such conflict did not inevitably lead to violence, but rather more frequently to discontent. The question of how discontent translated into action remains hazy. Groll und Widerwille17 simply increased if left unaddressed. Here Mezler further distinguished between those who stood in opposition to the Council because they were directly involved in a Council– citizenry dialectic and some other, as yet undefined, group. Together

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they formed a whole, motivated by Groll und Widerwille, which instituted the riot against the whole Council. Likewise, citizen identity extended to groups whose ideological and material interests were substantially different from the abstract concerns expressed at the very beginning of Mezler’s preamble.18 Thus when Neukomm was first suspended, his most immediate support came from his neighbours, collectively referred to as his neighbourhood (Nachbarschafft); then other citizens joined in. A thorough reconstruction of Lindau’s social topography is beyond the scope of this study, but it is clear that where you lived and who your neighbours were was extremely important. This is emphasized by the prominent role played by Alexius Neukomm’s street, the Fischergasse, and those who lived there, the Fischergasser, in a wide range of accounts of the period. Moreover, the Fischergasser and other citizens who joined them are clearly distinguished throughout the sources. Finally, it is noteworthy that even as Mezler described the resolve and courage of the citizenry, he implicitly questioned the potency of the citizens’ direct challenge to the Council. Thus he interpreted the arrest of several citizens on the morning of 7 November as an act of attempted intimidation and a deterrent, not as a sign of Council uncertainty over its own position in a power relationship with the citizenry.19 Mezler began the second part of his report, a chronology of the morning of 7 November, by further emphasizing the courage of the citizens. The Council (Obrigkeit) had put a watch on Neukomm’s house, but with time the citizens took heart and drove the watch aside. At this point Mezler agreed with official versions of events (see pp. 14–18): Neukomm required some persuasion before he joined the crowd and went to the parish church of St Stephan. The account of a temporary alliance between the pastor and the citizenry is in itself of some interest. Essentially, a form of compact based on trust (Vertrauen) was made. Only after the citizenry had promised to offer up life and limb to protect Neukomm, not to desert him and to escort him to ensure that nothing happened to him, did Neukomm also take heart and throw in his lot with the citizens.20 This suggests a triangular dynamic involving the Council, clergy and citizens very similar to that described for Strasburg by Jane Abray.21 It further hints at a significant intra-elite dimension to the conflict in Lindau. The description of the progress along the Fischergasse towards the church introduced another term in Mezler’s complex social taxonomy. When Neukomm left his house in the company of the citizens many people saw him and were moved to tears. The term which described

The ‘Hows’ and ‘Whys’ Considered: Then and Now 13

these people, villem Volckh, was used collectively to denote a ‘general population’. This general population was thereby differentiated from those people normally designated ‘the citizenry’.22 In particular, it was the female general population, Weibervolk, which was supposed to have been overcome by emotion at the sight of Neukomm,23 yet partisan sentiment in support of the citizen-side abounded. The most striking feature of Mezler’s relation of the crowd’s encounter with Mayor Buchschor, and the eventual forced entry into St Stephan, is the relish with which he described the violence perpetrated. Although there is some mention of actual blows landing on the Mayor, the most significant point is that he was forced to appear before the crowd bare-headed.24 A similar symbolic transgression against the City Syndic, Dr Daniel Heider, provided the focus of the whole episode in the church. While the arrival of the crowd did induce the congregation in the church as well as the officiating pastor, Magister Matthias Hager, to flee, the only act of physical violence carried out by the crowd was against the enclosed box or raised pew of Dr Heider.25 It was a group of men specifically described as artisans of free or unmarried journeyman status (ledige Handwerksgesellen) who engaged in the frenzy of furniture removal. While Neukomm witnessed the destruction and sat quietly throughout, it was also at this point that his association with the citizenry dissolved. Eventually he was escorted back home. Meanwhile the riot gathered momentum as armed citizens continued to congregate hastily in the squares and in front of the armoury. Again Mezler emphasized his sense of the revolt as a spontaneous and inevitable development by noting that the riot grew as a function of its duration. As they gathered, the courage of the citizens mounted and they spoke bravely to one another and took heart, as if this in itself represented a victory over the Council. Those prisoners who had been arrested that morning were released and the Council initiated negotiations. The Councillors26 in the city hall sent their envoys to the citizens and begged them not to cause any further trouble (Ungelegenheit) or violence (Gewalt). In return they offered the release of Neukomm and his reinstatement into office. Furthermore Mayor Ulrich Miller would be taken back into the Council with official restitution of his former status.27 Apparently the citizens accepted the Council offer since, when the Council envoy returned to the city hall, an agreement was reached. Mezler’s exact wording is important here since it suggests that, whether or not the uprising had originated with the alliance of several categories of Lindauers against the Council, it had rapidly become a challenge to governmental authority in general. Furthermore,

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the ideological association of the Council-side with rulers and the citizen-side with subjects was explicitly articulated. When the Councillors and Obrigkeit offered their goodwill to the citizens, sovereign authority (Obrigkeit) and subjects (Unterthanen) were able to come to terms.28 The consistent use of the plural form of ‘subject’ suggests that Mezler did not consider this an established or stable power relation. Indeed, it is likely that at least one of the terms, possibly both, did not represent a fixed social or political category of Lindauers. While Obrigkeit may have invited certain political abstractions, denoting a faceless collectivity of those who exerted the power to rule, that power to rule, or indeed simply rule itself, the plural form Untertanen did not offer the same possibility.29 Indeed the plurality of those opposed to the Council denied the rulers the ideologically or even epistemologically exigent opposite of Obrigkeit as an abstraction of subject, ‘subjecthood’. Not only is the differentiation of various rebel groups a theme recurrent in Mezler’s report, but it raises the possibility of social stratification providing the last line of defence against a Council tendency or strategy which would otherwise have been able to ‘unite to rule’.30 On the other hand, the strength of those who resisted the Council did lie in a temporary and voluntary alliance. Thus, despite the conciliatory efforts of the Council described above, the citizens refused to disband until the Council had issued a sealed document guaranteeing that (1) the government would not pursue retribution against any citizen; what anyone had said or done would be forgiven and forgotten and everything that had passed would be undone; (2) Magister Neukomm would again exercise his offices as a preacher, in accordance with the usual practice, on Sunday mornings, holidays and Tuesday mornings; (3) Mayor Ulrich Miller would be restored to office and be Mayor as before.31 Mezler concluded his report by briefly reiterating his relief at the fact that peace had been established between the Council and the citizens and expressing his hope that the same would prove durable. By the grace of God the riot had been pacified so that the Obrigkeit and Untertanen were in agreement. Mezler further thanked God that no one had actually come to physical harm. Finally he revealed his motivation for composing his report: to inform his descendents, presumably as his antecedents had educated him.32

An ‘official’ view33 Lindau’s Reichsstädtische Akten include a document called ‘Description of the origin of the uprising of the Lindau citizenry against the Obrigkeit,

The ‘Hows’ and ‘Whys’ Considered: Then and Now 15

7 November 1626’.34 The opening paragraph relates how Alexius Neukomm was presented with a decree (Decret) on the evening of 6 November, prohibiting him from preaching the next morning; he defied the Council. Neukomm’s reputed response to the decree was that, since the Commons (Gemeind) also had a say in whether or not he was to be removed from the pulpit, he planned to persist in the execution of his office. Neukomm’s use of the term Gemeind here is significant. In this case it appears likely that Neukomm was referring to that political body which represented the commons of Lindau, the 20-member Great Council or Commons.35 Nevertheless, his reported words almost certainly also evoked an emotional response due to their resonance with arguments for the communal election of pastors, articulated in Lindau in the 1520s.36 Certainly this would account for the deliberately cautious official response: when the officiating Mayor (Amtsbürgermeister) was informed of Neukomm’s stated intention he convoked a meeting of several gentlemen (Herren) of his choice. Neukomm was thereupon informed that the chancery official who had transmitted his reply must have misunderstood; Neukomm was offered another chance to comply with the decree. If he repeated his defiance, proceedings would be set in train against him. Like Mezler, then, this narrator placed Neukomm squarely at the centre of events, although the key issues were clearly identified from the outset as part of a more abstract complex of social and political conflicts. These are represented here in the competing authority of the Commons (Gemeind) and the Amtbürgermeister and his advisory committee. Moreover, the story identifies the collective opposition to the Council with Neukomm’s supporters. When the messengers, Itelhans Ehinger of the Council and the Canzleisubstitut David Felß, arrived at Alexius Neukomm’s house they found a congregation of what they described as Neukomm’s followers (Adherenten), in whose presence they discharged their mission. Neukomm’s reply was delivered by his brother Andreas Neukomm, the Head of the City Court (Stadtamman). The use of a representative speaker may have been a diplomatic formality, or it may have been considered appropriate in accordance with a much older usage, in which it signalled the formal recognition of a conflict or combat. This usage is exemplified by the use of a spokesman (Fürsprech) in the Lindau courts and in similar circumstances. In this situation, moreover, it apparently established a kind of symmetry which, in turn, may have constituted part of the claim to authority as a legitimate opposition: at least now there were two structurally equivalent sides to the conflict.

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In any case, while Andreas Neukomm initially softened the approach by saying his brother wished to deliver the following day’s sermon simply because he had already prepared for it, the intransigence of the Council negotiators led to the delivery of a speech by Alexius himself. He then emphasized, however, that, as an established local citizen, he owed the Council obedience in worldly things, but by no means in spiritual matters.37 Further, Neukomm was supposed to have said that he was under greater obligation to obey God than to obey people.38 Previous writers have portrayed Neukomm as a fanatic, and there are some indications that his contemporary adversaries were somewhat incredulous of the expressed strength of Neukomm’s religious conviction. Yet, seen in a broader historical context, such a claim is indeed pointedly political. For example, it jibes with what Norbert Haag has termed ‘systemic-discursive’ competition.39 Moreover, it fits into the grand scheme devised by Brian Tierney, who has linked the development of modern constitutionalism to the legal (:systemic or discursive?) competition between church and state in the middle ages.40 In any case Alexius Neukomm’s own supporters did not necessarily share Neukomm’s spiritual orientation and they firmly reiterated their understanding of the political nature of the dispute described by the issues discussed. Several of these supporters spoke and asked why it had been possible to bar Neukomm from the pulpit in the first place. This brings us back to the question of competing authority since the issue of summons, command and prohibition (Bot, Gebot and Verbot) was central to the Lindauers’ concept of what actually constituted an Obrigkeit.41 Stadtamman Neukomm escorted the delegates to the door and repeated the request that his brother be allowed to deliver his prepared sermon the following day. He explained the concern that, should this not be permitted, the Gemeind would not be satisfied. This view was evidently not shared by the delegates who asked the Stadtamman to attempt to move Alexius Neukomm to obey the decree. As this narrative cannot be dated precisely, and it may have been produced some days or weeks after 7 November, the relation of an exchange such as the one between the Stadtamman and the Council delegate should not be taken at face value. First of all one must consider the possibility that the episode was indeed concocted after the fact to exonerate the more prominent Lindauers who took sides against the Council. In effect this would mean that, when subjected to close outside scrutiny in the course of the investigations into the events, certain elite factions closed rank and shifted the blame on to an amorphous mass of plebs.42 Even if the exchange took place as related, a similar

The ‘Hows’ and ‘Whys’ Considered: Then and Now 17

interpretation is possible. In that case Lindauers remained acutely aware, even in the heat of the moment, of the inherent differences between the sorts of rebels who might ally themselves in an action against the Council. It was more or less expected that a concurrence of a political clash within the citizenry and a more popular ill will (Groll und Widerwill) would result in concerted violent action. When the Council deputies Hans Hasenschmidt and David Felß were dispatched to keep a watch on Neukomm’s house in the Fischergasse, although the report says that they were to reprimand Neukomm’s neighbours and exhort them to peace, they were clearly also meant to isolate the gathering crowd from the gathering citizens. Next, the ringing of the matins bell roused the Lindauers and they assembled in front of Neukomm’s house. When the second bell alerted them to the fact that an alternate would be delivering the sermon, they streamed into Neukomm’s house. The description of how the group gained entrance into the Neukomm residence is remarkable.43 The term ohnversehens, used to describe the opening of the doors to the crowd, leaves some scope for debate since its modern usage seems to be limited to a passive sense equivalent to ‘inadvertently’. In this case it probably served to ascribe a complete lack of premeditation to the Neukomm supporters inside the house, who thus ‘accidentally’ admitted the crowd. Consequently, they were not to blame for what was to follow. Further indication of a lack of actual rebellious intent on the part of Neukomm himself is provided in the claim that he had, by the time the crowd entered his house, been convinced by the Council envoys to doff his cassock and to declare his intention to remain at home. This relatively sympathetic portrayal of Neukomm and his followers is revealing. While the inclusion of a list of further demands by the rebels (cited below) means that this particular narrative was probably produced several weeks after 7 November, the conspicuous absence of explicit charges of a conspiracy centring on Neukomm and his household differentiates it from the accounts produced from the end of the year onwards. The description of the crowd’s encounter with Mayor Buchschor and its forced entry into the church does not differ significantly from Mezler’s, although the latter did revel in some of the more violent scenes. While the official narrative did communicate a sense of the great outrages perpetrated by the rebels (such as forced entry into a church), it remained silent on those acts which constituted the greatest symbolic transgressions against – and potential diminution of – sovereign authority. Thus, while it was mentioned that the Mayor had to retreat because several blows had landed on him already, the episode of the hat is

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missing. Likewise, the destruction of Dr Daniel Heider’s elevated pew was recorded, but not in any detail. Those responsible were not in any way identified with an occupational group or social category as they were in Mezler’s report. Mezler and this narrator did concur, however, that once the rebels had moved on from the church and had stationed themselves in front of Neukomm’s house, their numbers increased as a function of time. Yet the official story tempered the atmosphere of spontaneity or even confusion conveyed by Mezler. Instead, here the rebels swore an oath of unity from the outset, refusing to disband until their demands, which were recorded in the form of two separate lists, were met. The first series of demands required that (1) Alexius Neukomm be allowed to preach as the late Magister Niclauß Schmid had preached and as others had preached in Lindau for some time; (2) the possibility of re-introducing Private Confession be no longer considered; (3) Mayor Ulrich Miller be reinstated into office unconditionally; (4) a written guarantee bearing the seal of the common city be issued to ensure that this uprising (Aufstand) should not be held against any citizen. In addition to these demands, which roughly correspond – with the exception of the second one – to Mezler’s list, there was also a second series supposedly expressed by the rebels. This demanded (1) that the advocates be sacked; (2) that the City Captain (Stadthauptmann) be sacked; (3) that the pastor, Magister Martin Miller, be suspended. Apparently a negotiator was able to wrest some concessions from the rebels on these points. Significantly, the initial offer of concessions, which Mezler ascribed to the Council, was here replaced with a formalized list of rebel demands. There are two conceivable reasons for this. One is that the Council represented – or indeed actually perceived – the uprising as a more cleverly engineered movement than the rebels, as represented by Mezler, would allow.44 The other possible reason why the official narrative does not have the Council participating in the conception of a pragmatic appeasement of the crowd may be related to a fear of accusations of elite connivance in popular disturbance. Indeed, Mezler also acknowledged that at least some sort of distinction had to be drawn between ‘elite’ rebels and ‘common’ rebels. So, even if the Council had offered concessions to the rebels, its members would have been far from inclined to admit it. Indeed, much of the negotiation and diplomatic manoeuvring of the following months would come to focus on efforts to retrieve the capitulation document issued on 7 November. Thus this particular narrative of the uprising was supplied with a concluding disclaimer.

The ‘Hows’ and ‘Whys’ Considered: Then and Now 19

A City Secretary’s view As far as narratives of the uprising produced in official circles are concerned, it is accurate to say that abstraction and expurgation went hand in hand. It must have been comforting to know that the suffering of the civic organism, which was closely linked to a decline in moral prosperity, was the result of a crisis of authority which was somehow the fault of the preacher Alexius Neukomm. This causal chain was established with ever increasing firmness as time passed, thereby ultimately absolving the citizenry as a whole of both moral and legal responsibility. But how could a single man have seduced an entire town? His powers must have been remarkable, unless, of course, the Lindauers were particularly susceptible. The latter is the understanding conveyed by a second official narrative, in the hand of a city secretary (Stadtschreiber).45 While the author put the preacher at the centre of things, he also considered that there were preconditions for popular unrest and revealed much more about the position of significant sectors of the population. In this narrative, when the Council decided, with the approval of the clergy and the Education Committee,46 to bring Lindau’s practice of confession and absolution into line with that of other Lutheran imperial estates, Alexius Neukomm opposed the plan. Not only did Neukomm sour the Council’s programme through his agitation of the citizenry in private, but also by preaching against it vehemently in public.47 The use of such terminology may mark an attempt on the part of Lindau’s rulers to gain control of bourgeois republican ideology. Moreover, the Secretary claimed, what the ministers of the church one day established in support, Neukomm the next day again demolished. The use of the edifice metaphor, which refers to both the critical and stable states of society as man-made, stands out in the documents for the Neukomm affair. The usual metaphor used to describe the crisis was that of a healthy body infected by some disease. Why an alternative to social pathology was employed by this particular author is difficult to tell, but an answer may lie in its relatively late date of production. The pattern of making a scapegoat of Alexius Neukomm was by this time already well-established. In fact Neukomm died on 26 February 1627 and was buried the following day; after this he could easily bear the weight of ultimate responsibility. The Secretary further related how Neukomm, in pursuit of his aims, so treacherously seized both the moment and the opportunity, since he knew that numerous artisans (Handwerker) were, particularly at this

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Religion, Government and Political Culture

juncture, ill-disposed towards the Council. Neukomm’s intent was not only to prevent the planned introduction of private confession, but also – and with this he had ‘long and for many years been pregnant’ – to undermine sovereign authority (Obrigkeit) once and for all.48 Again, it is the notion that the conflict was somehow inherently Neukommian which helped to make the preacher a plausible guilty party. Neukomm’s detractors, however, were not the only ones to construct a whole history from his habitual dissidence; Neukomm himself portrayed his career in Lindau as one long crusade. As a source for Lindavian political culture this narrative is valuable because the Secretary described both a general Lindavian conception of politics and identified and distinguished particular interested parties. Specific grievances harboured by four occupational groups in Lindau, and supposedly exploited by Neukomm, were thus carefully laid out. First, the bakers resented being overseen and would have gladly done away with the bread-inspection (Brotschau und Ordnung) which, the author noted, was most necessary and had been customary for more than 100 years. While the introduction of Council regulation of guild affairs is not precisely dated, the fact that 1626 was the centenary of the end of the Peasants’ War is unlikely to have escaped the notice of either the Council or the common guildsmen. The Council’s reason for rejecting the bakers’ demand for deregulation was a supposed concern for the welfare of the ‘poor common man’ ( gemeine arme Man). What exactly this meant and to whom it referred in Lindau is not clarified, although ‘poor’ probably meant much more than materially impoverished, and the gemeine arme Man was not simply equivalent to the Habenichts found in the fiscal documents of many cities. In Lindau, as elsewhere, ‘poor’ was held to have social political aspects, denoting the impotency of disenfranchised groups.49 In the case at hand, while it is more than likely that the Council sought primarily to legitimate its own position, it is significant that a distinction was drawn between the bakers’ aspirations and the interests of the general population. This conflict did not centre on a simple dichotomy between rulers and ruled or powerful and powerless; rather, as will be seen time and again, the whole Neukomm-affair smacked of an intra-elite or inter-elite struggle for power. This dynamic sheds considerable light on the ‘indeterminate’ or ‘imprecise’ discourse on such crucial concepts as the ‘commune’ (Gemeind). The second group of artisans who reportedly harboured resentments were the tanners. Apparently the Council had set a very low ceiling on the wages for this craft. The early years of the Thirty Years’ War saw rampant inflation in all parts of the Empire, and Lindau was no exception.

The ‘Hows’ and ‘Whys’ Considered: Then and Now 21

Local chronicles indicate that, after this Kipper- und Wipperzeit, the mid-1620s were the worst in Lindau, and the Council felt compelled to pursue a policy of strict wage and price controls. However, there was again a very clear political element to the Council’s action against the tanners and a parenthetical remark indicates that the tanners had been punished or fined (abgestraft) because of the effect of their wages on the poor common man.50 Again, the text is ambiguous here, suggesting two alternative interpretations. Either the level of the tanners’ wages simply overburdened the consumer, or it meant that the tanners’ wages had overtaken or surpassed those of the common man. The latter possibility carries significant political implications since it implied a magisterial effort to include the tanners in a group ‘common man’, which was at least economically uniform; a first step towards the construction of a definitive political ‘subject’ status or ‘subjecthood’. The tanners for their part could have only been expected to resist this attempt to eliminate them from the sphere of constitutional politics. Finally, the Secretary noted that the tanners were Alexius Neukomm’s immediate neighbours.51 Almost without exception accounts of the uprising draw attention to the role played by neighbourly affinities in the actual uprising. The presence of the tanners right next door suggests that Neukomm’s neighbourhood was not the most fashionable. Lindau’s butchers, the third group of aggrieved guildsmen named here, had been engaged in a long-running dispute with the Council over meat prices. The Secretary provided few details, but mentioned that in 1624 the Council had concluded a regional agreement with the authorities in the neighbouring Swabian and Austrian towns of Ravensburg, Isny, Wangen, Leutkirch, Feldkirch and Bregenz. How – and to what direct end – this agreement had been concluded is not stated, but regional price control probably was considered the most effective measure against inflation in the long run. On the other hand, it seems to have been the case that the collective consciousness of artisanal groups was not determined by the extent of regional economies, but was founded on local guild organization. Accordingly, local cohesion and loyalties were fierce. Not only did the guilds see the cooperation of authorities in the creation of super-local ordinances as a threat to their own position, but in the free cities the close cousin of civic loyalty, xenophobia, was easily awakened. The fourth and last occupational group discussed were the boatmen.52 These had requested a change in shipping routes and docking rights contrary to the old agreement with the Austrian officials of the lordship of Feldkirch, the Bishop of Constance, the City of Constance and the

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prelates of St Gall. Since the Council wished to avoid any ‘unpleasantness’ or ‘unneighbourliness’, it could not grant the request. As in the butchers’ case, there was much potential unrest in the conflicting regional concerns of the Council and the interests of the guild which were purely local, at least in perception. Yet the discontent expressed by butchers and boatmen was more than a xenophobic outburst. An essential aspect of Lindau’s bourgeois republican ideology was the notion that government ought to be both representative of, and responsible to, the demands of the citizenry. Failure in both of these areas gravely undermined the credibility, legitimacy and, eventually, the authority of the Council. In some instances a feeling of betrayal on the part of the citizens might have eventually found expression in open hostility. According to the Secretary, Neukomm seized the opportunity provided by this unrest, as well as other opportunities, and preached against the planned introduction of private confession. He also persistently injected his personal attitudes ( privat Affecten) into the debate. In private he further incited the citizens against the Council (Obrigkeit) by disseminating ‘self-composed false embellishments’ (selbß erdichteten unwahren Zuelagen), in which activity his wife helped him greatly. By way of illustration it was recounted how the previous June, when the Council abolished the serving of wine by all preachers, Neukomm, in open contempt of the government (in despectum magistratus), had 60–70 citizens in his house for a drinking bout. This incident appears in several other documents and was probably of considerable symbolic significance for at least two reasons. First of all, the issue of an innovative or vastly increased consumption tax on wine (Umgeld) was the source of much discontent and figured largely in Neukomm’s infamous New Year’s sermon of 1626.53 Second, there was a resonance with the Reformation when many urban governments, in compliance with popular demands, had legislated to restrict the clerical wine trade.54 Since in Lindau part of all post-Reformation ministerial salaries was paid in wine, it continued to play an important role in the relationship between magistracy and clergy. Neukomm’s defiance of the Council prohibition drew attention to the unresolved issues of ‘administration of religion’ and the question of the relationship of secular and spiritual worlds and authorities. From this and from incidents which took place every other day, the Secretary argued, one could sense what Neukomm’s intentions were; therefore, on 6 November 1626 the Council finally decreed his removal from the pulpit. Upon receipt of the news of his suspension that evening, Alexius Neukomm secretly incited the citizens to insurrection

The ‘Hows’ and ‘Whys’ Considered: Then and Now 23

(Aufstand), sending out his emissaries throughout the night. The following day’s unrest (Unruh) ensued. The author was clearly taking the opportunity to vilify Neukomm. Not only did Neukom launch the final act of his conspiracy under cover of darkness and in secret, but he was involving those who were bound by various ties other than political commitment – his family and friends – as his lackeys. Secrecy, sneakiness and, above all, concealment were somewhat of an obsession in early modern Lindau, and the strategic value, in both inter-personal and inter-group politics, of imputing clandestinism to an opponent is widely evidenced throughout the period c.1520–c.1620. This concern had clear links to culturally salient notions of trust (Vertrauen) which provided a foundation for all social and other contracts. For the Secretary, the use of agents, obscure angels of civic destruction, to carry out his dirtiest work marked the pinnacle of Neukomm’s unforthright behaviour. Thus he concluded his narrative with ‘evidence’ for Neukomm’s sole responsibility for the uprising, despite widespread popular unrest or political strife at the time.55 A letter from Neukomm to his brother-in-law was presented, despite the many untruths which tainted it, as Neukomm’s own confession.56 This illuminates the fundamental conflict of world views and understandings actually under consideration here. Assuming it is possible to expunge the ‘falsehoods’ in Neukomm’s letter, what would remain is that which both sides would have agreed upon as the ‘truth’. Yet what Alexius Neukomm intended as a relation of his glorious struggle, the ensuing disaster and perhaps a personal exoneration, was interpreted in govenment circles as a confession to the gravest of crimes.

A mayor’s view57 The narratives examined thus far all centre on Alexius Neukomm’s culpability in ‘causing’ the uprising. Nevertheless, the recognition of amorphous popular discontent amongst citizens and peasants, on the one hand, and the specific grievances of certain guildsmen, on the other, suggests that an alternative contemporary interpretation was possible. The following narrative is outstanding in that its author acknowledged from the outset the complexity of the crisis facing Lindau and conveyed an understanding of the uprising in terms of failing social and political mechanisms. Alexius Neukomm did not even get a mention. As is too often the case, no precise administrative function can be established for this document. It bears no marks of having served an official purpose in the Council consultations with other cities or the

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diplomatic engagements with other estates of the Empire. Neither is it identifiable as an internal record or protocol, and it is both too consistent stylistically and devoid of corrections to be an uncatalogued draft. The dossier in which it was filed is itself an odd assortment, including several copies of post-uprising letters by both Daniel Heider and Alexius Neukomm, communications between Lindau and the Imperial Court at Innsbruck and, finally, documents best described as intelligence reports concerning the security of Lindau. The author seems to have been well-versed in the intricacies of Lindavian popular politics, yet also had access to the highest echelons of administration and was privy to the most guarded deliberations of government. This narrows the possibilities to a handful of men. Furthermore the author displayed a knowledge of Latin which far exceeded that characteristic of the City Secretaries; not only did he include substantial passages of Latin, but individual Latin words embedded in the German text were correctly inflected. Moreover, the hand is not that of a chancery scribe, but more like the so-called humanist hands of the sixteenth century. Certain constructions and the use of fading spelling conventions, like ‘ÿ’ for ‘i’, also suggest that the author received his education closer to the middle of the sixteenth century. A short account of the suspension of Mayor Ulrich Miller appended to this document describes his exclusion from office in the first person and bears what is probably Miller’s signature. Viewing the document in isolation one might conclude with some confidence that it was the personal work of Miller. Other documents, however, notably Education Committee minutes and the geheimen und geistlichen Gerichtsprotocol of early 1626 are written in the same hand. While it is possible that no secretaries were admitted to highly sensitive ‘secret’ sessions of these bodies and thus a high-ranking officeholder might take on secretarial duties, the appearance of this hand in these documents is curious, especially when one considers that Miller’s trouble with the authorities had been going on for some time and he cannot himself have been considered a good security risk. This document belongs to the large body of sources for the affair which are best described as post mortem examinations. The appellation reflects the fundamental theme of social pathology shared by all of these accounts. Miller opened with the observation that the main disease of Lindau’s religious and political organism (religions- und Polizeiwesen) had not yet been thoroughly cured. Rather, while the negotiated peace had somewhat alleviated the surface heat and other symptoms, thus far no measure had been found to effect a complete recovery.58 In the meantime, he argued, until a better remedy was found, one should at least

The ‘Hows’ and ‘Whys’ Considered: Then and Now 25

consider and work towards maintaining the stability of the present situation and prevent any further uprising. It is precisely in his understanding of the various levels of both disease and cure that Miller distinguished himself from the narrators discussed above. If an effective cure derived from an understanding of the disease, or if the disease was reduced to a suitable level of simplicity, it was of course always possible to find an effective cure. For the Secretary, the ailment was actually a man-made disorder, and thus ‘Neukomm the sole agent’ was created. By contrast, although he, too, was not immune to personal affinities and aversions, Miller conveyed a perception of advanced damage to the social organism which required a cure involving both amputation and healing. To this end he considered it necessary above all that, next to honest repentance and appeals to God, one achieve a recognition of those deficiencies (Mängel) which were both the occasion and the cause of the recent Tumult. As many of these as possible should be addressed. There followed a numbered list of seven such shortcomings. First there was the lack of discretion of the young (ohnbehuetsamkheit der Jungen) through whom all that was discussed in the Council, and even in the Privy Council, was leaked to the Commons (Gemeind); furthermore the truth was often garbled, exaggerated and its meanings completely transformed. Occasionally one or the other opinion offered in good faith was taken and pilloried. This the author considered detrimental during these times of a mortally ill civic constitution and therefore a palliative was to be sought diligently. Thus Miller identified, in one deficiency, two aspects of the political culture and the perpetual crisis of authority in Lindau. Indeed, the rumour-mill and public opinion were universal features of early modern urban culture. As the multiple interpretations found in ‘official’ documents suggest, opinions were already conceived and battle lines drawn long before the issues were chased through the official political channels. If aspects of elite culture were disseminated to the masses, then the street also informed the high politics, at least in Lindau. More striking is the importance attached to age, which does not simply question the judgement of junior officeholders, but scratches the surface of one of the fundamental divisions characterizing Lindau society throughout the early modern period. The phenomenon is not so much a function of age discrepancy as a political manifestation of a generation conflict, manifested only occasionally in threatening and destabilizing expressions by young hotheads.59 Generational conflict certainly appears to have been very widespread in early modern Lindau. The testamentary disputes which are found throughout the

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Council and Court records are about more than just property. In a guild city such as Lindau, young people relied on their parents for their training and employment and future livelihood. They inherited their political identies, social niches and even public offices from their fathers. In short, it was not a question of inheritance but of succession.60 The post-Reformation documents, in particular, are full of expressions of concern, especially on the part of the clergy, for the moral well-being of the unruly youth (Jugend). In Lindau, as elsewhere, innovations in religious instruction, educational reforms, stricter regulation of apprentices, journeymen and so on were just a few of the many means by which the authorities sought to exercise tighter control over the young. It was precisely because journeymen owned no workshops and young patricians held no public office, and both therefore possessed only extremely weak public identities, that they were subject only to crude and inefficient pressures. Consequently they were perceived as extremely threatening and, like all subcultures (that is, contestant groups in a political culture) also powerful in their own right. In this particular instance, moreover, what Miller referred to as ‘young’ members of Council may in fact have been ‘junior’ members. Both the status and advancement associated with ‘seniority’ as well as an invisible ceiling which halted the promotion of certain individuals can be demonstrated for Lindau.61 It is possible that ‘junior’ Councillors were not necessarily young, but were members of that group which did not advance past a certain point. What is apparent is that this group had closer ties to the Gemeind than more ‘senior’ officeholders. Whether this meant an association with the high-political opposition of the Commons, or the more general opposition of the citizenry during the 1626 affair, is unclear. A second Lindavian deficiency was the lack of trust which, Miller claimed, had begun to penetrate the relationship between Privy Councillors and the other members of the Council (gemeine Ratsfreunde) some time ago. The common Councillors resented the fact that so much was subject to the deliberations of the Privy Council. Nevertheless, the author deemed this restricted access necessary for the sake of better confidentiality (Verschwiegenheit) and more effective preparation.62 There was an inherent problem in the fact that secrecy (or at least discretion) is the defining feature of a Privy Council, yet the political culture of Lindau, with its bourgeois republican ideology, determined a general meaning which, in its most highly articulated form, saw concealment as a vice. At the most fundamental level, moreover, it was an object of unspecified but immeasurably potent unease and tension: the occasion,

The ‘Hows’ and ‘Whys’ Considered: Then and Now 27

potentially, of an uprising. According to Miller, the anger of the common Councillors was transmitted to the citizenry. Up to this point, Miller appears to have been discussing a general trend, but he introduced his next point with ‘hereafter’ (hernach), suggesting that he may have had a specific incident in mind. In any case, Miller observed, in general assemblies of the Council the voice of the Privy Council was not respected or honoured, as it had been of old. Instead, the Privy Councillors were voted down without consideration, frivolously and passionately (that is, in direct contradiction of the republican ideals of utility and detachment). Traditionally, historians have dismissed formulations such as ‘from time immemorial’ (von Alters her) as customary expedient fictions, mythological tropes or rhetorical devices. To what extent the Council was under an obligation to accept the recommendations of the Privy Council, even after its formal introduction, is not established. There is, however, ample evidence that the evolution of Council committees (Ausschüsse) into an inner circle and thence into a Privy Council was itself strongly resisted. Miller was not, as will be seen, wholeheartedly devoted to the establishment and there is no reason to believe he consciously played fast and loose with the facts. But he did display an ideological commitment to certain ideas of vested authority (he was, after all, a mayor) and what is recorded here is a kind of ‘pragmatic politics of principle’, the operation of a political culture. According to Miller, the division within the Council led directly to a third Lindavian deficiency, namely that the Council no longer produced unanimous votes and stout, upright resolutions. This failure to show a united front itself diminished authority. Clearly, Miller was getting a little carried away; Council minutes show that his nostalgic perception of unanimous government was misguided. It is clear that the favouritism, enmity, friendship, fear, feuding and other passions (Gunst, Feindschafft, Freundtschafft, Forcht, Ubertragung und andere Affection), which Miller considered to be on the verge of winning the upper hand in Lindau, had always been factors in the political equation. Again we have arrived at the futile Lindavian attempt to square the circle: to impose governmental rule, understood in terms of contemporary political theories, on a population with a strong political culture, informed by many of the same political theories. Thus Miller also recognized that ‘politics’ took place beyond the walls of the Council chamber. The fourth deficiency he identified, therefore, was that those with the means (deß Mittels) did not properly defend the actions of the Council beyond the City Hall. It is difficult to tell what exactly ‘the

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means’ were, but since the author had already taken a dim view of public access to what was deliberated behind closed doors, he could hardly have intended that Councillors divulge inside information and impress the population with special knowledge. Rather, it appears that officeholding itself was considered to confer a superior judgement, that authority was self-legitimating and that there ought to be a natural alliance binding all those in positions of authority. Yet this was clearly not a universally held view in Lindau. Thus Miller noted that Councillors themselves criticized the Council, or at least silently accepted the common plebs’ ( gemeinen Pöbels) low estimation of the Council. This he considered mere cowardice and self-indulgence, responsible for weakening the prosperity of the civic organism.63 Here then, Miller’s view diverged sharply from those of the other narrators, for whom the line dividing rulers from subjects was at best indistinct. It was not simply the case that the implementation of one theory of government was being sabotaged by the proponents of another; rather, multiple interferences occurred within the confines of one single political culture, and the identities and interests of private citizens and public officials (and the spheres to which each belonged) merged constantly. Elsewhere, Neukomm had been indicted for introducing the republican vice of ‘private passion’ into the rational process of government. ‘Private’ and ‘secret’ were nevertheless frequently confused and conflated. Moreover, keeping the public private constituted ‘concealment’, which, it has already been noted, was of considerable cultural significance in Lindau. The reverse, however – making the private public, or ‘exposure’ – does not appear to have been a cultural topos. Indeed, that authority which derived legitimacy from some higher source or mystical quality was undermined by the close social contact of all Lindavians, if it had ever existed at all. A similar situation would have obtained in the vast majority of Imperial Cities. In this regard, indeed, the larger (and more thoroughly studied) cities such as Strasburg, Nuremberg or Augsburg must be considered anomalous. The classical tradition which informed many of the Lindauers’ theories of government had long ago confronted the reality of close contact and relations, although practical solutions remained elusive. Nevertheless, theorists had created the concept of political corruption to deal with the mixing of the private and public identities of individuals. It is to this which Miller now turned, identifying abuses (Misbräuch), partisan behaviour (Partheyligkheit) and the acceptance of bribes (Geschenckhnemung), all part of the classical canon of corrupt and corrupting activities. Moreover, when citizens were unjust or wrong (in unrechten Sachen)

The ‘Hows’ and ‘Whys’ Considered: Then and Now 29

Councillors dealt hypocritically (heuchelt), flattered (hoffiert), acquiesced (Recht gibt) and promised to vote in support of certain causes. Miller emphasized that it was the Councillors’ ready movement in both public and private spheres which was the source of the problem. Unfulfillable commitments were made outside the Council (ausserhalb Raths) and Miller regretted that many Councillors were too weak to resist the offer of a drink which symbolically transformed a verbal agreement into a binding contract.64 Especially in the case of the Privy Council, the irreconcilable nature of the many roles assumed by an individual had already borne the fruit of popular resentment. Thus Miller claimed to have heard talk from the citizens to the effect that one or the other Privy Councillor voted too strongly (hefftig) and preferentially (vortheilhafftig) because they were overburdened with too many offices. The concluding formulation, that loss of authority followed a breach of trust, which in turn followed corruption or conflicts of interests which were ultimately and inexorably linked to the concentration of power, is noteworthy for two reasons. First of all, it suggested that conflict was practically inevitable since, as already mentioned, the size of Lindau meant that individuals were bound to interact beyond the limits of categories assigned to them in political theory (such as ‘patrician’, ‘guildsman’, and so on). Moreover, the social and economic domination of large extended families led to partisan behaviour. In a sense, then, according to the best political theories of the time, society was inherently corrupt. Furthermore, the potential opposition of rulers and subjects ran much deeper than constitutional considerations, structural forms and material interests. Thus the author of this narrative, a staunch ‘authoritarian’ and a member of the ruling elite of the neo-patrician era, also expressed communal sentiments and an understanding of politics which Peter Eitel has associated exclusively with pre-1551 guild democracy.65 Finally, just as the three narratives examined above made a scapegoat of Alexius Neukomm, Miller now also pursued the identification of a socially dispensable guilty party. The remainder of his narrative he introduced, ominously, ‘As concerns the advocates’,66 claiming that the following points represented majority opinion in Lindau, and there were many other documents which indicated that anti-advocate passions ran high. According to Miller, eminent67 and common members of Council and City Court alike, as well as most of the citizenry, suspected and accused the advocates of the following: (1) not being native-born citizens (eingeborne Bürger) but foreigners (Frembde); (2) since their arrival all good fortune had ceased; (3) they had instigated and introduced all innovation in spiritual and worldly matters; (4) they had raised the old

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fines for transgressing against the vice ordinances (Lasterstraffen) and otherwise also helped to increase the citizens’ burden with fines, justifying this with the argument that one ought not to fine according to the crime (Verbrechen), but according to the means (Vermögen) of the guilty party; (5) they had interpreted the constitution arbitrarily;68 furthermore, they had taken no account of the members of the Council; and, most especially, they had created three or four different opinions out of every poll of the citizenry (Umbfragen) and forced through the one which pleased them best (frequently they even manipulated matters such that the majority actually supported their intentions); (6) they were the reason for the increase in the wine excise and other taxes levied on the citizenry; these revenues were expended for the support of the advocates although one might as well have, as of old, dispensed with them or replaced them with citizens’ sons. Points 1–3 are commonplaces of early modern urban politics. While one must never underestimate the power of such apparently irrational sentiments, which were more often than not the basis for the firmest political conviction, their greatest significance lies in their rhetorical potential and purpose. Certainly, the distinction between ‘native’ Lindauers and any ‘foreign’ interlopers was very important in local political culture. Moreover, while reaction so succinctly stated defies internal analysis, one can draw on a growing body of scholarship from comparable cases. Thus, Gerald Strauss observes that in early sixteenthcentury Bavarian lawyers were decried as foreigners (Auslender) as opposed to countrymen (Landsman).69 Some historians have taken such expressions at face-value and have concluded the existence of a fundamental xenophobia. For example, Heinz Schilling has called it a ‘worldview derived exclusivity claim’, and Heinrich Schmidt has identified an ‘exclusivity drive’ which, he argues, the Reformation served to satisfy.70 Natalie Davis has also posited a basic early modern drive for social conformity: she argues that one of the primary aims of religious violence was to rid the community of pollution. Hence the simplest acts of religious violence were often modelled on a rite of purification. In exploring the connection between religion and the native–foreign distinction in particular, Davis comes much closer than Schilling or Schmidt to a historical explanation of what appears to have been an early modern obsession with ‘foreigners’. Davis concludes that the native–foreign dichotomy was a very widespread metaphor, used to grasp all manner of fundamental differences, including, significantly, confessional ones. Thus, she argues that this is how Catholic and Protestant communities within one city viewed each other.71

The ‘Hows’ and ‘Whys’ Considered: Then and Now 31

Point (4) in the case against the advocates was also Miller’s first mention of apparently economic concerns. Doubtless these figured large after decades of various imperial levies, especially for the campaigns against the Turks, the disaster of the Schmalkaldic War, and now the Thirty Years’ War. On top of everything else, rampant inflation meant that even if the civic coffers were not empty, their contents were of dubious value. The inescapable conclusion of the Council was that some of the burdens would have to be passed on to the citizenry. There was, however, more to it than that. Since the Reformation, vice and the implementation of vice ordinances had been a touchy issue.72 The moral failings of individuals appeared to be linked to the declining prosperity of the civic body, but nobody was prepared to forswear perquisites to which they had become accustomed. Furthermore, there had been certain social-revolutionary overtones to the calls for temperance, at least some of which were aimed at the opulent by the less prosperous. In Lindau a compromise seems to have been reached whereby it was an admission of weakness and repentance of failing which was required, and not necessarily the cessation of indulgent activities. The punishment, accordingly, was a symbolic act and not a real deterrent. In theory at least, no distinction by status was made amongst transgressors, and the same nominal fine was paid by all. The relatively low importance accorded the prosecution of vice in Lindau is evidenced by the almost complete absence of cases in the records of the Council; at most, the Ratsprotokoll noted the name of the party and receipt of the fine. Of course there were periods in the sixteenth century when for various reasons – panic and remorse, public pressures of various kinds, the influence of a particular preacher – loose living was more diligently prosecuted. Sometimes certain troublesome individuals were effectively neutralized, but for the most part Lindauers carried on as they pleased. Now they were faced with the prospect that all that might change. Furthermore, those who stood to forfeit the most, the rich, were also in many ways the most influential. Regardless of the motives for the change – whether the idea was to reduce vice or raise revenue – the principle ‘from each according to his ability’, universally recognized in later periods as a noble sentiment at least, was read quite differently in early modern Lindau.73 At the other end of the social and economic scale, there were other motives for opposition to such measures. Lindauers do not appear to have thought too abstractly about the law, but since it touched most areas of Lindavian existence, they did know how it worked as a social institution and as a political weapon. Yet both the mighty, who wielded

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the law, and the weak, who were its victims, held that the law was beyond the influence of the individual and was of an essentially superhuman nature.74 For many Lindauers, therefore, the planned reforms, and the decoupling of crime and punishment, threatened the integrity of this conception. More prosaically, Lindauers’ resistance was probably also driven by a desire to combat what had become habitual ‘levies by law’. In any case, in the course of the sixteenth century people had indeed become more sensitive to the fact that abuse of the legal system above all constituted a miscarriage of justice. Even if there was no popular objection to the principle of a punishment that did not fit the crime but was, rather, tailored to suit the pocket of the criminal, the marriage of the law and government smacked of lordship, which was historically evocative and ideologically volatile in the bourgeois republican context. While access to the mysteries of the law had always been restricted, by about the middle of the sixteenth century the law had been getting too complex even for the local elite, with its relatively rigorous humanist education, to understand. This professional monopoly on such an integral part of Lindavian existence afforded the advocates a unique form of power which inevitably led to resentment. It is appropriate, therefore, to offer at least a partial explanation of the grievances 1–3 identified by Miller. The naming of the most readily distinguishable foreign element, the advocates, as the party responsible for all burdensome innovations, and indeed all misfortune, closely corresponds to the urban anti-clericalism of the Reformation period. It is now widely accepted that such anti-clericalism was a form of popular expression which had little if anything to do with theological concerns or even popular religious fervour, but was essentially political. For example, Heiko Oberman has argued that the mechanism underlying such apparently diverse phenomena as anti-clericalism and some forms of agitation against Jews was essentially the same and led directly to the real object of popular resentment, the magistrates and the ‘Great Jacks’ (große Hansen).75 Just as not all sixteenth-century attacks on Jews can be best understood as essential anti-semitism, so the early seventeenthcentury outbursts against the advocates in Lindau must be viewed in terms of the fundamental conflict between citizens and magistrates and the political culture within which this took place. In grievance (6) against the advocates, a further parallel between the sixteenth-century clergy and the seventeenth-century legal profession is highlighted. While one might interpret the curious allusion to the salaries of the advocates as part and parcel of a straightforward proabolition argument, it is highly significant that the advocates retained

The ‘Hows’ and ‘Whys’ Considered: Then and Now 33

by the city were ambiguously described as responsible for raising their own financial support, just like parish priests. In fact, in the seventeenth century, while clergy and advocates shared the unpleasant task of devising controls for those elements of society beyond the immediate jurisdiction of the Council, the clergy were now recruited mostly from the local community. Even in small towns, where immigration was a commonplace, only the advocates were consistently outsiders. It should thus come as no suprise that when plans for innovative revenue collection were made public, the advocates presented an obvious target and their foreignness was immediately invoked against them. This translation of a formula widely established in the anti-clerical expressions of the Reformation is seen at its most complete, as well as explicit, in the author’s argument that the advocates were not angels (Engel) but humans and were therefore fallible (gebrechlich). Early modern assertions that the clergy banked, improperly, on privileged or monopolistic access to the sacred were not unfounded. Likewise, the advocates did make extensive use of scriptural quotation, as well as citing the most authoritative biblical scholars of the day. Nevertheless, it is highly improbable that the Lindau advocates ever claimed direct divine inspiration. Instead, such citations of religious authority appear predominantly in the context of self-justification, especially in the countless formal apologies regularly demanded of them. Therefore, the advocates’ efforts are best viewed as self-defensive attempts to fight fire with fire, cynical or desperate invocations of the ultimate authority. Thus Miller implied that the advocates had developed ideas well above their station and demanded that the advocates acknowledge, repent and improve their deficiencies (Mängel) with the help of God. Apparently, although the advocates had recently, on 9 January, submitted a ‘further apology, information and plea’ (weitere Entschuldigung, Information und Bitt) to the Council, they simultaneously pursued a vigorous self-defence. Specifically, in answer to the charge that they were responsible for the daily diminishing prosperity of the city, the advocates cited generally bad times (den gemeinen bösen Läufen), the shortcomings of Lindau’s ruling magistrates and the shameful and wicked life led by private persons. This last evil had been increasing steadily and threatened to take over completely, since it would no longer recognize or suffer punishment. In any case, the misfortune which had befallen the city could not be ascribed to the advocates. Rather, the advocates supposedly argued, it was the blend of moral vice and political corruption76 which had led them to help initiate the innovations and increases which were the object of the attack in points (3) and (5).

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According to Miller, the advocates blamed a poorly constituted church and body politic (Kirchen und Policywesen), which had incurred the wrath of God, which had in turn caused grave internal divisiveness (Zerrüttligkeit). A marginal addition noted that the advocates claimed to have carried out their work in accordance with the word of God and the instructions of the Council. Miller’s narrative ends abruptly, with this brief summary of the defence of the advocates. It is striking that, after all that, the advocates’ own assessment of the problems facing Lindau was essentially the same as that detailed by Miller in the first half of the document. Indeed, while the three basic elements of decline – constitutional ailment, divine wrath and internal discord – are ubiquitous in the sources, the causal relationship linking them varied significantly from observer to observer. Although the author was guarded, even coy, in his discussion of the case against the advocates, he was clearly not sympathetic to their plight. On the other hand, had he objected strongly to the remedies they suggested, one would expect him to have expressed his own displeasure; yet he did not. One is forced to conclude that, while the advocates clearly served some practical function as a medium between government and populace, in the political culture and bourgeois republican ideology of Lindau, elite and popular opinion stood undivided in their prejudice against them.

3 Historiographical Contours

Introduction The following chapter addresses three especially persistent aspects of traditional German historiography: confessionalism, constitutionalism and nationalism. This is intended as a ground-clearing exercise, so that the importance of Lindau’s political culture and the extent of the processes of confessionalization might come into full view. The contours of the historiography have long been determined by the two apparently distinct paradigms of Reformation history and Imperial history. In fact, the existence of two distinct paradigms is indicative only of the competing claims of church and state, which have both operated, historiographically speaking, within much the same terrain. For example, for the Reformation, the accepted chronological dimension is 1517–55; the Imperial framework is defined by Charles V’s election in 1519 and the introduction of his programme of constitutional reforms in 1551. Moreover, both historiographies were shaped, in the first instance, by common practices of source selection and interpretation. Indeed, the nominal character of the distinction between Reformation and Imperial histories largely accounts for the ease with which they have together been integrated into German nationalist historiographies. The common net effect of all three aspects of traditional German historiography can be summarized as: (1) an exaggerated separation of religion from politics; (2) a tendency to sever the sixteenth century almost exactly in half; (3) the isolation of German histories and historiographies from those of its European neighbours. The following discussion of secondary and primary sources pertaining to Lindau attempts to militate against all three tendencies. The aim, however, is not to engage in revisionist critique of one or two local historians but, rather, 35

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to hazard a provisional reinterpretation of urban society and culture in early modern Germany. Thus, this is both a significant ground-clearing exercise and an attempt to establish conditions and parameters for a more accurate understanding of early modern political action. Cleared of a few trees of structural historiography, the forest of people acting in the dual contexts of a political culture and bourgeois republican ideology should come into view.

The ‘guild-constitution’ (Zunftverfassung) Generally, the independent urban polities of south Germany are historiographically well endowed. Lindau is no exception, boasting a self-conscious historiographical tradition dating back to the sixteenth century. Historically, this early work represents efforts to establish local legal rights within the political framework of the Holy Roman Empire. Yet more recently and broadly conceived scholarship also bears the strong imprint of such traditional historical writing, albeit usually with a nationalist overstrike.1 Certainly, the oldest published constitutional history of Lindau, Daniel Heider’s Gründliche Außführung, typifies a legally and politically motivated constitutional history.2 In the wake of the uprising of 1626, Imperial Commissions reconferred powers previously exercised by the city of Lindau upon other bodies or individuals. Apparently Heider, who had been recruited to Lindau as City Syndic, devoted most of the rest of his life to reasserting Lindau’s claims and trying to demonstrate that the city of Lindau had some sort of constitutional primacy, especially over the local Ladies’ Convent (Damenstift). According to K.O. Müller, it was not until the first decade of this century that the origins of Lindau as a religious foundation were firmly established.3 Thus Heider was engaged in a polemical and mythmaking exercise with potentially weighty and certainly long-lasting consequences. Inasmuch as subsequent historians of Lindau have taken their cue from men such as Heider, they too have staked much on politically significant myths concerning the fundamental ‘constitutions’ of things German. In the last half century, there has been a particular tendency to look for signs of German political structures and historical trajectories which point somewhere other than the Third Reich.4 The hunt for early or proto-democratic structures, as well as the search for the critical rupture which, so the argument goes, must have put an end to their development, has been particularly vigorous. Sometimes, no doubt, such historiography has been, like Heider’s Gründliche Außführung, motivated by patriotic and largely noble sentiments. Nevertheless,

Historiographical Contours 37

it now appears misguided in several important respects. First of all, it is overly concerned with tracing the development of rigid structures and discrete processes and not sufficiently concerned with more dynamic, discursive aspects of past lives and experiences.5 Second, it holds fast to historiographical models and structures, especially the Rankean epochs, in a way which not only isolates German from other European histories, but also contravenes basic principles of empirical historiography.6 In 1345, Lindau experienced a so-called ‘guild revolution’, which was followed by the development of a so-called ‘guild constitution’.7 The most recent histories of Lindau still make much of this. The work of Peter Eitel, for example, consistently expresses an epochal view which casts a single constitutional aspect, guild rule, as the overriding determinant.8 The stated aim of Eitel’s study is to continue K.O. Müller’s work, while at the same time, and in contrast to Müller, considering ‘the constitutional reality, the actual political distribution of power’.9 Unfortunately, the project is overburdened by Eitel’s own precepts of the nature and operation of constitutions and politics. In particular, he assumes both the ‘reality’ of a primal guild–patrician dialectic and that the past actually occurred in discrete epochs. The view is neither naïve nor benign. Underlying the work is the conviction that the flourishing proto-democracy of the guild rule era came to an abrupt end only due to the high-handed actions of Charles V and his administrators.10 Gerd Wunder’s examination of the theory and practice of electing urban councils in cities comparable to Lindau points to a very different conclusion. Even where councils were composed entirely of guildsmen, there was popular criticism of the Council’s ‘obrigkeitliches Gebahren’. Thus Wunder concluded that the division between rich and poor provided a basic continuity in social dynamic, regardless of either the gradual development of oligarchy or the cataclysmic impact of Charles V’s reforms.11 Indeed, as early as 1529 members of Lindau’s ruling elite undertook to change the Lindau constitution, thus removing impediments to the concentration of power in the hands of a small number of oligarchs. Legislation was ratified which would permit all eight Zunftmeister to occupy Council seats immediately following the completion of their terms of office; previously no more than two alt Zunftmeister could do this. Furthermore, the disqualification from Council of a retiring mayor was reduced from two years to one year.12 A few years later, in 1535 or 1536, it was decided that a retiring mayor could immediately take up a seat on the Council.13

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The year 1536 also marked something of a watershed in the history of resistance to such concentration of power. Previously, divisions in the Council had often been decided by an appeal to the greater authority of the (guild) commune,14 and even the mere threat of taking a dispute to such a full commune made persuasive argument.15 In August 1536 the Council was split over the renewal of Schoolmaster Caspar Heldelin’s contract. Several Zunftmeister, who were presumably at odds with the balance of the Council, referred the matter to a commune, which decided in favour of Heldelin and the Zunftmeister. The decision of a commune was unassailable, but the episode had weighty consequences: future access to the commune would be limited. Henceforth, the Zunftmeister were not to be allowed to call a commune in such petty matters; instead, these would be settled in the common interest by the Council.16 It seems the Council was able to enforce its usurpation of the commune to good effect. In June 1537 problems with the election of a Zunftmeister17 were resolved under duress, this time in the Council’s favour. The Zunftmeister in question was not permitted to submit the matter to a vote by the commune.18 Such successful concentration of power notwithstanding, the Council minutes also record some examples of citizen resistance. In 1531 a baker named Conrat Sträfle was gaoled for speaking out against Council negotiations with other cities and the Duke of Saxony; it was also recorded that Sträfle had started an uproar about turning Swiss at the funeral of Michael Lucass.19 Dress Schnezer and Franz Albrecht were also found guilty of speaking out against the chief Council negotiator, Mayor Bodmer. Schnezer reputedly said that Bodmer had ridden to Frankfurt to treat with the Devil.20 The issues at the heart of such conflicts were laid bare a few years later when Bodmer’s diplomatic activities were once again the target of criticism. On 14 January 1534 Jos Huober was gaoled for saying that Mayor Bodmer had gone to the diet at Augsburg where he had negotiated without a mandate. Huober had further implied treachery on the part of Bodmer with accusations that the mayor had failed to declare what had been negotiated at Augsburg.21 Such were the combined practical and ideological pressures bearing down on those who wished to exercise authority. The Council did face internal political opposition. Neverthess, this was not a popular movement per se, but rather a close functional relative of republican ideology, providing rhetorical ammunition for a bourgeois opposition. For example, a movement of the ‘commune’, in the sense of a real ‘third estate’ independent of bourgeois ideology, simply is not discernable in Lindau.22 If we seek an in-depth knowledge of the political culture of early modern Lindau, even the basic categories ‘guildsfolk’ and ‘patriciate’ must be approached with great caution. Things were not, apparently, as they

Historiographical Contours 39

seem: in practice, therefore, this basic, categorical distinction was anything but absolute. It was, for example, possible for a wealthy guildsman to attain patrician status by marriage. Conversely, the statute book of 1533, cited by Eitel, provides that, while in principle all non-artisan citizens ought to belong to the patrician organization of the Sünfzen, the Council could place individuals in a guild if the Sünfzen rejected them.23 Of course, this may also have facilitated a patrician ‘infiltration’ of the guilds.24 Both instances strongly suggest that the guildsman–patrician dichotomy was not a constitutional provision turned social fact, but rather an ideological construct which emerged on various occasions as a political factor in disputes between individuals and groups not best understood in such simple, structural terms. It seems that Eitel simply fails to realize that his subjects, too, had strategies and ideologies which led them, among other things, to integrate reference to constitutional structures and principles into most or all of their more quotidian discourse. Ambiguities arising from the multiple usage of terms were not, therefore, accidents of unsophisticated government or the mark of an infant democracy. Rather, they were the very stuff of politics: the means by which power was exercised both legitimately and effectively. For example, when the Council engaged in settling the estate of one Jos Pfiffer, even though the Council was one of Pfiffer’s creditors, the Council pronouncement was, predictably, in the ‘common’ interest: ‘that the common City would receive outstanding taxes first, after which all common creditors would be granted access to Jos Pfiffer’s estate’.25 Several things should be noted. First, this was the first instance of the use of the term ‘common’ (gemein) in countless minute entries, possibly in the whole volume of minutes, and the Council was deliberately invoking (these declarations were read out loud in what amounted to a public forum, for those who were qualified to enter the Council chamber) the citizens’ communal stake in the city (gemein Stadt). Second, the repetition of the term in the sense of ‘common’ or ‘the rest’ is a rhetorical device to re-associate two categories which the pronouncement had just explicitly placed in a valued order (that is: first the Council would get its money, then the ordinary citizens). Third, while the Council apparently got away with the move this time, it is clear that its members were treading very carefully, in recognition or anticipation of a citizenry which did not invariably or passively accept the legitimate authority of the Council. Moreover, if the government of Lindau was neither democratic nor pacific prior to 1551, it certainly was not one of unopposed oligarchy after 1551 either. Lists of office-holders in Lindau provide a ready

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means of testing the two basic assumptions: (1) that early modern civic government was originally democratic; (2) that the constitutional reforms of Charles V were decisive in the mysterious demise of early modern German democracy (see Figures 3.1 and 3.2).26 In addition to recording the membership of the usual bodies, the Council list for 1538 contains the following entry: ‘Item: on the day appointed for the Mayors to take office, the Council this year elected as Privy Councillors and committees the following gentlemen’.27 It is

Number of individuals

20

15

10

5

0

5

10

15 20 Years in office

25

30

Figure 3.1 Distribution of public officers by length of tenure, 1519–49

Number of individuals

Note: Where the Council minutes were incomplete (for example, in recording the members of the City Court), the registers published in P. Eitel, Zunftherrschaft, pp. 171–90, have been used.

15

10

5

0

5

10

15

20 25 Years in office

30

35

40

Figure 3.2 Distribution of public officers by length of tenure, 1588–1636

45

Historiographical Contours 41

unlikely that this entry signals a major change in the administration of Lindau. Instead, committees appointed by all or part of the Council, as opposed to being elected according to a set formula, already wielded considerable power. For example, in 1537, when Lindau’s emissary to Ulm returned home, no report was made to the Council. Instead, a five-member committee (Ausschuß) was appointed, consisting of three men identified as Mayors and two other long-serving members of the Council. These men were to hear the report of the emissary; what they considered important they were in turn to relate to the Council, and the rest they were to keep to themselves.28 It is likely that what we have here is the forerunner of that inner circle which eventually became institutionalized as the Privy Council. Especially striking is the mention of three Mayors, since the Privy Council listed for 1538 also contained an obern Bürgermeister, an undern Bürgermeister, and one described as alten Bürgermeister. Although no further Privy Councils are recorded in the Council lists until 1546, a committee similar to the one described above is recorded in the Council minutes for June 1539.29 Much the same formula, which clearly associates the election of the seven-strong Privy Council with the nomination of a committee, was repeated annually in the Council minutes until the late 1540s. The Privy Council was chosen at the same time as the other Councillors were elected, but there were no rules which stipulated the rotation of members. On several occasions all seven men were returned to their office in consecutive years and never more than two members changed in any one year during this period. In 1545 the secretary did not even bother to record the names of the Privy Councillors, but simply noted that they were the same as in the previous year.30 The lists of officeholders for 1519–49 name approximately 150 individuals. To see how these, the members of the ruling elite of Lindau, rotated and to determine what de facto rules, if any, governed who held what position, 100 ‘careers’ were charted (a ‘career’ is the occurrence of a name on three or more distinct occasions). As a general rule, nobody held the same position in the Council two years in a row, although there were some notable exceptions. These tended to be particularly eminent citizens, members of an urban aristocracy called Sünfzenjunker. For example, Hieronymus von Pappus was a Councillor without interruption for a decade starting in 1538; Hans von Röthenberg occupied the same seat every year from 1519 to 1535. The constant infusion of new blood by the prohibition of uninterrupted tenure was more commonly avoided, however, by alternating between two offices from year to year.

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Occasionally individuals even alternated between the offices of Oberbürgermeister and Unterbürgermeister, but the longest and most regular careers belonged to those men who sat as Councillors one year and Guildmasters the next. For example, Hans Bodler was thus able to hold office without interruption from 1519 to 1536 and Claus Herreman’s career spanned the entire period from 1519 to 1549. Finally, it is possible to differentiate between two types of Council career.31 The one type, represented by the careers of individuals such as Lucas von Kirchen, was often, though not exclusively, associated with patrician status and was characterized by a tendency towards long, uninterrupted tenure of a seat in the Council. The names of such individuals are found at the top of the Council lists; such men only relinquished their seats to take up a position as Mayor. Individuals who followed the path described by the other career type tended to sit both as Councillors and as Guildmasters. Their names usually enter the lists near the bottom and they seem to have worked their way up to an invisible ceiling which restricted their further advance. Only two individuals, Bernhart Mittler and Hans Bodmer, held office both as a Guildmaster and as an Oberbürgermeister. Such was the state of Lindau’s de facto constitution in October, 1551, when the Imperial minister Heinrich Has and a Landkomtur of the Teutonic Order, Sigmund von Hornstein, arrived in Lindau to ‘reform’ the civic constitution.32 In fact, the first so-called Hasenrat was quickly abandoned in favour of an administration along established lines. Thus a list of office holders, including a 14-member Council and a college of eight Guildmasters, is recorded in a Ratsprotokoll entry for the summer of 1552.33 The respite was short-lived and entries for the autumn of 1553 show that an election of the Vorsteher of the guilds had taken place in accordance with the reformed constitutional formula.34 Nevertheless, it is clear that the comprehensive destruction of the guilds, which does seem to have been an aim of the reforms, was never successfully carried out.35 Moreover, important structural continuities – the offices of Mayor and Stadtamman and the Council, Court and Great Council or Commune all continued to exist – were matched by a continuity of trends in the evolution of unofficial administrative structures. For example, two members of the Council were invariably identified as Privy Councillors. The rubric ‘Ihre [the three Mayors’] zugeordnete gehaime Räth’ which first appeared in 1596 shows that while these individuals, like the Privy Councillors prior to 1551, were not officially chosen by a Mayor, they worked as one body with all three Mayors and were closely

Historiographical Contours 43

associated with the increasing powers of this office.36 Furthermore, in 1597 the other 14 members of the Council were first called ‘die anndern Räth’.37 This is a slightly ambiguous description since ander could mean ‘second’ or ‘secondary’ as well as ‘the other’ or ‘the rest’. In any case the use of this term highlights the fact that the Privy Council, which originated as a select subcommittee of the Council, had come to be perceived as a separate entity, albeit with some overlapping membership, possibly even on an equal footing with the Council. Furthermore, the distinction between Council and Court, already intimated in the lists for 1519–46, assumed real significance in the second half of the century. The Court, whose membership was first recorded in the list for 1536, became a permanent fixture in the lists after 1588; its members were known as Judges (Richter). While in the period prior to 1551 the principle of rotation meant that there was regular overlap of membership between the Council and the Court, it stands to reason that the long uninterrupted tenures of a single office characteristic of the post-1551 constitution served to harden the distinction between the Councillors and Judges. In 1591 this distinction assumed further importance for the communal politics of Lindau. A comment at the bottom of the list of Judges for that year noted that the Council had decided to increase the number of Judges in the Court by two, to make the total 16.38 In this way a previously unknown symmetry of governmental structures was created. While the Commons remained unaffected, the 16-member Council, led by a Mayor, now had its mirror image in the 16-member Court under the leadership of the Stadtamman. Moreover, where the Mayor had the support of the Privy Councillors, especially the non-officiating Mayors, the Stadtamman was seconded by an acting or Lieutenant-Stadtamman.39 Notably, the dichotomy between Court and Council played an important part in the events of 1626. While it would be unreasonable to assume that simple lines of division were drawn, the two main administrative bodies appear to have provided a symbolic focus for each side of the dispute. Indeed, the holders of the offices of Amtsbürgermeister and Stadtamman were chief actors and negotiators in both parties. The differentiation of offices on the basis of length of tenure is in keeping with the two career-types outlined using the 1519–49 lists. Average lengths of tenure, which highlight the distinction between the three groups Mayor-cum-Council, Stadtamman-cum-Court and the Commons, can be calculated. It is the relative predominance of long and short careers in any one office, however, which is most telling. Their band distribution by lengths (see Figure 3.3) most clearly demonstrates

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the differences between careers in the Council, Court or Commons. Although short careers are not as prevalent for members of the Court as they are for members of the Commons, none of the extraordinarily long careers possible in the Council is in evidence. There is a distinct levelling of the curve for Court careers in the bands 16–20 years and 21–25 years, followed by a sharp drop. Although no conclusive reason for this can be

60

Number of tenures as a percentage of total

50

Council City Court Commons

40

30

20

10

1–5

6–10

11–15 16–20 21–25 26–30 31–35 36–40 41–45

46–50

Length in years

Figure 3.3 Band distribution of tenures by length, 1588–1636 (as a percentage of total to be found in that band)

Historiographical Contours 45

determined, it is possible that it marks the point beyond which those members of the Court whose ambitions for promotion had been frustrated were unwilling to serve. Council careers were consistently the longest, which reflects not only the relatively lower political vulnerability of those in this office, but also attests to the concentration of wealth in the ranks of the Council. Since all of these offices were unsalaried, considerable and certain financial support was a prerequisite of extended careers in government. This financial patronage might also be linked to the prevalence of family connections in higher offices. Finally, in contrast to the lists for 1519–49, the lists for 1588–1636 contain a significant amount of marginal commentary. For example, the election of a particular individual to replace a departing member in a specific office was recorded on 77 occasions.40 When the number of occurrences per government body is divided by the number of seats in each,41 the following ‘relative inheritance indices’ for each office are obtained: 2.33 for Mayor, 2.00 for Stadtamman, 1.81 for the Council, 1.56 for the Court and 0.70 for the Commons. This indicates which offices mattered to those who were able to pass their offices on to successors. It also suggests which offices might have afforded relatively easy access to those Lindauers who, although politically potent, were not yet in possession of an administrative office. In other words, it represents the outline of an intra-elite division. Ultimately, Charles V’s reforms neither shattered the guilds nor disenfranchised the populace in Lindau, and it is misleading to assess the impact of his Hasenräte on the basis of characterizations of pre- and post-1551 constitutions as more or less ‘democratic’.42 Certain structural changes did indeed take place; some of these may even have subsequently been significant in communal politics. It is also the case, however, that certain aspects of Lindau’s constitution before and after 1551 found expression in the persistent oligarchical tedencies of the city’s rulers. Moreover, these tendencies were resisted, from time to time, both before and after 1551. In Lindau, as elsewhere, the course of the ‘long sixteenth century’ was marked by recurring conflict between oligarchical tendencies in the practice of government and antioligarchical ideologies, especially bourgeois republicanism. These dynamics constituted the essential ingredients of a political culture which was both more profound and more enduring than the analysis of consitutional structures reveals. That the political culture remained largely unaffected by Charles V’s reforms is demonstrated, ultimately, by the persistence of the concept of the Ausstand.43 The

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Ausstand, which was formulated into a city ordinance in the 1540s but had probably been practised well before that date, prevented relatives of various degrees, by blood or by marriage, from simultaneously holding public office. The lists of officeholders for 1588–1636 contain at least ten instances where the disqualification of an office-holder or candidate, because of his relation to another member or candidate, was noted by the secretary.44 If the new constitution was supposed to institutionalize the oligarchical tendencies of the ruling elite into a Geschlechterherrschaft, then certain cultural constraints still remained to be overcome.

Reformation or confessionalization? In 1530 the four cities of Lindau, Constance, Strasburg and Memmingen drafted and submitted their own confession, known as the Confessio Tetrapolitana, to Charles V. It is likely that they were motivated from the outset by a desire to avoid whole-hearted commitment, either to the Swiss cities or to the German majority which dominated from the north.45 But these are probably not the kind of ‘political’ motives early modern commentators had in mind when they described the Tetrapolitana as having a strong Zwinglian bent.46 Instead, they were almost certainly alluding to the marked effects of reform on internal political structures and relations. Indeed, the Council minutes for the early 1530s already indicate innovations which would have had a steady effect on the lives of ordinary Lindauers. The earliest extant discipline ordinance (Zuchtordnung) dates from 1533,47 and in February 1533 the Council proclaimed a vice ordinance (Lasterordnung). The public punishment of miscreants by burdening them with a Lasterstein is recorded for 1534. In February of that same year the Council reprimanded all tailors in Lindau jurisdiction for slitting garments in contravention of sumptuary legislation.48 In March the ringing of St Stephan’s bells for matins and vespers was indefinitely suspended.49 The re-establishment of Catholic services during the Interim following the Schmalkaldic Wars notwithstanding, by the third quarter of the century there appear to have been very few practising Catholics in Lindau. The journal of Michel de Montaigne, who stayed in Lindau en route to Italy in 1580, relates that the local priest claimed that there were no more than two or three Catholics in the city.50 More significantly Montaigne, almost unique among contemporary observers, grasped the essential peculiarity of the Lindauers’ religion. Despite the confessional hatred expressed towards Zwingli and Calvin by the

Historiographical Contours 47

Lindau pastor interviewed, Montaigne concluded that few towns did not have something particular about their religion and, although they all professed allegiance to Luther, there were many disputes about the proper interpretation of his work.51 The Lindau chronicler Ulrich Neukomm also implied the extent to which the entire ‘long sixteenth century’ had been a time of indeterminacy and confusion. For example, not until the seventeenth century did Lindau church practice include ceremonies and rituals of ecclesiastical reproduction. In 1613 the Minister Alexius Neukomm ordained his new junior colleague, Magister Wilhelm Hursich; Lindau had witnessed no such act for 100 years.52 The Lindau Protestants’ increasingly secure confessional identity may have also contributed greatly to the re-emergence of Catholic displays side-by-side with evangelical ceremonies. In 1615, only three years after the death of the priest who had served the Convent since the Interim, and who had probably been the one interviewed by Montaigne, 300 people came to Lindau from the jurisdiction of Wasserburg to receive the blessing of the visiting Bishop Mürgel. Ulrich Neukomm commented on this rare spectacle and wrote that the Lindauers all thought that the 300 figures must have just come from the barber-surgeon’s house, presumably because they were all dressed in white.53 That same year an archaic ritual was enacted between the authorities of the Convent and the city. Neukomm noted that the Abbess exercised her ancient privilege to free a man condemned to death by severing his bonds and taking him into the Convent. Thereupon the Council sent two delegates to demand that the culprit be made to do penance. Finally he was sent to the Convent at Einsiedeln to do said penance, along with the rope which had been around his neck and the knife with which the Abbess had cut it.54 In 1617, the same year as Lindau celebrated the Luther jubilee, the funeral bells of St Stephan were rung for the recently deceased secretary of the Convent!55 Greater still than the influence of constitutional myth on German historiography has been the effect of something called ‘the Reformation’.56 At least since Leopold von Ranke gave pride of place to an eponymous ‘epoch’ in his national history of Germany, moreover, secular historiography has also embraced the concept. Indeed, in recent years the concept has actually been reinvigorated by debate over the concept of ‘communalism’. The proponents of one approach, chiefly represented in the work of Peter Blickle,57 posit that the commune (Gemeinde) can be identified with a distinct social category or structure.58 In this way, their arguments are clearly akin to those of constitutional historians such as Peter Eitel. Furthermore, while Blickle has argued that a

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coherent communal movement existed for a brief but crucial period until its ultimate destruction in 1525, critics such as Bob Scribner have questioned whether its many elements were ever integrated into anything like a movement.59 Ultimately, this leads to questions, both theoretical and practical, concerning the legitimacy of a ‘Reformation’ concept distinct from the more recent ‘confessionalization’. Certainly, questions of the historical structural reality of Blickle’s ‘communal Reformation’ (Gemeindereformation) are of little relevance to the student of Lindau after 1525. What remained after that date was a discourse or ideology pertaining to the commune. Heinz Schilling, while he is reluctant to trespass on the territory of post-1789 history, has suggested that, at least in the urban context, ‘republicanism’ might actually be a more appropriate term than ‘communalism’.60 In Lindau both the ‘commune’ and res publica or related concepts were named throughout the ‘long sixteenth century’. Moreover, there are no indications that one formulation or conceptualization was being favoured increasingly over the course of the century. For example, the question of whether a Council or a ‘commune’ had the ultimate right to hire and fire pastors in Lindau remained a potent political issue right up to 1626. Indeed, A. Westermann identified the question of communal election of pastors as being at the root of the infamous ‘Zangmeister affair’.61 While several sixteenth-century Lindau pastors were dismissed by the Council, despite their popular support, this case is particularly interesting as it occurred in the early 1620s. One can safely assume, therefore, that the actors of 1626 were well versed in the relevant issues. In Lindau, significantly, the first documentary mention of the Reformation shibboleth ‘Word of God’ occurs in the Council minutes for 1529 which recorded the establishment of a Council subcommittee to deal with this.62 At first glance, therefore, the holistic arguments of Hans-Jürgen Goertz would seem both sensible and attractive. According to Goertz, the distinction between ‘religious’ concepts of the Reformation on the one hand, and social, political, and economic concepts on the other, is historiographically misleading because it is historically false. That is, the distinctions central to conventional definitions of the Reformation were unknown to early modern urbanites who, after all, considered themselves in terms of the corpus christianum.63 Moreover, argues Goertz, the heterogeneous nature of society precludes any significance for broad general categories. The basic proposition, which is not without postmodern attractions, is that all things are a little bit of everything. Thus disagreement with Goertz on this point goes beyond

Historiographical Contours 49

the conventional division between scholars favouring either a Durkheimian or a Marxist approach to religion.64 The danger is that such broadmindedness will obscure the historical importance of similarly conceived debates in shaping the historical fortunes of early modern people. Similarly, in the English-language historiography the considerable influence of l’histoire totale has encouraged the elimination of the Reformation as a distinct historiographical category. William Monter noted this tendency nearly 20 years ago, most strikingly in the very influential work of Peter Burke.65 On the one hand, it thus appears that the Reformation, much like the ‘religion’ described with terse eloquence by Jonathan Z. Smith, ‘is solely the creation of the scholar’s study’.66 Moreover, this likeness is not particularly surprising, given the historical proximity in which these two terms developed both scholarly as well as other meanings.67 On the other hand, the apparent arbitrariness of religion and Reformation alike, however, can also invite gross expansions of both categories, with the notorious consequence that they end up covering everything and meaning little or nothing. Indeed, the historiography of recent decades has produced both longer and shorter Reformations, as well as both subnational (or even local) Reformation and trans-national (or even European) Reformations. What one is left with is a distinct and uncomfortable impression that something crucial is being overlooked. That something is what might be called contemporary, early modern Reformation discourse or Reformation-consciousness, a crucial aspect of the process of confessionalization. Not incidentally, such consciousness entailed considerations of ‘religion’. In fact, early modern Lindauers discussed at length both the extent and limits of religion as well as the proper distinction between things secular and spiritual. Thus concepts such as corpus christianum were rhetorical tropes. As ideological figments, they must be considered, along with much else, in the context of that ongoing struggle for power and authority which had divided the Western world into two distinct ‘jurisdictions’ since Constantine hatched imperial Christianity/Christian imperialism.68 As a crucial ‘invention’ of this struggle, the Reformation obviously made a significant contribution to early modern and subsequent debates.69 Its importance as a historical – as well as a historiographical – artefact, however, goes beyond the history of ideas or of canonical ‘political theory’. Within a few short years of 1517 (and certainly no later than 1525) the Reformation began to impress itself decisively on the political culture of places such as Lindau. What the minutes of the Lindau Council reveal, therefore, is a

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transformation of the city’s political culture by its interaction with ‘Reformation consciousness’, even as the latter was still very much a fragmented and amorphous entity. What emerged from this interaction is no less than bourgeois republican ideology.70 All of which is certainly not to reduce or subordinate the Reformation to ‘mere’ political interests. The importance of its ‘independence’, as a matter of ‘religion’ (Religionssache), from the normal processes of politics or government in sixteenth-century discourse cannot be overstressed, especially since the extension of Obrigkeit into new spheres (see below) constituted a significant innovation. Indeed, the student of early modern Lindau is confronted with a wealth of sources which places this supposedly non-existent dichotomy at the very centre of contemporary perceptions of events. For example, Melanchthon apparently distinguished, albeit disapprovingly, fundamental political concerns from reformed religion in Lindau. Supposedly it was a ‘Swiss Spirit’, rather than theological debate, which motivated the Lindau reformers.71 Conversely, according to an anonymous early modern analyst, in sixteenth-century Lindau rebellion against the Emperor was transformed into a matter of religion.72 Recently, Lorna Abray has come to a very similar conclusion in her assessment of the Tetrapolitana as a magisterial measure in its inception as well as in its ratification.73 The assessments of contemporary observers must of course be considered in the light of their own political aims and underlying strategies: since a political nature (politisches Wesen) was the source of all heresy (Ursprung aller Kätzerey), the representation of the Lindauers’ stance on religion as politically motivated facilitated their denunciation as heretics.74 Yet that does not alter the fact that: (1) sixteenth-century Lindauers distinguished broadly between matters religious and political; (2) in terms of the rhetorical pursuits of contemporaries, the distinction was of central importance; (3) underlying the deployment of the distinction there was, then as now, a competition for authority and, ultimately, power. It will be maintained below that the contest for authority also determined the course of religious reform in its detailed progression as a series of practical changes; religious reform is considered, without apologies, as a political phenomenon. Thus, it is also considered indistinguishable, either historically or historiographically, from confessionalization.

The case of anti-clericalism Nearly 20 years ago Bob Scribner drew attention to a vast body of popular wood-cuts and suggested new methods of exploiting this as yet relatively

Historiographical Contours 51

untapped source of information on popular anti-clericalism.75 More recently Hans-Jürgen Goertz practically equated anti-clericalism with the early Reformation.76 Despite a long history of study, anti-clericalism continues to attract a wide range of scholarly attention.77 While theological justifications probably played a role in the transformation of anti-clerical sentiments into actions, they have also undoubtedly been overemphasized. Alternative catalysts appropriate to the south German urban context – for example, political ideologies – should also be considered. First and foremost among these would be bourgeois republicanism. Is it possible that in south German cities bourgeois republicanism gave structure and moment to a nebulous popular sentiment such as anticlericalism? In the Lindau case, one of five causes of anti-clericalism identified by Hans-Jürgen Goertz (popular resentment against the power of death-bed confessors) emerges as part of a complex of discourses linking anti-clericalism to bourgeois republicanism. Furthermore, it is possible that unusually high mortality, the result of a virulent pestilence, had temporarily transformed this kind of anti-clericalism from an endemic condition into the burning issue of the day. The most striking feature of the three volumes of Council minutes covering the years 1525–31 is the predominance of legal disputes relating to inheritance. Countless wills were contested in this period, as were the principles and practices by which either women and children or more distant male relatives inherited estates. All of this suggests not only that mortality was high, thus resulting in a rapid circulation of property, but also that mortality was so high in the mid-1520s that the habitual channels of property transmission were severely disrupted.78 The Lindau chronicles identify plague as the cause of the disruption. According to Johann Bertlin, City Secretary from 1598 to 1615, mortality was so high in the 1520s, and the city so deserted, that grass grew up between the cobbles of several public squares.79 The implications of the high mortality for our understanding of anticlericalism are as follows. Many estates had become subject to the multiple weak claims of countless distant relatives suggesting that the great number of deaths had reduced the likelihood of finding an immediate heir. Moreover, in those cases where people who fell ill were not immediately abandoned by their terrified families, high mortality also reduced the possibility of family support for the sick. Property claims tendered by non-relatives or distant relations who had nursed the deceased until death thus came to enjoy some status in Lindau.80 The 1527 case of Stoffel Wullin versus Dr Hans Mürgel illustrates the wide range of complications brought on by the epidemic. Wullin and Mürgel

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were both claiming the same orchard and meadow. Mürgel’s case was that two years previously, while he himself had been subject to the statutory one month expulsion from the city because of his contact with the dreaded disease, he had met the previous owner of the disputed property. The man, who happened to be Mürgel’s father’s brother, was wandering before the city walls in need of aid so Mürgel gave him shelter, food and drink; in return he was promised the properties in question.81 While the claim of a nurse carried some weight, the Lindauers nevertheless also recognized that a dying person was particularly susceptible to persuasion: easy prey for the dreaded captator or legacy-hunter. Furthermore, some types of people were particularly talented in such persuasion. For example, it was generally held that women seduced and entrapped their mates, as is revealed in Lindavian suits for the support of mistresses and illegitimate children.82 In fact Lindauers put so much stock by the seductive power of women that a man convicted of a felony might be pardoned 18 years later on the basis of subsequent claims that his wife had induced him to commit the crime.83 It comes as no surprise, then, that in Lindavian cases of legacy-hunting women were frequently cast in the role of captator. The additional involvement of clerics, however, was more than just incidental. In 1527 Bastian Schmid and his wife brought a suit against Hans Kocher and his wife. The two women were sisters and the plaintiffs claimed that Kocher and his wife had actively courted a third sister, a spinster with some property. When the spinster fell ill Kocher’s wife persuaded her to move into their house; within a fortnight she had died, leaving her small estate (Gütlin) to the Kochers. Although there was much legal manoeuvring, accusation and even counter-accusation of legacy-hunting dominated the proceedings.84 Witnesses testified that an agreement had been concluded whereby the defendants would receive all of the dead spinster’s mobile and immobile goods in return for providing her with food and drink during her illness. One witness actually claimed that Schmid had himself attempted to sell his sister-in-law’s estate even before she had died. Kocher intoned that his actions had been both honourable and in accordance with city law (Stadtrecht). Most interesting, however, is Kocher’s strategic insistence that, contrary to appearances, what had occurred was not the phenomenon identified in the popular discourse invoked by his accusers. It could not possibly have been a case of legacy-hunting, he argued, for although a share had been set aside for the priest, the priest had desired nothing.85 Apparently that was that. This particular legacy-hunting discourse might have covered cases where no priest was involved, but the rapacious nature and dishonest intentions of priests were so central to the ‘typical’ case of

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legacy-hunting that the presence of a disinterested priest negatively identified the topos. Of course it is impossible to say for certain what ultimately decided the case, but on Wednesday before St Valentine’s day 1527 the Council pronounced its decision: Kocher and wife owed Schmid and wife nothing. It is worth noting that Lindau heirs did indeed occasionally face actual competing claims, made on the strength of death-bed bequests by repentant sinners, by priests or ecclesiastical administrators of endowments (Pfleger).86 While it cannot be said, therefore, that Lindauers imagined their entire reality, an understanding of a range of popular discourse and perceptions as such remains crucial to any understanding of political culture. The Lindavian discourse on legacy-hunters contains elements of other discourses, for example on the clergy or on women as discussed above, yet it is itself part of a wider complex linking many kinds of dangerous, unforthright and usurpatory activities. Sixteenth-century usurpers were members of out-groups which aspired to be in-groups, ‘the other’ trying to be ‘the same’. As non-citizens, clerics were considered as suspect as foreigners. Like women, they operated behind closed doors, heimlich, outside the public arena.87 Along with unmarried journeymen and apprentices, the celibate clergy were not part of the citizens’ world of master craftsmen and public officeholders. In short, the clergy were unsocialized or uncivilized, and its membership would be by definition marginal to bourgeois republican society. All this points directly to the more familiar point of contact between anti-clericalism and the political culture of south German cities. The indeterminate status of the clergy meant that they could become an object of contest within the framework of Lindavian political culture, despite the fact that they, like Jews, youths or women, were themselves disqualified as civic subjects.88 Thus, on Friday before St Magnus 1525, the Council gaoled Jerg Murer for an anti-clerical outburst, threats of violence against a priest and vandalism perpetrated against religious images.89 One can assume that the authorities took a very dim view of the matter since they rarely imposed more than a fine, often remitted anyway, on a citizen. In 1528 Joss Schlainz was similarly gaoled for his swearing and incendiary speeches against the Abbess.90

Religious reform and ‘sovereign authority’ (Obrigkeit) Thus, the Council applied the brakes to uncontrolled outbursts of reforming zeal. Likewise, when the Council-sanctioned destruction of religious images, undertaken by the Zunftmeister Job Nesar and his fellow

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blacksmiths on 15 June 1530, threatened to get out of hand, Mayor Calixt Hünlin was dispatched to cool their fervour and rescue the church organ.91 But was the Council merely engaged in a ‘Magistrates’ Reformation’ of perpetual crisis management? Is that what we are to make of Ulrich Neukomm’s claim that the Abbess had to remove herself and her nuns to Bregenz because she feared the common mob?92 Surprisingly, even those urban authorities which consistently gained prestige and power in the course of the sixteenth century are sometimes portrayed merely as shrewd opportunists, despite their massive active contribution to the process of religious reform. Using very different approaches, however, Lyndal Roper and Jane Abray have each suggested that, while the magistrates of larger centres were very careful not to expose themselves politically, they did considerably more than just bump along behind an unstoppable ‘People’s Reformation’.93 After all, urban administrations were the direct or indirect source of the vast majority of formulations: the Ratsstube and the Ratskeller served as ‘discourse mission control’. Magistrates did not become the arbiters of urban religion by accident or default. Rather, they appropriated that function, along with others, by actively instituting an ‘authoritarian Reformation’.94 In Lindau religious reform occurred as a reflex of the predominantly sixteenth-century process whereby the city’s ruling elite, in particular the Lindau Council, styled itself Obrigkeit. Obrigkeit was – and remains – a complex and heavily laden term. As already suggested, the term was defined in one sense by its opposite, untertan, or ‘subject’. In this sense, the essential concept of Obrigkeit can be expressed in English in terms of ‘mastery’ or ‘superiority’. There was, however, more to it than that. In the middle ages Obrigkeit was used commonly to indicate feudal lordship.95 On the other hand, historians of the Upper German and Swiss lands – usually notoriously fixated on institutional and constitutional matters96 – have long recognized the complex ideological dimension of Obrigkeit.97 Recently, Randolph Head has translated sixteenth-century Swiss use of Obrigkeit as ‘dominion’, qualifying it variously as ‘absolutist’ and ‘sovereign’.98 Here, the sixteenth-century Lindavian extension of Obrigkeit is translated as ‘sovereign authority’. This maintains, hopefully, the double sense of Obrigkeit as both a power and as the person (or persons) who exercised that power; it also attempts to represent the dual sense of the Lindau archivalien as both narratives of political actors and their actions and also as constitutional documents. The oldest extant set of Lindavian ‘morality ordinances’ dates from 1533.99 The text contains a general preamble and conclusion and specific

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sections to regulate the vices of swearing, competitive drinking, gambling, usury and other improper business practices, dancing, whoring,100 several sections on adultery, rape, fornication and matchmaking. It also entrusted the Zunftmeister with the duties of ‘discipline lords’ (Zuchtherren). On 17 February 1533 the Council decided to proclaim its new legislation, initially referred to as ‘vice punishment’ (Lasterstraf ), to the commune (Gemeind). The proclamation was to be read from the pulpit the following Sunday and guild officers were ordered to make sure that the guildfolk attend church.101 On 23 February the law was published under the new name of ‘discipline ordinance’ (Zuchtordnung), and it was re-issued in the same form on 6 July.102 The change in name is significant as it highlights the ‘authoritarian’ – what the Lindauers themselves generally referred to as obrigkeitlich – nature of the law in its final form. Indeed, the jurisdictional and, hence, essentially political nature of these ‘morality ordinances’ was self-evident to early modern observers. For example, the chronicle of the brothers Neukomm combines in a single entry a report on the alms ordinance and commentary on the Council’s pronouncement that henceforth it, and not the episcopal court at Zell, would adjudicate matters of marriage.103 In fact, close inspection of the cases recorded in the Council minutes permits the reconstruction of a narrative of acts of ‘authoritarian morality’. The most striking thing about Lindau prosecution records in the sixteenth century is that individuals were usually found guilty of a whole complex of crimes or misdemeanours, suggesting that it was not so much the act which was criminal, but rather the individual who committed them. For example, in early 1525 Bastian Schnezer was released from gaol with an order to refrain from swearing and violence against his father and wife.104 Martin Kolb and Clas Schneider were incarcerated in 1527 for ‘swearing and other mischief’.105 In 1529 the charge of blasphemy (Gottslestern) was first brought in the Council, and within a year an innkeeper from Hergensweiler was accused of disobedience (Ungehorsami), violence (Frevel) and blasphemy (Gottslestern).106 There was also a direct link between ‘authoritarian’ initiatives against marriages and liaisons which did not conform to patriarchal ideals and the task of maintaining order and good government. For example, in 1528 Burkhart Binder appeared before the Council for physically and verbally abusing his wife. According to the accusation, his neighbours had been attracted by the row, which in turn threatened public unrest.107 Binder was released on petition of his supporters (Freundschaft) and on the condition that he refrain from diurnal drinking and not beat his wife unless she deserved it. The general charge of ‘extravagant living’

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(üppiges Wesens), probably a forerunner of ‘bad housekeeping’ (übel Haushaltens), also appeared in 1528,108 but multiple charges were still most common. In 1533 a couple were interrogated under torture for a combination of crimes including adultery, theft and fraud,109 and in 1541 Erasmus Schlumpff was banished from the town for not heeding the Council’s orders, swearing, beating his wife and children and failing to produce the 300 florins he had promised to pay on becoming a citizen.110 The manner in which the Council proceeded against adulterers provides the crucial clue as to the sort of person who might be considered criminal. Not surprisingly those who threatened to subvert Council authority, either by direct challenge or by a kind of passive evasion of social categories subject to magisterial authority, most frequently faced criminal charges and incurred heavy penalties. When Spenglerin, a woman who was apparently widely known to favour several sexual partners, was released from gaol in 1527, it was stipulated that she had been found guilty of openly committing adultery.111 Similarly, in 1529 Hans Müller was gaoled for adultery and producing a child with a maid.112 Obviously the presence of offspring made adultery difficult to conceal, and although all manner of ‘immorality’ may have flourished behind closed doors, public indiscipline could not be tolerated without compromising the Council’s public authority. On the other hand, in 1534, when Hans Brischer and Hainrich Steur’s wife were under suspicion of adultery – Brischer had actually fled Lindau for several weeks – the Council demonstrated apparent leniency. Brischer was re-admitted to the city and was granted immunity from all legal actions after swearing to avoid Steur’s wife and to maintain peaceful relations with Steur. For its part the Council declared that it had no interest in establishing whether or not adultery had actually been committed. The whole episode concluded as if it had never occurred, with all reputations, including the authority of the Council, in tact.113 The requirement that all convicted adulterers swear an alt Urphed upon release is, likewise, significant. The Urphed contained the usual oaths to refrain from vengeance and also functioned as the symbolic act of rehabilitation after which a convict could once again enjoy the full rights of citizenship. Thus, those whose domestic arrangements did not measure up to the Council’s standards were simply denied their civic existence. It was not enough to recognize the Council’s authority, one also had to conform to the modes which exemplified the nature of that authority. There was, therefore, an epilogue to the case of Hans Brischer. Ten weeks after his release from gaol he was arrested once

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more, this time on charges of immodesty and creating a disturbance (Unbescheidenheit und Rumoren) and because he had spoken out in contravention of his Lindau citizens’ oath (Bürgereid).114 If those Lindauers who failed to live up to certain standards were threatening, then those whose existence exemplified an alternative standard altogether were openly subversive. Above all, it was a question of life-style, rather than indiscreet single acts, and once again it was about the difference between the model citizen and dishonourable, uncivic persons. In 1532 the Council ordered Puzi of Constance to give up the ‘life of fornication’ (Hurenlebens) or face incarceration.115 Likewise, Council representatives were sent to talk to Anthoni Täller and the Spenglerin about getting married, as the Council could no longer turn a blind eye to their menage.116 With the curfew regulations of August 1535 the development and enforcement of normative conduct codes entered a new phase. It was proclaimed that: (1) nobody was to be in the streets without a light after 9 pm; (2) calling or crying in the streets was prohibited; (3) no wine was to be served after 9 pm; (4) if any irregularities (Unwesen) were reported, guests and hosts or innkeepers would be required to appear before the Council the following morning.117 Although it was not identified as such, this proclamation effectively was Lindau’s first public order act. Just before Christmas, on 22 December, the Council decided to renew its efforts against vice and sinners, and the first prosecution for dancing was recorded.118 In early January 1538, following the inevitable New Year’s revelries, the Council ordered the Zunftmeister to meet every Sunday, or at least fortnightly, to mete out punishments for vice (Lasterstraf ) with greater diligence.119 The servants (Knechte) of the Council were also told to make sure they carried out their duties properly. Nevertheless, in March 1539 the Council saw fit to issue a further proclamation, to be read out in all guildhalls and in church, for stricter enforcement of the discipline ordinance.120 In June 1547 the Council servants (Ratsknecht) were awarded a proportion of all fines recorded in the Lasterstrafbuch and were promised a bounty from every couple who appeared before the Council’s marriage court.121 Indeed, the Council’s growing facility for social control made itself felt in bold legislative innovation in the mid-1540s. On 12 December 1544 the Council prohibited all citizens from borrowing money from Jews and ordered that all outstanding debts be cleared within four weeks, on pain of loss of citizenship. Members of the Privy Council were exempt from the ruling.122 Owing money to a Jew was almost immediately absorbed into the complex of anti-civic transgressions

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which constituted improper or dishonourable existence. In 1549 Thomas Sprüel and his wife were banished from Lindau jurisdiction for leading a dishonourable and undisciplined life and for indebting themselves to a Jew.123 The pattern established itself very quickly and by 1550 the Council had undertaken no fewer than 40 prosecutions against Lindauers who were indebted to Jews, frequently in conjunction with bad housekeeping (Übelhaltens) and disobedience (Ungehorsami). Significantly, in the case of regulating borrowing from Jews, it appears that the Commons’, not the Council’s, authority was a determining factor, and in the spring of 1549 the Council had to surrender its power to adjudicate such cases to the Commons.124 Such setbacks for the Council are not only indicative of the competitive dynamic at the heart of Lindau politics, but also suggest why the Council might have been exerting itself so vigorously at this juncture. With its authority under threat, the Council engaged in a policy of ‘punish or perish’. Thus a Council decision of 1548 stated that indiscipline (Unzucht) should be prosecuted as a transgression against the laws of God and the laws of a sovereign authority (Obrigkeit).125 From this point onward prosecutions for indiscipline take on an increasingly ‘political’ aspect. In terms of discourse, the combination of ‘spiritual’ and ‘secular’ spheres of competence into a single, ‘authoritarian’ government was proceeding apace. In April 1549 the butchers’ guild was subpoenaed because they had slaughtered calves in the week before Good Friday and had openly (that is, publicly) offered meat for sale during Lent. In the course of the hearing the butchers were actually charged with displaying open contempt of the Council. A marginal correction highlights the issue: a later hand corrected the charge from ‘openly selling meat during Lent’ to ‘openly selling uninspected meat during Lent’.126 Strained relations between the guilds and the Council and its inspectors would remain an issue until the 1626 uprising and beyond. Examples of the combined imposition of conduct codes and prosecution for breach of peace or disturbing public order abound in the midcentury sources. By then intrusion into the private sphere and attacks on privacy – and on the inherent threat which privacy posed to public authority – was a prime objective of the Council. An interesting entry for June 1550 notes that Stoffel Kreidenmann, Jerg Gruenenburg, Petter vom Buzer and a man called ‘oarsman’ (Ruderman) spent a whole night gambling in the drinking hall of the Tailors’ Guild. There is no record of punishment or admonition by the Council and it seems that the entry was no more than a routine intelligence report on the activities of citizens.127 The existence of well-organized networks of informers is

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confirmed in subsequent volumes of council minutes: the Council had detailed knowledge of many nocturnal gatherings in the private homes of citizens.128 Thus, the Council proceeded against Jos Thoman for swearing in his house129 and Caspar Vögelin was gaoled for regular drunkeness and abusive behaviour in private and in public.130 The novel charge of bad housekeeping (übeln Hausshalten) was associated with disobedience (Ungehorsame), making it an offence against public authority and further authorizing the Council’s regular intrusion into the private sphere.131 Indeed, the Council generally sought to penetrate all domains beyond its reach (that is, all ‘private’ domains). Emil Sehling draws attention to the use of the word gevarlich to describe all those who disregarded the regulations set out in the first Zuchtordnung of 1533 and notes that a very specific meaning, something like ‘(subversively) sneaky’ was associated with the term in the sixteenth century.132 In January 1555 the Council engaged in its usual campaign against the excesses of New Year revellers, and this time two crimes particularly stand out. There were three prosecutions each for permitting dancing and for attending a mummery, the epitome of disguise and subversion.133

The civic clergy and the opposition to ‘sovereign authority’ (Obrigkeit) Fundamental questions concerning the theory and practice of authority remained unresolved by religious reforms. In some ways, the opposition of ‘republican’ and ‘authoritarian’ tendencies and factions was actually exacerbated by the establishment of a civic church (Stadtkirche), especially by the absorption of the clergy into Lindau’s fledgeling civil service. Many pastors publicly refused, usually with reference to the distinction between religious and secular matters, to recognize the Council as a sovereign authority. This made the civic church and its clergy the logical focus for agitation against Obrigkeit. By the late 1520s the clerical ‘estate’ had been effectively abolished in Lindau; many clerics were effectively integrated into the Lindau polity by the restitution of their worldly possessions, by marriage, by guild-membership and by the granting of citizenship. Since 1524, when it hired Sigmund Rötlin as preacher (Prediger), the Lindau Council had wielded the de facto right of presentation in the city parish of St Stephan.134 More importantly, it wielded the power of the purse-strings over pastors who were, despite the (parish) commune’s pro forma approval, effectively employees of the Council. The contractually fixed annual salaries of the evangelical ministerium were quite

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small, and by the early 1530s pastors depended on discretionary awards (Verehrung) of grain and wine for the support of themselves and their households.135 This not only meant that the clerics were utterly dependant on the goodwill of the authorities, but it also visibly put them on a par with all other Council ‘servants’. Of course, the question of the ultimate authority by which pastors were hired and fired remained unresolved, re-emerging, for example, as a significant point of contention between Alexius Neukomm and the Council in 1626. Neukomm was only the last in a long line of sixteenth-century pastors (and mainland parish priests) who either challenged the spiritual authority of the Council or refused to subject themselves to a secular authority. Indeed, when an anonymous seventeeth-century author impugned the inconstancy and disunity which, he claimed, characterized all imperial cities, he emphasized the frequency with which pastors were suspended by magistrates in Lindau.136 Indeed, in 1540 the pastor Benedict Burgawer was suspended and re-hired on condition that he steer clear of all parties (faction) and not instigate unrest against the Obrigkeit or his fellow ministers.137 In the early 1550s Matthias Rot was suspended twice, in spite of his apparently widespread popularity.138 In 1575 two pastors, Tobias Rupp and Sebastian Scheffler, were suspended from office and expelled from the city because of their stubborn resistance to the Formula of Concord. The two enjoyed considerable support among the citizenry and a petition with 150–200 signatures was collected, anti-Council speeches were made and as late as 1577 four alleged supporters of Rupp were expelled from Lindau.139 In the course of his long tenure – from 1599 to 1626 – Alexius Neukomm was suspended on at least three occasions and at least one of his colleagues, Marcus Zangmeister, was relieved of his duties permanently. The repeated suspension of Matthias Rot is particularly interesting, not only because it highlights how the civic clergy could provide a focus for anti-Obrigkeit activities and the expression of bourgeois republican sentiments, but also because there are striking structural similarities to the 1626 case. On 9 February 1551 Rot was suspended from preaching and left Lindau for St Gallen in Switzerland, accompanied by an escort of armed citizens. On 26 March he returned, uninvited. Significantly, the Neukomm chronicle conflates several incidents into a single narrative located in 1552. Rot had fled to Switzerland because of the Interim and because he was in great danger. When Rot tried to return to Lindau, the lord of Raitnow, who was the Vogt of Bregenz, tried to detain Rot. Thereupon, the brave citizens of Lindau ambushed the Vogt, whose green hat was subsequently hung in the Lindau

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Council chamber as a trophy. There was also great uproar (groser Tumult) in Lindau itself and the peasants of Aeschach gathered to demand that Lindau support Prince Moritz of Saxony and others against the Emperor.140 The minutes of the Lindau Council, while they do not relate the popular support enjoyed by Rot, elucidate some key issues nonetheless. On 20 February 1551 several witnesses were interrogated about the contents of a conversation which was supposed to have taken place between Rot and a man named Sebastian Noschel. According to a witness, Rot had mentioned that he had been summoned by the Council because the previous Sunday’s sermon had been too sharp, meaning that he had criticized the Council. This had elicited an anti-oligarchical outburst from Noschel, who challenged the right of just two men, presumably mayors, to rule the city; Noschel had also invoked the Word of God and uttered veiled threats.141 On 18 March the Council discussed the matter further and decided to write to Rot, who was staying in Bregenz, to inform him that following a one-month suspension he would be allowed to resume his duties in Lindau, on the Council’s conditions. After the deliberations, a written statement by Mayor Jacob Hünlin was read out in Council. This was principally a personal defence and a rebuttal of allegations that actions against Rot were the result of private animosity on the part of two mayors and a few councillors; Hünlin intoned that a full Council had taken the decision to proceed against Rot. Moreover, the statement also justified the pastor’s suspension with reference to both internal and external threats to the ‘commune’. One year later, on 26 February 1552, Rot was again barred from the pulpit, although the Council agreed to pay him his full salary as long as Rot kept a low public profile. The reasons given for these sanctions were Rot’s persistent political preaching and his deviance from the pure Word of God (lautrem und hellen Text)!142 Once again, similarities between this case and the affair of 1626 are striking. Finally, Council insistence on its independence in determining local religious norms was obviously aimed at internal political challenges; in no way did it reflect isolation or immunity from the confessional politics of the Empire. In 1549, Jacob Feurstain was detailed by the Council to ride to Ulm and other towns to find out, among other things, how they celebrated the eucharist in Ulm. This was not the first time that the Council had sought guidance in religious matters from another civil authority, but the Council minutes do suggest an expanding network of evangelical jurisdictions at this juncture, perhaps in the wake of the

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Schmalkaldic War. In any case, this network required broad, yet rigidly bounded, categories for identification by religion. The impact of confessional categories in Lindau is evidenced in a 1550 example of what was basically a labour dispute. Three witnesses testified to the Council that the incident, between a smith’s servant and his master, had been occasioned by an argument over a piece of iron. A fourth witness, Hanns Kögel, reported that the disagreement had started over the iron, but the smith, who had been drinking, also then accused his servant of being a Lutheran peasant who attended no church and had breached contracts with several masters.143 The outstanding feature of the smith’s accusation is the full integration of a common language of labour dispute with confessional terminology and historical allusion. By the early seventeenth century, when the Neukomms were writing, such links were not necessarily stronger but they were ubiquitous, suggesting fully-fledged ‘confessional’ ideology. For example, enemies were papists, Zwinglians, Calvinists, Flaccianists and so on.144 The identification with Luther had already assumed cultish dimensions by the time of the 1617 jubilee and crude iconic reverence for the person who had given a name to their confession is evident. On the occasion of a visit to Lindau by a granddaughter of Martin Luther in 1616, Neukomm noted that the woman bore striking physical resemblance to the great man himself.145 With the beginning of the Thirty Years’ War confessional categories assumed even greater significance. ‘Protestant internationalist’ propaganda encouraged collection for Austrian protestant musicians and for the construction of Protestant churches in the Netherlands. Conversely, Spanish troops stationed in Bregenz threatened Lindauers with cries of ‘morra morra Lutherano’.146

Conclusions Returning once more to the historiographical questions raised at the outset: what combined signficance can one ascribe to sixteenth-century constitutional and religious reforms in Lindau? Simply put, there is no reason to believe that these, in themselves, resulted in a restructuring of the political culture of Lindau. Over the course of the ‘long sixteenth century’ Lindavian relations remained fundamentally dialectical, with ideological foci located in bourgeois republicanism and sovereign authority. Moreover, the inception of a Lindavian ‘Reformation-consciousness’ cannot be conceived of in any terms distinguishable from such politics; and neither can its reception and ultimate establishment in reductive confessional vocabularies and ideologies. Parties simply assimilated the

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antonymies of confessional vocabularies into ongoing contests over who controlled what aspects of Lindavian life, both civil and ecclesiastical, and by what rights. Even after the Council dropped all pretence of popular endorsement and simply declared the 1606 church ordinance (Kirchenordnung) ‘ex decreto Mgty’, the alternative authority of the ‘commune’ was very much alive, ideologically speaking. Perhaps the most significant result of religious reform and of the establishment of a city church, therefore, was that it gave new life to the (parish) commune, just as the fortunes of the (guild) commune appeared to be on the wane.

4 The Macro-Political Contexts in Lindau

Introduction The events of 7 November 1626 obviously unfolded within complex, multiple contexts.1 The following two chapters explore many of these contexts. Generally, while historians recognize that no singular context can either determine or explain historical events, they neverthess commonly distinguish and classify contexts. Most common is the distinction between those contexts which are considered ‘material’ and those which are deemed ‘ideological’, a distinction which simply reflects the established dichotomy, conceptualized variously as the difference between ‘explanation’ and ‘interpretation’, between ‘social science’ and ‘humanism’, between ‘social history’ and ‘cultural history’, and so forth. The method widely associated with Quentin Skinner, who advocates a careful distinction between practical and ideological contexts, hinges on much the same dichotomy. Moreover, Skinner’s method, inspite of a certain theoretical neatness, is difficult to implement.2 In reality, practical and ideological contexts are hopelessly intertwined, an observation which has prompted Thomas Robisheaux’s criticism of those historians of the long sixteenth century in Germany who tend to disengage matters social or cultural from the political.3 The central problem remains: how can we view or represent the whole object, either historiographically or otherwise, without simultaneous ‘reduction’ of the dialectic, that which affords us interpretive purchase in the first place? In 1981 Fredric Jameson’s Political Unconscious addressed this problem famously, by arguing ‘the priority of the political interpretation [ … ] as the absolute horizon of all reading and all interpretation’.4 While Jameson’s bold statement remains controversial in theory, in practice two major streams in the historiography of early 64

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modern Germany were already at that time proceeding towards similar insights along different, but nonetheless related, paths. Thus the strictly economic or ‘conjunctural’ history of the 1950s and 1960s became political history under the influence of post-Gramscian theory, especially E.P. Thompson’s concept of the ‘moral economy’. The ‘history of everyday life’, or Alltagsgeschichte, of the 1970s and 1980s was likewise rendered political history, in particular by the application of feminist criticism. An extremely successful fusion of both historiographical streams was effected in 1984 by David Warren Sabean’s Power in the Blood.5 Sabean’s work, moreover, addressed the use of so-called elite sources by historians of popular culture or non-literate peoples. This was, and still is, widely held to be inherently problematic. According to Sabean, however, ‘elite’ and ‘popular’ classes were not to be understood apart from their mutual relationship of domination and resistance. That is, they were not to be essentialized; instead the relationship itself served as the proper object of his study. Moreover, argued Sabean, for this defining relationship elite sources, as political instruments, were indeed viable sources.6 What follows in the next two chapters, therefore, is an examination of the multiple ‘political’ contexts (in Sabean’s terms, relationships of domination and resistance) within which the events of 7 November 1626 took shape. A careful reading of the Council minutes for that whole year reveals a very political ‘year-in-the-life’ of Lindau. The volume of Council minutes for 1626 runs to nearly 800 pages, is much denser than the files of the Council (Ratsakten) for that year, and thus reflects both a more complete chronology as well as a wider range of contexts. In contrast to the volumes catalogued as Ratsprotokoll for the first half of the sixteenth century, the volumes for the early seventeenth suggest the emergence of a more precise and rigid style of record-keeping in Lindau.7 Unfortunately, this does not necessarily mean that the seventeenth-century volumes are any more ‘true’ than their forerunners. Thus, the Council secretary who kept the minutes remained almost completely silent on the matter of the uprising of 7 November 1626;8 the emergency deliberations which undoubtedly took place as events unfolded were not recorded. The discovery of very rough records of debates and votes on loose sheets suggests that the volume is either an after-the-event ‘clean copy’ of Council deliberations or a highly selective running account. Nevertheless, there is a consistency in the quality of these records, in their format, in the nature of the material recorded and, not least, in the identity of the writer, which permits effective internal comparison.

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Finally, one might well ask: to what do we owe these systematic records? To a change in record keeping itself or to clearer definition of administrative practice as a whole? It is difficult to be certain, but the constitutional reforms of Charles V may actually have had lasting effects in this area. Compared to their sixteenth-century counterparts, these volumes give a much better account of actual governmental practice and of who was influencing and taking those decisions proclaimed in the name of the the Council, Court and Commune of Lindau. They go far beyond the function of the Council as a court of arbitration and even record the deliberations, albeit in a sanitized form, of the inner circles surrounding the officiating mayor (Amtsbürgermeister). Thus entries were marked variously in pleno, coram senatu, senioribus and infra, depending on whether the whole body of elected representatives was privy to deliberations or whether such deliberations were considered ‘top secret’. The appearance of this distinction in an institutional form is in itself significant since it strengthened the case of Lindau’s early modern ‘conspiracy theorists’ who, drawing on an ideology of ‘bourgeois republicanism’, consistently opposed what they regarded as oligarchy and corruption. This appearance is, therefore, one of the critical steps in making ideology a motive for political action – and thus also a bona fide ‘historical cause’ – in Lindau. Nothing is more clearly demonstrated in this volume than the fact that the Seniores actually ran Lindau, while the Commons and guildsmen variously claimed that they ought to have a say too.9 The city emerges from these sources as a community and a culture shaped not incidentally, but fundamentally by such complex power relations. The following exploration of political contexts is presented in two chapters for practical reasons. The first chapter deals with macro-political relations, especially those occasioned by attempts to extend state power, generally via fiscal, religious and territorial policies. The second addresses the micro-politics of inter-personal relations. Of course, for a small urban community it is often difficult to distinguish between the macro-political and the micro-political contexts. Indeed, it is quite clear that Lindauers did not always keep their contexts straight either. Moreover, the interaction of various political relations produced entirely different sets of relations, much as the intersections of physical force-fields produce unique patterns of ‘interference’. Until quite recently such complex dynamics escaped the purview of students of early modern urban revolts. Recent works on England by John Walter, on France by William Beik and on Germany by Christopher Friedrichs have addressed the limitations of reductionist classification of urban revolts as

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‘tax-revolts’, ‘anti-magisterial revolts’, ‘anti-clerical revolts’, and so on.10 Attempts to impose structure and order here, by distinguishing, describing and classifying particular dynamics, should not, however, distract from the essential and unifying political character of all Lindavian relations.

The role of the eight guilds in the life of Lindau The most striking aspect of the government of Lindau, as recorded in the Council minutes of 1626, is the large part played by the guilds in all areas of urban life. The index of the volume contains separate entries for individual guilds as well as under the general rubric ‘guild matters’ (Zunftsachen). An entry for 21 August shows that the guilds were still the basic unit of organization for tax collection purposes.11 The eight guilds named correspond to those active in Lindau prior to the middle of the sixteenth century. Furthermore, the guilds maintained their function as the basic unit for organizing policing and civil defence: an entry for 11 September concerns the embezzlement of contributions to the civic watch (Wachtgelt) by two guild officials.12 The guilds were also the focus of much of the social life of the city’s artisans. Thus the guilds ran up considerable wine debts and the Council sometimes had to intervene on behalf of creditors.13 Finally, guilds were responsible for providing support to the families of their members, although, once again, they could be reluctant to meet their obligations; occasionally, families had to sue for support.14 Nevertheless, the guilds no longer enjoyed guaranteed representation in the Council and the once crucial position of Zunftmeister had vanished altogether. Liaison between the Council and the guilds took place through the office of the Obmann, who was appointed rather than elected annually. It was the Obmann who was responsible for confronting unlicensed retailers and bringing them to the attention of the Council.15 It was also through the Obmann that the Council ordered the guilds to discipline its members or to pay their debts.16 There was also a committee of Fünfer appointed to aid in the administration of the guilds, but the Council’s business with the guilds, as reflected in the Council minutes, was channelled through the Obmann.17 One other officer of the guild, the Fürgesetzter, is mentioned on several occasions. His precise function is obscure, but the name suggests that he was nominated to the head of the guild administration. In a very heated dispute between a family of fishermen and their guild it becomes evident that for some guildsmen both the Fürgesetzter and the

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Obmann were associated with unwelcome interference on the part of the authorities. Ultimately, the chief concerns of Lindau’s guilds in the early seventeeth century centred on control of the labour supply and regulation of access to Lindau markets. Thus on 21 August the Cobblers’ Guild brought a suit against Christoff, bailiff (Ammann) of Reutin, because he was meddling in their craft; this in spite of the fact that he did not hold Lindau citizenship and had been granted limited residence for one year in order that he might sell his properties.18 On 13 September the members of the Cobblers’ Guild complained to the Council that two shoemakers on the mainland manorial estate (Kellnhof ) of Schönau were taking on new apprentices immediately following the qualification of the previous cohort. The guild requested that the Council set a mandatory recess of two years between the qualification of one apprentice and the engagement of the next, and that this be entered into the book of guild statutes (Zunftbuch). Furthermore, the cobblers asked that no foreigners (Ausländische) be permitted to ply their trade in the jurisdiction of the Lindau Court.19 The request thus also suggests efforts, perhaps even by the Council, to circumvent the basis of the guilds’ political power, the guild monopoly (Zunftzwang). The Council’s mainland foothold, the four manorial villages of Aeschach, Schönau, Rickenbach and Oberreitnau, was a legal grey zone which afforded the Council tactical manoeuvring space, not only in its competitive disputes with neighbouring lordships but also in affairs involving an internal threat to authority. The cobblers’ request concerning apprentices at Schönau amounted to a demand that the artisans in these areas be regulated on the same terms as those within the city walls. This is confirmed by the Council’s pronouncement in response to the cobblers’ petition: one would not permit the training of a new apprentice within two years of the departure of his predecessor, as was also the rule in Lindau proper; an apprentice could neither enter the town during his four years as a journeyman, nor could he present his masterpiece in Lindau. Yet while the Council appears to have been making some concessions to the cobblers, it maintained its political advantage. Since the only effective power which the crafts could exert on a regular basis depended on the guilds’ monopoly, the Council was playing a trump in its refusal to bar foreign (fremde) artisans. Whether the loss of this monopoly was a long-term cause or an effect of the generally diminishing importance of the guilds in Lindau remains an open question. Moreover, without numerical data from tax rolls, musters, censuses and so on, it is very difficult

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to chart changes in the relative importance of the guild-based economy in the crucial century 1520–1620. Unfortunately no such sources exist for Lindau. Elsewhere, however, there is impressionistic evidence for increasing relative significance of long-distance trade in grain, salt, timber and so on. Lindauers, situated on a major territorial boundary, at the crossroads of several major trade routes and favoured with several charters granting the right to levy duties, certainly benefited as brokers, and probably as capitalists too.20 Since the first half of the sixteenth century, the Council had been in a position to regulate certain artisanal activities, over the heads of the guild authorities, using the promotion of the ‘common good’ as a justification. For example, as had been the practice of urban regimes for centuries, it regulated the weight and quality of the bread produced and sold by the bakers in the city. Likewise, since secure shipping was a matter of life and death for an island community, those who owned nearly all of the available vessels, the Fishermen’s Guild, were the subject of particularly frequent incursions and rigorous control by the Council. By the early seventeenth century, however, interference by the Council was of a different magnitude altogether. This certainly may have reflected a shift in the relative constitutional capabilities of guilds and Council in Lindau, but an additional factor must be taken into consideration. It is possible that the economic and numerical significance of Lindau’s guild-based artisans on the demand side was waning. The proportion of consumers in Lindau who were not identical with guildsmen had probably risen sharply, partly because of burgeoning bureaucracy and opportunities in professional careers, but more significantly as a result of the massive troop movements of the early phase of the Thirty Years’ War. Thus the scope for the Council’s implementation of regulatory measures contrary to the interests of the guildsmen but for the ‘common good’ had widened considerably. In the perplexing economic circumstances of the Kipper- und Wipperzeit one finds the Council satisfying consumers’ demands with price ceilings for a wide range of staples and other consumer products.

Production and consumption: were ‘guild’ concerns ‘minority’ concerns? Had revenue been the chief concern of the Council, and had the guilds actually provided the most effective means of controlling the population at large, Council policy would indeed be difficult to explain;21 but the Council also had to deal with a population of consumers whose interests

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did not correspond to those of the guild-based producers. Moreover, these consumers, too, voiced expectations about the obligations of the Council to meet certain needs. This is not to say that guildsmen were a minority in Lindau. The producing members of any one guild, however, would always be greatly outnumbered by the members of the seven other guilds, even taking into account the uneven size and clout of different guilds. Presumably, the inherent conflict of interest between producer and consumer always constituted potential confrontation. Nevertheless, in 1626 individual guilds appeared particularly threatened by – and resistant to – Council measures favouring consumers. There are indications that Lindau’s rulers in fact pursued two policies simultaneously. One involved satisfying popular demands as a preventative measure against riot, a practical safeguard of the Council’s position. The other amounted to a programme of undermining the guilds to remove the ideological focus and organizational alternative to the Council which they offered. Without such alternatives, resistance to domination by a sovereign authority would be all but impossible. Thus the Council not only enforced the guild ordinances against individuals such as the Schweizers, but also undertook to impose rules on the guild as a whole, apparently by Council fiat.22 Moreover, an entry for 30 January 1626 points to knotty problems of what we, today, might call ‘resource management’. The fishermen were summoned to the Council for deliberations on when to open the fishing season on Gangfisch.23 In a problem typical of all resource management, the political interests of the Council were pitted against the commercial interests of the Fishermen’s Guild. It was undoubtedly the tendency of fishermen to overfish the lake. The prosecution of individuals fishing out of season, as well as the inflation in the price of Gangfisch, both point in this direction.24 Due to the rise in prices associated with depletion of stocks in its early stages it is likely that overfishing, while clearly not in the long-term interest of the consumer and the city, actually stimulated, rather than deterred, the fishermen in their pursuit. Not suprisingly, the supply of other food staples posed similar problems. Regulating essential food producers was a perennial problem for the Council. Moreover, when the production of an essential commodity was in the hands of a guild monopoly, that guild wielded considerable power over the Council. Countering the potentially inflationary effects of monopolies and satisfying the demands of the population at large required the Council to regulate quality, quantity and price, and to this end they had to engage in a continuous process of confrontation and negotiation with the guilds. The other option involved undermining the monopoly altogether (a dangerous game at the best of times).

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The great number of entries in the Council minutes of 1626 dealing with the control of grain and bread supplies attests to the Council’s unenviable task. In general, German grain prices had risen steadily over the course of the sixteenth century. From 1516 to 1596, real wages generally declined as grain prices rose 196 per cent; from the turn of the century grain prices started to decline until the famines of 1624–5 and 1637–8.25 The effects of general trends in any specific urban settings are difficult to predict, but the ‘price revolution’ of the sixteenth century certainly produced widespread complaints of hardship and diminishing sustenance (Nahrung).26 In Lindau, Alexius Neukomm displayed an obsession with prices similar to that of Hermann Weinsberg of Cologne; he not only meticulously recorded the prices of many staples in his Chronicle, but also frequently pleaded personal hardship to the Council.27 On 10 February 1626 the Council presented the civic grain retailer (Kornwirt)28 with a strong reprimand (starken Verweiß) for disregarding the ordinance.29 At the end of March a grain merchant (Kornführer) named Hans Aberlin reported that, following a conversation with the market official (Marktverseher), Councillor Mellin, he was confronted at the granary by Jerg Humbler and Ulrich Krenkhel. They implied that he had entered into some sort of shady arrangement with Mellin.30 When Humbler and Krenkhel were summoned to explain themselves they denied having alleged such treachery, but maintained that Aberlin and his ilk favoured the peasants (producers) more than the citizens (consumers).31 The Council apparently took a dim view of such serious accusations against one of its own: although they lacked any conclusive testimony, they announced further investigations and threatened Humbler and Krenkhel with heavy punishments. Council minutes indexed under the heading ‘Common Civic Grain Stores’ (Gemeiner Statt Korn Kasten) indicate that by early summer 1626 a shortage was making itself felt in Lindau.32 Council actions signalled acceptance of responsibility for feeding the populace, although Council intervention was probably expected in any case.33 Moreover, on 26 June the officials responsible for the distribution of the Council’s grain were warned not to accept questionable or debased currency, suggesting that the Lindauers’ plight could be understood in conjunction with the more general economic crisis of the times.34 Thus, while the Council acknowledged a need to defuse potential unrest triggered by dearth, the government of Lindau was affected by factors well beyond its reach. Yet, since in the opinion of citizens the Council bore ultimate responsibility, it increasingly found itself caught between a rock and a hard place. This may help explain why some prominent men were loath to assume public office in Lindau in 1626. For example, on 15 March the

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incumbent officers of the treasury (Stüblin) applied for release; on 27 March Mayor Felß requested that he be relieved of the salt office (Salzamt) and on 23 August he resigned as Mayor; at the same time Councillor Gering asked to be excused from his duties as a meat inspector (Fleischschauer); on 16 October Abraham Brombiß was actually granted exemption from wine excise duty (Umgeltdienst). It is noteworthy that these requests for relief from office touch on the two main areas of public conflict in 1626, meat retail and wine excise.35 Certainly, the Council could not afford to shield any individual, regardless of status, if he demonstrably engaged in questionable practice. Thus on 14 July the Kornwirt was ‘given the sack’ (den sakh geben) on the basis of the testimonies of two Trögel.36 What is remarkable is that such an important official was dismissed on the evidence of two practioners of a dishonourable occupation. Not long thereafter four grain merchants from respectable families appeared before the Council, accused of having gained access to the municipal grain stores via the Trögel to exchange Council stores for other grain.37 Their defence consisted of the implausible claim that they had substituted superior grain,38 and the Council fined them for using their position of privilege to undertake business transactions to the detriment of the poor.39 Finally, on 20 November the grain merchants were ordered, on pain of a fine of one pound-pence (Pfund Pfenning), always to employ the Trögel when measuring or packing grain.40 This measure suggests that, at least in the opinion of the Council, there was a link between the practices of the grain merchants (Kornführer) and the disgruntlement of the citizenry which had led to the uprising of 7 November. Certainly, other concessions to the citizenry, such as the appointment of Jerg Neukomm to a guild office, were also made on this day. In its attempts to regulate the quality of grain and flour, the Council faced very similar problems to those encountered in the task of securing adequate quantities of grain. In January 1626 the Council experienced some difficulty when their inspectors of porridge meal (Musmehlschauer) were found to be executing their duties inadequately.41 Around the middle of June, at approximately the same time as it stepped in to secure household grain supplies, the Council became especially vigilant about the quality of porridge meal sold. There was considerable concern in government about the possible corruption of their own officials and inspectors by those who were in the grain, porridge meal and flour trades.42 A month later the Council finally cracked down on some major fraud. On 14 July the miller Hans Kläfer was fined for adulterating his porridge meal.43 Three days later the dry goods merchant

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(Merzler) Hans Schäfler was released from Council custody, along with his wife, and warned that if he wished to retain his retail licence he had better ensure that business was conducted honestly and that the millers provided good quality porridge meal. If not, their store would be closed down.44 On 26 July Hans Kläfer was fined the enormous sum of 50 pound-pence with no chance of remission for adulterating his porridge meal with ‘grain dust’ (Staub); apparently it was feared that others might have been engaging in the same practice and the Council felt compelled to issue an edict to all dry goods merchants absolutely prohibiting the sale of this grain dust.45 Again, the responsibility for ensuring that satisfactory porridge meal was available in Lindau rested with the Council as a corollary of another power. The Council had at some point acquired the right to grant lifetime patents to Merzler;46 this took place outside of the guild structure and was presumably justified with reference to the common good. Obviously the short supply of grain would also have repercussions for the bread trade. The bakers and the Council-appointed bread inspectors (Brotschauer) frequently locked horns over the implementation of Council edicts governing bread production. There is one major difference between the Musmehler and the bakers, however: the latter had their own guild. It is interesting nevertheless that a Council minute entry of 10 July conflated the guidelines for bread inspection and the bakers’ ordinances into a single Brot- und Beckenordnung.47 The merger is significant because the former was clearly a measure of Council control, whereas the other had originated as the constitution of a self-regulating body. Nevertheless, when the bakers insisted that they were unable to comply with the new specifications demanded by the Council, the authorities had to back down. Only after a process of repeated confrontation and stressful negotiation was a very delicate ‘settlement’ reached; actually, it settled almost nothing. Enduring acrimony was demonstrated by the subsequent bitter pronouncement of a bread inspector, who was heard to say that the bakers deserved to have their hands tied behind their backs and to be thus led out of the city.48

An exemplary contest of authorities: the Butchers’ Guild versus the Council Clearly, the implied contract by which the Council regulated commercial activity in the name of the ‘common good’ or the ‘commune’ was a significant factor in determining the macro-politics of Lindau. If the Council was perceived to fail in keeping up its end of the bargain, the

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consequences could be disastrous. Lindau was governed without effective instruments of mass coercion and largely through general acquiescence to the Council’s developing role as sovereign authority. When the Council lost the Lindauers’ goodwill and confidence, and the citizenry refused to endorse its rule, sovereign authority was effectively lost. The Council’s arduous wrangling with the Butchers’ Guild, which culminated in the highly symbolic refusal of the guildsmen to swear their oath of allegiance to the Council, best illustrates such a crisis of Obrigkeit. On 22 March 1626 the Lindau Council appointed a new meat inspector (Fleischschauer), set the price for meat (Fleischtaxe) and presented the Butchers’ Guild with a revised ordinance. The butchers’ immediate response was to argue that, because the prices of other commodities were so high, they were unable to sell meat at the price set by the Council. The Butchers’ Guild avoided a direct challenge to the Council at this juncture by claiming that the majority of butchers had yet to be consulted: the Council would be informed of their decision forthwith.49 While the Council imposed price and wage controls on weaker and poorer guilds, the butchers, traditionally powerful in Lindau politics, were prepared to resist. On Friday 31 March the guild petitioned for a higher set price for their meat and also demanded the abolition of so-called ‘dead meat’ (totes Fleisch), imported meat which had been slaughtered outside Lindau. The Council was resolute: whoever did not wish to swear to the ordinance as originally issued could take his leave. The butchers called the Council’s bluff and departed to a man, without having sworn the oath.50 On 14 April, the butchers still had not sworn their oath and the number of issues to be settled appeared to be multiplying: as the confrontation dragged on and the mood got uglier, an increasing numbers of grievances were dredged up. Thus the butchers claimed to have reconsidered their position on veal imports, but they demanded that regrating (Fürkauf )51 in the high and low jurisdictions of Lindau be stopped. They further claimed that the delivery, ordered by the Council, of 28 head of beef per week was impossible.52 The Council’s response was placatory, promising proceedings against regraters in Lindau jurisdiction when these were reported by the butchers, but also expressing regret that the Council could do nothing about veal imports from the Bregenzer Wald.53 The Council also announced that it would not press the guild for the 28 head of beef. The butchers’ reply suggests a continued determination to resist the Council in any case. For its part, the Council stood firm, threatened

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the butchers with fines and demanded payment of all outstanding debts of guildsmen to the Council.54 Furthermore the Council ordered several head of beef from the Spital to be slaughtered by three butchers from Lindau’s mainland jurisdiction; the meat was to feed the old and infirm as well as women who had recently given birth.55 The Council was clearly gambling with very high stakes by hiring blackleg labour and attempting to break what had become a butchers’ strike. Accordingly, when the butchers from the mainland were instructed to proceed with the slaughtering of four head of beef, the actual order was issued in strict official secrecy.56 Apparently, the Council and the Butchers’ Guild could not resolve their differences yet, as the summer wore on, relevant entries in the Council minutes became few and far between. This suggests that negotiations were being conducted through semi-official or unofficial channels. An entry for 26 May refers to a ‘butchers’ committee’ (Mezger Ausschuß) which seems to have been working for the butchers’ interests, even while the guild remained suspended.57 On 12 June this body petitioned the Council for permission to sell goatmeat for three Bazen, the price for such meat in Wangen, Isny and Leutkirch. The Council replied sharply that they could sell for no more than ten Pfenning.58 As the dispute had come to revolve almost exclusively around its political ramifications, each side stressed both its own innocence and the other side’s villainy: as the crisis mounted, the popular perception of who was right and who was wrong might prove the deciding factor. Therefore, what the Council represented as an illegal butchers’ strike, the Butchers’ Guild depicted as an unwarranted suspension of its members’ livelihoods. The constant refrain in a range of perspectives proffered by the guild was a strong sense of betrayal by the Council. The butchers claimed that they were being denied representation unjustly. Furthermore, they complained that the mediation committee, in considering their grievances in the butchers’ absence, had proceeded improperly. This procedural argument, something of a republican commonplace, had also appeared in Magister Neukomm’s dispute with the Education Committee earlier that year.59 On 27 October, little more than a week before the citizenry rose against the authorities, the butchers were summoned before the Council. They were asked, cryptically, if they were now prepared to swear to the last issued ordinance, which was as it had been of old, except for the points which had been changed.60 The degree to which even this dispute, ostensibly about hard cash, was shaped by rhetoric is cast into sharp relief by this formulation. For its part, the guild acknowledged the

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efforts of the Council, but complained that regraters remained active; they also requested that the door-to-door sale of meat be abolished, presumably because it was beyond the reach of the guild. After the Council had pledged to proceed in accordance with all of the guild’s wishes, even offering to write to the Bregenzer Wald on the guild’s behalf, the butchers finally swore their oath.61 We now know that the Council’s concessions were made in vain. An entry for Friday 29 November 1626 serves as a fitting epilogue to the whole episode. On this day the Council received the following reply from the Bregenzer Wald: the export of veal could not be prevented, because it had been customary for years. The Council decided that the letter should be passed on to the Butchers’ Guild.62

Internal guild politics: the Schweizer family versus the Fishermen’s Guild In early May 1626 a Council attempt to split the Butcher’s Guild had failed. At a different time and with a different guild, however, things might have gone differently: certainly there could be considerable – and highly public – conflict within a guild. Indeed, as the following case suggests, the particular constitutional and economic situation of the guilds in 1626 could expose deep structural rifts and bitter enmities within a single guild. In late June of 1626 Jacob Schweizer appeared before the Council in a suit brought by the Fishermen’s Guild. The case against Schweizer was that he had refused to attend a formal reading of the Zunftbuch, and when a servant was dispatched to fetch him he had responded with coarse insults.63 Furthermore the guild claimed that Jacob Schweizer employed only foreign ‘lads’, was burdensome and never consulted the Fürgesetzter; therefore, the guild had been forced to bring suit.64 Basically, Schweizer had demonstrated his contempt for the authority of the guild and its officials and they, powerless to do anything else, had invoked the authority of the Council. Similarly, Michael Schweizer and his son, also Michael, had been fishing in contravention of the rules set out in the guildbook (Zunftbuch). The name of Michael Schweizer the younger also appears in a list of seven who were summoned to answer similar charges in January of that year.65 The two Michaels also questioned the authority of the Fürgesetzter and claimed that, since they had been fishing across the lake (that is, beyond Lindau waters), the Fürgesetzter had no right to punish them. The tactics employed by the Schweizers, exerting their

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own powers while simultaneously testing the political capabilities and limits of the guild authorities, are the same as those employed by Alexius Neukomm against the Council that very same year. Chiefly, they consisted of public denials of legitimacy and withholding all forms of symbolic recognition or endorsement. Paradoxically, not only the actions of the Schweizers but also the decision of the Council in the guild’s favour served to undermine the authority of the guild in certain respects. Although Jacob Schweizer was eventually fined ten pound-pence and the other two were fined an amount to be set by the guild, the form of the case, especially the conclusion admonishing all sides to keep the peace,66 treated the guild as any other private suitor, plaintiff or injured party. This was a significant come-down from the guilds’ former status as the basis of urban government. Furthermore, the guild was actually requested to present its guildbook (Zunftbuch) to the Council: guild authority was threatened both from below and above. Most significantly, the Schweizer case draws attention to the deep potential rift separating the guilds’ rank and file from those at the top of the guild administration. As the politico-economic clout of collectively organized trades apparently waned, the real function of the guilds as regulatory bodies acting on behalf of the Great Jacks (große Hansen) in the Council was exposed for all to see. The Schweizers saw the leadership of their guild foisted on them, as the very name Fürgesetzter implied, by the Council. A further example from the same volume of Council minutes reinforces the distinction between the guild ‘management’ and the rank and file membership. An entry for 6 February indicates that the ‘guild’ was not considered identical with its membership: instead, it had an institutional identity of its own. Thus, the fishermen of Lindau were said to fish for the Obrigkeit, the guild and themselves.67 Ironically, while such division may have contributed considerably to the diminished potential of the guilds as a political counter-weight to the Council, the damaged credibility of the guild leadership also impaired the Council’s ability to control the guild rank-and-file. In all of this, Lindau appears to have been fairly typical: Christopher Friedrichs has observed that in smaller cities, with a Council dominated by merchants and an opposition composed chiefly of the wealthier guild members, the poorer guildsmen displayed a tendency towards radicalization, especially before the Thirty Years’ War. Similarly, Helmut Bräuer has demonstrated that, especially from the sixteenth century onwards, a sharp stratification of the guild membership accompanied

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specialization and the concentration of equipment and materials in the hands of a few masters, at least in the many small centres of Saxony.68

The wine excise (Umgeld) On 3 May 1626 a new excise office (Umgeltamt) was created in Lindau; henceforth two Councillors were to collect the consumption tax on wine on a monthly basis.69 Anti-corruption measures were also enacted: one of the officials was the actual Exciser (Umgelter) while the other (Umgelters Gegenschreiber) was to counter-sign the Exciser’s entries; where possible a Mayor was also to be present on collection day.70 To ensure the diligent collection of the excise, those detailed for excise duty (Umgelt Dienst) were to be paid four Bazen per barrel.71 On the basis of an extensive survey of the local literature on German revolts, Christopher Friedrichs once concluded that ‘the most important single cause of citizen resentment was … excessive or extraordinary taxation which had been introduced without the citizens’ consent’.72 At a time when many historians favoured economic determinism and reductive, monocausal explanation, Friedrichs thus captured the complex fiscal-constitutional character of citizen outrage. The social symbolic charge adhering to the particular commodity in question in Lindau, wine, only complicates the picture.73 Thus, it would be wrong to dismiss the impression of perpetual contestation derived from the Council minutes merely as the bias of a body traditionally occupied with litigation and, more recently, preoccupied with regulation. Certainly, there are other indicators of the multiple contexts of conflict. For example, the original concessions of 7 November were a direct response to demands formulated by leading spokesmen of the so-called ‘Neukomm party’, probably Stadtammann Andreas Neukomm, or possibly the suspended Mayor Ulrich Miller.74 Eventually, however, the demands of the rank-and-file citizens, semicitizens and peasants were also heard. These included expressions of virulent hatred against prominent officials, lawyers and clergymen, insistence on the abolition of the excise on wine and concern for the future of those who had dared to defy the authorities. Such demands contrast sharply with those of the rebel leadership, indicating a very different political sensibility. Like all tax authorities, the Lindau Council had to balance the benefits of increased revenue against political pressures exerted by those who were liable. This is surely what motivated the Council to amend

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the wine ordinance (Weinordnung). Customarily the wine ordinance, which covered most aspects of the wine trade, was re-issued every two years. On 15 August 1626 it was decreed that while the tax on retail consumption (Ausschenken) would remain unchanged, the excise on wholesale purchase (samethafften Kauff ), however, would be reduced by half. Instead, those who sold wine in bulk would be charged two florins per Fuder. While the intended effect of these changes was not stated, it is likely that the Council aimed to shift the burden of the excise from the merchants, who bought large quantities of wine in the surrounding countryside for redistribution in the city, to the peasants who produced that wine. This was consistent with other Council policies which, taken together, point to an integration of the mainland territories into a closely administered, easily taxed and highly lucrative Stadtterritorium. That the Council was indeed succumbing to pressure from the importers and distributors of wine in the city is confirmed by further provisions of the wine ordinance which controlled the activities of the big merchants’ most likely competitors. When an innkeeper cellared his wine each barrel was to be registered and have a price affixed to it by the Exciser. Likewise, citizens were only allowed to serve wine from the previous autumn and were not to move barrels from one cellar to another. Both provisions were presumably intended to prevent small operators from entering into the speculative wine market. Finally, it was declared that foreign traders, such as the Engler family of Memmingen, would also have to pay the same rate of two florins per Fuder as Lindau citizens.75 On 7 September the Council decided to inform the captains (Hauptleute) of the mainland villages that the peasants could no longer sell wine in bulk unless an official known as the Weinlader was present.76 On 15 September the Council, Court and Commons resolved to abolish the excise on wholesale wine purchases altogether. It was noted that, as far as the excise was concerned, the peasants in the countryside were to be treated as citizens of the city.77 The Council was evidently exploiting this new-found source of revenue to compensate for losses sustained through concessions closer to home. Nevertheless the matter was not entirely settled and an entry in the minutes for 23 October indicates that the Council was still considering options for putting the administration of the excise into order. The next official mention of the subject was dated 10 November, three days after the uprising, and marked a defeat for the Council. The regular excise on wine consumed at home was abolished, but outstanding debts

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to the excise office still had to be paid.78 In favouring the few powerful merchants, the Council had grossly underestimated the political significance of the many small consumers and producers. Finally, as a side-effect of the confusion surrounding who was actually liable for the consumption tax on wine, certain significant social distinctions were cast into sharp relief. On 30 June the Council had seen fit to curtail the wine trading activities of the pastors and the City Secretary was detailed to inform them that they were no longer permitted to serve wine.79 While the Council was proceeding against a traditional freedom of the city ministers, the schoolmasters simultaneously were granted certain analogous privileges. As early as 30 January it was decided by the Council that schoolmasters on the island and in the mainland territories would be exempt from the excise on wine for domestic consumption.80 Although the two actions of the Council are not exactly comparable, and do not, therefore, permit one to conclude that the Council was favouring the schoolmasters over the pastors, there is good reason to suspect that the Council was fostering competition between the two. Thus, there do not seem to have been many schoolmasters with whom Neukomm did not at some point clash in public. Moreover, Neukomm openly challenged the authority of the combined Education Committee, which he claimed was encroaching on his own sphere.81 Similarly, on 17 February 1626 one of Neukomm’s arch-adversaries, the School Rector Magister Wilhelm Hursich, was granted permission to deliver the vesper sermons on Thursdays and Saturdays. Some accounts of the rebels’ demands specified that only Neukomm should preach on certain occasions and, although the occasions named do not actually conflict with the times assigned to Hursich, the citizenry’s resistance to certain preachers was an important point of conflict with the authorities. The probable motive of the Council in promoting the schoolmasters and the citizens’ reason for resisting them are one and the same. The (parish) commune claimed the right to choose its own pastors as a traditional privilege, although it could point neither to ancient nor to uncontested practice in this regard. Nevertheless, this preserve was the basis of Neukomm’s impassioned appeal against his suspension on the eve of 7 November. By contrast, the Council’s autarchic choice of schoolmaster appears never to have been questioned on principle, although personal antipathies were certainly expressed and the Council had to dismiss one teacher or another for drunkenness or other misdemeanours. It was therefore in the political interest of the Council, and at the expense of the (parish) commune, that the position of the schoolmaster was fostered and

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certain pastoral duties, as well as tax privileges, were redistributed from the ministry to ‘civil servant’ schoolmasters.

Religious minorities and politics: Catholics and Jews in confessional Lindau The politics of the ‘moral economy’ in Lindau did not extend only to explicitly commercial activities. Other modes of social exchange and other discourses were also engaged. In other words, Groll, Widerwillen, Empörung and so on were the common currency of bourgeois culture. Moreover, as categories of what we might call ‘political emotion’, these were not necessarily readily distinguished from other forms of public emotion (for example, ‘piety’) which could, therefore, also become highly politicized. Thus, even if the religious beliefs or convictions of Lindauers must continue to elude historians, there is a discernible part played by religion and public piety in the story of 1626. Lindauers employed recognizable rhetorical and ideological stratagems which cast ‘religion’, like ‘good government’ or sustenance (Nahrung), as the object of political contest. In the mid-summer of 1626 the Council decided to take up a collection for Protestant refugees from Austria, and encountered remarkable resistance.82 Like any other tax, the money was to be collected in the guilds and, as with other taxes, the guildsmen objected. Two days later, on 26 July, the Obmann of the Smiths’ and Coopers’ Guilds appeared before the Council. The most prominent (fürnehmbste) and, presumably, wealthiest smiths had failed to present themselves at the previous day’s collection and the coopers’ Obmann reported that attendance at his guildhouse had been down by half.83 On Friday 28 July the Councillors Vögelin, Kramer and Bensperg were detailed to exact the money for the refugees from all the guilds.84 Apparently the Council also considered some preparatory confessional propaganda appropriate: the same day that it announced its collection on behalf of Austrian co-religionists, it also licensed a theatre company, on the condition that it produce a religious play (eine geistlich commedi).85 The example is significant, ultimately, because the Lindauers’ apathy to officiallysponsored confessional causes contrasts so sharply with excitement over religious issues linked to political rivalries and jealousies closer to home. It is no coincidence that, when expressions of such fervour were imminent, the Council strove to douse rather than to incite the citizens’ enthusiasm.

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In Lindau, as elsewhere, a surprising number of the ‘administrative details’ arising from the Reformation had never been settled. Moreover, the continued presence of the Convent in the city was bound to be an irritant. For example, in May 1626 a Council inquiry revealed that a man named Hans Heinrich Mezger and one Jerg Luz, identified as the priest in the Convent, had engaged in some sort of confrontation in the coopers’ guildhall.86 In mid-July the Council discussed a tithe on the mainland, which was the object of dispute between the administrators of the municipal alms and the Convent. The Council decision to ‘liquidate’ suggests that they were indeed removing sources of conflict, albeit slowly.87 Similarly, the Council had difficulties exerting its authority over the Convent and its personnel, as is evidenced by the time and energy spent in pursuit of the excise owed by the Convent secretary and priest.88 Since such disputes pertained directly to the authority of the Council and highlighted significant gaps, if not wide breaches, in the fundaments of its sovereign authority, the uneasy relationship with the very small Catholic enclave in Lindau was much more than an inconvenience to the Council. Furthermore, while on the one hand the Council was severely hampered by its weak legal position vis-à-vis the Convent, the citizenry was once again expecting that the Council deal satisfactorily with the situation, which called for some delicate diplomacy. Throughout the summer of 1626 the entire region was gripped by fear in anticipation of the arrival of Jesuits in Lindau and in other neighbouring cities and towns.89 On 13 October Dr Heider reported to the Seniores on his negotiations with the Bishop of Constance.90 In the summer of 1626 the perceived threat of a Jesuit offensive coincided with a panic over the intentions of the Catholics within the town walls. The Council apparently anticipated a crisis of public order. On Sunday 23 July the Abbess announced that a pilgrimage (Wallfahrt) and a procession (Kreuzgang) would take place every morning at four o’clock for a week. Dr Heider and Privy Councillor Hans Mitler were detailed to implore the Abbess to refrain from staging public processions through the city.91 Against the negotiators’ claim that such processions had not been customary for nearly 100 years,92 the Abbess raised the spectre of Imperial intervention, stating that both religions could be exercised freely in Lindau. She added, threateningly, that she hoped the Council and the citizenry would not have any further objections.93 Since the negotiations achieved nothing, the Council turned its attention to pacifying the citizenry and ordered all parents to keep their children and servants at home the following Sunday; anyone

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caught in the streets would be locked in the Narrenhauß.94 To prevent trouble Lindauers were ordered to feign indifference towards the Catholics.95 A Council edict to the citizenry and peasantry suggested that the authorities dreaded a violent popular response to the parading of Catholic symbols.96 The maintainance of public order and the outward appearance of religious peace were, however, not the only objectives of the Council. Its members were more than just mediators in the biconfessional conflict: they were engaged in a desperate struggle to safeguard their credibility and authority. Indeed, as the culmination of the dispute over re-introduction of private confession would amply demonstrate, the reaction of a suspicious citizenry to a Council’s ‘failure’ to limit Catholic displays could be fearsome. Throughout the dispute Alexius Neukomm had peppered the authorities with everything ranging from indictments of their Lutheran conviction to more direct accusations of popery. Generally, the treatment of Jews was a very good indicator of the political balance between magistrates and citizens in early modern German cities.97 For example, in the uneasy climate following the Schmalkaldic War and the imposition of the Interim,98 the Lindau Council, which itself had extensive business dealings with Jewish residents of the region, passed a law prohibiting Lindauers from running up debts with Jewish money-lenders. It is probable that the action was a response to popular pressure and that the Council feared violent outbursts linked to popular anti-Jewish agitation.99 As of 10 March 1553 all Jewish visitors to Lindau had to be escorted by a city servant.100 Comments made by a lawyer representing a money-lender identified as ‘Moses the Jew’ illustrate why the Council could not afford to permit anti-Jewish violence. The lawyer warned that if Lindau refused to acknowledge the legitimacy of a certificate of debt (Schuldbrief ) produced by Moses in his suit against the Lindau citizen Adam Niepain, one could always look the matter up in the minutes of the Imperial Appeals Court (Hofgericht), where the debt had also been recorded.101 Since Jews were taxable subjects of the Emperor, the Council was obliged to ensure the security of their persons and properties. Moreover, there was always the possibility of an appeal to an outside authority such as the Hofgericht if someone took out – and risked defaulting on – loans from a Jewish money-lender. It was generally the case, but especially so after the Schmalkaldic debacle, that the Council strove to avoid engaging the Imperial authorities at all costs. For a period of several years, therefore, the Council harshly prosecuted Lindau citizens who borrowed from Jewish money-lenders; the most usual penalty was expulsion from

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the jurisdiction of the city.102 The more than 40 cases recorded by the Council Secretary in the years 1546–55 suggest that the prosecution of those who owed money to Jews was indeed an element in the political relationship between magistrates and citizens. Records show that being in debt to the Jews was an offence considered alongside, and prosecuted in conjunction with, other typical transgressions of Reformation ‘morality’ laws.103 These included Übelhalten,104 leading a dishonourable and licentious life,105 gambling, wastefulness and frequenting suspicious places.106 On Friday, 31 March 1626, the Council ordered that Jews in Lindau be escorted by a city servant.107 The popular identification of Jews as the source of Lindauers’ troubles had reappeared during the crisis of the early Thirty Years’ War. In 1619 steps had to be taken to ensure the security of Jewish vistors to Lindau. The Council decided that while in the city all Jews should be escorted by a city servant (Stadtknecht). It is unclear whether this was intended to protect Jews from violence at the hands of citizens or to reassure the citizens that an official eye was being kept on Jewish activities in the city. An entry in the Council minutes for 24 July 1620 reveals that it was popularly assumed that Jews were loitering in Lindau and were responsible for sneaking debased coins into the city; the order that Jews be chaperoned by a citizen was reissued.108 When individuals such as Wolff, ‘the Jew of Argen’,109 cited Imperial freedoms to challenge disabilities imposed in Lindau,110 the Council conceded to Jews the right to move freely within the city.111 Popular suspicions were not easily allayed and Wolff had to defend himself against accusations of crimes ranging from the theft of silver spoons to actually adulterating coinage.112 Despite the fact that on 22 February 1621 the Council found another man, one Peter Riedtmann, guilty of the above crimes, Wolff was eventually arrested and interrogated.113 Perhaps it was to safeguard themselves against later claims against Lindau in the Imperial courts, but more probably they wished to make a highly visible display of Council activism. The intra-Lindavian political nature of such accusations is all the more evident when one considers that Lindauers were hardly unaware that they themselves brought bad coinage into circulation through everyday commerce. Containing the problem by testing precious metal contents of all coins, tracing the source of debased coinage and ultimately legislating to control circulation was an ongoing administrative concern. For example, on 19 June 1626 the Council ordered that Lindauers should not accept half-Bazen coins from Chur and Kempten;

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coins minted in Constance, Augsburg and Ulm, as well as those of Bavarian provenance, were declared acceptable.114 Nevertheless, anti-Jewish agitation seems to have subsided as the immediate monetary crisis of the Kipper- und Wipperzeit abated to the point where, in September 1625, the Council responded to an intercession on behalf of a Jewish subject of the Count of Montfort by pledging a return to the old usage.115 No Jews were to be permitted residence in Lindau, but they were able to come and go freely during daytime. Obviously, even that would not last.

External and internal resistance to Lindau’s territorial consolidation Of course neither the Lindau Council’s ambition to act as a sovereign authority, nor the tendency of its potential subjects to resist, was limited to the island population. Indeed, in the early seventeenth century the Lindau Council was involved in a web of confessional politics and territorial policies well beyond the clearly defined limits of Lindau proper. Undoubtedly, this is what brought peasants into alliance with townsfolk on the morning of 7 November 1626.116 The Lindau Council’s control over its Stadtterritorium, meaning those areas where the Council exercised the high and/or the low jurisdiction, was in fact anything but secure. While, in July 1626, the Council appointed the pastor for the parish of Sigmarszell and Weissensberg,117 in a surprising number of other instances Lindau was still constrained by the authority of Catholic prelates and courts. For example, on 20 March 1626 the officers of the Spital had to petition the episcopal chancellery in Meersburg about the tenancy (Lehen) of certain properties. Despite the fact that the administration of the Spital was essentially a department of the Lindau government, the Bishop of Constance retained the right to appoint the tenant-in-chief (Lehnsträger) and could thus determine the disposal of countless properties.118 Moreover, such powers as the Lindau authorities did have were jealously guarded, and potential challenges were countered swiftly and harshly. Thus when the Council heard, in late June 1626, that inhabitants of Bechtersweiler had called a (village) commune, the Council immediately confronted the two village captains (Dorfmeister). The two provided a complete report on what was discussed, whereupon the Council simply forbade any future communes without prior application to the officiating mayor.119 In the main the Council seems to have exercised territorial control through its assumption of the administration of the Spital.120 By 1626

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the Council audited the Spital accounts (spital’sche Rechnung), and appointed the two wardens (Pfleger), the bailiff (Ammann) and the secretary of the Spital (Spitalschreiber), all of whom swore their official oaths to the Council.121 These officers arranged most of the purchases, sales and other transactions of the Spital and then presented them to the Council for ratification.122 While the Spital, itself already well endowed, began actively acquiring properties, essentially on behalf of the Lindau Council, foreign ownership of property in Lindau’s territory was effectively prohibited.123 The Council’s attitudes towards serfs under its control appears to have been one of relative leniency. In 1626 all four requests for release from serfdom, on the grounds that serfs of two different lords had married, were eventually granted, although not necessarily on the first attempt.124 Control over serfs did not, therefore, consitute the Council’s primary interest in the mainland territories, but it did express considerable economic interest in peasant tenancies. There is some indication that the Spital sought to devolve fiscal pressures of the time on to its tenants, a strategy which must be considered a potential motive for peasant participation in the citizens’ uprising.125 Moreover, in July 1626 the Spital secretary reported that many debt-ridden peasants faced auction of their properties.126 The peasants therefore pleaded that the collection of rents be postponed until after the autumn harvest, when they might pay part of their rent in wine. The Council, itself short of cash, opted for a merciless exaction of money rents and grain.127 Nevertheless, the primary long-term objectives of the Council appear to have been simply territorial, especially in view of the pressures exerted on the borders by neighbouring lords, most notably the Count of Montfort. On 14 June 1626 the Council secretary noted, under the descriptive rubric ‘markers against Montfort’ (Markhen gegen Montfort), that four border markers had been reported missing. Two Councillors and two other officials were detailed to ride the length of the territorial boundary, in symbolic confirmation of the border.128 On 6 August an official meeting (Tag) with Montfort was arranged to discuss disputed boundaries and on 9 August the Council endorsed a plan which was to re-establish and fix the position of 17 markers which kept disappearing.129 By mid-September the territorial dispute between Montfort and the Spital remained unresolved. A month later, on 13 October, it was noted that a compromise with Montfort had been reached on all points except that one recently discovered marker at Giessen remained in dispute. Montfort appealed for mediation to the Commander of the Teutonic Order (Landkomtur) in Althausen so the Council decided to do

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likewise: on 25 October the Syndic (Dr Funk) returned from Althausen without having achieved anything definite.130 Although the border dispute was waged between Montfort and the Lindau Spital, one must not jump to the conclusion that agents of either Lindau, or of Montfort, or of both, were necessarily responsible for the disappearance of the markers. In consideration of what follows below, it is conceivable that the peasants in these jurisdictions were themselves removing the stones, probably because they were loath to forfeit the benefits of indeterminate sovereignty.131 Nevertheless, while some peasants probably exploited the competition between lords,132 they are more commonly encountered in the cross-fire between Imperial City and territorial lordship. For example, the Lindau Council repeatedly heard charges of harassment and intimidation against the territorial lieutenant (Landweibel) of Tettnang, the seat of one branch of the Montfort family.133 The Count of Montfort was himself issuing commands and interdicts (Gebotten und Verbotten). Since Lindauers considered the effective imposition of these as the defining feature of a sovereign authority, Montfort was evidently attempting to arrogate lordship over the Leimnau peasants.134 Competition for the sworn allegiance of the peasants in disputed border territories was central to the contest between Montfort and Lindau. Diplomatic manoeuvring and formal legal proceedings aside,135 what really mattered was whether or not the territory staked out with jurisdictional boundary markers was practically secure. Such pragmatism inevitably involved the hapless local tenants. A Council minute entry dated 22 February 1626 shows Montfort attacking Lindau’s most vulnerable flank with attempts to force peasants in the city’s low jurisdiction to swear an oath of allegiance to himself. Lindau countered by issuing an order prohibiting its purported subjects from attending.136 Nevertheless, peasants in several areas claimed by Lindau attended the oath ceremony sponsored by Montfort.137 It is evident from the testimonies of those who did so that Lindau, too, was pursuing its rival’s peasants in an effort to strengthen its political and territorial position.138 When two peasants, Hans Bernhard and Hans Müller, revealed that they had encountered several others from the Bösenreutin Kilchberg also on their way to take the oath, the Council responded sharply (and with suspiciously firm conviction): ‘Did they not know that they were the sworn subjects of the Council? And yet they were going to swear allegiance to another lord, to whom they had never before rendered an oath; were they not going to heed the Council’s command?’ Finally the peasants were told to identify the others who had also attended the oath

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ceremony.139 The Council immediately summoned all of those peasants who had allied themselves with Montfort to exact a new oath of allegiance to the Lindau Council.140 One final aspect of the territorial tug-of-war over the peasants, religion, demands attention. Unfortunately the Council minutes are almost completely silent on this issue, but in view of the tactics involving peasant tenants outlined above, the few extant examples are unambiguous in their relation of the intentions of both Montfort and Lindau. In disputed territories, the imposition of a uniform religion was a useful step towards eventually establishing territorial hegemony. Again, this path to controlling the ground inevitably led via coercion of the residents. Thus a letter from the Count of Montfort received in Lindau on 13 February 1626 accused the Council of meddling in his affairs at Witzigmann and blamed Lindau for meat consumption during the Lenten fast there.141 Since observation of the Lenten fast was a shibboleth of confessional identity, it had also assumed symbolic significance as a signal of allegiance to a lord of a particular religious profession. Similarly, at the end of the month a bailiff (Vogt) reported on a policy of forced Catholicization, which he personally had experienced.142 By what was essentially a corollary of cuius regio eius religio, Montfort and Lindau both used religion as a surrogate declaration of allegiance. The efforts of the Lindau Council to effect some sort of territorial consolidation had adverse effects, not only on the peasant tenants, but also on some citizens of Lindau. The resistance of a wide range of Lindauers to Council policy were illuminated in the records of a legal dispute between the City and one Andreas Rauch, mapmaker and citizen of Wangen.143 Andreas Rauch had many years’ experience and his commissioned works included a 1611 scale map of his home town in which every citizen and inhabitant could recognize his dwelling.144 According to a letter from Rauch to the Lindau Council of 30 June 1626, Dr Daniel Heider initially approached Rauch, who noted that although the city of Lindau itself was small in comparison to Wangen, there were many stately summer houses, gardens and estates which would require much work to map.145 By Rauch’s own account he was to portray the mainland estates belonging to city notables.146 The Lindau magistrates’ objectives in hiring Rauch, however, went far beyond the amusement of the citizenry. A Council minute entry for 5 July 1626 recorded the decision to go ahead with surveying and mapping in language suggesting that the Council hoped for a positive fixative effect on the ground. Rauch’s work itself was practically meant to

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consolidate the city’s mainland territory.147 Various documents reveal that the protection of private property as well as of the various jurisdictions of the Council would, it was hoped, be facilitated by the commissioned survey and map. On 21 July, the Council minutes report, Rauch was hired to produce a sketch of the territories (Abriß der territorii) for 200 florins and expenses (bibate) plus a daily allowance of 20 Bazen for himself and his boy. Rauch was to be provided with a local guide at the Council’s expense.148 According to a brief synopsis of the whole case, doubtlessly part of an internal report of the Lindau administration, it was Rauch’s job to sketch the high and low jurisdictions plus the Vogtei of Giessen on the western border with Montfort territory.149 Rauch’s letter of 30 June is much more specific: the map was to enable anyone to find his way in all parts of the Lindau territory and all border markers and boundaries were to be countable and visible. Furthermore all villages and houses with their woods, fields, meadows, streams, ponds, bridges and paths were to be visible.150 When Rauch presented the Council with a bill, in the course of legal proceedings against the city sometime after 1629, he revealed that the names of the owners of all of the above were to be recorded on the map.151 The terms of the commissioning contract recorded by the Council and those set out by Rauch in his letter of 30 June are almost identical. Nevertheless, a heated dispute soon arose. Part of the problem was almost certainly that, while the Lindau Council wanted a survey and a map which would serve a specific administrative purpose, Rauch considered it his job to produce an artwork of the very best quality.152 Consequently the time it took Rauch to complete his work and his estimates for materials and other expenses escalated ridiculously. At the end of 1629 he claimed that he had invested 842 full days’ work and that Lindau still owed him the sum of 2992 florins.153 Yet there was another reason for the delay in the completion of the map, namely the intervening citizens’ uprising. The coyness of both Rauch and the Council notwithstanding, the documents are revealing. On 10 October, when the preliminary survey and draft of the the high jurisdiction had been completed, the Council demanded of Rauch that he produce the map as quickly as possible. He excused the delay and pointed out that he could not live in two places at once.154 Thereupon the Council arranged lodgings and a studio for Rauch in the Lindau Vinegrowers’ Guild. Rauch was to draft the low jurisdiction immediately.155 Neither the Council’s nor Rauch’s version of events contain any further information on the mapmaker’s whereabouts or activities until a Council delegation visited Rauch in his temporary Lindau studio in

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early March 1627.156 What had happened to Rauch between October 1626 and March 1627? More importantly, had he been a witness to the 7 November uprising? The Council minutes for 6 December 1626 reveal that the Council had asked Rauch to show someone around the jurisdictional boundary markers. Rauch objected, implying that acting as a guide was beneath his dignity. His eventual acceptance, and the Council’s assurance of their continued confidence in Rauch, reveal another motive: Rauch was frightened. Thus he requested that the Council guarantee him appropriate protection and prevent others from perpetrating violence against him.157 Evidently Rauch had in the past experienced, or in future expected to experience, some sort of resistance to his work of surveying the jurisdiction. Possibly the lords of neighbouring jurisdictions had displayed hostile intentions, but the fact that the Lindau Council assumed a guarantee of Rauch’s safety suggests that the inhabitants of the Lindau jurisdiction themselves were opposing the survey, probably because they recognized it as part of a campaign of territorial consolidation which was not to their advantage. Indeed, in late March 1627 Rauch was ordered by the Council to take his wife and children and the map and quietly slip away to Wangen without alerting the citizenry.158 Why was Rauch, who had been in Lindau in October and early December and had therefore probably also spent November in Lindau, now being forced to flee? Rauch’s own writing suggests that he considered the citizenry far from pacified and, in contradiction to the more official sources, considered the uprising an ongoing affair.159 Actually some citizens seem to have been hostile specifically to Rauch’s endeavour. He opened his account with the relation that when the citizens rose against the magistrates in November 1626, an honest citizen of Lindau approached him and asked if there was any truth to the widespread rumour that the magistrates were paying 5000 florins for the map: 3000 in wages and 2000 in expenses.160 The man would not reveal the names of those who were saying this was so, but it was obviously of enduring concern to Rauch who repeated the rumoured cost on two more occasions in his narrative.161 In view of what followed, it is unlikely that it was merely the extravagant cost of the map which aroused the citizens against the project. It is possible that financial objections were the best way for the citizens to express a variety of complex concerns about the map; it is even more likely that this was the one concern which particularly struck Rauch. In any case, the Council took steps to isolate Rauch from the citizenry completely. The mapmaker was instructed to ignore the talk of the citizens, answer to

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the sovereign authority who had hired him, refrain from meeting with the citizens, lock his room well, not admit anyone and (again) answer to the sovereign authority.162 Nevertheless, Rauch was besieged by citizens who had heard of his artwork and who tried to bribe him to let them have a glimpse of his opus.163 Rauch was flattered by what he took to be the curiousity of the citizens, but the appreciation of his art was patently not their sole motivation. Eventually Rauch was overrun (überlauffen) by the citizens and the Council decided it best to remove Rauch and his work to Wangen. At the outset of his account Rauch had himself established the link between these events and what he called the rebellion. He had requested protection on the mainland. Now he was getting caught in a cross-fire between citizens who were desperate to see the map and the magistrates who were equally keen to keep it secret. Given the Lindauers’ antipathy to secrecy and covert government activities, one might be led to suppose that a combination of curious anticipation and political suspicion had driven the citizens to mob Rauch. The Council’s jealous concealment of the map, however, culminating in its evacuation, suggests that it was something about the map per se which made it an object of struggle. There are no explicit contemporary pronouncements to this effect, but there is overwhelming circumstantial evidence to support the theory that the citizens, like the peasants, were resisting the tighter integration of the mainland territories into the Council’s administration. Rauch himself noted that an unusual number of Lindauers held mainland properties,164 a long-standing trend which had greatly accelerated during the Interim, when many prominent citizens protected their wealth by dissociating it and themselves from the commonweal of the city.165 Rauch described those citizens who had desired to see his work in progress as vermöglich, a description with a double meaning of ‘wealthy’ or ‘propertied’ as well as ‘capable’ and, in classical republican terms, ‘duty-bound’. Such citizens doubtlessly enjoyed the freedom of living outside the city walls. The Council’s attitude, in particular, suggests that Rauch was, ultimately, an enumerator, and that meant only one thing: taxes. The centrality of the political dimension of the dispute between Rauch and Lindau, and the value of the insights into the internal politics of Lindau which the mapmaker may have gained, were well recognized by both parties. His interest to the Council, as well as the threat he posed, are revealed in subsequent legal acrimony. In an endnote to his bill to the Council Rauch complained that, while the Lindau

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Council charged that he had wilfully protracted his work in order that he might claim more expenses, the delays were actually the Council’s fault. But for the fact that Rauch had been denied access to all the means necessary to present his case, the matter would have long been settled. Lindau had induced the authorities of Wangen to freeze all of Rauch’s assets so that he not only had difficulty earning his living, but was also unable to retain legal counsel.166 Rauch had good reason to suspect that Lindau was not just securing its financial investment. In early 1627 Rauch had astutely recognized that, in the wake of the uprising, the Council’s diplomatic and strategic position was very precarious. It did not want to settle the matter through the Imperial courts, yet Rauch apparently was threatening to force them to do just that. Furthermore he mentioned, ominously, the possibility that the map itself might fall into Austrian hands.

5 The Micro-Politics of Inter-Personal Relations in Lindau

Introduction In the historical study of so-called high politics, the psychologies – or ‘characters’ – of kings and queens have always attracted scholarly attention. The politics of the menu peuple, however, have been represented primarily as determinations of either national destiny or of collective economic fortune. Due to their centrality to psychological studies, family politics are a notable exception to this rule.1 Broadly speaking, therefore, the micro-politics of the family have been approached in one of two ways: one identifies economic conditions and strategies as the ultimate determinants of all family relations; the other ascribes psychological motives to all actors and, inasmuch as this operation is at all diachronic or historiographical, renders history the plaything of the new King Everyman (or -woman). For the most part, however, the emphasis on eternally recurring psychological dramas – or, perhaps, ‘deep’ cultural structures – has kept this approach isolated from the diachronic narratives of conjunctural or social historians. There have, nevertheless, been notable and fruitful attempts to bridge the gap between individual motive and common condition. For example, in the early 1960s Bruno Bettelheim speculated on the significance, especially for adolescents, of ‘psycho-social’ phenomena.2 Ten years later E.P. Thompson, working from the other end, attempted to free the analysis of collective behaviours from crudely deterministic models.3 Yet the influence of such approaches remains largely undetectable in the historiography on early modern Germany. Outstanding exceptions to this rule are to be found in the scholarship of David Warren Sabean and Lyndal Roper.4

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And yet, it now seems obvious that early modern German townsfolk could be both psychological subjects and capitalists, albeit often tentative ones. Steven Ozment has been the most prolific scholar of early modern German families over the last two decades.5 While Ozment is certainly well-versed in the various shifting contexts of the family narratives he describes, he has become fascinated in particular with personal stories from the past. Thus Ozment has undertaken close readings of particular classes of sources, especially personal correspondence, a technique which serves further to emphasize those themes whose apparent timelessness and universality have captivated him. Therefore, Ozment’s interpretations also tend to minimize the historical complexity of key issues. For example, while he noted that in 1561 widows headed 11–12 per cent of Nuremberg households, he also judged that the remarriage of widows and widowers only constituted a ‘minor social problem in the city’.6 Likewise, Ozment did not elaborate on his observation of a sixteenth-century German Protestant preference for partible inheritance; instead he quoted the celebrated diarist Hermann von Weinsberg’s comments on the potentially murderous rivalry between his sons. Indeed, true to his advocacy of historiographical emotional identification, Ozment has reduced much history, personal and otherwise, to hazy characterizations and speculations on emotional states and temperaments of historical figures.7 In Lindau, however, the social and the cultural significance of inheritance disputes, succession crises and generational conflicts was far greater than Ozment’s approach could ever allow. This significance is sharply illuminated, moreover, by the intrusion of very personal, or micro-political, matters into the very public arena of civic administration. Unlike Ozment, therefore, I have chosen to pursue the personal lives and micro-politics of Lindauers in the public record of the Council minutes. Indeed, it was in the tension between psychology and sociability, between cultural forms and economic structures, between private passions and public responsibilities, that key elements of Lindavian politics took shape. Finally, the adolescent experiences of Michael Behaim which Ozment has recreated were far from unique, psychologically or otherwise. According to Ozment, Michael belonged to a recognized category of males aged 15–25, known to contemporaries as ‘youths’ ( Jünglinge).8 For the mediaeval French nobility, Georges Duby defined ‘the stages of “youth” … as the period in a man’s life between his being dubbed knight and his becoming a father’.9 In the German cities, rites of confirmation and marriage marked equivalent terminal nodes. What is

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significant about these ‘youths’, therefore, is that, although they had already attained the canonical age of maturity, they had not yet been fully socialized, were not economically autonomous and did not exercise either the political rights or bear the responsibilities of full manhood. In short, though virile, they did not yet possess public virtue or virtù. Thus, not surprisingly for the self-consciously republican free cities north of the Alps, bourgeois republican ideology was once more in play. In the case of Michael Behaim, the youth evidently became very dissatisfied and impatient with his indeterminate status.10 His frustration was epitomized by the expressed hope that ‘[e]in Mensch unnd recht mann auss mir werd’ (‘I will be both a man and my own man’).11 In translation, Ozment has rendered this remarkably complex expression shallow and has reduced its many meanings to one dimension, stressing the personal autonomy which Ozment believes all Jünglinge, as adolescents, crave. In the context of the political culture of early modern Germany, Michael’s desire must also be read as an eager ideologically-conditioned anticipation of social self and public virtue.12

The politics of youth Early modern education has long been a primary site of historiographical myth-making.13 In recent decades, moreover, long-cherished assumptions about the relation of the Reformation to early modern education have been variously reconsidered.14 In Lindau, as elsewhere, a heightened concern for education apparently coincided with the establishment of evangelical preaching in the city. On 31 March 1536 the Council decided to use money from prebends to endow four scholarships for citizens’ sons to study abroad after graduating from the local grammar school. Within a generation there would be a pool of qualified men who had local knowledge, strong social ties and primarily Lindavian allegiances.15 There was also, however, a distinctly disciplinary aspect to these scholarships, one which had little if anything to do with religion per se. In August 1537 Mayor Hans Varnbühler applied for a scholarship on behalf of his son, whom he wished to send to the Strasburg Gymnasium.16 It is likely that this was the same unruly boy whom Varnbühler had also recently sought to discipline (züchtigen) with the aid of the Council.17 Apparently, in the sixteenth century, as today, one way of dealing with turbulent youths was to send them away to school.18 The vast majority of youths, however, could not be sent away at either public or parental expense. Many of those whose school career

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ended at the elementary level were apprenticed to a master of one of Lindau’s many trades. The Council clearly felt that these apprentices warranted close surveillance and control by their masters. Therefore the guild ordinances ratified by Council, such as the Seckler und Nestler Ordnung of June 1543, were predominantly concerned with the terms of apprenticeship, the lengths of the training period and the nature of the master–apprentice relationship.19 According to Susan Brigden, ‘there is nothing older than the proclivity of one generation to reject the beliefs and mores of the last and for the elder generation to despair of rebellious youth’.20 Certainly, the radical potential and subversive tendencies of apprentices were well recognized by sixteenth-century observers. Guild legislation must, therefore, be read as an attempt to regulate much more than labour markets, product supplies or prices. Indeed, for early modern Lindauers the problems of ‘youth’ and its control linked apprentices and schoolboys; in some cases ‘youth’ and ‘guildfolk’ were simply considered analogous categories. Moreover, antiquity notwithstanding, Lindavian levels of concern with ‘youth’ varied considerably over time, in accordance with the many other politics of the city. For example, when the Council faced the prospect of governing according to the Interim of 1548, it anticipated public disorder. All the Guildmasters (Zunftmeister) were therefore charged with exhorting the people to modesty; youth was to be controlled so that it would not instigate unrest in the city.21 Likewise, in late July 1626, when a Convent-sponsored Catholic procession threatened to attract violence, the Council ordered a pacification of both guild-based ‘citizenry’ and ‘youth’. Institutionally, this was to proceed via the guildhalls and schools.22 Obviously the youth of Lindau were to be controlled by means of universal schooling, just as the adult population was organized and regulated in the eight guilds. Ideologically, however, the Council attempted to exert its sovereign authority by treating all Lindauers not just as subjects, but as children. In the context of bourgeois republican ideology, where virtù or full manhood qualified one for political participation,23 explicit declarations to this effect would have met fierce resistance. Nevertheless, towards the middle of the sixteenth century the Lindau Council began describing and justifying its decisions, pronouncements and actions as ‘paternal’ (väterlich).24 Moreover, the contraposition of ‘young’ to ‘old’, with its implied subordination of one to the other, was emerging as a way of describing all manner of power relations. In other words, gender need not have been the only – or even the most important – aspect of Lindavian paternalism. By the early seventeenth century, age and

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experience had come to stand for all inherent, sovereign-style authority. ‘Young’ and ‘old’, ‘junior’ and ‘senior’, ‘youth’ and ‘citizen’ had become basic political categories. For example, the distinction between junior and senior officeholders, more significant in shaping governmental and civic politics in the period 1525–1626 than distinctions between patrician merchants and guild-based artisans,25 had been extended to differentiate the Lindau clergy. Thus by 1616 pastors were broadly distinguished into seniores and juniores and perquisites and honours, as well as unpleasant or dangerous duties, were distributed accordingly.26 Obviously, such developments were not unique to Lindau, or even to the German-speaking lands. Thus, famously, such distinctions were of crucial significance in the political languages of Renaissance Italy, which contraposed the giovani and the vecchi.27 Richard C. Trexler, indeed, has cast this conflict as endemic and has implied a fundamental difference between generational conflict and other dialectical relations in this regard.28 Yet Trexler has also recognized that in Renaissance Florence ‘youth’ was not strictly a natural or biological condition but, rather, an ideologically constructed state of socio-political imperfection.29 In Florence as in Lindau, then, the distinction between ‘young’ and ‘old’ was political, its significance changeable, its power potentially revolutionary.30 Similarly, Sharon Kettering has identified ‘old’ and ‘young’ parties in the politics of the parlement in seventeenth-century Aix-enProvence.31 As in Lindau, parallel intra-elite conflicts also existed between ‘old’ and ‘new’ families, specifically between ‘robe nobles’, who were of predominantly mercantile origins, and the more established ‘sword nobles’.32 Also as in Lindau, the name of a single family – in Lindau it was Neukomm, in Aix, Thomassin – was associated with an opposition party and ‘youth’ faction. The presentation lists included in the minutes of the Lindau Council must be considered in this light. In Lindau, as elsewhere, young men in their late teens to mid-twenties, often identified by their father’s name as ‘so-and-so’s son’, were extremely well represented in lists of transgressors against vice, morality and discipline ordinances. Otherwise sceptical historians frequently have taken such prosecutions (for example, for unsanctioned contact between the sexes) at face value. Even sophisticated observers have tended to stress sexual over other forms of intercourse;33 inasmuch as transgressions have been interpreted at all, they have been seen as acts of adolescent rebellion against parental standards of propriety. The wider political significance of such prosecutions, occurring as they did within the ideological context described above, remains underexplored.

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Indeed, on closer inspection of the Lindau evidence, the influence of such standards, either positive or negative, proves elusive. In the early decades of the seventeenth century, the minutes of the Lindau Council included a section entitled ‘Wedding Ordinance’, which listed the names of those who were summoned to swear that their weddings had been held in accordance with that ordinance. Where prosecutions for infringements were recorded, however, the culprit was invariably guilty of nothing more exciting than entertaining more than the statutory number of guests.34 This is an aspect of south German marriage ordinances commonly interpreted as part of a larger complex of sumptuary laws: limiting the number of guests was supposedly intended as a brake on ostentatious displays and excessive spending. This is not necessarily the only possibility: Gerald Strauss, for one, sees the limitation of guest numbers as an act in defence of public order. Whatever young people got up to when they were together, it was the congregation of large numbers itself, a situation of dangerous political potential, which the Council sought to abolish. Thus, in August 1616 several musicians (Spilleuth) and the sponsor of a spinning-bee (Kunkhelman) appeared in court, charged with having been in the street after curfew. They were fined two pounds each.35 In January 1626, the Council actually mounted a raid on a spinningbee. Jerg Gläfler’s widow was charged with keeping the Kunkhelstube and perjuring herself by denying knowledge of the law prohibiting such institutions, despite the fact that she had been notified by the mayor. The Council incarcerated the woman. Furthermore, ten young women and five young men caught at the spinning-bee were each fined one pound.36 No details about what went on in the Kunkhelstube are provided. According to Hans Medick, the objective of those authorities which undertook to regulate or suppress spinning-bees in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries was to ‘desexualize’ or ‘familiarize’ them: ‘In the foreground was the concern to prevent immorality and fornication.’37 Whereas Medick focused on the lewdness implied by contemporary observers and regulators and concentrated on issues of morality and propriety, it is also possible that the authorities sought primarily to ‘depoliticize’ the spinning-bees. The very name of the village ordinance cited by Medick, Gunggelhäuser und heimbliche conventicula, itself speaks volumes. In the early modern world nothing more poignantly identifies political anxieties and insecurities than these last two words, aptly translated as ‘furtive assemblies’.38 In fact, Medick did identify the political nature of the spinning-bees and

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the competitive threat to legitimacy faced by the authorities: ‘[the spinning-bee] was not unimportant as a critical forum of the village public and an organ of local unoffical popular justice.’39 Nevertheless, while Medick commented that the oft-stated aim of many anti-spinning-bee laws was to control schmausen and schmusen, and even provided a footnote on the archaic meaning of the latter as ‘discussing and talking’, he chose not to elaborate on the overtly political connotations of the terms. Yet, one might reasonably speculate that the more sexual implications of schmusen derive from the ‘social intercourse’ sense and probably only developed in tandem with the invention of distinctions between licit and illicit sex. Medick interpreted spinning-bees to support the thesis that parents used Lutheran marriage codes to regulate pre-marital relations, secret engagements and unsanctioned marriage as part of a more general economic strategy of guarding against undue fragmentation of the patrimony.40 Such an interpretation reduces a very complex phenomenon, concentrating on one single aspect of the child–parent relationship to the exclusion of the wider cultural importance of that relationship itself. Economic and demographic determinants, such as the rising age at first marriage, do matter; how they matter is, however, culturespecific. The most important questions for Lindau concern the place of ‘youth’ and distinctions on the basis of age in the political culture of the city. Essentially, youth was an extra-social category and the process endured by adolescents from their mid-teens to their mid-twenties was one of socialization or bourgeois republican assimilation: they had to become citizens of Lindau. In fact, judging from regulatory measures, the category with which ‘youth’ seems to have been most closely associated was the most obviously non-Lindavian category: aliens (Frembde). For example, in April 1626 the Council ordered that one pastor should always be on call to instruct young folk. Henceforth neither young folk nor foreigners were to be admitted to communion until they had presented themselves to the pastor for such instruction.41 In much the same way an entry in the Council minutes for 1615–16, tellingly indexed under the rubric ‘foreign beggars’, specifies how one was to cope with the indeterminate status of alien journeymen (frembde Gesellen). Any master who hired a journeyman had to present him to his guild for registration within 14 days. Delinquents would incur a stiff ten-pound fine.42 In this way the journeyman, by definition both foreign and young, was accorded a fixed location in city and society. It is worth bearing in mind that one of the very few events of 7 November 1626 on which all witnesses

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agreed was the symbolic act of violence committed by men identified as unmarried Gesellen against Dr Daniel Heider, the most outspoken proponent of conformity. Finally, the case of Philippina Cawazin illustrates the importance, in Lindavian politics, of the interplay between a political discourse of ‘youth’ and the Council’s defence of its legitimate authority. Cawazin, who was the widow of the prominent Lindau citizen Marx Furtenbach, had remarried. In 1617 she, along with her cousins Christoph Rad and Maximilian Kick,43 brought a suit before the episcopal marriage court (Consitorium/Offizial) at Constance. The Landvogt of Rheinegg and the city of Zürich were also involved and the Lindau Council evidently viewed the whole business as an affront to its authority. The challenge to the Council’s legitimacy became overt when Rad and Kick, joined by the notary Hans Brem and one Johannes Golgg, publicly questioned the Council’s competence in matters of marriage: a sore subject indeed.44 Although the case was very complex, the threat to the Council’s authority was clearly the central issue, as is suggested by the reportage of the entire witness interrogation process in the Council minutes (an almost unique occurrence). Yet in February 1617, when the dispute over marriage courts and jurisdictions was already in full swing, Cawazin and Kick were fined two pounds each for the seemingly trivial offence of engaging musicians and hosting a dance in contravention of the discipline ordinance (Zuchtordnung).45 The incident appears unrelated to the wider issues of Council authority, but certain features are striking. First, Cawazin excused herself by saying that a foreign guest from Winterthur and several others had been responsible, which she evidently hoped would exonerate herself and Kick. There had, however, also been Gesellen, not just foreigners, present and some of them were identified to the Council. Those named were: Kick, Neukomm’s son and Rad’s son. While the adults indulged in seditious speeches, their adolescent sons danced until dawn. Such were Lindau politics, according to the Council record. Blaming those who, as non-citizens, could not be held fully to account – in Cawazin’s case visitors from Winterthur – is an obvious strategy. The connection between ‘irresponsible youth’ and civic politics is, however, about more than merely engaging agents provocateurs. Thus, various junior members of the Neukomm clan were charged with these minor infractions so frequently that one gets the distinct impression of an anti-Neukomm campaign. In August 1616 Stadtamman Andreas Neukomm’s son, Jerg, and his cousin (Vetter) Joachim Neukomm were presented to the Council for breaking curfew and mischief.46 Joachim

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appeared in the Council once again that month due to his involvement with a Kunkhelstube which had hired musicians.47 In October of that same year Jerg Neukomm was one of the young men denounced to the Council for nocturnal prowling and mischief in the streets.48 The authorities, however, were apparently convinced that the Neukomms were, in fact, mounting a campaign against them.49 When vandals removed some bells during the night of 18–19 August 1616, the city watch reported that Hornstain’s son, Som’s son, Hans Conrad Käß’ son, Gorius Kramer’s son and others had been spotted in the street that night. When pressed by the Council, the Master of the Watch (Wachtmeister) Strodel conceded that he had not seen any Neukomms on the street that night, but he also pointed out that nobody else could be responsible for removing the bells.50 Eventually the Council located a rather dubious witness who claimed to have seen the Neukomms on the night in question. Stoffel Egger testified that he had seen two Neukomms but could not make a positive identification because they had concealed themselves in their cloaks.51 After having been reminded of his oath to tell the truth, Egger re-confirmed his testimony. The disguise and concealment of the Neukomms contrasts with the described behaviour of Mayor Bensperg’s son. He had also been spotted in a crowd after midnight on the night in question but was dismissed as a suspect on the grounds that he had been modest and had carried a lantern.52

Parents and children If the cultural construction of ‘youth’ itself figured largely in Lindavian politics, then those relations which bound ‘youth’ to other recognized categories or groups would also appear meaningful in Lindavian political culture. Indeed, relationships between parents and children and, in particular, the inter-generational institutions of step-parentage and guardianship, were all culturally significant and politically charged in Lindau. Moreover, Lindauers’ attitudes and perceptions of such matters interacted with a range of other historical forces. Even an ostensible cultural topos, such as step-parentage, thus emerges from the Lindau sources as a very dynamic, as opposed to universal or transhistorical, issue. Changing cultural forms and norms, by turn, determined the very fluid contours of political relations in the city. The premise of an ideal condition in which parents and children were bound by an inherent emotional tie seems to have been only one of several factors which also included, among others, social concerns, political calculations and economic pressures.53

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According to Lindau’s anti-nepotism legislation, the Ausstandsordnung, consanguinity constituted the ultimate proximity against which all claims and duties were measured.54 In practice, the relationship between a mother and a daughter, for example, could be invoked with some expectation of exceptionality. Thus, in 1532 Barbara Kick, who had been banished from the city, was readmitted on apparently compassionate grounds when her mother became old and infirm. Yet, in this case the Council had also received a petition from the powerful Abbess and probably also wished to avoid having to support the old woman.55 Similarly, when Boni Mezler’s widow was gaoled and released for sexual misconduct (Hurerey), she was asked to consider her children before committing a further offence. It is not clear, however, whether or not her actions were perceived as damaging to the honour of her children or threatening to their material prosperity or, indeed, whether mother and children were considered bound by love or social responsibility. Nevertheless, it is evident that the Council expected to exercise some control over the woman by invoking the relationship to her children.56 Examples of parental efforts to provide for their children’s education imply that Lindauers were at least expected to feel some sense of parental obligation. A case of a woman embezzling funds so that her child might learn a trade suggests that this was a concern for both men and women.57 Significantly the explanation of the woman’s motive was provided by her accusers and not by her defence counsel, and presumably constituted a motive and not a mitigating circumstance. In 1534, in preparation for his departure for military service in Württemberg, Ludwig Kreidenmann made a last will and testament. In it he appointed the two closest relatives on both sides of the family to discharge his paternal duties should he not return. The guardians had three basic obligations: (1) the children must be raised honestly; (2) they had to be protected; (3) they had to receive a good education; in the case of Kreidenmann’s daughter, a good marriage was also required. Furthermore, Kreidenmann noted that he also had an illegitimate daughter, identified by the name of her mother, for whom he also provided.58 In the earlier part of the period covered by the Council minutes for 1532–51, there are other examples to indicate that, in cases of bastardy, the authorities’ chief concern was that the father acknowledge and support his offspring. In cases of persistent denial and negligence, fathers of illegitimate children might be incarcerated.59 By mid-century, however, it appears that illegitimacy was perceived to be some sort of disability and requests for a formal declaration of legitimacy issued by

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the Council appear in the minutes with increasing frequency. The Council exercised an authority to declare an individual born out of wedlock legitimate, in the sense that the illegitimate progeny of a citizen were granted citizenship only at the discretion of the Council.60 Similarly, towards 1550 the Council began issuing attestations of legitimate birth (Kundschafft eelicher Gepurt) to both men and women.61 Finally, in the German-speaking lands of Switzerland, Alsace and Württemberg several related households frequently settled in and around an ancestoral house in a ‘houseful’ or as ‘the whole house’ (das ganze Haus).62 Robert Jütte has observed that, while it was only a tiny minority of the German population which lived in extended family groups, Austrian sources suggest that the extended household was most common among urban upper classes, especially among merchant families.63 In Lindau, the limited availability of space, the architecture of burgher houses,64 and the dynamics of family and civic politics all suggest the operation of functionally extended families, regardless of actual living conditions. Such functionally extended families were thus also visible economically, as family businesses. For example, most of the Kröl family appeared before the Council to grieve the Fishermen’s Guild refusal to grant the family fishing rights.65 Since the fifteenth century it had been the practice that brothers who shared a workshop, or otherwise acted as an economic unit, held joint-membership in a guild; that is, the eldest brother actually purchased membership on behalf of all the brothers.66 Similarly, Joachim Leper and Cunrat Leper’s widow and her two sons all had an interest in a shipping business operating between Lindau and Stein am Rhein. Litigation involving outstanding credits shows that brothers incurred debts in common. Likewise, Conrad Sperel was summoned before the Council to swear that he, his brother and their brother-in-law had cleared their debts to Jewish money-lenders.67 At least one interesting example of brothers appearing before the Council, however, does not have to do with the family business at all. Instead, it concerns three brothers who were all charged with defying Council authority and evading payment of the wine excise (Umgelt) in June 1534. It is likely that extended ‘families’ or ‘clans’ had already dominated Lindau politics in the late middle ages.68 By 1626 Lindauers recognized a major party in civic politics centred on one extended family household, that of the Neukomms.69 It is, therefore, highly significant that this test of Council authority proceeded from the brothers Joss, Hans and Jörg Schäfler, all from the mainland village of Schönau.70 It is in light of such politics that one must consider repeated attempts, undertaken by the Lindau Council throughout the sixteenth

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century, to define, regulate and re-define family relations. A 1526 incident suggests that, even in the heady days of the early Reformation in Lindau, expressions of morality, sexual probity and the like could not be divorced from the more established values in the bourgeois power economy, such as honour, authority and the like. Moreover, this example shows how the regulation of these ultimately proceeded to the political advantage of the Council. On Monday, St Hilary’s day, the hatmaker Michael Endriss was relieved of his position in the Council and City Court and was disqualified from all public office. In the opinion of the Council, there was incontrovertible proof that Endriss had been surprised in flagrante delicto with the wife of another citizen, Stephan Neukomm. Moreover, the woman had been raised by Endriss who had himself provided the dowry in her marriage to Neukomm.71 Not only had Endriss trespassed against the Neukomms and abused his position as trustee (Vogt), perhaps even offending against Lindavian taboos, but he had also forfeited his honour, especially since he had been discovered by the husband who had chased him into the street naked. Yet it appears that Neukomm, whose honour was of course also in question, was indefinitely banished from the city along with his wife, a considerably harsher sanction than those to which Endriss had been subjected. Neukomm and his wife, it seems, were guilty of negotiating an unofficial settlement with Endriss which, it was implied, undermined the authority of the Mayor’s office.72 In extending the limits of politics to include inter-personal relations between men and women, between junior and senior, and so on, we must consider also that the radical political potential of the evangelical message affected all power relationships. For example, in 1535 Councillor Varnbühler requested that he be lent the use of the tower and the servants of the City Court to discipline (züchtigen) his son.73 The example epitomizes the ‘Reformation’ as Lyndal Roper has described it: as a convergence of micro- and macro-politics occasioning a redefinition of authority.74 In November 1549 Hieronimus Bomer was gaoled and released for adultery. The Council secretary stipulated that it was on the request of his father that the Council sternly ordered Bomer to (1) render obedience to his father; (2) refrain from gambling; (3) avoid excessive drinking; (4) ensure that he attend both sermons and church services.75 Conversely, proceedings were initiated against those who did not execute the role of father to the authorities’ satisfaction. In 1538, therefore, the Council ordered Hans Schmidlin to look after his children.76 In 1549 Conrat Wolffhart was told to change his ways and care for his

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children or else his citizenship would be revoked and he would have to leave the city.77 Finally, if one was indeed unable to support one’s children, they could be taken into the care of the commune in the Spital.78 Presumably this implied a loss of authority and honour on the part of the father, which amounted to a demotion from male adulthood. An altogether new punishable offence appeared in the Council minutes for the tumultuous years 1550–2. In late November 1550 a conviction for übeln Hausshalten79 was secured against Hanns Egkh, who was subsequently incarcerated.80 In early 1551 a man known as Schölpin was gaoled for the same offence and was simultaneously found guilty of frittering away his earnings and still receiving the civic alms.81 In another instance Georg Wanngner was told that the Council would not permit him to lead his son into misery, and neither should his wife be expected to follow him down that path. If, however, he maintained a household as befitted an upright man, then the Council would keep neither his wife nor his child from him.82 Finally, little more than one year after its first appearance in the Lindau Ratsprotokoll, übel Haushalten appeared as part of a complex of crimes which together entailed undermining both public and personal authority. In May 1551 one Kölblin was gaoled ‘for disobedience, bad housekeeping and injurious dealings’.83 It was not just in individual cases involving incompetent ‘housefathers’, however, that the Council stepped in and substituted its public authority for the father’s paternal authority. The foundation and support of a German school (deutsch Schul), a grammar school (latein Schul) and a girls’ school (mägtlin Schul),84 the close cooperation between schoolmasters, School Board and Council, as well as the nearly endemic conflict between pastors such as Alexius Neukomm and the various schoolmasters, all attest to a Council strategy of appropriating certain authorities which were not indisputably part of the public sphere. By the early seventeenth century the Council was taking an unprecedented interest not only in the domestic discipline, but also in the formal education of Lindavian youth. In 1616 Heinrich Schwab and Simon Öler were summoned before the Council because the Rector of the grammar school and the school inspector (visitator scholae) had reported that their sons were bright and well-suited to study.85 The two fathers were informed that they were to ensure that their boys attended school regularly and were not employed by their fathers for other business. To this end the Council further decided that the boys be taken into the Spital and no longer reside at home. Ultimately, although the evidence for Lindau cannot possibly be as dense as that for Augsburg, these examples suggest that what

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Lyndal Roper has found for the household and its relation to political ideology in an early modern metropolis also applies to Lindavian perceptions of parental and governmental authorities. It was not simply the case that the family metaphor and certain pre-existing models of personal deference were appropriated by the Council to justify authoritarian positions, and neither was a new order, a reformed morality and a completely revised system of beliefs simply imposed from above. Rather, there was a dynamic interplay between conceptions of family order and public order, both of which appear to have been imagined in increasingly hierarchical terms, with an emphasis on the ultimate source of authority. At some time around 1537, therefore, the Lindau Council stopped formally describing its actions as benevolent (guetlich) in favour of calling itself paternal (väterlich), especially when it undertook the punishment of a citizen.86 By mid-century the Council was acting in a paternal capacity when it appointed trustees (Vögte) to look after the property of certain individuals who had shown themselves incapable of responsible conduct. Since the Vögte had to be consulted before their ward could transact any significant business, the practice was most commonly employed as a means of preventing Lindau citizens from running up debts.87 Finally, the Council’s dual interest, both in a model family with clearly defined paternal authority and in undermining clan-based parties, may explain the following historical oddity. The Council minutes for the years 1548–50 contained several examples of an entirely novel and curiously out-of-place entry, usually entitled Mannrecht (vasallagium). Despite the appearance of at least half a dozen examples between March 1549 and May 1550, the meaning of these entries is not clarified in the minutes. Apparently certain aspects of the quality of a man, including freedom from feudal obligations, honesty and legitimate birth, were being verified and formally recognized. Judging by the minimal variation in style of entries, it was a very formal affair involving witnesses and the appearance of father, mother and son: the father’s brother, traditionally significant in Lindau, was conspicuous only by his absence. Whatever else was happening, an image of the nuclear family was being entered, with forceful repetitiveness and possible normalizing effect, into the public record.88

Trusteeship Like any other early modern town, Lindau periodically experienced bouts of especially high adult mortality linked to disease, war and famine.

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Even under normal circumstances, remarriage was common, orphanage and guardianship even more so, and property and inheritance disputes dominated entire volumes of the Council minutes. Since, when one marriage partner died, the other did not simply acquire control over the whole pool, much property was technically in the hands of minors. In practice, it was administered by trustees (Kindsvögte). Trusteeship was an everyday feature of Lindavian life and its impact as a model for Lindavian thought on issues of responsible representation – a key problem in bourgeois republican ideology – was undoubtedly considerable. Moreover, mortality and orphanage accounted only partially for the widespread appointment of trustees: in many cases the practical advantages of transferred property ownership appear to have been the motive. Thus Hans Nägelin testified that when his parents died, his brother Bartholome passed his share of the inheritance directly on to the children of Hans and a third brother, Martin.89 Legal and economic consideration were also front-and-centre in the case of the notorious peasant leader and Lindau citizen, Dietrich Hurlewagen.90 In addition to a probable bankruptcy, after the Peasants’ War Hurlewagen faced the prospect of being declared an outlaw and being placed under a ban. In the event, his properties would have been confiscated, so he took appropriate steps to secure what he could. Hurlewagen’s strategy is revealed in the record of a slander case between himself and Cristen Rupp, recorded in the Council minutes for 5 February 1526. In response to Rupp’s demand that Hurlewagen provide some sort of security (Caution) before the case came to court, the latter replied that he had not a single penny to put up. Hurlewagen admitted that he had signed over all of his property to his wife and children and maintained, apologetically, that he had done so some time ago.91 Evidently the practice of sheltering property in direct anticipation of legal action was widely recognized and prohibited. This prohibition, however, was easily circumvented, since the Council ruled that Hurlewagen was not obliged to provide security. If the sheer number of cases involving trustees attests to the widespread nature of the practice in Lindau, the profound cultural rooting of trusteeship is demonstrated by its appearance at the centre of both Lindavian economic and political strategies. Striking also is the apparent matter-of-factness with which these extremely complex strategies were deployed. In theory, Lindau inheritance law was fairly explicit.92 It is relatively difficult to discern, however, the principles by which property actually passed from one generation to the next. Occasional Council directives in specific cases do shed some light on the matter.

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For example, in 1532 the Council pronounced in the case of the schoolmaster Caspar Heldelin, whose wife had died and who had remarried, that the children of his first marriage would be sole heirs to their mother’s property. Similarly any offspring of the second marriage would inherit their mother’s goods. All children would have an equal claim to the father’s goods, in accordance with Lindau law.93 Indeed, an important feature of this trusteeship was that the position was essentially legal, although familial and other ties were important and often a paternal uncle was appointed. Thus, this form of trusteeship was distinguished from other forms of personal promises to raise someone else’s children. Foster-parents who were not Vögte had no power of coercion over their wards.94 In contrast to foster-parents, therefore, trustees were relatively powerful. Of course there were restrictions designed to prevent the alienation of a ward’s property by a trustee,95 but in practice trustees exercised near-proprietary rights; indeed, a man who married a widow with children was said to share his predecessor’s property with their trustee.96 Nevetheless, the duties of trustees were relatively broadly conceived, and loose definition of the competences and the obligations of guardians was a common occasion of dispute. Some insight into what a trustee was expected to do for his ward is gained from contractual negotiations and accords concluded in the Council. For example, on 4 August 1535 Jörg Loblich and Feurstain the younger agreed that, in his capacity as trustee, Feurstain would commit the young boy Gregory Loblich to live with honourable people for one year.97 Feurstain was also to see to it that the boy learned how to pray and otherwise attended school to learn writing and reading. Afterwards he was to acquire a trade, to which end he was to be provided with a living allowance, fees and the necessary clothing. What is most interesting about the agreement, however, is that it stipulated its own existence by authority of a mutual contract between Jörg Loblich, on the one side, and Hans Loblich, presumably Jörg’s brother and Gregory’s father, on the other. The contract established Jörg as the manager of Hans’ estate. Furthermore, it was Jörg who actually controlled the boy’s inheritance in trust: he was responsible for apportioning the resources to support and educate Gregory. Although there was no explicit mention of a cash transaction, Feurstain was essentially being engaged to discharge paternal duties. To what extent were people who became trustees professionals responding to lucrative business opportunities? A positive answer would certainly go a long way towards explaining how and why trustees were so frequently at

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the centre of intense conflicts, and even why the bad Vogt became a character-type with widely recognized political or rhetorical potential. Thus, while trusteeship had clear economic and legal implications, these were rarely revealed in a straightforward fashion. Indeed, guardianship usually appeared as part of a complex of highly symbolic discourses about authority which also included, among other things, parentage and step-parentage (see below). Indeed, one of the most intriguing property cases from the Lindau Council minutes originated in a dispute over the rights of a guardianship. At the centre of the case was the remarriage of an older, wealthy widow, Osanna Tällerin, to a much younger man, Hans Kung. The Council minutes’ account culminated in the examination of witnesses who reported that Tällerin and Kung engaged in a symbolic reversal of gender roles when, on the morning after their wedding, she had presented him with her house and her children as a Morgengabe.98 This spectacle was clearly engineered as a response to a party who, as trustee of Tällerin’s children by her first husband, claimed proprietary rights over her first husband’s estate. Effectively those aspects of public personhood which a male citizen passed on to the next generation – his property, his name, his guild and public offices, and so on – could not be administered by a woman. Neither could they pass from him via a woman to another man, such as a second husband. The only effective challenge to the legitimacy of the trustees was for Tällerin to adopt this overtly male mode of property transmission, Morgengabe, in order to transfer her dead husband’s properties and rights to her new husband via his predecessor’s children.

Symbolic and material aspects of trusteeship in the uprising of 1626 In the context of the 1626 uprising, however, the complex historical significance of trusteeship may be reduced to the basic observation that Lindauers expected abuse and corruption on the part of trustees. Moreover, since the relationship between a trustee and his wards was a common metaphor in political discourse, with the trustee who mismanaged a trust standing for irresponsible government, Lindauers were politically suspicious and inherently distrustful of government. Indeed, the metaphor was a central feature of bourgeois republican ideology, and contrasted sharply with the Council’s increasing tendency to act with ‘paternal’ authority. A trustee’s authority was not ‘natural’, but rather devolved onto him as an elected ‘father’. Irresponsible use of

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that authority was considered cause for its revocation. Finally, nearpathological anxiety about those who would feign honest intentions to usurp a legacy can be found throughout Lindau sources, usually with a political subtext linking the practice to certain groups or parties.99 The mismanagement of a trust and its political significance, as well as the political repercussions of the enmity which often developed between trustees and their wards, are key features of the 1626 uprising. Two cases of that year will therefore be considered in some detail. The key to Mayor Ulrich Miller’s ambiguous and convoluted role in the 1626 uprising was the allegation that he had abused his position as a trustee. The scandal arising from the misappropriation of a trust administered by Miller involved authorities from cities and religious foundations all around Lake Constance. It also polarized political opinion in Lindau: one of the original demands of the rebels of 7 November 1626 was that Miller be reinstated in office. He had been semi-officially suspended since March 1626, but it was the decision to leave his position vacant, and to continue governing Lindau with only two Mayors after the civic elections of 23 August, which really excited the citizenry and mobilized resistance to the Council. The received interpretation, that Miller had simply resigned from office because the Council had denied him permission to sell his house to the Bishop of Constance, Count Fugger of Wasserburg,100 is largely based on circumstantial evidence101 and rumour. A senior member of the City Court, Peter Krenkhel, claimed to be in the possession of written proof that the Jesuits in Constance had offered Mayor Ulrich Miller 15 000 florins for his house, which he hoped to sell to clear his considerable debts.102 On 25 October the Privy Council discussed rumours and speculations concerning the sale of Miller’s house; they were circulating wildly and he, Miller, was requested to set the record straight.103 The Council minutes as a whole, however, tell an altogether different story. On Monday 9 January 1626 the Privy Council (coram senioribus) discussed the matter of Mayor Miller’s trusteeship (Vogtei) and Jos Hünlin’s legacy. Apparently Miller and the Councillor Rudolph Schludin were being sued in a matter concerning their joint guardianship (Vormundschafft) by the court secretary of Memmingen, Oswald Sauter. Furthermore, a related suit had been launched by Ulrich Widemann, secretary of the monastery of St Gall. On 17 February Miller and Schludin were summoned to appear before the Council and were ordered to satisfy the claims from Memmingen. Miller objected vehemently that it was unfair that he should forfeit his fee (Vogteigelt), but offered instead to sell the collateral (Underpfand ). Should the Privy

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Council not be satisfied with his personal assurances, Miller would put up his house as security and clear his debts. The Privy Council issued a lengthy reply which strongly condemned Miller’s financial practices. On 28 February the Privy Council ordered an inquiry into an alleged outburst by Miller at the inn zur Kron. Miller had complained publicly that the other two Mayors, Michael Felß and Calixt Buchschor, habitually circumvented him in favour of consultations with the Privy Council.104 On 1 March Miller refused to appear before the Privy Council and the entire Council was informed of what had passed between Miller and the Privy Council to date. A Council lawyer, Dr Funk, and the Privy Councillor, Caspar Vögelin, were detailed to meet Miller and deliberate a settlement of the claim from Memmingen as well as a claim for 1000 florins entered by the widow of Lindau’s Dr Deller. Apparently a tentative deal was reached whereby Miller would sell his house to the Council, thereby raising enough cash to clear all of his debts. On 6 March the Privy Council decided on a semi-official, indefinite suspension of Miller,105 but financial negotiations between the magistrates and Miller continued. Miller agreed to have his house appraised by a neutral party and its value was set at 9000 florins. Then suddenly, on 8 March, the plans for the sale of Miller’s house were apparently scrapped and Miller was formally removed from the Council; the Council decided to solicit outside legal counsel. On 13 March Miller and his representatives were notified that the Council was not going to buy his house, to which Miller responded that several citizens had agreed to secure the Memmingen debt and he no longer wished to mortgage his house and his wife [sic].106 Four days later Michael Kromer and the notary Hans Brem appeared before the Council on Miller’s behalf and made conciliatory noises in order, they said, that outstanding matters of trusteeship (vogtein Sachen) might be settled. On 3 April Miller apparently backed down and agreed to offer a written deprecation. Yet by 12 April he had once again made a remarkable volte face; the issue of his trusteeship and the related debts was anything but settled. Despite Miller’s insistence that he only wanted the Council to take the house off his hands and that he was not remotely interested in the office of Mayor, at this point his suspension from office clearly moved to the political foreground.107 On 14 April the Council again heard Miller’s request and maintained its refusal to purchase his house. Instead, they offered to let him keep his Council seat and continue to use his mayoral title; all the duties of that office, however, would be discharged by the other two incumbents. Miller accepted the Council’s

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final decision on the purchase, but refused to step down as Mayor. His argument, that it would bring him into ‘discredit’, cleverly conflated the main issue of Miller’s honour with an allusion to the financial imbroglio of his trusteeship.108 On 21 April Miller addressed a plenary session of the Council, again charging that it was not right that he be prevented from exercising his office on account of his creditors; he complained that his honour and reputation were suffering.109 Then on 4 March it was reported that Miller had burst into the Council chamber, sword in hand; a serious offence indeed.110 Miller had heard that the annual fair ordinance (Jahrmarktsordnung) was being deliberated without him; to this end, moreover, his book of office (Amtsbuch) had been appropriated. The vocabulary of the reported exchange between Miller and Privy Councillors revealed a sense of grave injury to Miller’s public person and social station. He had been singled out or marginalized (abgesondert), subjected to exclusion (Ausschließ) and degraded (degradier[t]).111 Next, two extra-Lindavian authorities, Dr Jenisch and Dr Tafinger, were consulted, but the case does not appear to have developed further. Then, on 23 August, Council elections (Ratswahl) were held. The ensuing Council decision, that Miller would stay suspended but that the third Mayor’s office would also remain vacant, occasioned great outcry. The decision to govern Lindau with only two mayors was considered unconsitutional and usurpatory. Both Stadtammann Andreas Neukomm and the senior member of the City Court and effective viceStadtammann, Bartholome Wöller, stubbornly refused to swear their oath of allegiance as long as there were only two Mayors.112 The following day the Statthalter and another member of the Court, Peter Krenkhel, reported that the peasants had been heard to say that they would not swear to only two Mayors.113 The Commons (Gemeinde) also spoke of the elections with condemnation (schimpflich Reden) and the Council responded by ordering Neukomm and Wöller to set a good example. Actually, in hindsight, it was too late for that, since Miller had already made an appeal for support to the eight guilds and was threatening to mobilize the entire citizenry.114 Thus what started as a question of financial trust had become a rally in defence of bourgeois republicanism, with widespread accusations of betrayal of political trust. Moreover, while Miller’s movements and activities between the end of August and 7 November remain obscure, next to Alexius Neukomm he was clearly the most important figure in that affair. Although he was rehabilitated and engaged in negotiations on the Council’s behalf almost instantaneously once hostilities had

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broken out, the demands of the rebels demonstrate the symbolic significance of his suspension to their side. One crucial chain of events leading to the uprising of 7 November thus began with a dispute over trusteeship and the misappropriation of funds held in trust. Emotive issues of both financial and constitutional trust were conflated, as the case of Mayor Miller became a bourgeois republican cause célèbre. But this was not an isolated case. Issues of trusteeship and betrayal of trust were also of immediate political significance in the case of Ulrich Weber, which likewise figured as part of the overture to the uprising of 1626. Weber was most probably the Stadthauptmann referred to in documents of late 1626, according to which the rebels had demanded that he be run out of town. Although the desire to chase Weber from the city did not find expression as quickly as demands for the expulsion of the lawyers, subsequent chroniclers found it significant enough to include it as if it had been one of the original rebel motives and demands. It is possible that the grievance against Weber was fuelled by his failure to keep a promise to reinstate Miller to his office. Made on 24 August, in the heat of the election crisis, Weber’s broken promise doubtlessly contributed to the disappointment and disaffection of Miller’s supporters. It is just as likely, however, that the widespread hatred of Weber had its origins in a dispute between Jerg Turn and his ex-trustee, Weber. By Weber’s own testimony, presented to the Council in late November 1626, he had convoked his guild in his capacity as Obmann. Turn, described as Weber’s former ward ( gewester Vogtsohn), and another member of the guild had made speeches accusing Weber of embezzlement. Turn’s taxable property had in the previous year been valued at 600 florins, but this year it had been worth no more than 200. According to Turn, Weber had defrauded him of 400 florins.115 A number of guildsmen cheered Turn on and the uproar escalated until there were voices calling for the ejection of Weber from the Council.116 Even when Weber and his co-trustee, Martin Knöpflin, submitted their accounts to an audit by the Council, Turn refused to withdraw his accusations against Weber.117 In the end, however, an out-of-court settlement to the dispute was reached,118 but not before the flames of the fire burning between Obmann and common guildsman, Council and citizenry had been fanned once more.

Step-parents Like trusteeship, step-parentage carries a dual historical significance, as both a concrete historical phenomenon and as an enduring symbol

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of complex or cultural topos. In the study of step-parentage, however, pursuit of the latter has practically eclipsed the former. Moreover, some psychological analyses of step-parentage have simply denied, for ideological reasons, what might actually be cultural expressions rooted in common experience. Thus, many sixteenth-century Lindauers did actually grow up in households with a step-parent. Furthermore, the relationships they had with their step-parents were often highly antagonistic.119 This raises obvious questions about the most widely known and studied source on early modern European step-parentage, the fairy tales published and popularized by the brothers Grimm. One exponent of the ‘psychological/archetypal’ approach, Maria Tatar, has maintained that the women – cooks, step-mothers, witches, mothers-in-law – constituting one of three categories of ogres (the other two being ‘beasts and monsters’ and ‘social deviants’) are actually mothers, magnifying and distorting ‘all the perceived evils associated with mothers’.120 Tatar supports her thesis with complex speculative questioning: What easier way is there to depict maternal abuse of children and at the same time preserve the sanctity of mothers than by turning the evil mother into an alien interloper whose goal is to disturb the harmony of family life? … Surely these stories, of all the stories in the Grimms’ collection, have the least factual basis, even in the realities of past ages and savage practices, or so it would seem.121 Tatar’s ultimate hedge is tantalizing for, in sixteenth-century Lindau in particular, there emerged a highly articulated discourse of step-parentage, the emergence of which can be located chronologically with some precision. The Council minutes for the second quarter of the sixteenth century document the adoption of a diversified specialist vocabulary of step-parentage.122 The minutes for 1525–8 contain no terms to describe step-fathers, step-mothers or step-children, although the complications of remarriage and the associated conflicts are very much in evidence. Because it is not named, however, the step-parental factor in a conflictual relationship must be concluded indirectly. Before long, step-parents are nearly always described as ‘mother’s husband’ or ‘father’s wife’ to distinguish them from biological ‘father’ and ‘mother’. It is significant for the identification of the conflict between step-parents and stepchildren as essentially one of generation, as opposed to intrusion, for example, that step-siblings are never mentioned.123 By contrast, in the Council minutes for 1546–9 all manner of specialized terms abound. In the Angelberger case detailed below, both step-mother (Stiefmutter) and

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step-son (Stiefson) are identified.124 Within ten days another, totally unrelated, case between Stiefmutter Ursula Brombeis and Stiefson Hans Ruesch was brought before the Council.125 Actually the case had already come to the attention of the Council nearly a year earlier as Ursula Brombeis versus Ludwig Riesch’s Vorkynder, also an apparently novel (yet soon to be commonplace) term.126 A step-father (Stiefvatter) is also mentioned in the same volume and in the subsequent volume, 1548–50, there is clear indication that the Council did not consider step-greed to be an exclusively female trait. The Council notified the trustee responsible for certain minors (Minderjärige) to be vigilant as Sebastian Schneider, their Stiefvatter, had designs on their property.127 Thus the Lindau evidence compels us at least to consider the possibility that the topoi made famous by the brothers Grimm were grounded in a particular historical reality. What mothers, step-mothers – and perhaps even cooks128 – all had in common, of course, was their relationship to the father. That fathers’ relationships to their children in no way conformed in word or deed to an ideal of tender and protective love, where such ideals existed, is clearly demonstrable from the Lindau sources.129 As both lover and ally of the father, mothers, stepmothers and cooks were all implicated in the generational contests common in early modern Germany. Indeed, at least one other historian of early modern Germany has explicitly opted for a ‘realist/materialist’ interpretation of evil step-mothers. According to Thomas Robisheaux, the threat to the patrimony posed by the high frequency of second or even third marriages meant that generic fear of the step-mother was ‘well founded’.130 In theory, those specified goods and properties which a woman brought into a marriage, Heiratsgut, along with the Morgengabe she received from her husband, was her and her heirs’ unalienable property.131 Hence, remarriage gave rise to extremely complicated inheritance arrangements and property settlements, often at the expense of women and children; violent conflict was not unusual. For example, when a man named Bodenmiller married a widow with two daughters and a son, he made a contractual agreement to buy off his wife’s children. In return for ten florins each they were to relinquish all claims to a parental inheritance.132 Nevertheless, when Bodenmiller’s wife died she left some clothes to each of her daughters and a further ten florins to her son. Some years later, the son having succumbed to plague, his sisters’ husbands sued Bodenmiller for the ten florins on the grounds that it was part of the matrimony. Bodenmiller’s response reveals just how many variables determined the nature and the course of these disputes.

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First, he argued that since the son never married and therefore never ascended to full adult status, the ten florins were never his in the first place.133 Second, since Bodenmiller had fled as soon as his wife had contracted plague, the second inheritance had been arranged without his knowledge. He hoped that no woman would be permitted to make such a will behind her husband’s back.134 This argument evoked a very powerful Lindavian dual discourse about the unforthright and duplicitous nature of women and their ability, as seducers, to divert the proper course of an inheritance. Bodenmiller’s appeal to the amorphous Stadtrecht was, in view of this discourse, superfluous. Predictably, the Lindau Council’s decision recognized the contract (Gemechtsbrief ) concluded between Bodenmiller and his step-children and did not make an award in the claim of the second sum of ten florins.135 High mortality, remarriage and the highly qualified proprietary rights of women, embodied in institutions such as Heiratsgut, all merged in perpetual confrontation between children and their parents and stepparents. The difficulty of exacting matrilineal claims meant that the remarriage of a mother was viewed with justifiable hostility. In the early sixteenth-century written law (verbrieftes Recht) was not unquestionably superior to claims founded in customary practice (Herkommen), and Stadtrecht was not necessarily normative, although it was frequently invoked and people obviously had expectations concerning its efficacy. Thus marriage contracts (Heiratsbrief ) and inheritance agreements (Gemechtsbrief ) were usually also disputed. In 1526 Bartholome Sutter, alias Brateysen, and his sister’s sons negotiated an agreement with Michael Wilhalm who wished to marry Brateysen’s mother. The sum of 100 florins was put into trust, with Wilhalm’s vineyard on the Hoyerberg as security. If Wilhalm died before Brateysen’s mother, she was to receive 100 florins and her Morgengabe. On the other hand, should he survive his wife Wilhalm would be permitted to live out his life in her (that is, the Sutter family’s) house. In that case her children or heirs were to receive 100 florins on Wilhalm’s death, but not before. When she did die before him, however, Michael Wilhalm, his sons and his son-in-law denied the validity of the contract and demanded an immediate refund of the 100 florins held in trust. They claimed that, in accordance with Lindau custom and law, no parents were to conclude written contracts concerning distinct or conjugal properties without the foreknowledge and approval of all children.136 The Council tacitly accepted the step-father’s apparently feeble argument and, after much testimony by outside witnesses, it suspended judgment (Urteil).137

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In late January 1548 Dr Ulrich Angelberger and his son Conrad Angelberger the younger appeared before the Council for swordfighting. In addition to the testimony of several witnesses, the Council heard a supplication by Conrad accusing Ulrich of appropriating all his son’s hard-earned properties.138 The Council ordered both parties to keep the peace. A narrative dated 20 February 1548 reveals that open conflict continued in spite of the Council and that Ulrich and his brother-in-law (Schwager) Hanns Rinnggler, brought a suit against the former’s sons, Conrad and Ulrich the younger. The brothers’ response clearly identified a step-mother as the source of discord. In an earlier letter to the Council Conrad had pointed out that the violence had occurred under very special circumstances since the combatants were father and son.139 According to Conrad and Ulrich the younger, they had never intended to quarrel with their father, but had wished always to obey him. Their step-mother, however, was such a malevolent woman that there was no chance of a rapprochement; she was a sower of discord and the source of all fracture and disunity.140 What distinguishes this example from the generic model posited by Maria Tatar is that it is all the evil of the father, not of the mother, which was transferred to the step-mother. This is a crucial difference since the central conflict is not founded in a sanctity of motherhood, which Tatar implies has purely psychologial origins, but in the sanctity of fatherhood, undoubtedly a social and political construct. The dilemma which faced the Angelberger boys was one of succession. The need to follow in their father’s footsteps, and hence the need to perceive him as worthy of emulation, contradicted their impatience to supplant him, as well as his fear of their ambition. Although this conception does entail a certain psychology, it differs fundamentally from the ‘archetypal/psychological’ conflict scenario. Because the conflict finds self-conscious expression, it must be approached at the level of cultural and social self-perceptions, rather than in the purely psychological plane. It is thus also a subject for historical investigation. On the other hand, the evil step-mother phenomenon, if it is not to be reduced simply to a manifestation of material competition, must be linked to the culture of succession. Bruno Bettelheim once described the dilemma of the heir to a throne, which is indeed the dilemma faced by any potential successor, thus: the patient heir is perceived as a weakling and so becomes the object of parental contempt. Conversely, the successor who will not wait must head the revolt against his father. If successful he will ultimately face the crisis of legitimacy encountered by all parricides.141 Bettelheim recognized that, in certain significant

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ways, conventional psychological explanations fell short of the mark. In attempting to understand adolescence, Bettelheim perceived the significance of the dynamic historical process of succession, a significance all but obliterated by static archetypes.142 Finally, Bettelheim’s example clearly indicated the considerable political implications of the succession crisis.143 The conclusion of the Angelberger case illustrates that connections did indeed exist between conflicts of succession and other species and discourses of political conflict. Witnesses reported that, despite the fact that both sides were under Council orders to keep the peace, Conrad rode out to Ulrich’s mainland estate where, employing terms specific to a discourse of miscreancy in its most literal sense, he accused his father of abusing the word of God and the sacrament of baptism.144 All the Council could do was to exact another oath of mutual avoidance. The sons promised to steer clear of their father’s house and street and their father agreed to return Conrad’s properties which, Conrad intoned, were the fruits of his own achievements rather than a parental legacy; obviously, they represented the sons’ limited independence from their father. Both sides were bound to keep the peace, and all injuries to reputation and honour were declared null by the Council, by virtue of its sovereign authority. Hefty fines were levied.145

Succession Finally, a range of both ‘materialist/realist’ and ‘idealist’ approaches affords the most satisfactory consideration of the related questions of why Lindavian ‘youth’ was so volatile, and why distinctions of age were so prominent in the political language of early modern Lindau. Both were factors in the uprising of 1626. It is almost impossible that Lindau was unaffected by the rise in age at first marriage which apparently took place throughout north-western Europe from around 1500 onwards.146 Thus the ‘limbo’ period, or social adolescence, identified by Bettelheim, Duby, Farge and Foucault, Ozment and others, was getting longer in Lindau, too.147 Using the example of the Austrian institution of old peoples’ quarters (Ausgedinge), Bettelheim maintained that it was not adolescence or youth itself which was the source of trouble, but generation.148 So long as succeeding generations were not in competition and there was a smooth replacement of one generation by another, there was no problem. Although Bettelheim probably overromanticized Austrian peasant culture, his underlying assumption appears valid. Thus, Farge and Foucault postulated a similar dynamic in what they called

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‘threshold conflict’. The longer the period spent on the threshold, the greater the conflict which accompanies succession.149 At the root of the problem, therefore, was a ‘traditional’ culture, in which young people always inherited old, established identities. Such a culture made succession the only viable route to both mature personal and public identity.150 Which brings us back to Michael Behaim’s yearning that ‘[e]in Mensch unnd recht mann auss mir werd’. Whatever else appeared to be going on – inheritance disputes, generational conflict, the maladministration of trusts, and so on – the source of the problem in Lindau was the emphasis on succession. The need to succeed motivated the young, but it was also a major source of frustration. For example, the son of Stadtammann Andreas Neukomm, frequently charged with Übelhausen and arguably one of the more significant individuals in the 1626 uprising, was also extraordinarily unsuccessful at entering into public office. As the basic identity of a Lindauer was passed from one generation to another, in the form of citizenship, occupation, public offices and property, where successive generations were in perpetual close contact in Lindau there was bound to be high tension. This was because one or both generations were inevitably deprived of a full identity. In a small island town every inhabitant was implicated in some way. The problem was already well recognized in the first half of the sixteenth century and the Council frequently had to intervene to effect a compromise. For example, in January 1548, in the middle of winter, the Council mediated between parents and married children who were sharing the same house. A radical solution was evidently required and the Council ordered that one party should keep to the top rooms and the other to the lower rooms of the house; food and fuel stores were also to be maintained separately. If the two parties proved incapable of peaceful cohabitation, the younger generation would have to move out. In that case, the parental generation would be obliged to pay an annual sum in compensation.151 Similarly, the Council ordered Bastian Messerschmid to pass some of his property on to his son during the older man’s lifetime. Furthermore, his father was bound not to mortgage or sell any of the property remaining in his control without the Council’s knowledge.152 The most detailed arrangements allowing sons to succeed their father in his lifetime date from the beginning of the period 1525–1626. On Monday before St Ulrich 1525, Martin Halder and his son Hans appeared before the Council with competing claims to the family farm. It seems that Martin, under pressure from his sons and son-in-law, put

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his name to a contract whereby he relinquished control of all or part of his farm. Disputes arose from the old man’s unwillingness to let his sons take over completely and, while they claimed an outright purchase (Koff ) had been agreed, Martin insisted that the transaction was only a loan or advance (Vorsazung). Both sides revealed a sense of grave injury and deep bitterness in the course of their testimonies. In the end the Council decided in favour of the sons who could produce a sealed purchase contract.153 Although this case is quite typical for the period up to the midsixteenth century, I have found no such examples of Council rulings on ante-mortuary property transmission in the Council minutes for the early seventeenth century. While this could be due to any number of changes to administrative practice, it is probably in itself more significant than that. As the politics of Lindau were thoroughly infused with metaphors of age and age distinctions, and as the Council increasingly justified its own positions in analogy to the unqualified legitimacy of paternal authority, it would have become impracticable, if not unthinkable, for the Lindau authorities to endorse claims which subverted that authority. Even less inclined would they have been to risk explicit antigerontocratic expressions in a public forum. Thus, it appears, it was no longer permitted for sons to sue fathers before the Council.

6 A Harvest of Bureaucracy: Practical Politics in Lindau

Introduction The following chapter examines the role of ‘practical politics’ in the uprising of 1626. Documents produced in the quotidian administration of Lindau reveal much about the progressive crisis and ultimate collision of 1626. Since these documents themselves constitute a narrative of the practical politics of 1626, attempts have been made to maintain the overall integrity of that narrative. For this reason alone, this chapter is unusually long. Moreover, although the narrative has been punctuated with subheadings, these are somewhat misleading, implying a thematic organization of adminstration or record-keeping which Lindauers did not in fact practise. The practical politics of Lindauers were determined in the first instance by a general agreement on civil or constitutional procedure: that is, they engaged primarily in verbal contests within bounds established by traditional administrative protocols and established institutions. The analysis of such contests is no easy matter, requiring careful attention both to text/act and context/setting. Key terms – for example, ‘anti-Christ’, ‘tyrant’, or ‘commune’ – obviously carried inherent ideological potential,1 but the degree to which any such commonplace realized its potential depended on its use in a practical context. Any interpretation of the sources for early modern Lindau – especially for the uprising of 1626 – must consider the degrees to which ‘loaded terms’ were programmatically manipulated and how effectively this manipulation was integrated into the larger narrative of speech-acts. Like all politics, the Lindavian contests examined below aimed at the acquisition or production and maintenance of power; the process, however, proceeded indirectly, via competing claims to ‘authority’.2 121

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Lindauers recognized many diverse species of this authority, both legitimate and illegitimate: that is, they negotiated their claims by means of a number of basic distinctions or binary oppositions;3 for example, male versus female, honourable versus dishonourable, native/citizen versus foreign/non-citizen, orthodox versus heterodox, senior versus junior, local/regional versus imperial/national, and so on. Such distinctions generally appear to have identified oppositional relations in what might be called ‘linear’ dimension. Thus, for example, Lindauers qualified legitimate authority as ‘paternal’, ‘native’, ‘ancient’, ‘open’, whereas they also identified the illegitimate authority of women, foreigners, innovators, those who dealt in secret, and so on. Extreme vigilance and diligent defence against such insidious pseudo-authority constituted a crucial aspect of Lindavian practical politics. Lindauers also placed much stock in a few distinctions by which they articulated what might be called ‘multi-dimensional’ cardinal domains of difference. By far the most important of these cardinal domains were those identified by the distinctions public versus private, spiritual versus secular and, to a lesser extent, professional/specialist versus amateur. Significantly, these domains cut across any and all linear oppositions. In practice, then, Lindavian politics were far more complex than the common structural models derived from German legal or constitutional historiography could ever allow. For example, both Walter Ullmann’s famous ‘ascending’ versus ‘descending’ authority formulation, as well as Peter Blickle’s more recent conception of ‘political culture’ appear, in light of the Lindau evidence, as radical oversimplifications.4 Blickle concludes that the lack of a central power fostered the equality of estates in Upper Swabia.5 Yet Blickle’s formulation, in terms of ‘estate’, actually conceals much of the Upper Swabian situation. Indeed, both his premise and conclusion appear highly questionable if one considers polities such as Lindau properly, as miniature states. Seen this way, Lindau presents a case both of efforts to centralize power as well as increasing sociopolitical differentiation, complete with resistance, however futile in the end, thereto. In this way, the Upper Swabian dynamics of Lindau are no different than those of, say, Austria, Württemberg or Bavaria, which Blickle holds up as contrasting examples of emerging absolutism. The complexity and plurality of Lindavian political practice, moreover, suggests once again the limits of the genealogical/idealist approach to so-called constitutional or political thought. Generally, this approach, exemplified by the work of J.G.A. Pocock, has been much more widely received among Anglo-American historians than, say, the work of Peter Blickle.6 Ultimately, the Lindavian example does highlight the limits of

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a historiographical conception of republicanism planted firmly – and almost exclusively – in eighteenth-century Anglo-America.7 For example, Frank Lentricchia once operated his interpretative machinery within the confines of an axiomatic quadruple alliance of pragmatism, (mature) capitalism, republicanism and Christianity.8 In early seventeenthcentury Lindau, however, it seems quite clear that pragmatic and (early) capitalist interests faced stiff opposition from defenders of the local, ‘republican’ constitutions of both church and state. Indeed, in early modern Lindau there was a progressive entanglement, both ideologically and institutionally, of church and state in this regard, an observation which invites reconsideration of those grand narratives charting the emergence of intellectual modernity in relation to religion.9 Finally, the following narrative of Lindavian politics demonstrates the complex interconnectedness of themes addressed in relative isolation in previous chapters. The narrative thus serves an important interpretive function in its own right. Here, then, there is agreement with Lentricchia’s larger point on the politics of interpretation. Canonical interpretations of canonical texts – such as Blickle’s interpretation of Upper Swabian political culture – can be challenged most effectively with interpretations of not-so-canonical texts. The narrative of Lindavian political sources for 1626 is simply important, therefore, in much the same way as the infamous ‘minor texts of Balzac: no epic heroes, no epic acts’.10

Taking sides: litigation as a model of contestation The settlement of disputes between private individuals seems to have been the primary business of the Lindau Council; conducting legal suits was a Lindavian preoccupation.11 It was frequently charged, moreover, that the pastor Alexius Neukomm was unable or unwilling to distinguish his private affairs from the public business of church administration; there were no fewer than three lawsuits involving Neukomm pending in the early summer of 1626. Moreover, just as these three flowed into one another, they were also integrated into ongoing, larger disputes involving Neukomm. As documents produced both by Neukomm and official circles show, the former was not the only one to blur the distinction between private and public disputes. Such were the dynamics of what Susanna Burghartz has called a ‘culture of conflict’ (Konfliktkultur).12 It is therefore worth pausing to examine both the form and the content of one of these so-called private lawsuits. The first point about the

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case under consideration is that it was a highly ritualized drama, and that people adopted roles for the contest.13 Thus on 8 June 1626 Neukomm was presented with a Restoration und Purgationschrifft by Hans Georg Brem, an Imperial Notary and citizen of Lindau.14 He was acting on behalf of Hans Heinrich Buchschor,15 who was in turn suing in the interest of his daughter Elisabeth and his son-in-law (Tochtersohn), the schoolteacher Magister Johann Melchior Bayer. The formulaic introduction of the document presented by Brem effectively claimed that it was in accordance with secular and spiritual law and in the interest of good government (Policey) that no person damage the honour and reputation of another. There were three special qualifications, however, which stand out against the background of the conventional terms of confrontation in Lindau. First, it was noted that the violence of one against the honour of another posed a particularly grave threat to Policey when it occurred between individuals of practically equivalent status or estate.16 Obviously Neukomm’s uncollegial behaviour raised questions of considerable general interest in early modern Lindau. One of Charles V’s strategies against the guild constitution had emphasized the differential authorities of estates, in accordance with the advice of Ferdinand I who had argued that functional power relations could not exist between equals.17 Mediaeval estates were a thing of the past – if, indeed, they had ever existed at all – but Lindauers certainly had an idea of what it should mean to belong to an estate, to be a Standesgenosse. Thus, although the guilds were never fully disestablished in Lindau, the language of estates was resurrected in seventeenth-century Lindau and employed in the creation of a new patriciate.18 Following the constitutional reforms of Charles V, the concept of estate also enjoyed enhanced currency in Lindau because the difference between patrician and non-patrician/guilds was emphasized structurally and was, in principle if not in practice, a qualification for certain public offices. The second qualification to the introductory formula provided that one was not to damage a person’s honour, either in public or in private. The terms used – heimlich and offentlich – warrant special attention. Broadly speaking, they were considered equivalent to privatim and publicè, as is indicated by their use in translations of legal texts.19 If etymological dictionaries are anything to go by, this synonymy in Lindau alone is extraordinary.20 Yet the local terminology contains significant cultural aspects which go beyond the classical public/private distinction between an individual’s actions on behalf of the office or offices held and his personal interests or actions. According to Friedrich Kluge, the

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original meaning of heimlich had to do with the sphere of the house, the ‘domestic’ which was shielded from public view. Öffentlich, by contrast, was that which was conducted in plain sight of all eyes.21 Certain cultural inferences can be drawn. ‘Public’ and ‘private’ were ideologically loaded by their association with classical republicanism, as is evidenced by their use as a pair or separately to denounce the ‘unofficial’ political activity of individuals. The real crux, however, is the issue of accessible and inaccessible arenas of action and the use of the inaccessible for concealment. Ronald Weissman has noted that in Renaissance Florence houses were indeed retreats, and there was a certain inviolability connected with the fact that they sheltered one from the public eye. It was a privilege and an honour to be admitted to someone’s house; but then concealment of private emotion and intention seems to have been a virtue.22 Not so in early seventeenth-century Lindau, where the political culture and meaning of republicanism thus diverged considerably from the Florentine model. In Lindau, in marked contrast to the case examined by Weissman, although it was considered an abuse to employ the platform or leverage afforded by public life to gain privately, a different (and the strongest) condemnation was reserved for those who dealt behind closed doors. In Lindau this constituted the real meaning of corruption. The Lindau situation may be significantly different also, therefore, from south German rural society. Here, Hermann Heidrich has observed that the interior front room was not an emphatically private space, although the threshhold appears to have been significant nonetheless.23 Third, although this was not strictly speaking part of the general formula of introduction, Neukomm was accused of having diminished the respect which youth should have for its teacher. He had thereby undermined, metaphorically, the sovereign authority of Lindau’s rulers. So what had Neukomm in fact done? He had denounced Magister Bayer and Elisabeth Buchschor for bigamy! Neukomm’s motive, it was repeatedly intoned, was pure envy (Neid) and he had threatened to use the pulpit to proceed against the couple. According to the document, Neukomm habitually used his office (Amt) to vent his private envy ( privater Neid). In the end, apparently, Neukomm did not bring the matter to the pulpit, but instead invented a verse.24 More specifically, it was a verse of worthless women’s tattle (Weibertandt).25 Such talk was supposedly held in high regard by Neukomm, who considered fairy tales as if they were the Sibylline leaves.26 This statement is of crucial significance because it connected the heimlich-‘concealed’ complex

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with the privat-‘not in public office’ complex in a single symbol, that of woman. In early modern Lindau, as elsewhere, women were by definition denied the franchise and lived only as private individuals; they were also considered to be particularly prone to concealed action. How and when the equation ‘private’:heimlich (domestic/female):‘concealed’ was first established is beyond the scope of this study, but it appears to be quite firmly in place by the early sixteenth century. What is clear, however, is that Neukomm’s behaviour was somehow analagous to that expected or suspected of women. He was acting in a manner which was heimlich: that is, shielded from the public eye and beyond the reach of constitutional controls. Indeed, Neukomm was notorious for enlisting the support not only of women, but also of the plebs of Lindau. It was in this manner that he engaged in ‘unofficial’ political activities designed to undermine the credibility and authority of the schoolteacher. An undated Clag against Magister Hursich, Hans Heinrich Buchschor, Magister Bayer, and Augustin Miller amounted to a consolidated counter-suit by Neukomm.27 This in itself suggests that some single thread ran through the cases; it is unlikely that they had no more in common than Neukomm’s involvement. In all three cases the manipulation of certain ideological commonplaces reveals underlying themes of social domains, appropriate social arenas and the credibility of the actor, all linked to the ultimate legitimacy or authority of Neukomm’s claim. Thus Neukomm demanded that Augustin Miller, who had a tirade damaging to Neukomm’s honour (Eherenverlezliche … Famosschrift und Invectiv) read out in the Privy Council by the notary Johann Kes, appear in person in the Council. Unless they met in person, Neukomm would not acknowledge and respond to Miller’s invectives. Neukomm’s appeal for a personal confrontation in an open arena was effective precisely because both the limited-access arena of the Privy Council, as well as the notarial representation, constituted unforthright procedure. It is very difficult to name, let alone define, the Lindavian sensibility offended by such behaviour. Ivan Illich has suggested that the concept of ‘probity’ permits relatively neutral analysis of emotionally charged concepts such as honour. 28 The explanatory power of such a naming, however, is doubtful. It is precisely the absence of clear limits, and attendant indescribability, which render offended sensibility such a dynamic factor in the first place. Thus Neukomm further charged that Magister Hursich had said, in his house in the Cramergasse, that Neukomm was a scoundrel and a thief; he also hinted at the unsoundness of Neukomm’s liturgical practice.29

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Beyond the obviously heimlich setting of the statement, the key to the plaint was Neukomm’s description of Hursich as his fellow preacher and ‘cousin’ or ‘kinsman’ (Vetter). Signifiantly, much the same point was made in the Buchschor/Bayer plaint against Neukomm. In a world both of inviolable social domains or estates and of professional ‘families’, the initiator of any dispute considered an ‘internal’ matter was by definition wrong. In any case, when Neukomm put his grievance before the Education Committee, Hursich apparently replied that if Neukomm had a case he should make it before the Council where Hursich would engage him in a legal debate (Red und Antwort). Furthermore, Neukomm complained that he had been waylaid by the notary Hans Georg Brem and two foreign journeyman artisans.30 The latter were probably chosen because they had no Lindavian social identities; they were not knowable in Lindavian terms and their employment thus constituted the ultimate concealment. It was they who had read him Buchschor’s and Bayer’s honour-damaging Restoration und Purgationschrifft. As in his dispute with Augustin Miller, Neukomm’s adveraries were denying him a confrontation and, if the conflict was a theatre, Neukomm had now moved to a position where he was arguing a general case against theatre. Finally, Neukomm was aggrieved by one Hans Schüelin of Schachen who had been heard to say that Neukomm had deserved to have his head chopped off two years ago.31 Caspar Vögelin of Burg had, in a public tavern, denounced Neukomm as a ‘sacrament priest’.32 Evidently, while Neukomm himself opposed private confession on the grounds that it was a papist measure, there were those who thought Neukomm’s own practices too high-church.

The Lindavian committee meeting: the Education Committee The Education Committee meeting of 7 February33 was ostensibly called to discuss a two-point agenda: first, resolution of the conflict between Magister Hursich and Magister Neukomm, who had used the occasion of funeral sermons to attack each other; second, future avoidance of such inconvenience. The junior pastor Magister Müller advised that both parties had gone too far. The term used to describe their behaviour, ohncollegialiter, warrants special attention. It is unlikely that it referred simply to behaviour which was uncollegial and divisive. Various professional groups were emerging in early modern Lindau,

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most prominently advocates and clerics, and these competed in claims for recognition of their special areas of competence. Thus the term denoted that kind of ‘unprofessional’ behaviour which somehow undermined the legitimacy claims of the Magistri, especially with respect to the specialists in the sphere of secular law, the Doctores. Of course, Lindauers were aware that Council’s claim to sovereign authority also rested, in part at least, on the presumption of special competence. In Magister Müller’s opinion both parties were to be reprimanded, but Neukomm particularly, since he had acted without consulting his colleagues (sine consilio collegarum).34 Another committee member, Magister Hager, also felt that the parties had behaved incollegialiter in their discussions of the virtues of the deceased; like Müller, he favoured some sort of arbitration process to avoid such unpleasantness in the future. Magister Reiser expressed some very clear pro-Hursich sentiments, although he conceded that Hursich’s actions merited a strong reprimand (starckhen Verweis); Neukomm, however, deserved a Filz, a much more personal treatment which amounted to something like ‘a severe dressing-down’. The pronouncement of Mayor Buchschor diverged considerably from those of the clergy; in fact Buchschor did not adhere to the agenda at all. After recommending a censure of both parties, Buchschor launched into a direct attack on Neukomm, especially on his stance on the wine excise. This attack carried all the more weight since the other representative of the Council was apparently absent: no pronouncement by ‘H. Mittler’ was recorded.35 The advocate Dr Funk recommended reprimanding both Neukomm and Hursich, adding that Neukomm paid little attention to such reprimands. On the second point, Funk requested that copies of sermons be submitted to the committee (Predigten zuer Hand bringen). Since he had already dealt with the specific matter of Neukomm and Hursich, it is likely that Funk was not referring to the incendiary funeral sermons but was arguing, rather, that all sermons should be vetted by the committee to prevent future incidents. In 1626 this may have been the first – but it was certainly not the last – suggestion that sermons and their contents be considered within the domain of a secular authority. Finally, Dr Riettman remarked that Hursich had spoken immoderately about Humbler (presumably the unfortunate subject of his sermon), despite the fact that on the previous evening Hursich’s wife had admonished him to leave it alone (davon abgemahnt)! No response to the second point was recorded, but the involvement of the secular authorities, probably the Privy Council, prior to the delivery of the

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sermon can be deduced from Riettman’s first statement. In cases where Lindau’s rulers could not legitimately or effectively wield direct power over individuals, they sought alternative means. Usually these involved coercing or convincing someone with ties and influence to the subject, often members of the immediate or extended family, to exert pressure in favour of Council designs. Since the authorities could not censor Hursich’s sermon, or for that matter be seen publicly to be interfering in the preacher’s job, they had enlisted the aid of his wife.36 The brief transcript of the meeting demonstrates one thing above all else. The clerical members of the Education Committee and the legal and administrative representatives had very different attitudes to the whole process and function of committee deliberation. The magistri apparently adhered to the set agenda, probably because they had little to gain from acting otherwise. By contrast, Mayor Buchschor and, to a lesser extent, Dr Funk seem to have effectively manipulated the Education Committee to suit another political agenda altogether. The influence of Buchschor is recorded in the conclusions of that meeting. Both preachers were to be issued with a formal reprimand (Verweis) and were to be admonished to unity (ad concordiam vermahnen) by the Privy Council. Second, a strategy for avoiding similar cases in future was to be decided in consultation with a complete committee or full Council (mitt allen collegis berathschlagen). In other words, the decision was put off. A second paragraph, also marked as conclusion number two, dealt with the matters raised by Buchschor, despite the fact that they were not part of the agenda or resolution. The nature of the wine excise was to be revealed to Neukomm (die Beschaffenheit des Umbgelts enddeckhen), and his request was to be denied with reference to Neukomm’s Revers.37 Thus questions pertaining to Neukomm’s defiant stance on the wine tax were decided by the Education Committee! Since, as it turned out, Neukomm headed the widespread citizens’ opposition to the new tax, symbolically if not actively, decisions which affected the entire city economy were being shielded from public scrutiny, tucked away in some Education Committee meeting. Finally, Neukomm’s wife was to be summoned by the Privy Council, also subjected to a dressing-down (Filzen) and detained for a while. She was also to have her envy (Neid) pointed out to her during communion.38 The irony here was that Neukomm defended the practice of such public admonition over and against the Council’s plans for introduction of private confession. Obviously, the idea was both to humiliate and intimidate Neukomm and his wife. Thus Buchschor managed to turn an apparently innocent meeting, called to discuss an urgent matter

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pertaining to the public peace, into a menacing personal attack on Neukomm, with the whole weight of officialdom behind it.

Ad hoc committees and the flexibility of administrative practice Neukomm was subsequently summoned to appear before the Privy Council. The document recording the event was entitled ‘Minutes of the Privy and Clerical Council’ (geheimen und geistlichen Rathsprotocoll), a significant point in itself. Officially, no such body existed and indeed the opening sentence states that Neukomm appeared before Privy Councillors, without mentioning the presence of any of his colleagues. Three accusations against Neukomm – relating to (1) his funeral sermon for the City Secretary Johann Bertlin; (2) his New Year’s sermon; (3) the conduct of his wife – were presented by Dr Funk.39 First, Neukomm defended himself by denying that he had done Hursich any wrong. He claimed that those who had listened to his sermon with understanding and without prejudice would know that he expressed no negative opinion. Neukomm urged that Hursich be asked to defend himself; personally, he took no offence at Hursich’s sermon. Second, Neukomm claimed to have been moved by the sighs and complaints heard in his street by day and by night; he had spoken but a few words in his sermon, which not everyone noticed. This last comment illustrates the strategy behind many of Neukomm’s self-defences: he retained the right to voice a dissident opinion, as long as he was not actually fomenting unrest or inciting rebellion. Neukomm’s contention that his speech remained ineffectual suggests that he knew the difference between what he could do as a private individual and what he could do as a public figure. In a small city such as Lindau, clearly much political discussion took place in the streets, at the market and in the taverns, and the distinction between public and private persona was ill-defined at best. Neukomm, it appears, was particularly adept at harnessing the political potential which existed here. For their part, Neukomm’s adversaries stubbornly maintained that Neukomm had long since overstepped what were acceptable boundaries for a preacher. Of course, they too were creating a fiction and maintaining a double standard, since they used all manner of private leverage to exert pressure on the pastor. In answer to the third point, Neukomm pledged that he would strongly prohibit his wife from carrying on as she had been. The Privy Council’s response was brief: Neukomm’s answers to the first two points were unacceptable. They were satisfied concerning his

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wife, but still had to name a suitable punishment. Apparently, the decision elicited a vitriolic outburst from Neukomm, directed both at individual enemies and at the Council as a whole. Thereupon Neukomm was officially reprimanded: in referring matters to the Education Committee he had diminished the authority of the Privy Council (dz er den geheimen Rath für insufficient hällt)! At this point Neukomm apparently gave in; interestingly, his capitulation is recorded in the first person. He conceded that he had talked too much and requested forgiveness: certainly, he said, the Privy Council stood above the Education Committee. Furthermore, concerning the excise, he heard many complaints, especially from Vermöglichen. What exactly this means is unclear. It may have distinguished those who complained from a category of those who had no property, or it may also have identified the ‘capable’ in republican terms, the potent and hence the ‘political’. Since the term Habenichts, which one would expect to be used as the opposite of Vermöglich in the economic sense, does not appear in the Lindau sources, and the term ‘poor’ (Arm) also appears to have had a range of meanings which ecompassed ‘disenfranchised’, it appears that Neukomm was not applying strictly economic criteria. However one interprets Neukomm’s comment, with hindsight it amounted to a dark prophecy; or was it a threat? Finally, concerning the children of the preachers and their wives, Neukomm said the wives did not raise the children as they should. Neukomm also claimed he had nothing to say in the matter of Augustin Miller.40 As with the record of the meeting of 7 February discussed above, here there was considerable divergence of minutes from the agenda. Obviously, despite all pretence of correct bureaucratic procedure, the discussions were actually quite dynamic. These were not records of formally conducted or even scripted deliberations, but of veritable dogfights. When the dust settled, all that was left was a transcript which, while not quite as opaque to contemporaries as to the modern reader, required – or at least left room for – some re-interpretation. Thus Lindauers could take advantage of what access they had to the secretarial offices and emphasize and expand what they considered to be the most relevant issues.

Writing and rewriting This process is beautifully illustrated by a ‘clean copy’ protocol dated 9 February and entitled Protocoll Herrn M. Alexium Newkom betreffend.41 This protocol opens with a statement of the case against Neukomm

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concerning (1) the sermon delivered at City Secretary Bertlin’s funeral; (2) his New Year’s sermon; (3) his wife’s deportment vis-à-vis the magistrates and certain private citizens. Neukomm’s accusers had the first word and confronted him before the Privy Council (coram senioribus). First, in the matter of the dispute with Hursich, it was twice repeated that Neukomm ought to have sought either the mediation of his colleagues or of the Education Committee. In other words, it was not the dispute – for which both parties were to blame – which constituted a transgression, but the fact that Neukomm had refused to go through official channels. Second, in his New Year’s sermon Neukomm had appealed to the sovereign authority of Lindau (that is, the Council) not to consider new, burdensome and intolerable taxation of the citizenry. Neukomm knew that the citizens were not well disposed towards the sovereign authority,42 yet he had plainly raised the volatile issue of the wine excise. Under the circumstances, the Privy Council felt it necessary to remind Neukomm of his duty: rather than fomenting public unrest, Neukomm ought to have exhorted the citizenry to peace, respect, goodwill and obedience towards the sovereign authority. Clearly, Neukomm and the rulers of Lindau had very different ideas of his proper role in Lindau. To the Privy Councillors he had an obligation to keep the peace, not simply as an employee, but as an extension of the Obrigkeit. Neukomm, on the other hand, openly questioned both the wisdom and the sovereign authority of the Council. To some extent he drew on a mythical history of conflict between the evangelical ministers and the Councils of Lindau over the course of the sixteenth century.43 Yet, to say Neukomm was motivated simply by a vulgarized ‘resistance theory’ would be an oversimplification. Indeed, his frequent disagreements with his clerical colleagues would make such an interpretation difficult to maintain. Instead, Neukomm’s self-perception, like that of many Lindauers, was informed by bourgeois republican ideology. It was therefore the case that Neukomm and other self-styled ‘old Lindauers’ not only refused to be excluded from government, but actually, since they were of a capable sort, felt obliged to get involved. Neukomm’s inclinations in this regard are reflected in his response to the attacks on his wife. Many ideological streams determined relations between the sexes in Lindau, but in this instance the republican connection between ability and responsibility was explicitly, if conversely, formulated. In defence of his wife, who was accused by the Council of having made slanderous speeches, Neukomm said that she belonged to a category of people

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who were weak instruments (schwachen Werckhzeug). Therefore, presumably in contrast to those who were potent agents, she could bear no responsibility. It is noteworthy that irresponsibility was not just a function of her femininity, but also a result of weak traits which Neukomm associated with her family: she was ‘one of those Burgauers’ (vonn der burgawerischen Art). The crucial issue – and this is why the conflict touched areas as disparate as constitutional form and the politics of market gossip – was not the nature of government or power or hegemony, but rather who could or should have exercised it legitimately. Following another fruitless self-defence by Neukomm, the Privy Council resumed the prosecution of their case against the pastor. The issue of his resistance to the wine excise, in particular, was taken up with renewed vigour. The Privy Council claimed that they had only done what their office required. Once again, the term oberkheitliches Ambt was used in reflexive legitimation. Implying that Neukomm had not done as was required of him, the Seniores criticized his readiness to be moved by gutter gossip (Gassenmären) and unruly folk (meisterlosen Volkhß). The use of the second of these terms to describe some of the inhabitants of Lindau is particularly interesting. It is a social category which appears in the deliberations of urban governments throughout the early modern period and is usually translated into English as ‘masterless men’. Especially in a situation where social control and organization was effected through the guilds, the category seems to denote those who are beyond the bounds of effective governmental control and thus threaten good law and order: ‘gute Polizei’.44 In translation such individuals have been termed ‘unruly’ because they were more than ‘without a master’. The key issue is not that they were without an Obrigkeit, but they were without that Obrigkeit which did not recognize the popular source of its authority, but rather styled itself lord (Herr) and its authority Herrschaft. Erich Maschke has emphasized that, technically, the authority of urban governments had always been a derived (abgeleitete) Obrigkeit: they could exercise no lordship (Herrschaft) and did not wield self-legitimating or absolute power (Selbstgewalt). Such strictures, however, were worked out in relation – often theoretical in any case – to the higher authority of the Emperor. In practice, the rulers of Lindau did issue Gebot, identified by Maschke as an act of such absolute power; likewise, they commanded oaths of Gehorsame, the definitive act of lordship.45 In Lindau it was the mode of legitimation implied in the exercise of Obrigkeit which was at issue; to clarify this point, I have tried to be consistent in my use of the phrase ‘sovereign authority’, and have avoided terms such as ‘authoritarian’ , ‘hegemonic’, ‘autocratic’ or ‘absolutist’.46

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The Lindauers who, led by Neukomm, resisted the Council were therefore anything but marginal to Lindau society in this regard. The following passage thus epitomizes the ultimate miscalculation of Lindau’s rulers in this regard: ‘One [the rulers] would have expected that when he [Neukomm] heard such complaints he would have reported it to them without delay … furthermore he should scold the ungrateful people from the pulpit. He himself knew what kind of people inhabited said street [the Fischergasse].’ Quite. Neukomm not only knew the type of people who lived on his street, he knew them and was bound to them as his neighbours (Nachbarn). Furthermore, he recognized them to be, like himself, people who not only had ability, but were obliged to exercise it; they may not have been rich, but they were Vermöglich. While the Privy Council assumed that Alexius Neukomm worked for them as a specialist in church matters and otherwise had to defer to their sovereign authority, Neukomm’s resistance amounted to much more than recalcitrance. He saw himself as a critic, powerful and, therefore, authoritative in his own right. This view was at the heart of Neukomm’s reported answer to the Privy Council’s censure. Paradoxically, Neukomm’s understanding of the administration’s shortcomings pointed both to its ineffectual enforcement of religious standards, on the one hand, and to a persistent tendency to overstep its authority, on the other. Again, it is important to stress that, as a loyal citizen of Lindau, Neukomm could not justify direct resistance to governmental authority; indeed, in the end he always attacked individuals, or directed his energy at the advocates. Nevertheless, like other Lindauers, Neukomm distinguished broadly between two kinds of legitimate authority, secular and spiritual. Neukomm thus accused the Privy Council of taking inappropriate interest in the church.47 At the same time he chided its members because convicted adulterers flouted Council authority and were heard to say that they would rather take communion elsewhere. Neukomm also complained that the authorities were not doing nearly enough to protect him from hostile parishioners. In particular he demanded protection from Augustin Miller who, according to Neukomm, had sent a threatening letter to Neukomm’s house. Moreover, whenever Neukomm began a sermon, Miller would leave the church, thereby creating a public scene. Finally, Miller had actually come into Neukomm’s house and remonstrated with him, as if he, Neukomm, were a Calvinist.48 Now the Privy Council was on the defensive, claiming that, since Neukomm contended that the Privy Council had no mandate to deal

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with him, it had left the matter to the Education Committee.49 Therefore, they were somewhat taken aback by Neukomm’s charge; the Education Committee had also been charged with settling the adultery business. The interchangeability in the documents of the terms Schulrat, Kirchenrat, and on occasion even Ehegericht, indicates a consistent strategy of deflecting criticism from the Privy Council to various committees. In fact, it is unlikely that many Lindauers failed to see through the ploy by which a small inner circle maintained effective control, yet dodged responsibility and remained unaccountable for their actions. Neukomm himself eventually refused to be a party to the charade and publicly boycotted the Education Committee. On the subject of the wine excise, the Privy Council’s position was loud and clear: if Neukomm did not understand the measure, then he had no business commenting on it.50 This was a critical pronouncement because it brought, at least implicitly, Neukomm’s principal adversaries in his other major public battle, the advocates, into the discussion. As we have seen, Lindau’s rulers claimed legitimacy on the basis of some inherent quality of sovereign authority. Still, under threat they also invoked another species of legitimate authority: an authority which followed from the recognition of special competence founded in specialist knowledge. This is precisely the understanding which enabled the legal profession in Lindau: the devolution of certain powers of government on to those who enjoyed superior specialist training, in this case the advocates. Nevertheless, competence-based authority was contingent on the cooperation of sovereign authority, where resided the only power to enforce the recognition of competence. Thus the pastors and advocates were competing for the attentions of Lindau’s rulers to see who would be the latters’ instrument of choice. Moreover, it is highly probable that the rulers of Lindau played the two off against each other. This would go a long way towards answering one of the more perplexing questions of the governmental history of Lindau, and probably of many cities of similar size and structure: how was it that amateur government managed to survive with its de facto authority intact, long after its effective competence had been superseded by the increasing complexity of the world at large? In the end, Neukomm’s formal deprecation and apology (Deprecation und Entschuldigung) were accepted by the Seniores. Whether Neukomm concluded that his options had been exhausted or whether the authorities had to coerce him further is unclear. There are two major components to his capitulation, actually reflecting the dominant themes of his dispute with the Privy Council.

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First, he had to state that it was his opinion that a Privy Council was superior to the Education Committee and that these two bodies should be reconciled.51 In an effort to expurgate completely the conflict between Neukomm and the Privy Councillors – and this indeed seems to be the primary function of the ceaseless stream of pronouncements which conclude the countless documents of dispute produced in Lindau – the matter was reduced to a conflict between two abstract bodies. Unlike the individuals involved, such bodies were without direct social standing, sacrificed no honour (a quality closely linked to personal authority) and bore no grudges. The second element of the settlement involved a language game pertaining to the wine excise. Neukomm reiterated that it was above all the poor who complained. Thereupon, the Privy Council once more explained the measure to him; it was not at all an innovation, but in fact was intended to benefit the poor.52 While the Council selectively recognized only the materially impoverished ‘poor’, Neukomm was, for a variety of reasons, a champion of the disempowered. These politically destitute were extremely reluctant to sponsor programmes designed to alleviate material poverty, especially since such a purchase of political stability favoured the establishment.

A bone of contention: private confession53 Neukomm’s statement hardly settled matters; future conflict was certainly not averted. While the stated aim of all parties was to keep the peace and maintain stability, the dominant mode of interaction remained confrontational: political cultures are divisive. By early April 1626 Lindau’s rulers, urged along by Neukomm’s colleagues, were busily laying the groundwork for another open confrontation. There is a lengthy account, based on the Education Committee minutes, which covers three sessions of this body in April and May.54 Since the abolition of papal religion in Lindau, we are told, there had been no separate private confession but, rather, a public confession and absolution from the pulpit had been introduced. Furthermore, the practice was that on Sundays communicants appeared in the choir where the pastor read an act of confession and absolution aloud.55 For the past 30 years or so the preachers had urged, and it had been a generally observed practice, that certain people who had never attended the eucharist presented themselves to one of the ministers employed by the city for instruction beforehand.56 It had, however, become common practice for people, especially women who were detained in attending to their

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children, to arrive so late at the aforementioned preparation for the reception of the eucharist that they missed the recitation of the confession formula, either partially or entirely. Instead they arrived only for the absolution. Furthermore, not all parents sent their children and not all masters their servants, especially those who were foreign or had their own religion and only went out of habit, in ignorance and as a boon to their masters. On such occasions, the necessity and utility of private confession had frequently been the subject of sermons, and on 4 April 1626 the clergy so strongly made their case to the Education Committee that the chairman (Director)57 was compelled to submit various aspects of private confession to a debate and poll of the committee. One group in the committee argued for the introduction of private confession on the following grounds. The practice was well founded in the Augsburg Confession and the Formula of Concord, to both of which the City of Lindau had subscribed. Commentators on the two agreements, as well as the most distinguished theologians, held that where private confession had gone out of practice, it should be immediately re-introduced. Moreover, private confession was universally practised in all churches in Pomerania, Mecklenburg, Saxony, Meissen and Thuringia and had been variously confirmed in Upper Germany; the neighbouring cities of Ulm, Memmingen, Kempten and Isny had already re-introduced the practice. Thus, the proponents of private confession argued, one could introduce it immediately as a supplement to public confession and absolution. They concluded their presentation by claiming that private confession would do more to strengthen weak and troubled consciences than the public act. One final comment hints at the practical considerations or ulterior motives suspected by contemporary opponents of the proposition: namely, that by this measure those who lived in public error or heresy (offentlichen Irthumben) or vice (Lasstern) would not knowingly be permitted to go unjustified, and thus the conscience of the preachers would not be burdened. This last point strongly suggests that the main proponents of rapid introduction were indeed, as stated above, members of Lindau’s clergy. As is amply evidenced by their correspondence following the 7 November uprising, the preachers were loath to bear responsibility for anything. Others in the committee, however, were in favour of a more gradual introduction of private confession. They supposedly feared that the unruly recalcitrant plebs (ohnbändigen widerspenstigen Pöbels) would not allow the immediate introduction of private confession without creating a great confusion (Ohnrhat). It was also predicted that the surrounding papists, who were in the habit of decrying the Lindauers as Zwinglians

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anyway, would take the opportunity to claim that Lindau had never been properly Lutheran and was only changing to private confession for fear of isolation. Thus it was proposed that not all communicants be subjected to the new practice at the same time, but rather children and other household dependants, especially servants (Ehhalten), who had never received the eucharist were to be targeted first. Ideally those with burdened consciences would voluntarily turn to private confession, as would those who had become used to the practice elsewhere in their youth or in their travels.58 Their example would eventually be followed by the rest of the population. These arguments are interesting in particular because they characterized ordinary people as both unguided and lacking in will or motive of their own. This might escape the attention of anyone who has read documents produced after 7 November, where the formulation is a commonplace, but finding it here is remarkable. It questioned governmental efficacy long before Alexius Neukomm could be blamed for fomenting unrest and undermining sovereign authority. It is therefore unlikely that this policy direction originated with Lindau’s rulers. On the surface gradual introduction appears the moderate and pragmatic solution, but anticipating a crisis without an agent implied that there was something inherently unsound about their sovereign authority. This decidedly un-Lindavian pragmatism, combined with an awareness of super-Lindavian political exigencies, points to Lindau’s lawyers as the originators of this gradualism. A legal background is suggested also by the citation of several passages in the works of Luther and in the official guidelines issued to the pastors of Saxony. Those in favour of gradual introduction also formulated their ultimate aims in stark confessional terms: the uniformity or conformity which would eventually be achieved was presented as the culmination of the whole process.59 The advocates also suggested that tardy women and public sinners should be, if at all possible, publicly and privately pressured into confessing individually. In the eyes of the advocates the potential of private confession for purposes of social control, in particular, made it an attractive proposition. Apparently Neukomm’s colleagues did not disagree and, upon hearing that an additional advantage of private confession was that it allowed the postponement of the Saturday sermon to the afternoon, when it would not be disturbed by the noise of the weekly market, the Education Committee unanimously adopted the latter programme. Next, a curiously rapid sequence of events was recorded. The conclusions of the Committee were communicated to Alexius Neukomm who

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had excused himself from the meeting, citing indisposition. The Committee hoped to get him to approve their decision nevertheless, for without the endorsement of the senior pastor it was worthless. This particular document reports that, although Neukomm comprehended the nature of the resolution, the Committee’s decision was not well received by him. Thereupon a great uproar arose among the citizenry and peasantry:60 were they going to abolish the old church ordinance (kirchen Agend) and the old confession (alte Beücht) and introduce a new private confession (ein newe Ohrenbeücht) instead? Pastor Neukomm would not allow it since the other pastors were only supporting the measure for the money: a fee of six Kreuzer would be levied from each old person, and young people would be charged three Kreuzer.61 The account imparts an unlikely degree of spontaneity to the Lindauers’ reaction. Of course, the resonance with sixteenth-century attacks on fees for religious services was powerful. Furthermore, a basic reluctance to tamper with the familiar and safe is apparent. Certainly Lindauers’ relations with their church depended very much on its potential as a stable social institution, but such swift response also indicates a high base-level of popular excitation. Indeed, the advocates had expressed fears of popular volatility and, while this partly reflected a general antipathy to governmental incursions, the person of Neukomm also provided a focus and a champion. Quite possibly Neukomm had hoped his truancy from the meeting would either block the resolution or bring the debate into the open, where he wielded greater political clout. To counter this inflammation (auffgehenden Feür), the Council called a further session of the Education Committee. The immediate attraction of such committees was the circumvention of broad-based and potentially divisive Council votes. They also short-circuited the traditional popular politics of Lindau by preventing sensitive matters from becoming the object of popular debate and speculation.62 On the other hand, the use of such committees left Lindau’s rulers open, once again, to suspicions and accusations of concealment and usurpation. In this case it is important that the Education Committee existed by authority of the Council, but was the effective instrument of the inner circle of Privy Councillors and non-elected legal advisers. Thus Neukomm’s defiance of the Education Committee was primarily a challenge to the members of the ‘inner circle’ and only a tacit affront to Council authority. That Neukomm was making a political statement when he refused to attend the Education Committee meeeting of 4 April is sound speculation. The Education Committee certainly took advantage of Neukomm’s

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absence to deliberate questionable innovations. On the occasion of the second meeting, however, Neukomm made his stance official. Thrice summoned, he thrice refused to attend, the third time in writing.63 He justified his absence on the grounds that the introduction of private confession was on the agenda, a matter he would not discuss since he had sworn to uphold the old church ordinance twice, in 1599 and 1607. Furthermore, since innovations concerning the celebration of Maundy Thursday and Good Friday64 as well as private confession had been deliberated in his absence already, the matter should be concluded without him. He, Neukomm, would have nothing to do with the business. Moreover, he demanded to know what was expected of him, a brazen taunt since he was well aware of the need for his endorsement. Why else would he have made such an affair of withholding it? Finally, Neukomm stated that since Augustin Miller and Magister Hursich had slandered him in speech and in writing, he could not attend the meeting until such injuries had been rectified by the Council. The exact wording of Neukomm’s demand – that he would not be present until his most grievous complaints had been removed by the office of a sovereign authority – is a formulation typical of sixteenth-century court cases.65 Neukomm’s apparent petulance, therefore, amounted to something much greater. His public person and good reputation had come under pressure and only an official pronouncement could alleviate the burden. It was also a significant political gambit, since it both neutralized the Education Committee and directly challenged Lindau’s rulers to enter the fray and to gamble their sovereign authority. The final snub came when Neukomm concluded his letter by offering to appear when the Education Committee transacted any other church or school business. Private confession had thus become the symbolic bone of contention: at stake was the sovereign authority by which Lindau had come to be ruled. Moreover, everybody in Lindau knew it. According to the account of the meeting of the Education Committee (minus Neukomm) on 27 April, members immediately responded to Neukomm’s provocative letter with an appeal to the Council. In Lindau, where the distinction between a court of arbitration and a court of justice was at best hazy, the party which launched the first strike had the unmistakable advantage of being considered the plaintiff. By doing precisely what Neukomm had threatened, the committee secured a considerable strategic advantage. The Council decided to command Neukomm, by its sovereign authority (vonn Oberkheit wegen, zu mandieren), to appear

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in the next session of the Education Committee and to assist in the necessary deliberations.

The dual appeal to bourgeois emotion: religion and republicanism By the end of April 1626 the stage was set for a highly dramatic confrontation. More than a month would pass, however, before Lindau witnessed the spectacle of a formal debate between Neukomm and an opponent. The next recorded session of the Education Committee took place on 29 May. Meanwhile, tactical manoeuvres were presumably carried out in other arenas. When Neukomm finally took part in a session of the Education Committee, he made it clear that he would not have appeared except for the fact that it was his duty and he was obliged to render obedience to the Council.66 As Neukomm was in effect pleading a legal case, his opening statement conveyed both a tone of personal injury and intimations of a general threat to justice.67 He proceeded directly to a claim that he knew the customary practice (Herkommen) better than anybody, thereby implying that to spurn his advice was to neglect the law. With his assertion that none of his colleagues could equal his experience in Lindau, Neukomm claimed ultimate authority on the basis of superior specialist training, experience and local knowledge. In short, Neukomm was not issuing a challenge to any constituted authority, but was simply claiming for himself ultimate authority in these matters. The resistance of those subject to that authority, including Neukomm’s junior colleagues, was evil, unnatural and ungodly. Neukomm’s dramatic performance before the Education Committee suggests that the proceedings of this meeting were expected to become public knowledge. Thus, instead of defending himself, Neukomm made sweeping indictments and dire predictions: with a little more consideration on the part of the authorities he might have helped to damp the fire which by now had spread too far among the common man; if one wished to proceed in the manner described, something bad would surely befall the city and others. Who else would then be to blame but the originators of the measure, his colleagues? Furthermore, Neukomm decried as dreamers those who claimed that, without private confession, Lindauers risked being labelled as Calvinists. In fact, concerns which had been raised, at least as reported elsewhere, centred on possible claims that Lindau had never been properly Lutheran or was residually Zwinglian.68 Assuming it was not

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an accidental slip, and that Lindauers did distinguish broadly between major strains of non-Lindavian evangelicalism, why had Neukomm brought Calvinism into it? Because he was answering a direct charge: before his appointment as a pastor in Lindau, Neukomm had been employed at the court of the margrave of Baden-Durlach, which had since then become known as a centre of Calvinist teaching.69 In the confessional climate of the 1620s, the charge of Calvinism in particular was highly emotive and Neukomm could not let it go unanswered. Thus, if Neukomm had a Calvinist connection (albeit a tenuous one), whereas the city as a whole was above suspicion, then the expressed concern for Lindau’s reputation abroad was, by May 1626, not so much an argument for private confession as an argument against Alexius Neukomm. Moreover, there was a contemporary concern with the maintenance of a semblance of internal unity: challenges to the authority of the Lindau Council from without, predominantly from the neighbouring Count of Montfort, focused on internal divisiveness and the inability of the Council to keep its house in order. It appears that the two criticisms – that Lindauers did not uphold religious peace and that the Lindau Council was incapable of maintaining public order – had become fused. Certain aspects of Neukomm’s critical stance on the authority of the Council were the moment of a governmental crisis, something which Neukomm himself probably found very difficult to reconcile with his identity as a loyal citizen of Lindau. Therefore, another reason why Calvinism was thrown into the discussion had to do with Neukomm’s self-perception and the recognition of his political role. Ironically, Neukomm justified his criticism of Lindau’s government with the claim that certain spheres and competences were the exclusive preserve of the Theologi, something which his adversaries decried as theocratic ‘Calvinism’. In more general terms, reference to Calvin was significant because of the way in which, especially after the St Bartholomew’s Day Massacre of 1572, debate about the mixed constitution flourished.70 Since no catalogue of Neukomm’s private library, or indeed very many of his private papers, sermon drafts and so on from this period survive, it is not possible to provide direct evidence of the degree to which Neukomm was familiar with Calvin. Nevertheless, the fact that Neukomm had himself raised the issue of Calvinism in a situation which practically amounted to his trial, and which furthermore seems to have been taking place in full public view, suggests that he might have been concerned with his own considerations of ‘Calvinist’ subjects, perhaps in an attempt to justify action against the sovereign authority of Lindau.

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Despite the significance of Neukomm’s use of the term ‘Calvinist’, the comment is a very small part of a speech which was, in its entirety, both powerful and revealing. It was typical of Neukomm’s performances that he combined meticulously crafted arguments based on classical rhetorical models with pure, stubborn insistence. In context, and judging by the concerns voiced by the authorities, the latter was very effective in rallying widespread support for Neukomm. Examples reveal a deliberate populist strategy and, indeed, a belief in a history of popular unrest closely connected to an urban Reformation mythology. There were certain key points in the century between 1526 and 1626 which, for the Lindauers, embodied this mythology and could be recalled to some considerable effect. When Neukomm resisted Council incursion into the sphere of the theologian on the grounds that the introduction of private confession was an unnecessary innovation, he was partly protecting the procedures he had developed over nearly 30 years. He was also, however, conjuring up the ghost of the previous century’s debates over adiaphora.71 Like all ministers of the generation following the ‘Lindau Colloquium’, Neukomm considered himself above all to be a ‘Concordist’. One might say that, in his absolute refusal to concede anything under duress, he was much truer to the Formula of Concord than any of his colleagues.

The war of the words The other members of the Education Committee offered a point for point defence of private confession. Above all, they concentrated on the contradictions which, in their opinion, pervaded Neukomm’s argument. To the modern reader their refutation of Neukomm on the basis of historical inconsistency is compelling, but the expressions here must be understood primarily as actions in a political confrontation. Indeed, one must ask, what were Neukomm and the Education Committee doing, as opposed to saying, when they made their several statements?72 Neither Neukomm’s insistence on certain absolutes which he had not previously observed, nor the Education Committee’s identification of the ‘flaws’ in his argument, are to be taken as anything other than appeals for support and attempts at discreditation, respectively. Thus the speaker for the Education Committee undertook a character assassination comprised of no fewer than seven indictments and slurs against Neukomm. He pointed out that the Kirchenordnung, to which Neukomm proclaimed his allegiance despite the fact that he had actually sworn to uphold the Augsburg Confession and the Formula of

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Concord, was not immutable. Changes had been undertaken to church ordinances elsewhere; Neukomm himself was familiar with the well known case of the margrave of Baden Durlach.73 In Lindau, too, a thanksgiving (Danksagung) after baptism had recently been introduced. In any case, Neukomm had himself acted in contravention of this Kirchenordnung and had, without the knowledge of his colleagues,74 readmitted two adulterers into the fold (in gremium ecclesiae). In addition, in a circulated manuscript formerly ascribed to the ex-pastor Marcus Zangmeister, Neukomm had himself proclaimed the absolute necessity of reforms to Lindau’s Kirchenordnung.75 The personal attack on Alexius Neukomm culminated in a declaration that, since no proper Lutheran Christian could possibly object to the introduction of private confession, nothing less than Neukomm’s opposition to the measure had been expected; the news of his resistance was received with great regret. Indeed, it was hinted that Neukomm was merely trying to avoid the extra work which private confession would bring, as he had been known to do on previous occasions.76 Neukomm’s opponents were certainly not leaving him any attractive options: either he was a heathen (or, at best, a heretic) or he was a shirker. By seventeenth-century Lindavian standards, determined by both confessionalism and republicanism, it would have been difficult to decide which was worse. Nevertheless, such defamations constituted no more than an overture, albeit of great political potential, to the real business at hand: the continuing dispute over authority. Neukomm’s accusers stated that, should anything untoward arise from the introduction of private confession, it would be the sole fault of him who had made the measure unacceptable to the commune and had engendered scandalous talk about it.77 This goes much further than the previous arguments that Neukomm had, by failing to quell unrest, been remiss in his duties. The construction, das sie [private confession] der Gemeind so widerig eingebildet, which appears several times in this text, is particularly noteworthy. Thus expressed, the process of how it came to be that the commune opposed the intentions of the authorities required the agency of Neukomm. He had planted opposition in the commune and only thereby was the intended introduction of private confession ‘made bad’. While there was a discernable tendency to ‘blame’ Neukomm after 7 November, something much more profound was finding expression here: a fundamental belief in the destructive nature of opposition. It was the act of opposition which, in the eyes of the rulers, spoiled sovereign authority and rendered the measure illegitimate. Such a formulation suggests that the

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conflict was indeed grounded in the same basic contraposition of ideologies: authoritarian/sovereigntist versus bourgeois republican. Consequently, the claim made by the Education Committee, that injuries which originated in church matters (Kirchensach), and therefore lapsed quickly, could be settled by a simple decree of the Privy Council, amounts to much more than just a passing comment or expedient justification.78 It was a statement of autonomous cohererent authority, if not a claim to absolute authority. Neukomm, predictably, had to challenge such a claim to absolute authority, as well as the implied redundancy of the competence-based authority of the theologian. Let us first return, however, to Neukomm’s feat of making private confession unacceptable to the commune. How did he do it? According to the Committee, although Neukomm professed a desire to pacify the citizens, this claim did not agree with either the effect or the intent of his sermons. On the feast of the Ascension he had made an unnecessary digression in his sermon, citing the examples of John the Baptist, to whom all of Judea had gone to be baptized, and St Peter’s conversion of 3000 in a single act. This was reportedly understood as a criticism of the ineffectual and superfluous nature of private confession, as well as a presentation of the superiority of a collective public act. Neukomm, it was claimed, was the first to use the pulpit to cast an unfavourable light on the matter.79 This is the crux. While the authorities were trying to claim dominion over the realm of the theologians, the reality was that Neukomm had privileged access to a religious symbolic vocabulary and a unique rhetorical form, the sermon. This was a power which non-clerical Lindauers could not deny and could hardly emulate. Neukomm’s answer to these latest accusations revealed just how he commanded such widespread support. Ultimately, Neukomm’s success hinged on the depth and breadth of ideological resources available to him, and on the number and variety of spectres he could conjure up. First of all, the ideological commonplaces of the Reformation, such as the controversy over adiaphora, were made to resonate throughout the dispute. Neukomm, in self-defence of course, condensed the case brought against him into two points: he was accused, he said, of inciting the citizenry and of making them believe that the preachers wanted to use confession to line their own pockets.80 Neukomm actually opened this particular speech with a far more cryptic declamation, common to almost all of Neukomm’s invectives, yet difficult to locate: that is, the argument that a form of private confession was already in use in Lindau and that the authorities

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planned to introduce something that already existed.81 Neukomm proceeded to link the redundant measure to a lack of forthrighness or even to deliberate obfuscation, his vocabulary of ‘masks’ or ‘puppets’ and ‘shadows’ insinuating concealment by the authorities.82 Such concealment and secrecy, of course, constituted one of the most widespread negative ideological topoi of Lindavian political culture. Expressed this way, moreover, it clearly identified a key resource of bourgeois republicanism, Plato’s Republic.83 Above all, it is Neukomm’s refutations of the charges of hypocrisy levelled against him, especially in relation to his tenure at Durlach, which attest to his rhetorical skill: the adept manipulation of the terms of the ideological context. Neukomm identified two basic aspects of the criticism of inconsistency levelled against him, although he addressed only the second. The first once again had to do with adiaphorism and focused on the fact that Neukomm had formerly worn a surplice (Chorhembd), a sure sign that he had once been willing to compromise.84 Second, also while in the employ of the margrave of Baden-Durlach, Neukomm had regularly heard private confession. Neukomm countered that when he came to Lindau he found no private confession; moreover if he had tried to implement the same, the older ministers would have attacked him.85 In this manner Neukomm manoeuvred the debate right back to the question of authorities and competences reserved for him as the senior pastor, and not just vis-à-vis the Council. Since he was under attack in the Education Committee, Neukomm was claiming a legitimacy superior to that of the other members of that body: the advocates as well as his colleagues in the ministry. Neukomm simply insisted that the secular advocates had no business telling him how to preach,86 especially since he had enjoyed the teaching of four eminent theologians.87 The intellectual lineage claimed by Neukomm left no doubt as to his Concordist and anti-Calvinist credentials. Neukomm complained, moreover, that his pamphlet ‘Impietas et Ataxia Ecclesiae Lindauiensis’ was being held against him because the lawyers had no idea what it was about. The grievance which Neukomm himself emphasized, however, was against his junior colleague who had undertaken to criticize Neukomm in a vespers sermon on Epiphany. The preacher, Magister Reiser, was a ‘greenhorn’ and had been out of line.88 Neukomm had already mentioned the respect he had held for his seniors when he had first started his job in Lindau. That the relationship between the senior pastor and the junior ministers was indeed antagonistic is apparent in Neukomm’s next complaint against another colleague, Magister Martin Miller.89 Miller had apparently made offensive

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comments on Neukomm’s advanced age in a tavern. The expressions bear all the hallmarks of the standard inheritance and succession disputes to be found in the Lindau documents for the whole of the period under consideration.90 The relationship between those who were impatiently and ambitiously awaiting accession to power (or money) and those who, it was felt, wielded it irresponsibly because they had no stake in the future, was never easy. The Education Committee admonished Neukomm that, although an audience could not teach their preachers how to preach, it could judge sermons against the Word of God. It also announced its intention to seek the advice of theologians other than Neukomm.91 Finally Neukomm was reminded to keep his private opinions to himself and to uphold the public good.92 The combination of these two pronouncements effectively neutralized Neukomm. On the one hand, he had no specialist preserve or platform provided by public office per se (he was a minion of the Council); moreover, the administration obviously felt free to seek qualified expert opinions elsewhere. On the other hand, he was not to express himself as a private individual. It is hardly surprising that under such conditions Neukomm turned primarily to unofficial theatricals and scathing personal attacks to secure some measure of public support. In effect the last great exchange of this crucial meeting of the Education Committee began with the implementation of what appears to have been the most popular weapon in this unofficial political arsenal, ridicule. Magister Reiser compared the detractors of private confession to those who had ridiculed the apostles as if they had been drunk, whereupon Neukomm countered with a jibe at Reiser’s hallucinating speech.93 Even as the meeting came to a stormy climax Neukomm apparently indulged in a pun by claiming that private confession was a private measure.94 The intent, however, was anything but light-hearted and thus the rejoinder asked whether Neukomm alone represented the public and what the Education Committee had decided was therefore private?95 In the end, Neukomm illuminated the central issue of authority with a dextrous manipulation of most of the ideological topoi discussed above, and then some! Combining justification by ancient usage with insinuations of the youth and inexperience of his colleagues, and with a condemnation of the advocates, Neukomm said that in 36 years he had learned to recognize the devil better than anyone else. Previously, there had been neither lawyers nor medics on the Education Committee, and it was not right that there should be. Each group had their area of

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competence and hence legitimate authority, but this matter fell into the sphere of the theologians.96 By comparison the self-defence of the advocates, which concluded the document, cannot have been overly successful. They claimed that there were three elements of Lindau society represented in the Education Committee: the ministry, the sovereign authority and the common citizenry. The politici present at the meeting represented the last two groups. Given the ideological context, as expressed from time to time in anti-advocate or anti-oligarchical outbursts, and the practical context, who could possibly have believed the advocates’ claim to represent the common citizenry? Finally, if this meeting was indeed a semi-public performance, then the advocates apparently felt they could secure power and authority without popular support, for which they expressed strong contempt.97 The advocates did not apparently vie for the allegiance of those whom they claimed to represent, and they found Neukomm’s populist bent distasteful. Although the common citizens were supposed to have a say in the Education Committee, the advocates were of the opinion that it was better to appoint learned people than cobblers and tailors (a clear reference to Lindau’s guilds) who would have no choice but to assent to all of Neukomm’s initiatives.98 Thus one might say that the image of Neukomm as a demagogue and seducer was not merely constructed after the uprising, but initially emerged as the result of the political implementation of an ideological commonplace.

The ‘lost protocol’99 The commentary of the so-called lost protocol suggests how the Education Committee debate of 29 May was received in official circles. Apparently, for those who governed Lindau from day to day, open contempt for public opinion was not an option. Indeed, as will be seen, Lindau’s rulers were soon engaged in a contest with Neukomm for the allegiance of the citizenry and legitimate public authority. In contrast to the advocates, the Privy Council recognized the political significance of populist strains and made a great show of informing and consulting both the City Court and the Commons (Gemeind Rath). Hence on 9 June the minutes of the Education Committee were read to the Council, Court and Commons. In the ensuing deliberations it was decided that better information would allay the citizens’ excitement and ill will concerning private confession. To this end they would be presented with a formal admonition (Fürhalt) in the guildhalls or in

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church. The following Sunday the admonition was proclaimed in the city and in the mainland communes of Aeschach and Reutin. A copy of the admonition of 11 June is extant.100 An extensive preamble and conclusion clarifed and justifed the authorities’ position: the admonition had been necessitated by the unusually strong outcry among the citizenry and peasantry.101 Apparently it was widely rumoured that the Lindau government planned to re-introduce Catholicism or was, at least, paving the way for its implementation at some later date.102 Such rumours were the work of Satan, the father of lies, and thus the sovereign authority could no longer put off declaring the actual nature and true reason for the re-introduction of private confession, thereby relieving its dear citizens and dependents of their delusion. The sovereign authority’s evident opposition to the lying Satan, along with the expression of paternal concerns, cast Lindau’s rulers as ‘fathers of truth’. It is noteworthy, as an indicator of the deliberateness of this association and juxtaposition, that the writer had originally identified the father of lies (Vatter der Lugen) with the devil and had only subsequently replaced Teufel with Sathan, the name of his servant. In competition with Neukomm, the Lindau authorities now claimed nothing less than divine mission. The reasons for the introduction of private confession given here are the same as those presented for deliberation by the Education Committee on 4 April; the programme for the gradual introduction of private confession was much the same as the one finally adopted by that body (see above). It is significant, however, that the admonition described the inadequacies of the system already in place collectively as Ohnwesen: that is, circumstances antithetical to the Wesen used to denote the common organism. Thus the measures proposed by the authorities were, despite the opposition of considerable segments of the citizenry, in the interest of the whole corporation. Hence the conclusion of the admonition also denounced those individuals who persisted in criticism of the plan to re-introduce private confession. Such people did so out of vain honour and habitual selfishness,103 a most powerful indictment in the context of the bourgeois republicanism already invoked in the preamble. The expedient appropriation of bourgeois republican language was exposed, nevertheless, by the Council’s recourse to threatening, authoritarian postures. Anyone who further confused the citizenry or peasantry would be punished, whoever he was. Finally, it was stated that the rulers of Lindau, described alternately as sovereign authority (Obrigkeit) and as the Council (Rat), would not shy away from persecuting those who perverted the course of their plans.104

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‘Party’ becomes ‘opposition’ Returning, then, to Neukomm’s relation to the authorities, one finds a new confrontation brewing. On 21 June the Council issued Neukomm with a Decret,105 which opened with a litany of the trouble which Neukomm had supposedly caused the Council: for 27 years Neukomm had forced a perpetual hiring and firing of preachers and schoolmasters.106 Thus Neukomm had caused no end of confusion in the constitution of the city (Stadtregiment). After reiterating a decree issued on 18 January 1621 as well as those of 1624, the Council proceeded to describe the action taken on 9 February 1626 in response to Neukomm’s New Year’s sermon against the wine excise. Neukomm’s opposition to private confession was thus cast as the culmination of a career of disruption. Moreover, the Decret insisted, he had opposed private confession in his Ascension Day sermon simply because he himself had not been the first author and initiator of the measure.107 Clearly, the issue was once again authority. Neukomm opposed a decision by a majority of the Education Committee, endorsed by the Council, on the grounds that it was all private business; as if, complained the Council, Neukomm’s voice alone represented public authority.108 One would not expect ‘public authorization’ – a concept which acknowledged that governmental authority ultimately resided in the corporation – to be a term used by a claimant to sovereign authority, yet here those who styled themselves Obrigkeit, so careful to remain aloof earlier, now debated squarely within the framework of bourgeois republican ideology. The report that Neukomm had, out of pure wilfulness and assumed authority,109 administered the eucharist to several persons who had been excluded from communion reinforced the idea that Lindau’s rulers now had to compete directly with Neukomm and his followers for their authority. Evidently, they were having trouble facing up to their new position. Not only had Neukomm occasioned all manner of division between himself and his colleagues, but he had actually managed to exercise the authority which he had assumed. At this point the conflict with the Council moved into ideological terrain which favoured Neukomm. The Council’s next statement denied that any of Neukomm’s actions had been inspired by the Holy Ghost,110 but claimed they had been executed purely for reasons of the flesh.111 This direct challenge to the man who was still, after all, the city’s senior pastor, marked a crucial shift in the conflict between Neukomm and the Council. Neukomm and his followers became a recognized opposition

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when they faced the Council as equal adversaries in the manipulation of an ideology of qualified, as opposed to absolute, authority. The rulers of Lindau effectively conceded that their authority was contestable rather than absolute and entered the common fray: a very short step indeed from actually being accountable to the cives. Finally this Decret granted Neukomm one last chance, in spite of the advice of any number of outside consultants advocating his demotion or suspension and the removal of the disruptive influence which he represented. Neukomm would, however, be made to assume expenses of 1000 florins, incurred by the city on his account. Given that both sides in the dispute described extensive histories of trouble with Neukomm,112 he had presumably been afforded many such last chances. If the advice the Council received indeed advocated the immediate removal of Neukomm, why were they dithering? Because, as already suggested above, from the early summer onwards Neukomm and the Council faced each other on equal terms, at least as far as the internal politics of Lindau went. They were fighting for the same piece of territory and they had invested in equivalent rhetorical strategies. There was no way for the Council to remove Neukomm without grave risk to its own position. Nevertheless, Neukomm’s response to the decree of 21 June reveals that, although he wielded immense power as de facto leader of the opposition in Lindau, he still felt subject to complex constraints.113 Therefore, although he had adopted an overtly defiant stance, Neukomm declared that it was not his wish to contradict the Council, his proper sovereign authority; yet he clearly felt the need to refute the document issued on 21 June. The nine articles of Neukomm’s rejoinder represented no significant departure from what he had been saying all along in response to the Education Committee. Now, however, he openly contradicted a document issued by authority of the Council. Neukomm thus sandwiched his articles between an introduction and a conclusion disclaiming subversive intent. His rebuttal also hinted at the nature of his political support, suggesting that his in-law, Caspar Vögelin the elder, who had been a Privy Councillor since 1623, was one of the highest-ranking public officials sympathetic to Neukomm.114 These conditions, together, undoubtedly determined Neukomm’s strategy of attacking the ‘real author’ of the Decret – presumably an advocate – who had abused the Council’s authority, title and name to decorate his own work. An entirely different interpretative possibility in the analysis of Neukomm’s attacks on the various ‘usurpers’ of public authority – advocates, Privy Councillors, oligarchs and so on – suggests itself here.

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Indeed, the political power as well as the well-known tendency towards concealed action of such persons may have been wildly exaggerated. We must consider the possibility that such individuals posed a largely fictitious threat, a device which permitted the expression of oppositional, anti-establishment ideas. Neukomm concluded his criticism of the decree’s ‘concipisten’ with an ominous general threat, disguised as an impassioned plea, citing Gregory of Tours: ‘Let all be benumbed and stand in fear and wonderment lest they commit an injury against God’s ministers, for He is the avenger of the Lord’s servants, whose trust is in him.’115

Appeals to ‘higher’ authority: the argument of specialist qualification Still, there were two basic components of authority in Lindau, regardless of the legitimation strategy employed. One was related to control over the secular life of the city, the other concerned religion. The history of this distinction cut clear across that other long history of division over the source of authority in Lindau, between proponents of sovereign authority and responsible government. The mutual inspiration of disputes over the locus of religious and secular authority was by no means unique to Lindau. Indeed, the pattern had been well established by the reception of Marsilius of Padua. Thus it was apparently quite common in early modern Germany to use metaphors of ecclesiastical hierarchy to make points about secular corporatism.116 Establishing the authority of government directives affecting religious life was, therefore, particularly sensitive, and both sides relied on claims of specialist knowledge and superior information, often with recourse to sources beyond Lindau. For example, Neukomm charged repeatedly that the secular authorities were not qualified to decide questions of doctrine.117 In response the Council promised, in the admonition of 11 June, to alleviate the citizens’ misgivings and to consult highly learned and widely experienced theologians (hochgelerten weiterfahrnen herren Theologis). Nevertheless, in his reply to the Decret of 21 June, Neukomm persisted in belittling the authorities’ grasp of many doctrinal points.118 On 13 July, therefore, it was decided to consult Dr Georg Zaeman of Kempten; the Mayor and the Privy Council ordered the civic chancelry (Canzlei) to forward copies of the Neukomm files, especially those concerning private confession.119

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On 18 August it was decided that Dr Zaeman’s advice should be brought before the Court and Commons.120 Although Zaeman apparently offered nothing Lindau’s rulers did not already know about their position vis-à-vis Neukomm, it must not be assumed that they were in any way disappointed with his reply. On the contrary, his compendious report, while offering no direct solution to the Neukomm problem, provided a vast ideological arsenal, which the authorities desperately needed, on the subject of private confession.121 Indeed, Zaeman’s opening evaluation of the task facing Lindau’s rulers indicates that he recognized the primacy of this need. He urged that the church and government of Lindau be pacified,122 but admitted that this was not an easy task since Neukomm had been active for 27 years and still hoped to succeed by means of popular support.123 Accordingly, the bulk of Zaeman’s reply was dedicated to the subject of private confession, beginning with a polemical attack on Neukomm’s defence of public confession and absolution. The public act was, argued Zaeman, a Zwinglian abomination in the first place: the practice effectively put Lindauers on a par with Anabaptists, Schwenkfelders, Enthusiasts and other apostate fantasists.124 On the other hand, private confession was justified not on the basis of scripture, but by a theologically dubious (but doubtlessly emotive) association with the power of the Holy Spirit.125 After a lengthy argument in favour of private confession, Zaeman advised, rather lamely, that the Council proceed against Neukomm as follows: in addition to the Decret of 21 June the Council should issue Neukomm with a sharper Decret threatening his permanent removal from office. There is no evidence that such a Decret was issued before Neukomm had incited yet another controversy.

‘Public’ authority and ‘spiritual’ authority: confusing schemes In mid-June the Superintendent of Ulm, Dr Conrad Dietrich, had been in Lindau for Magister Bayer’s wedding (Neukomm and the schoolteacher were still engaged in litigation); he had on that occasion also delivered a sermon on private confession, presumably at the invitation of the Council and apparently without Neukomm’s foreknowledge. Following the sermon Dietrich, Neukomm and the other Lindau pastors had engaged in a discussion. On 8 September the Lindau Council received a letter from Dietrich informing them that, in order to dispel all manner of rumour and slander against his person arising from his post-sermon exchange with Neukomm, Dietrich had no choice but to

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publish the text.126 Evidently wide publication of their problems ran counter to the interests of Lindau’s rulers, and the news heralded yet another confrontation with Neukomm. On 26 September each member of the Lindau ministry was presented with a copy of Dietrich’s letter and his published sermon and was ordered to submit a report on the conversation between Neukomm and Dietrich. Nearly three weeks later, on 13 October, the plenary Council was initiated into the affair and, as Neukomm refused to submit his account (he insisted that the Council had to settle his outstanding legal suits against various parties first), he was to be issued with yet another Council Decret. All the other pastors had already provided accounts;127 Neukomm’s stubborn refusal, it was emphasized, merely cast suspicion on himself.128 The following day Neukomm submitted a report, his apparent acquiescence concealing several sharp barbs. Neukomm claimed that, as senior pastor, he should have been informed of Dietrich’s sermon in advance. He further insisted that his status as a native-born preacher and citizen (eingebornen Prediger und Burger), as opposed to Dietrich’s position as a foreigner (Außländer), should be taken into account.129 The accounts of the post-sermon conversation highlight the enduring complications of subjecting Lindau’s church to public authority. Neukomm had apparently explained to Dietrich that his only objection to the planned introduction of private confession concerned whether confession would be held at the house of a pastor or in the public space of the church; Dietrich had come out strongly in favour of private confession held in the church. Otherwise, Neukomm had countered Dietrich’s suggestion that Lindau was under suspicion of Calvinism by pointing to the stained glass windows and the images adorning the organ. According to Neukomm, all parties had parted amicably. The report submitted on 3 October by Neukomm’s colleague Magister Müller did not differ substantially from Neukomm’s own.130 Notably Müller also emphasized Neukomm’s claim, apparently supported with reference to the advice of Neukomm’s in-law, the pastor Magister Caspar Hiller of Isny, that the Lindavian controversy could be reduced to the question of where, and not whether, private confession should be heard. This aspect of the discussion also attracted the attention of Lindau’s rulers when Neukomm’s report was presented coram senatu on 18 October. On 25 October a plenary Council approved a further Decret to Neukomm and an admonition to the citizenry. The document issued to Neukomm was easily the strongest sanction to date.131 Neukomm’s representation of the central issue to Dietrich132 constituted a shrewd,

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and for Lindau’s rulers extremely dangerous, manoeuvre: it (1) relieved Neukomm of the burdens of direct opposition; (2) resurrected an older dispute over the power enjoyed by the pastors in relationships with parishoners which were not mediated by the public authorities;133 (3) implied the familiar argument that the re-introduction of private confession was unnecessary and constituted an adiaphorism. Hence the Decret denounced Neukomm’s presentation of the dispute as a perversion of reality.134 It was maintained that the subject of the controversy could not possibly be merely the location of private confession because, as Neukomm was aware, the hearing of private confession in the houses of preachers had long since been prohibited.135 Furthermore, only a small proportion of the population had been subject to those individual pastoral examinations which were sanctioned. The practice, which Neukomm had obviously presented as the equivalent of private confession, had only been in use for the last 30 years. Predictably, the Decret of 26 October not only parried Neukomm, but also served as the Council’s main counter-thrust at his greatest weakness, his justification of resistance. Neukomm’s credibility was undermined in two ways: first, by the customary strategem of portraying the opposition as inconstant and lacking integrity; and second, by denouncing the written responses exacted from Neukomm as frivolous. Most crucially, however, the Council attacked Neukomm’s assertion that his native citizenship warranted special consideration. In a crushing pronouncement the Decret countered that Neukomm’s status as a native citizen had absolutely no bearing on matters concerning his office (Amt) as a pastor: incumbents of an office exercised it with obedience to a sovereign authority.136 The Decret concluded that it was the intention of the Council to re-introduce private confession regardless, and to this end the citizenry and peasantry had to be prepared with sermons on the subject. Neukomm was ordered to declare whether he would or would not join his colleagues in this task. The City Secretary Hans Heinrich Felß transmitted Neukomm’s response to the Council that same day.137 He intended to uphold the Lindau church ordinance (Kirchenordnung) which had been established in Württemberg many years ago, had been printed several times at Tübingen with the approval of the theological faculty and had been confirmed by Jacob Andreae 51 years ago, in the course of the Lindau Colloquium. An official reply to Neukomm’s defiant claims apparently did not follow,138 but an undated and unsigned memo suggests how it might have been received and illuminates an issue of central importance.139 Pastors and magistrates clearly had fundamentally different

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views regarding the status of the Reformation and the nature and source of the reformed church’s legitimacy. In ironic contraposition to his invocation of legal and political localism in the Dietrich case, Neukomm’s claims for the Lindau Kirchenordnung evidently sought to establish origins for the church which were obscure and general, if not mystical, in time and space. The Kirchenordnung was supposed to be widely recognized, very old and immutable, or at least immune to the caprices of the Lindau authorities. By contrast, the author of the memo emphasized the local, idiosyncratic and mundane nature of all church ordinances. Thus Lindau’s Kirchenagend was a much interpolated work of regional origin.140 Moreover, it was emphasized, printing ordinances did not prevent one from replacing them when necessary, and both sides in the disputation of Flaccian doctrine in Lindau had endorsed and invoked the Kirchenagend. Finally, the fact that the Kirchenagend had not existed in a state of immutability ab antiquo was demonstrated using the examples of three recent amendments: the introduction of personal pastoral examinations of new communicants; thanksgiving (Danksagung) following baptism; and certain changes to the eucharistic formula.141 For many Lindauers, such differences over ecclesiastical and civic constitutions were anything but academic. Furthermore, in the climate of popular religious agitation and distrust towards the authorities, Neukomm continued to denounce certain usurpers of public authority by implying neo-papal designs.142 By 4 November, one day before Neukomm had delivered the fiery sermon which ultimately provided the pretext for his suspension, Lindau’s rulers had all but conceded defeat in the rhetorical contest for political legitimacy and popular support. A letter addressed by the Mayor and Council of Lindau to Dr Zaeman acknowledged that Neukomm’s success (political dominance is implied) in sowing dissent and subterfuge was due to his natural eloquence and the attendant support of a large part of both the Commons and of the common man.143

5 November: Neukomm’s last sermon By 5 November Neukomm had essentially beaten the authorities. It is unthinkable that they would have permitted him to preach that Sunday had popular opinion not precluded an immediate suspension. The authorities gambled that, following the sermon, they could justify a suspension. They were evidently mistaken.144 In any case, that Sunday’s sermon was officially described as very sharp, worrisome and

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the cause of citizen agitation.145 Although witnesses recounted the sermon from memory, with considerable difference in emphasis, and testimonies varied greatly in quality, certain elements of Neukomm’s strategy and popular appeal are illuminated. It is also noteworthy that most, if not all, of the witnesses now seemed fairly certain that a crisis was unavoidable and depositions were prefaced with disclaimers of varying strength.146 Nevertheless, four basic themes of the sermon emerge clearly from the testimonies. First, Neukomm had defended the customary Lindavian act of public absolution with reference to the text of Matthew 18, thereby restating the redundancy of the planned changes.147 Heinrich and David Felß offered details of the Neukommian connection between the proposed Lindavian private confession and soteriological acts traditionally associated with confession as practised by Catholics, particularly penance and good works; Neukomm emphasized that sins were forgiven by the grace of God alone.148 Second, Neukomm had warned against the dangers of disunity and discord in the face of both the Turkish menace and the threat posed by the Jesuit and Capuchin orders.149 Third, Neukomm had addressed himself to what he felt was unfair persecution. Apparently one or several of his outstanding legal suits had ended with the Council ordering Neukomm to pay 100 florins in costs and damages. Neukomm portrayed this as an unjust verdict and claimed that his adversaries by rights owed him three or four times that sum; in any case, he concluded with another scriptural quotation.150 Closely related to this personal grievance was Neukomm’s charge that members of the congregation were not above receiving the eucharist from a pastor whom they otherwise considered their enemy, an act which contravened social conventions as much as theological principles.151 All accounts of this argument stress that this abuse of communion persisted not only because certain shameless members of the congregation were permitted by their conscience to do so, but also because the authorities allowed it. Here Neukomm was alluding to the very limited number of coercive measures at his disposal for the protection of his authority. It is in this context that Neukomm’s grievance, that every time he executed his office (Amt) he was called a Calvinist,152 must be read. Fourth, the final point of Neukomm’s sermon is by far the most significant, as it not only linked many of the most important strains of the previous months’ wrangling but also undoubtedly had the widest popular appeal. It was not a theological argument, yet in many ways it was the

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only discrete, internally coherent and potentially convincing argument against changing Lindau’s form of worship. Furthermore, it provided a reason for adherence to custom which was specific to religious practice (as opposed to blindly conservative), and was probably also nearly universally applicable to all south German reformed polities at that time. Simply put, Neukomm’s argument constituted a refusal to accept that there was anything wrong with previous practices on the grounds that such an admission consigned one’s ancestors to eternal damnation. Obviously this was an argument which could not be reconciled to Lutheran doctrine on salvation, particularly in its reliance on the instrumental power (Krafft) of certain practices, but the elaborate accounts of relatively learned witnesses implied a widespread effect in the general population.153 Although the number of witnesses was very small, it may be indicative of the potential of Neukomm’s argument that the three witnesses who alluded to Luther’s doctrine of salvation, albeit without mentioning any incompatibility, were not native Lindauers.154 The political import of Neukomm’s pronouncement was undoubtedly that it could be expected to appeal to old Lindauers and not to recent immigrants; the distinction between these two categories, of course, was central to bourgeois republicanism and, therefore, crucial in Lindavian political culture. The conversation which took place after church between Magister Hager and Magister Neukomm, witnessed by Magister Müller, revealed conflicting modes of legitimation, at the paradigmatic level, which followed these same lines. After Hager had attempted to refute the central arguments of Neukomm’s sermon, the latter retorted that his colleagues simply followed the advocates; antecedent Lindavian theologians and preachers had possessed a better idea of what was useful and contributed to the building of the church than those who had just arrived.155 Hager’s curt rejoinder was that other evangelical churches were equally knowledgeable and they practised private confession and absolution.156 Essentially these two views represented two wholly different approaches to the same problem. In the threatening and particular circumstances of 1626, how could a church (which was at best 100 years young) define, let alone legitimate, itself? Two possible solutions centred on the location and expansion of the church either in time or in space. The need to invent a context, ‘a place where we would be normal’, was pursued either chronologically, resulting in a localist, historical and conservative strategy, or topologically, producing a nationalist, ahistorical and pragmatic approach.157 Thus, were one really concerned with identifying causes, one might consider that an immediate cause of the 1626 uprising was Lindau’s Reformation.158

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The fateful suspension of Magister Alexius Neukomm On 6 November Neukomm was banned from the pulpit and placed under house-arrest by order of the Council;159 Neukomm’s wife was also prohibited from contact with other citizens.160 To prevent Neukomm from mustering a following among the citizenry, this was to remain the case until the Council had considered the advice of foreign consultants; Neukomm was to await further instruction. These drastic measures were justified on the grounds that Neukomm had reneged on his promise to keep the peace,161 not only in writing,162 but also in the previous day’s sermon. In the presence of the many foreigners who were in Lindau for the annual fair ( Jahrmarkt), Neukomm had attacked the Council’s public admonition of 11 June. He had, moreover, anathematized private confession, occasioned a schism and twisted the truth. At the same time the Council ordered Magister Hager to preach in refutation of Neukomm’s last sermon and to deliver an admonition to the citizenry the following day. Neither sermon nor admonition was ever delivered, but a draft of the latter shows that the authorities had no new tricks up their sleeves.163 They offered only familiar arguments for the necessity of private confession, with reference to theological consultants such as Dr Dietrich, and tried to discredit Neukomm. The citizenry were to be assured that their fears were groundless and that the Obrigkeit was acting in the best interest of the Christian commune.

7 After the Uprising: Obrigkeit Regained

Introduction Two features of Lindavian politics after the uprising stand out in particular. First, the institutional presence and political significance of Lindau’s eight guilds is remarkable. After all, these guilds had ceased to exist, officially, nearly 70 years earlier.1 Second, the period of postuprising politics was characterized by exaggerated expressions of ‘constitutionalism’. On the one hand, Lindau’s rulers strove to reestablish the integrity of their sovereign authority (Obrigkeit). On the other hand, strong bourgeois republican expression continued, especially in the form of demands for consultative government which was both open to public scrutiny and responsible, ultimately, to the citizenry. Documentation for the period immediately after 7 November is, if anything, more complex than that produced in the year leading up to the uprising. Sources for the aftermath include both the official minutes and the ‘raw’ voting lists of Lindau’s provisional government, various appeals of the clergy for advice on procedure, the consultations of delegates from neighbouring imperial cities, a summary report by Lindau’s advocates and the report of an Imperial Commission of Investigation.2 Each one of these sources represents an expression of a particular set of political interests; taken alone, any one of them is extremely tendentious and nearly impossible to interpret for the ‘causes’ of the uprising. Taken as a whole, however, these sources demonstrate that contemporaries extracted a clear meaning from events. Ultimately, they marked the violent conjunction of issues relating to ‘sovereign authority’, confessionalization and relations to the structures of the Empire.

160

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The ‘provisional government’ of Lindau According to the official minutes, the Council, Court and Commons (Gemeind) met on 13 November to discuss what were coyly termed ‘uprising matters’ (Aufstandsachen). The stated objective of the meeting was to determine a method of promoting ‘trust’ between the Council and the citizenry.3 Indeed, terms denoting the foundation of good government in trust (Vertrauen) and the identification of deteriorated government with mistrust (Mißvertrauen) pervade the documentation for this period. The newly reinstated Mayor Miller and the lawyer Dr Funk were assigned the task of initiating communications with the citizens and peasants; on their request they were joined by a representative of the City Court, Calixt Hünlin. Council, Court and Commons acknowledged the illegitimacy of the original capitulation paper (Schein), which had been issued under duress,4 and thus the lawyer Dr Kreidenmann was charged with drafting a new document of ‘unification’ (Concept der Vereinbarung). On 26 November this was endorsed by all three bodies and the following day it was presented to all the guilds by a special committee. The Bakers’ Guild accepted the draft once the committee had promised amendments providing for Alexius Neukomm’s immediate reinstatement and the maintenance, for the time being, of the old church ordinances. In the Tailors’ Guild the committee reportedly encountered a great outcry of the common man in favour of preserving the Schein.5 Eventually the tailors demanded a copy of the draft and promised to issue their final answer by nine o’clock the next morning. Although the members of the Smiths’ Guild remained calm, they also demanded a period of consideration. On 28 November all the remaining guilds, except for the Vinegrowers’, were consulted. The Coopers’, Cobblers’, Fishermen’s and Butchers’ Guilds had made known their intention to form a committee each for consultation with the other guilds and, after due consideration, to inform the authorities of its members’ decision. In the end the Tailors’ Guild declared itself willing to accept Kreidenmann’s draft, on two conditions: first, that members be promised the aid and protection of the Council in the event of an Imperial commission (the need for reciprocity in a firm union between the citizens and the holders of the most exalted public office, the three mayors, was emphasized);6 and second, that the guilds retain possession of the Schein. The Council resolved, in the interest of peace, to accede to these demands. The guild committees were to be informed of this decision and negotiations with the peasants and the Vinegrowers’ Guild were to follow shortly.7 On 29 November the deputies to the

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guilds returned with the news that the guild committees had accepted the proposed contract, as had all but a few of the peasants. The following day, 30 November, the citizens and peasants would swear their oath.8 They would not, however, do so in the Courthouse as planned. It seems there were rumours of a plot to blow up the Courthouse with gunpowder – citizens, peasants and all.9 The ‘raw’ voting lists of the administration give a very different picture of the crisis of authority in Lindau.10 In contrast to the official minutes, this original transcript was strikingly frank in admitting differences of opinion and confusion over the most basic facts within the ranks of the provisional government. For example, Councillor Hans Hasenschmidt expressed the opinion that a majority of citizens had remained obedient to the authorities,11 whereas a member of the Court, Hans Conrad Falkh, claimed that almost the entire citizenry had been up in arms.12 Moreover, the transcript makes clear that, far from acting merely in an adjunct or auxiliary capacity (unter Zuziehung), the two lawyers, Dr Kreidenmann and Dr Funk, were actually at the helm of the provisional government, with Dr Kreidenmann essentially chairing most of its sessions. It is also noteworthy, therefore, that absenteeism on the part of ordinary Councillors was extremely high: normally, no more than 14 out of a possible 20 votes were recorded for any one poll. Likewise, there was actually considerable disagreement when the provisional government confronted the question of how, precisely, to approach the guilds on 26 November. Once again the official minutes concealed the uncertainty and indecision of the government in these questions, whereas the original transcript demonstrates the dominant insecurity of these days. First, it was suggested that the draft of the new contract be presented to each guild individually. Peter Krenkhel argued that such a procedure would facilitate the isolation of more radical elements. On the other hand, Hans Conrad Falkh argued that no single guild would commit itself without the others.13 Moreover, some members of the provisional government recognized that many guildsmen still regarded the authorities with considerable hostility and suspicion. It was rumoured that ‘the citizens suspected that someone was preparing to unleash a storm against them’.14 It was also deemed prudent to remove a provision for a citizens’ deprecation (Abbitte) from Kreidenmann’s draft and to translate Latin passages into the vernacular. Presumably it was feared that the language of Roman lawyers and Roman priests would feed citizens’ suspicions that the government was planning some grand deception. Finally, the original transcript identifies the price of reconciliation: Councillor Hans Ulrich Weber, the extremely unpopular Obmann

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of the Tailors’ Guild, had been sacrificed. The last recorded act of the provisional government on 29 November was to order Weber to remain in his house when the Council met; he was also to ensure that his wife and the rest of his household did not indulge in improper speeches.15 Such differences in assessments and disagreement over strategies of pacification, moreover, extended to the role of Lindau’s clergy. Generally, the clergy, like the guild leadership, were expected to assist the provisional government. Some thought that the pastors, their sermons and especially Magister Neukomm could all contribute towards the pacification of the citizenry.16 On the other hand, the pastors’ request for permission to say a special prayer for peace on the afternoon of Sunday 29 November was denied for fear that Magister Neukomm would take the opportunity to rekindle unrest.17 Indeed, there were parallels between the aims and perceptions of the government and those of the ministry. Thus, while the provisional government undertook the task of satisfying the citizens by the isolation and pursuit of Hans Ulrich Weber, the clergy offered up Alexius Neukomm as a scapegoat. The pastors did not instinctively complement the efforts of the provisional government in this regard: for the most part the ministry acted on the government’s initiative, rather than their own.

The role of the clergy On Friday 10 November, Neukomm’s four junior colleagues in the ministry appealed to the mayor and the privy Council for instructions on how to proceed in the execution of their office.18 They were especially concerned with what would happen if those involved in the uprising wished to take communion. Without private confession, they maintained, there was no way for a pastor to know whether the rebels had cleared their consciences. Furthermore, it was feared that if communion was celebrated they would be denounced as hypocrites (Heuchler); if they refused to give communion, then either there would simply be no celebration of the eucharist in Lindau or Alexius Neukomm would celebrate it in their stead. Evidently the provisional government had instructed the clergy that, since without private confession they lacked the means to distinguish the truly rueful from the unrepentant, they could not refuse communion to anyone who requested it.19 Furthermore, the ministers were instructed that, since many citizens remained in a state of sworn enmity towards the authorities, they would have to proceed with the utmost care to avoid further agitation of the citizenry.20

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Such frank admission of the precarious position of Lindau’s secular and spiritual officers was tempered by their description of the crowd which carried Neukomm to the church on the morning of 7 November: some citizens were swept along by the Neukomm party without knowing what they were doing.21 The real rebels – those who were intent on upholding their treasonous oath and showed no sign of penitence or regret of their sin against God or their crime against the Obrigkeit22 – were thus distinguished from the many who had been forced to participate in the unrest against their will.23 It is significant, finally, that the writer of this document had originally described the 7 November as an ‘insurrection’ or ‘uprising’ (Auffstand), but had subsequently deleted this, replacing it with the less specifically oppositional ‘disorder’ or ‘unrest’ (tumult). This largely historiographical process of mass exoneration and blame concentration was further delineated in the correspondence between the Lindau ministers and the theologians of other cities.24 In his letter to the Lindau ministry of 15 November, therefore, Dr Zaeman set the blame for what he called a Tumult, Rebellion or Sedition squarely on the shoulders of Alexius Neukomm.25 It was repeatedly stated that Neukomm was the root cause of everything: the Urstiffter. Conversely, Dr Dietrich of Ulm apparently provided the much-sought-after offical confirmation of the righteousness and innocence of Neukomm’s four junior colleagues.26 Of course, ascribing an improbable innocence to the many also necessitated exaggerating the knowledge of the few. Hence Neukomm was presented, on the basis of assumptions only, as the unlikely hub of a treasonous conspiracy.27 Thus, although by the end of November official reports still disagreed on basic questions of who participated in what and why,28 there was no question as to who should be blamed. Furthermore, Zaeman and Dietrich both agreed (they probably did not require too much convincing) that Neukomm presented, albeit indirectly, a threat to the lives of the Lindau pastors should they refuse him admission to communion. Thus the consultants considered that it would be best if Neukomm were expelled from the city.29 The demonization of Neukomm culminated in Zaeman’s comparison of Neukomm’s spirit to that which guided the Münster Anabaptists as well as Thomas Müntzer!30 Yet, while the uprising was rapidly being reduced to the work of a single malefactor in theory, in practice the political situation changed very slowly, if at all. Even the architect of the Vertrag, Dr Kreidenmann, had to admit that all was not well. On 4 December he wrote to Lindau warning of the persistent popular distrust: difficult times, especially for the pastors, still lay ahead.31 That same day the four ministers wrote

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to Dr Dietrich portraying Dr Kreidenmann’s resolution as a failure.32 Although Kreidenmann’s work might have had some success among the intelligent honest citizens, the ‘agitated and ignorant common plebs’ would not accept his sound advice.33 This classification must be viewed in light of the pastors’ tendency to exonerate the citizens and blame some less tangible elements. That they otherwise understood the conflict in political terms is shown by the pastors’ account of the conflict ‘inter Cives’.34 Alexius Neukomm, too, perceived the uprising in terms of an anti-authoritarian action by the citizenry.35 Nevertheless, the junior pastors continued to portray the last hurdle to reconciliation, now the sole cause of Lindau’s trouble, as something external to the traditional constitutive categories ‘citizenry’ and ‘Council’: namely, the ‘ignorant, stubborn plebs’.36

Delegations from neighbouring cities On the evening of Saturday 16 December 1626 delegations of the governments of Ulm, Memmingen and Kempten arrived in Lindau.37 Dr Kreidenmann was authorized to initiate the delegates into Lindavian events and deliberations, thereby signalling tacit acceptance of their mediation.38 Discussions between the delegates and the Lindau administration were recorded in separate minutes which included some document copies.39 The basic objective of the delegates, which evidently coincided with the expectations of prominent Lindauers such as Dr Funk, was to establish the unqualified, autonomous authority of the Council. Although there was also some talk of the ‘danger’ which still faced Lindau in particular, sovereign authority in general was at the centre of discussion.40 While conceding that regaining trust (Vertrauen) was essential to the secure government of Lindau, the Ulm delegate, Dr Stürzel, nevertheless betrayed a strong ‘sovereignist’ orientation in his division of Lindau into magistracy and subjects.41 The Lindauers immediately recognized the handwriting on the wall: the very first poll (Umbfrag) of the Council, Court and Commune produced an articulate republican opposition. Several citizens were of the opinion that the civic organism (Wesen) was sufficiently secured, both by the Schein (7 November) and by the Vertrag (30 November); in any case the citizens would never surrender the Schein. Moreover, it was argued, Lindau’s rulers were themselves responsible for the uprising since they had called a nocturnal Council.42 Such a charge combined the commonplace fear of concealed activities, presented in a potentially evocative analogue to the official portrait of a rebel conspiracy, with

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allegations of corruption or unconstitutionalism. The conjunction of these points effectively constituted a justification of rebellion. Dr Funk therefore countered with the strongest possible denial of justifiable resistance. Even if, he argued, the sovereign authority had wished to introduce the Turkish religion, it would not have been proper for subjects to rebel.43 Moreover, Funk would not accept that the magistracy had regained appropriate authority (Respect) since Dr Heider still could not return to the city in safety.44 Apparently there was some long-standing animosity between Funk and Jacob Weber, a member of the Court and former officer responsible for civic building projects (Baumeister). Weber now made an impassioned speech against the advocates, stating that (1) the advocates, and not the sovereign authority, were to blame for the uprising; (2) the advocates had convoked the nocturnal Council and it was they who consistently undermined the decisions of a (plenary) Council; (3) one did not have advocates in Switzerland.45 Under such tense circumstances it is hardly surprising that the delegates suggested, once again, that Magister Neukomm and his colleagues be enlisted to mollify the population. Furthermore, the delegates observed that the existence of highly visible oppositions and divisions in the public life of Lindau encouraged the general populace to resist the authority of its government. In other words, political faction could occasion a general crisis of sovereign authority.46 On 19 December the delegates tried to convince the assembly that it was necessary, in order to secure sovereign authority, to resolve Neukomm–Heider antagonism by means of either a public reconciliation or in a public debate. It was imperative, moreover, that the three branches (3 corpora or 3 glieder) of the government, the Council, the Court and the Commons, present a unified face to the citizens, emphasizing that it was in their combined interest that the Schein be surrendered. Here we have one of the very few explicit statements that competition and conflict between the different branches of Lindau’s government indeed provided the focus for opposition on a city-wide scale.47 A special session of the Council, Court, Commons and guild committees was convened after church on 24 December. The committees assumed they were to present the response of the guildsmen, but instead they were informed that, due to constraints of time, they would not be heard. Despite the fact that the delegates had drafted the new Vergleich without the input of the guilds, the guild representatives ratified it as it stood. The Vergleich represented a resounding victory for sovereign authority, a triumph emphasized by the appropriation of republican language.48

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The first of its five articles stated that those who had unwittingly participated in the unrest (Unrueh) admitted their error, hoping to establish the peace required by any republic and civic organism (Republica und Stattwesen); a committee of all the guilds sought the sovereign authority’s forgiveness. In article two the citizens and peasants agreed to recognize the Council as their sovereign authority, without qualification.49 The citizenry further pledged never again to interfere in the Council’s spiritual and secular sovereign authority and lordship, especially in the appointment of pastors, but also in all other administrative matters.50 The third article issued a full pardon, repeating a formulation from the first article which promised to extend to all citizens and peasants the care of a benevolent sovereign authority.51 Nothing could have been further removed from the mutual contract contained in the Vertrag of 30 November. In article four the theme of a paternal authority was further developed with assured alleviation of all constitutional worries (Regimentssorg), promises of peace and prosperity (Fried und Wolstand), and a pledge to preserve all honour, dignity, sovereignty, justice, freedom, immunities and status.52 It was emphasized, however, that in exercising this authority the Council was in no way specifically (that is, especially constitutionally) responsible to the citizens in the guilds, the Commons or even the commune. Rather, those who wielded power were said to be answerable, in very general terms, ‘to God and the whole world’.53 Both extant copies of the document state that the Vergleich was accepted with subject gratitude (underthenigen Danckh) by all citizens and peasants, but since no assembly, either representative or full, was called, this was hardly the case. The whole business was settled in a matter of hours, in which time no collective act was possible. By a simple Council declaration all matters of church and government were to be returned to the ‘old peaceful prosperity’.54 Obviously, the Vergleich’s primary function was to provide the Council with various formulations of sovereign authority. With these it could begin the task of reclaiming the territory lost in the Schein of 7 November and the Vertrag of 30 November. Minutes of the parting consultation between the cities’ delegates and the Council indicates what the Lindau authorities now had to do, in practical terms, to maintain their sovereign authority.55 The delegates hoped that in future Lindau’s rulers would: (1) resist challenges aggressively;56 (2) guard carefully the secrecy of Council business, as leaks of information had contributed much to the unrest; (3) make more use of the Cautel57 so that the advocates would not have to bear the brunt of popular ire; (4) not doubt or waver, so that sovereign

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authority would lead by shining example; (5) moderate the high levels of fines, as these had been the source of some resentment; (6) ensure that in future crises the armoury and the city tower were occupied by stout, reliable men; (7) show no hesitation in calling on other cities if aid was required; (8) address the single common grievance of the guilds – that mayors exercised too many offices at once – and not otherwise fob them off. Finally, the delegates advised that should some citizens fail to follow the lead of their guild committees in confirming the Council as sovereign authority, then the Council should issue a public proclamation. Now that the two previous compromising documents had been recalled and cancelled, everything depended on the initiative of the Council.58 In short, having presented the Lindau Council with a Vergleich which contained the basic rhetorical equipment of a sovereign authority, the delegates then also provided a detailed instruction manual: together they amounted to an exemplary study in sovereignist oligarchy. Their mission, almost certainly dictated by their own governments, had been to ensure that no precedents were set which could damage the theory of sovereign authority. Their targets had been the Schein and Vertrag, and these had been all but eradicated.

The advocates’ advice A year later, on 4 December 1627 the Council received a report, signed by Dr Heider and two colleagues, in which the three advocates claimed to have pursued, on the advice of the neighbouring cities’ delegations of December 1626, a more precise understanding of the shortcomings and weaknesses which had occasioned the uprising of 7 November.59 Specifically, the advocates were concerned with grievances of the Tailors’ Guild, arguably the most radical guild of 1626. These grievances, as well as the advocates’ treatment thereof, covered the gamut of social and economic aspects which have already been identified within the macro-political context of 1626. Nevertheless, the advocates’ response also represented a particular model of sovereign authority. Apparently, the tailors had complained on several prior occasions of competition from unlicensed practitioners of their trade, particularly seamstresses.60 About 30–40 seamstresses were said to be working in Lindau and, although they did so secretly at home rather than publicly, they had supplied many of the new articles sold at the last annual market (Jahrmarkt).61 The guildsmen argued that they alone were qualified to work as tailors by virtue of apprenticeship, journeymanship, marriage and the performance of public duties such as watch duty,

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whereas the seamstresses were unmarried women. Hence the guild wanted to take policing of the craft into its own hands and demanded the right to enter customers’ houses to catch seamstresses red-handed. The city advocates, presumably on the Council’s behalf, opposed such a redistribution of authority and actually appeared to support the tailors’ female competitors. Thus they argued that the tailors refused to make housecalls and were incapable of producing silk embroidery. Furthermore, the tailors charged excessively and were generally unsatisfactory workers.62 Yet the advocates also recognized the excellent opportunity for a rhetorical coup of their own. The tailors’ portrayal of female incursions into the preserve of citizen artisans was turned into a forceful statement of governmental authority in five articles. This hinged on the simple commonplace connection between patriarchy and sovereign authority. The independent labour of women, claimed the advocates, curtailed the supply of women available for domestic service, reduced the number eligible for marriage, and increased the onera of men.63 Crucially, the advocates also claimed that the activities of the seamstresses subverted authority by fostering pride, masterlessness and concealment.64 The advocates concluded their document with a warning addressed to the tailors themselves, lest the Tailors’ Guild attempted to gain any advantage from the advocates’ exercise. The guild was reminded that there were disorders in their own ranks, which threatened and burdened the public organism: they should see to these.

The Imperial Commission In 1627–8 two Imperial Commissioners – the Bishop of Constance, Johann Truchseß von Waldburg-Wolfegg, and Count Hugo of Montfort – conducted an inquiry (general inquisition) in Lindau. Their efforts resulted in the punishment of 23 citizens or inhabitants (Eingeseßne) of Lindau territory.65 The factual accuracy of the Commission’s report is questionable: the preamble to their document says the uprising took place on the night of 6–7 September 1626. This is hardly surprising given the Lindauers’ obfuscatory efforts and, as the Commissioners regretfully noted, a tendency towards perjury.66 Nevertheless, using additional information from denunciations and corroborative testimonies by other citizens, the Commission was able to determine, to its own satisfaction and for its own purposes, who was guilty of what. The culpability of 23 men was assessed according to the following criteria: (1) their involvement in inciting or organizing the rebels, including the formulation of demands on the day;67 (2) participation in anti-Obrigkeit violence, particularly attacks on the civic watch, threats to Mayor Buchschor and subversive

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speeches; (3) unauthorized bearing of arms;68 (4) whether they had sworn the oath uniting the rebels in defiance of their sworn duty to the government. Penalties were fixed in accordance with the extent of involvement in the uprising,69 but the wealth and family circumstances of individuals were also taken into account. Punishments included fines and incarceration (often in combination), ranging from 30 florins to 500 florins and from one to four weeks, exclusion from voluntary associations (as long as one’s craft did not suffer) and banishments of up to four years’ duration. Four men, three of whom were identified as bachelors, were also sentenced to three years’ military service. Twelve of the 23 individuals named were identified as artisans; only one, Stadtammann Andreas Neukomm, ever appeared in the list of public officers.70 Of the 17 family names mentioned, eight or nine held public office in the post-1588 period and one in the period from 1519 to 1549; only three of these families actually provided Councillors. This suggests that many of those singled out for punishment came from families who traditionally held lesser public offices. Moreover, since only three rebels were specifically identified as bachelors, it can be assumed that the rest were not simply waiting to attain a certain age but, rather, had no reasonable hope of attaining an office which had probably been held by previous generations of their family.71 Ultimately, the Neukomm family was hardest hit. Not only did Stadtammann Andreas Neukomm head the list of culprits, but since Magister Alexius was declared responsible for damages,72 two-thirds of his estate was confiscated in compensation. In fact, punishment must have been a lucrative business, not only for Montfort who collected the fines, but also for the Imperial treasury, the ultimate destination of the money. Hence the final provision of the Urteil was that all citizens who had not actively resisted the rebels would be liable to a payment of twice the annual tax ( Jarßsteür).73 Even given the obvious fiscal benefits of the Commission, the Imperial administrators’ chief objective appears to have been, just as Lindau had feared, to dismantle the autonomous government of the city. Where the delegates of other cities had sought to protect the sovereign authority of the Council, the Commission actually undertook an attack on all authority except that of the Emperor. Thus Montfort, who of course was not himself disinterested in Lindau’s distress, claimed to be executing Imperial orders to confiscate not just the Schein of 7 November, but also the Vergleich between the magistracy and the citizenry which the three cities of Ulm, Memmingen and Kempten had helped to establish. All consequences of the uprising, including the reinstatement of Mayor Ulrich Miller and Magister Neukomm, as well

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as the abandonment of private confession, were to be negated. The symbolic importance of this act was emphasized by the Commission’s order that, as sanctions against Miller had been unjustified in the first place, once things had been returned to the way they had been on the eve of the 7 November (that is, with Miller suspended), the Lindau authorities were to rescind his suspension at the earliest opportunity. The Commission did not go so far as to re-suspend the deceased Neukomm, but private confession was, at last, to be introduced.74 Moreover, Hans Ulrich Weber, whose removal from the Council had served to appease the guilds, was to be reappointed to his former position. Finally, Dr Heider’s famous gallery pew, the reviled symbol of his and the other oligarchs’ exalted status, and of sovereign authority in general, was to be replaced at the expense of those named in the Commission’s judgment. Indeed, in July 1628 the Lindau Council wrote to Johann Friedrich Duke of Württemberg and explained that the previous year’s Commission had not merely punished the rebels of 7 November 1626, but had undertaken a permanent alteration of the public organism which affected all Imperial Cities. The Lindauers added, for good measure, that the very survival of the evangelical religion was at stake. Therefore they were applying to the Duke, a recognized pillar of the Augsburg Confession (Säul der Augspurgischen Confession), for aid against a second Commission now threatening the confiscation of the four manorial villages (Kellnhöfe), the bulk of Lindau’s mainland territory.75 This confiscation engendered a legal and academic debate which put Lindau on the historiographical map of Europe.76

Conclusion Finally, perhaps the most striking common aspect of this documentation of the 1626 uprising is the appearance of the key term ‘republic’, not in the rebels’ demands but in various authoritarian interpretive configurations. Indeed, ‘republic’ was used to describe the constitution of Lindau under the rule of a sovereign authority. This represented, ultimately, a triumphant alliance of local commercial interests with the aims of emerging regional (that is, super-local) professional elites and perhaps even Imperial administrators. Clearly a ‘republic’ thus constituted was, at best, an oligarchy. Indeed, the Lindau case thus suggests the need for a revised, less teleological consideration of republicanism in seventeenth-century Upper Germany, a balanced reinterpretation along the lines of that recently undertaken for the English-speaking world by Steven Pincus.77

8 Conclusions

It has been the aim throughout to present a narrative account of early modern Lindauers’ social and cultural struggles and conflicts. Considerable care has been taken not to reduce a very complex historical situation and, in particular, not to isolate and elevate singular ‘causes’. It has been argued that the essentially political culture of Lindau, together with a particular set of social conditions and circumstances, produced a bourgeois republican ideology. Arguably, the most significant development in the recent historiography of early modern Europe has been the concept of confessionalization. Certainly, the concept has been widely and hotly debated. It seems, however, that actual historical process has nearly been eclipsed by the historiographical debate. Too often, indeed, discussions have centred on the historiographical ‘ifs’, rather than on the historical ‘hows’ and ‘whys’. Thus our conception of confessionalization has remained very sketchy. The purpose here, therefore, has been to describe the process in Lindau, where confessionalization apparently occurred piecemeal, over time, and with much conflict. Thus it has been the aim also to recast confessionalization as a process occurring in relation to this political culture. Hence, confessionalization emerges from the narrative account of early modern Lindau as a much more profound and enduring development than is generally allowed, especially in analyses concerned with the macro-processes of early modern state-building. The broadest implications of this book, therefore, touch on the historiographical relations of ‘religion’ to ‘politics’ and of ‘early’ modernity to ‘high’, ‘late’ or even ‘post-’ modernity. Indeed, one might begin to reflect on the startling inadequacies of, say, secularization theses, by observing that they often turn on a misapprehension of confessionalization as a brief, passing phase only. Thus one might consider, for example, that in 172

Conclusions 173

contemporary North America politico-religious forces are re-emerging after a period of high modern ‘latency’. This appears to be taking place just as the structures of the modern nation state are giving way to diverse forces of post-industrial capitalism and globalization, as well as the cultural currents of ‘postmodernism’. In addressing Lindau’s real historical insularity, therefore, I have sought to redress some of the great imaginary isolations of modern historiography. Finally, this book, even while it has engaged the construction of historical and historiographical narrative, has never doubted the importance of some kind of truth. Indeed, the student of early modern narrative can learn much about the extent and limits of truth. Natalie Davis, for example, identifies with her early modern French subjects, who were experts in simultaneous probative and persuasive narration. For her, there was and is truth in a ‘mixed genre’ of judicial supplication and story, one which defies the categorical distinction between forensic fact and literary fiction attributed to Aristotle, recast into Renaissance rhetorical and genre theory and ultimately reified and naturalized, via the Enlightenment, in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries.1 Joyce Appleby, Lynn Hunt and Margaret Jacob have developed more fully the compelling quasi-ethical case for a contingent historiographical truth. In observing the historiographical dimensions of twentieth-century totalitarian political regimes, they have concluded: ‘However much skeptics deride the possibility of historical truth, when it confronts absolute falsehood the potency of a provisional accuracy becomes salient.’2 Thus it appears that, while the truth is certainly political, it certainly cannot be considered ‘merely’ rhetorical. For Appleby, Hunt and Jacob there is no possibility of a simple choice between Aristotle and Cicero. Significantly, early modern Lindauers also eschewed such dichotomy. Instead, they operated from a position somewhere between absolute truth and absolute falsehood, producing accounts which were both descriptive and analytical. Their narratives were thus subjective, purposeful and (mostly) true. Especially when viewed in the light of Lindavian political culture, however, the purposeful character – what used to be called ‘tendentiousness’ – in no way compromises the truth. Thus, for example, Lindauers were certainly interested in ‘laying blame’ for the uprising, even as they narrated events as they had witnessed them. This aspect of their histories – what one might call their early modern ‘revisionism’ – is, surprisingly, most evident in the apparently least narrative accounts, those produced by Lindau’s advocates and by the Imperial Commission of Investigation. Their reports, bureaucratically

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meticulous and coldly analytical in structure, were nonetheless primarily ‘fictive’ and, ultimately, expurgatory in function. Ultimately, theirs was a mode of truth familiar to our own age, marred as it is by the need for so-called truth commissions and such like. It is, moreover, very common these days to read early modern German history in the light of the more recent German past (the style came into its own after German reunification in 1990).3 Even historians, however, must somehow also contend with the future, even if only for respite from the indictment or apologetic of past and present. It is with the historiographical – as opposed to historical – continuities and identities with the early modern past that I will concern myself next. Certain shared narrative and representational characteristics of early modern and contemporary historiographies have received much recent attention. That historiography thus still serves, as it once did, the res publica, as variously constituted, is hardly news. What remains to be explored in a future study, however, is the degree to which confessionalization and, in particular, the Reformation – which Edward Muir has identified as a revolution in representation, among other things4 – has shaped history writing from the early modern to the present.

Notes 1

Introduction

1. For a useful discussion of the concept in relation to a late medieval Germanspeaking city, see Susanna Burghartz, ‘Disziplinierung oder Konfliktregelung? Zur Funktion Städtischer Gerichte im Spätmittelalter: Das Züricher Ratsgericht’, Zeitschrift für Historische Forschung 16 (1989) pp. 385–408. Burghartz argues that apparently high levels of violence and litigation in late mediaeval cities are not indicative of any social dysfunction or general late mediaeval crisis; rather, conflict was inherent in urban societies such as Zurich because of their political culture ( Konfliktkultur). 2. The historiographical importance of narrative has been widely extracted from the work of Hayden White. For example, see The Content and the Form: Narrative Discourse and Historical Representation (Baltimore, MD: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1987). The work of Marshall Sahlins, which is oriented towards the practical study of cultures, is more useful for understanding actual historical impact of narrative: see Marshall Sahlins, Historical Metaphors and Mythical Realities: Structure in the Early History of the Sandwich Islands Kingdom (Ann Arbor, MI: University of Michigan Press, 1981); Marshall Sahlins, Islands of History (Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press, 1985). For a judiciously pragmatic approach see also Robert Darnton, The Kiss of Lamourette: Reflections in Cultural History (New York: W.W. Norton, 1990). For a historiographical review see Sara Maza, ‘Stories in History: Cultural Narratives in Recent Works in European History’, American Historical Review 101 (1996) pp. 1493–515. Interestingly, Sahlins and I share an interest in island culture, although this book was not explicitly conceived as an ‘island study’. On the emergence of this new ‘academic approach’ see Sean Kennedy, ‘No Island is an Island’, Lingua Franca (February 2000) p. 9. 3. Rebecca J. Scott, ‘Small-Scale Dynamics of Large-Scale Processes’, American Historical Review 105 (2000) p. 477. An analogous problem is also commonly known in the academic study of religion as the ‘insider–outsider’ debate. 4. See the study, exemplary in this regard, by John Walter, Understanding Popular Violence in the English Revolution: The Colchester Plunderers (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1999). See also J.M. Bumsted, The Red River Rebellion (Winnipeg: Watson & Dwyer, 1996). 5. For example, see the appearance in German of work by Maurizio Gribaudi, Giovanni Levi and Charles Tilly in Jürgen Schlumbohm (ed.), Mikrogeschichte, Makrogeschichte: Komplementär oder Inkommensurabel? (Göttingen: Wallstein, 1998); and Richard J. Evans, Fakten und Fiktionen: Über die Grundlagen historischer Erkenntnis, translated by Ulrich Speck (Frankfurt: Campus, 1998). See also Hans-Ulrich Wehler, Die Herausforderung der Kulturgeschichte (Munich: C.H. Beck, 1998). Such debates were, to an extent at least, latent in the practices, if not in the theories, of so-called Alltagsgeschichte. For example,

175

176 Notes to pp. 5–7 6. see David F. Crew, ‘Alltagsgeschichte: A New Social History “From Below”?’, Central European History 22 (1989) pp. 394–407. 6. Bruce Lincoln, Authority: Construction and Corrosion (Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press, 1994). 7. William E. Monter, ‘Reformation History and Social History’, Archiv für Reformationsgeschichte 72 (1981) pp. 5–12. 8. For example, see the recent American Historical Review Forum and Comments, ‘The Persistence of the Renaissance’, which implies some exceedingly broad attitudes about the primacy of the Renaissance in all subsequent cultural and intellectual developments. In this view ‘early modern’ – formerly, of course, ‘Renaissance and Reformation’ – has been re-cast simply as Renaissance, to the total exclusion of the Reformation: see American Historical Review 103 (1998) pp. 51–124. For a countervailing approach, see David Warren Sabean, ‘Production of the Self during the Age of Confessionalism’, Central European History 29 (1996) pp. 1–18. 9. Norbert Haag, ‘Zum Verhältnis von Religion und Politik im konfessionellen Zeitalter – system- und diskurstheoretische Überlegungen am Beispiel der Lutherischen Erneuerung in Württemberg und Hessen’, Archiv für Reformationsgeschichte 88 (1997) pp. 166–98. For an example of a reductionist approach, see Angelo Torre, ‘Politics Cloaked in Worship: State, Church and Local Power in Piedmont, 1570–1770’, Past and Present 134 (1992) pp. 42–92. For a general attempt to integrate histories of ‘religion’ and theology with a history of the modern concept of ideology, see David Hawkes, Ideology (London: Routledge, 1996). 10. Michel Foucault, possibly the most influential figure in academic postmodernism, wrote both in philosophical and historical modes. Detractors have charged that he thereby managed to dodge serious scrutiny by scholars in both major disciplines. For an overview, see Joyce Appleby et al. (eds), Knowledge and Postmodernism in Historical Perspective (New York: Routledge, 1996) pp. 385–91; 408–9. For a full rehearsal of the argument, see Richard F. Hamilton, The Social Misconstruction of Reality: Validity and Verification in the Scholarly Community (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1996) esp. ch. 6. For a current instance of debate, see the three essays reviewing Alfred W. Crosby, The Measure of Reality: Quantification and Western Society, 1250–1600: Roger Hart, ‘The Great Explanandum’; Margaret Jacob, ‘Thinking Unfashionable Thoughts, Asking Unfashionable Questions’; Jack Goldstone, ‘Whose Measure of Reality?’, all in American Historical Review 105 (2000) pp. 485–508. 11. For a recent discussion of the analytical utility of ‘honour’ for historians, see Thomas Gallant, ‘Honor, Masculinity and Ritual Knife Fighting in NineteenthCentury Greece’, American Historical Review 105 (2000) pp. 359–82. See also Edward Muir, Mad Blood Stirring: Vendetta and Factions in Friuli During the Renaissance (Baltimore, MD: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1993). 12. This is a common criticism of Foucault’s approach. See Hamilton, The Social Misconstruction of Reality; Karl Wegert, Popular Culture, Crime and Social Control in 18th-Century Württemberg (Stuttgart: Franz Steiner, 1994) takes a similar tack. 13. For an excellent critical overview, see Steven Pincus, ‘Neither Machiavellian Moment nor Possessive Individualism: Commercial Society and the

Notes to pp. 7–9 177 Defenders of the English Commonwealth’, American Historical Review 103 (1998) pp. 705–36. 14. For examples, see Peter Blickle, ‘Kommunalismus, Parliamentarismus, Republikanismus’, Historische Zeitschrift 242 (1986) pp. 529–56; Peter Blickle (ed.), Verborgene republikanische Traditionen in Oberschwaben (Tübingen: Bibliotheca Academica, 1998); Robert von Friedeburg, ‘“Kommunalismus” und “Republikanismus” in der Frühen Neuzeit? Überlegungen zur politischen Mobilisierung sozial differenzierter ländlicher Gemeinden unter agrar- und sozialhistorischem Blickwinkel’, Zeitschrift für Historische Forschung 21 (1994) pp. 65–91; Heinz Schilling, ‘Gab es im späten Mittelalter und zu Beginn der Neuzeit in Deutschland einen städtischen “Republikanismus?”’, in H.G. Koenigsberger (ed.), Republiken und Republikanismus im Europa der Frühen Neuzeit (Munich: Oldenbourg, 1989) pp. 101–43. Blickle’s historiography hinges on a model of uniquely German evolution in political forms, which turns primarily on his concept of ‘communalism’. For example, see idem, ‘Der Kommunalismus als Gestaltungsprinzip zwischen Mittelalter und Moderne’, in N. Bernhard and Q. Reichen (eds), Gesellschaft und Gesellschaften: Festschrift zum 65. Geburtstag von Professor Dr. Ulrich Im Hof (Bern: Wyss, 1982). For critiques of Blickle’s concept see, for example, R. Po-chia Hsia, ‘The Myth of the Commune: Recent Historiography on City and Reformation in Germany’, Central European History 10 (1987) pp. 203–15; Robert W. Scribner, ‘Communalism: Universal Category or Ideological Construct? A Debate in the Historiography of Early Modern Germany and Switzerland’, The Historical Journal 37 (1994) pp. 199–207. Blickle’s linking of republicanism to communalism has probably exacerbated the historiographical isolation of German republicanism from other European counterparts. For an insightful commentary on problems posed by German historiographical traditions of conceptual/structural analysis, see Tom Scott, ‘Community and Conflict in Early Modern Germany’, European History Quarterly 16 (1986) pp. 209–17. 15. For ease of reading, the spelling of isolated German terms in the main text has usually been modernized. 16. I permit myself this personal intrusion, here, in memory of Bob Scribner. He taught me much over the course of many years. But for some reason it took me all of those years to find the courage to ask him why he studied what he studied. His response – ‘Because it’s very interesting’ – surprised me; and I still wish that I had known that sooner.

2

The ‘Hows’ and ‘Whys’ Considered: Then and Now

1. Natalie Zemon Davis, Fiction in the Archives: Pardon Tales and their Tellers in Sixteenth-Century France (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 1987) pp. 3–4. 2. Joyce Appleby, Lynn Hunt and Margaret Jacob, Telling the Truth About History (New York: W.W. Norton, 1994) p. 231. According to Appleby, Hunt and Jacob, ‘“narrative” has become one of the charged code words of the current struggles over history’. Narrative sources were generally denigrated, especially in comparison to more ‘objective’ legal and constitutional documents, in traditional German Quellenkunde. Similarly, social scientifically inclined Anglo-American historians continue to suspect ‘anecdotal evidence’.

178 Notes to pp. 9–11 3. Appleby et al., Telling the Truth, p. 246. 4. Jane Austen, Northanger Abbey (Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1972) p. 123. 5. For example, see David Harlan, ‘Intellectual History and the Return of Literature’, American Historical Review 94 (1989) pp. 581–609, and a response by Joyce Appleby, ‘One Good Turn Deserves Another: Moving Beyond the Linguistic; A Response to David Harlan’, American Historical Review 94 (1989) pp. 1326–32. 6. Lawrence Stone, ‘The Revival of Narrative: Reflections on a New Old History’, Past and Present 85 (1979) p. 3. 7. ‘I again resist the social historian’s temptation to elaborate on how these episodes epitomize the mixed situation of the country nobility in the first half of the sixteenth century … Here I want to emphasize only the cultural issue.’ Davis, Fiction in the Archives, pp. 39–40. 8. Ibid., p. 4. 9. This lineage is widely accepted; for a brief recent expositon see Carlo Ginzburg, ‘Aristotele, la storia, la prova’, Quaderni Storici 85 (1994) 5–17. 10. Apparently, the process was reversible. After the stationing of a Catholic Imperial garrison in 1628, no fewer than 200 ‘conversions’ were reported. Among the converts was Mayor Ulrich Miller (although his allegiance to Lindau’s church was already considered suspect as early as 1626): see K. Wolfart, Die geschichte der Stadt Lindau, vol I.ii, p. 81. On 30 September 1628 the Count of Montfort and the Bishop of Constance interceded with the Emperor on his behalf. Miller had approached Montfort, who was the imperially appointed Oberinspector, for permission finally to sell his house and his estate in Degelstein and because he had been excluded from the most recent Council elections on the grounds of his recent conversion: ‘Extract Schreibens ann die Röm. Kay. Mtt. von Herrn Bischoff zu Costantz und herrn Graffen zu Montfort’, Stadtarchiv Lindau, Reichsstädtische Akten, (StAL Ra) 65, 7/A. See also below, Chapter 5, ‘Symbolic and material aspects’. 11. Jacob Grimm and Wilhelm Grimm, Deutsches Wörterbuch (Leipzig: S. Hirzel, 1854) vol. I, p. 682. Grimm equates common Auflauf with the legal category Tumult. For the sake of simplicity I have translated it as ‘riot’, but I am not assuming that Lindauers were unaware of a legal definition or its consequences. The meaning of Landschaft is difficult to pin down; however, a marginal comment in a register of public officials suggests that there was a clearly defined group of peasants who owed allegiance to the city. ‘Rath Gricht und Gemeind, sambt der Landschafft, Item der Sünffzen, Mezger und Fischerzunfft haben uff Montag der 24 Augusti [1618] alß am tag Bartolomei geschworen’, Stadtarchiv Lindau, Literalien (StAL Lit) 14, ‘Amtsund Dienstleute’, p. [64]. 12. ‘[V]onn wegen daß er denn doctoreß Juristen die wahr hait hat under die Nassen geriben’, StAL Ra 39, 8, p. [1]. ‘Wahrheit’ is one of the key communicative media identified by Niklas Luhmann’s ‘systemtheoretical’ approach, which Norbert Haag has tested against the case of Lutheran confessionalization: Norbert Haag, ‘Zum Verhältnis von Religion und Politik im konfessionellen Zeitalter – system- und diskurstheoretische Überlegungen am Beispiel der Lutherischen Erneuerung in Württemberg und Hessen’, Archiv für Reformationsgeschichte 88 (1997) pp. 166–98.

Notes to pp. 11–13 179 13. ‘Unnsser der Burger schafft gewessnerr pffarher und prediger Nun mehr Inn die 28 Jarr’, StAL Ra 39, 8. 14. ‘[U]nd [Neukomm] Ihenen [the advocates] die Kappen ob gezogen hat, dar durch sie Ihme so hefftig und feind sindt worden, daß sie die Oberkait wider denn herrn prediger gantz und gar verhezts haben’, ibid. 15. ‘Ist daß auch disse Ursach gewessen, Daß unnsser Ampts Burgerr Maister Nemlich herr Ulrich Muller ist ain Zeit Lang vonn dem Burger Maister Ampt ist entsezt gewessen, und hat die Burgerschafft kain Rechten Grundt Nie gewist warumb eß doch Zuthun gewessen seye’, ibid. A marginal comment in a later hand suggests that Miller was suspended for the maladministration of orphans’ property which he held in trust. See also Chapter 5, ‘Trusteeship’ and ‘Symbolic and material aspects’. 16. The defining difference between these is found in the location of the source of authority and the consequent opposite directionalities of legitimation in the exercise of authority. Donald Kelley’s assessment of the complexity and multiplicity of forces is worth quoting at some length here: ‘Imperium and iurisdictio, potestas and auctoritas, princeps and populus: these are a few of the dualities which inform the arguments of medieval and Renaissance jurists in their political engagements … They are not the “ascending” and “descending” themes inferred by Walter Ullmann, nor the confrontation between the rex and iudex, nor the opposition of rulership and constitutionalism, nor yet that between absolute and ordinary power (recently surveyed by Francis Oakley). They are rather manifestations of conflicting appeals to “power” and socialised conceptions of “legitimacy” ’. Donald Kelley, ‘Civil science in the Renaissance’, in Anthony Pagden (ed.), The Languages of Political Theory in Early Modern Europe (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1987) p. 69. 17. Both Groll and Widerwille have many possible translations ranging in intensity from something like a mild grudge or ill will to inveterate hatred and loathing. 18. Indeed, it was being employed almost simultaneously by those who were trying to restore the authority of the Council: see Chapter 7. 19. ‘[E]tlich [citizens] in verhafft am morgen genomen und gefenkhlich gehalten worden, der Mainung die Andern Burger zu erschreckhen und wankhell mutig machen’, StAL Ra 39, 8, p. [1]. 20. StAL Ra 39, 8. 21. Lorna Jane Abray, The People’s Reformation: Magistrates, Clergy and Commons in Strasbourg, 1500–1598 (Oxford: Basil Blackwell, 1985). 22. In recent decades German literature in particular has been concerned with the strata (Schichten) of urban society, a term which avoids both ‘class’ and ‘estate’. For example, Helmut Bräuer, ‘Bürgerliche Oberschicht und Reformation – Betrachtungen am Beispiel sächsischer Städte’, in R. Postel and F. Kopitzsch (eds), Reformation und Revolution (Stuttgart: Franz Steiner, 1989); E. Maschke and J. Sydow (eds), Städtische Mittelschichten (Stuttgart: W. Kohlhammer, 1972); idem, Gesellschaftliche Unterschichten in den südwestdeutschen Städten (Stuttgart: W. Kohlhammer, 1967). 23. The subject of women’s property, along with questions of age, generation and guardianship, is discussed below; see Chapter 5.

180 Notes to pp. 13–14 24. This is a conventional symbol of degradation. Apparently it was also used by Imperial emissaries against the Mayor and Council in January 1625: StAL Lit 25, ‘Neukomm’sche Chronik’, p. 458. Mezler also used the symbol to describe figuratively what Alexius Neukomm did to the advocates. 25. ‘Kirchen stull mit gettern vermacht … der hat dem Doctor Haider genant Zu gehert das ist sein sitz inn der Kirchen gewest, denn haben die ledigen gesellen auff gebrochen, den selbigen zer schlagen zer rissen mit den wehren zer hawen, und alß vonn ain ander zer Rissen und alß mit ain Ander Inn die Kirchen her Nider geworffen’, StAL Ra 39, 8, p. [3]. Mack Holt notes that in early modern Burgundy pew- or chair-smashing was considered a prelude to arson; the Lindau sources indicate no such expectation: Mack Holt, ‘Wine, Community and Reformation in Sixteenth-Century Burgundy’, Past and Present 138 (1993) p. 85. 26. In Lindau, Herr was used for a wide range of public officials, as well as for some people who are not necessarily in the public service. Thus the technically correct translation of Herren as ‘lords’, favoured by Lyndal Roper, does not work in this case: Lyndal Roper, The Holy Household: Women and Morals in Reformation Augsburg (Oxford: Clarendon, 1989). Where possible, English equivalents, clarifying what ‘lordly’ aspect or function a particular individual was executing, have been used here. 27. StAL Ra 39, 8, p. [4]. The description of the negotiations raises the vital questions of how the challenge to Council authority was actually organized, and who, if anyone, represented the interests of the rebel-side, and how was he (or were they) chosen? The sources are all silent on these points. 28. ‘[D]a hat Gott Gnadt geben daß sich die herren und Oberkait gegen denn Burgern Alles guots Ann er botten haben und ist die sach da hinn komen das sich Oberkait und Underthonen widerum ver glichen haben’, ibid. 29. E. Maschke has noted that even before the term Obrigkeit was widely employed by the Habsburgs of the fifteenth century, it ambiguously referred both to a governmental function and to the person or body who exercised that function. See E. Maschke, ‘“Obrigkeit” im spätmittelalterlichen Speyer und in anderen Städten’, in idem, Städte und Menschen: Beiträge zur Geschichte der Stadt, der Wirtschaft und Gesellschaft 1959–1977 (Wiesbaden: Franz Steiner, 1980) p. 121. See also Grimm and Grimm, Deutsches Wörterbuch, vol. VII, p. 682. By contrast Untertänigkeit does not denote a collectivity of individuals, but is used exclusively to denote the attitude of a proper Untertan: Grimm and Grimm, Deutsches Wörterbuch, vol. II, pp. 1866–73. 30. Conversely, there is also a sense in which the individualization strengthens resolve to resist tyranny. This is a fundamental aspect of early modern interpretations and adaptations of classical republicanism; exemplified by Cassius’ speech to Brutus in Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar I:ii, ‘The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, but in ourselves, that we are underlings.’ 31. Daß sich die Oberkait Ann Kainem Burger er sie wer er welle, nit welle Rechen, was ettwa ainer Oder der Ander geredt gesagt oder gethon habe, daß solle alles ver zigen ver geben Nimm mehr gedacht werden, und Alleß mit ain Anderen auff gehebt sein, und solle der herr Neuwkum wider sein predig Ampt ver Richten am Sontag zu morgens wie auch am denn feurtagen zu

Notes to pp. 14–16 181

32. 33.

34.

35.

36.

37.

38.

morgens und auch am Zinßtag zu morgens an unsserem gewonlich Bettag und lettaney, Auch solle der her Burger Maister Ulrich Miller, wider Inn sein Ampt ein tretten, und wider Burger Maister sein wie zuvor. StAL Ra 39, 8, p. [4]. This formulation bears striking resemblance to Lindau Urpheden. Ibid., p. [5]. On the Lindauers’ historical consciousness, see also Chapter 3, ‘Reformation or confessionalization?’ The report on Neukomm’s sermon of 5 November deposited by Heinrich Felß the younger identifies him as the man most probably responsible for the bulk of the documentation in the relevant series of files (StAL Ra 65, 1–65, 8). Several prominent Lindauers were asked to submit their recollections of the content of the sermon, which were kept on file. They all appear to be in the hand of the witness and none of them are marked ‘copia’. The handwriting of Felß’ report corresponds to that of the great majority of ‘clean copy’ documents in the series. Furthermore, the note marking the receipt of the depositions on the reverse is in another hand altogether, confirming that the hand in which the document itself was written is indeed that of the witness rather than of a secretary. A document in the Ra 65, 3 identifies a Hans Heinrich Felß, Stadtschreiber, who was acting as a go-between in Alexius Neukomm’s negotiations with the Council in late October 1626. He would certainly have had intimate knowledge of what was going on. Karl Wolfart noted that both a son and a grandson of a Michael Felß, who had emigrated from Constance to Lindau in 1587, had held the office of Council Secretary ( Ratsschreiber); both were named Hans Heinrich. See Karl Wolfart, Die Geschichte der Stadt Lindau im Bodensee (Lindau: Stettner, 1909) vol I.i, p. 332. StAL Ra 65, 5/B, ‘Beschreibung woher der Burgerschafft alhie zue Lindaw Zinstags den 7n Novembris anno 1626 furgangner leidiger auffstand wider die Obrigkeit erfolgt’. The file Ra 65, 5 is subdivided into three documents, designated here as A, B and C. In the lists of public officeholders for this period the members of this body were called ‘Die Zweinziger von der gmeind Alß Personen des grossen Raths’; for short, the body itself was known as ‘Gmeind’. StAL Lit 14, ‘Amtsund Dienstleute’. On this ideological, as opposed to strictly judicial/administrative, meaning of ‘Gemeinde’, see Scott Dixon, ‘The Reformation and Parish Morality in Brandenburg-Ansbach-Kulmbach’, Archiv für Reformationsgeschichte 87 (1996) esp. pp. 270; 284. ‘M. Newkhom selbs geredt, er sey Zwar, als ein Hiesiger alter burger einem E. Rhat, inn weltlichen sachen Zuegehorsamen anerbietig, aber inn Geistlichen sachen ganz nit’: StAL Ra 65, 5/B. According to E. Maschke, the oath to render obedience (Gehorsame) established the relationship between a subject and a lord (Herr), yet by the principles of government a Council could not exercise lordship. Thus Neukomm was more generally denying Council claims to ecclesiastical lordship, possibly on the basis of an implied appeal to the authority of the parish commune: Maschke, ‘“Obrigkeit”’, p. 131. ‘Man muß Gott mehr gehorchen denn den Menschen’ (Acts 5, verse 29), would have been well-known to all Lindauers as a commonplace of early modern preaching.

182 Notes to pp. 16–19 39. Haag, ‘Zum Verhältnis von Religion und Politik im konfessionellen Zeitalter’, pp. 166–98. 40. Brian Tierney, Religion, Law and the Growth of Constitutional Thought, 1150–1650 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1982). The question of this particular mediaeval-early modern continuity is further considered in Arthur P. Monahan, From Personal Duties Towards Personal Rights: Late Medieval and Early Modern Political Thought, 1300–1600 (Montreal and Kingston: McGill-Queen’s University Press, 1994) and revisited in Brian Tierney, The Idea of Natural Rights: Studies on Natural Rights, Natural Law and Church Law, 1150–1625 (Atlanta, GA: Scholars Press, 1997). 41. The principle linking the exercise of these powers to the existence of government is set out in a document issued in the course of the abolition of the mass in Lindau in the early 1530’s: ‘Also die gedacht Apptissin und closter in unnser statt gar kain Oberkait … weder in klainen noch grossen sachen nichts zugepieten, noch zuverpieten hat’, StAL Ra 6, 110. 42. This represents a kind of seventeenth-century ‘hour zero’ or Stunde Null. There is some indication that post-Reformation generations, in particular, were engaged in this process of ‘overcoming the past’ or Vergangenheitsbewältigung. The most striking thing about this phenomenon is that it is not simply a ‘distortion of the truth’ by a few cynical individuals; rather, it is part of a process of repression and denial which is integral to the processes of self-representation and can culminate in the definition of self-contradictory collective identities. See Chapter 8. 43. ‘[S]obald mann dz ander zeichen anfangen zuleüten, und sie [the crowd] gemerckht, dz ein anderer Prediger die Predigt halten werde, sein sie ins Haus, so Inen ohnversehens von den Newkhomischen geöffnet worden’, StAL Ra 65, 5/B. 44. Indications that the Council entertained a conspiracy theory are well documented. The progression from band formation through oath swearing to the presentation of grievances is reminiscent of the accounts of the Peasants’ War found in urban sources. For example, see Tom Scott and Bob Scribner, The German Peasants’ War: A History in Documents (Atlantic Highlands, NJ: Humanities Press, 1991). Thus Mezler may have been alluding to such romanticized perceptions of spontaneous collective action in defence of ‘Godly’ justice. 45. StAL Ra 39, 8, ‘Demnach ein Ers: Rath der Statt Lindaw, im verwichnen 1626 Jahr’. This piece, written in one of the most frequently encountered secretarial hands of the period, can be dated to early 1627. Although its exact function or purpose remains unclear, its rough appearance and several references to supporting documents made in the text suggest that the piece was an unofficial early draft of one of the many ‘information packages’ issued by the Council. 46. For the sake of clarity and uniformity, what the Lindau documents variously refer to as Kirchen- und Schulrat, Kirchenrat, or Schulrat have all been translated as ‘Education Committee’. This has the added advantage of communicating something of the ad hoc nature of the body. Nevertheless, it is unclear which body precisely, the Schulrat (‘School Board’) or Kirchenrath (‘Church Council’), was actually consulted in this case. The author had originally recorded the former, but subsequently replaced it with the latter.

Notes to pp. 19–22 183

47. 48.

49.

50. 51.

52.

53. 54.

The two bodies shared certain core members and there was much confusion over their relative areas of competence; the uncertainty of the author suggests that, for all practical purposes, the two bodies acted as one. ‘Selbiges nit allein der Burgerschafft privatim erlaidet, und unangenemb gemacht, sondern auch publicè, ganz hefftig darwider gepredigt’, StAL Ra 39, 8. ‘Damit aber er Newkom zue seinem intent desto ehender gelangen, nit allein die anstellende Beicht verhindern, sondern auch, womit er lange Zeit und Jarhero schwanger gangen, einmal wider die Obrigkeit ins werkh richten möge’, ibid. On the cultural saliency of the metaphor, see Ulinka Rublack, ‘Pregnancy, Childbirth and the Female Body in Early Modern Germany’, Past and Present 50 (1996) pp. 84–110. On the commonplace opposition of pauper and potentes and the identity of the ‘poor’ with the ‘impotent’ see Christoph Sachße and Florian Tennstedt, Geschichte der Armenfürsorge in Deutschland (Stuttgart: W. Kohlhammer, 1980) p. 27; Gerald Strauss, Law, Resistance and the State: The Oppostition to Roman Law in Reformation Germany (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1986) p. 129; Lee Palmer Wandel, Always Among Us: Images of the Poor in Zwinglis Zürich (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1991) esp. p. 7. The following is a fine Lindavian example of the phenomenon. When Magdalena the widow of Stoffel Beckhen sued for a share of his legacy in 1526, the presentation of her cause resonated with the arguments of the Peasants’ War, including the association of the ‘weak’ category, ‘widows and orphans’, with the ‘destitute’ category of ‘poor’: ‘darzu sagen si nain den wa Es ein Milte gab wer solt die Armen luten und nit ain pfrund geben werden sin Denn man find an kainen orten geschriben dz man sol pfrunden stifften Man find aber dz man sol armen luten geben und witwen und waisen beschirmen und den armen mittailen dz haiss ain milte gab darum so verhofft sie wie vor’. (StAL Rp 1525–28, p. 128). ‘Weil die den Armen gemeinen mann so seer mit dem lohn Ubernommen’, StAL Ra 39, 8. The short covered alley called the Gerberschanze, which runs from the Fischergasse, where Neukomm lived, down to the lake, was the site of Lindau’s last working tannery c. 1960. The term Schiffleute is difficult to translate, and neither ‘sailor’ nor ‘ferryman’ communicates the essential point that, in addition to sailing their vessels, these people also owned them and were essentially transport entrepreneurs. Strictly speaking they were part of the Fishermen’s Guild, but because of their economic and strategic importance to Lindau they were often treated as a special group altogether. As members of a quasi-guild without constitutional standing they were quite weak and the Council quite easily controlled how they operated, regulated what they carried and even commandeered vessels. On the Umgeld, see Chapter 4, ‘The wine excise’. For an interesting French comparison, see Holt, ‘Wine, Community and Reformation in Sixteenth-Century Burgundy’, pp. 58–93. Holt argues that attempts at reform in Dijon were met by staunch resistance on the part of the vigneron, who stood to loose much, ideologically as well as materially, by the profanization of wine in particular.

184 Notes to pp. 23–30 55. ‘Daß M. Newkom wegen er die Beicht nit leiden wellen die einig erursach dieses uffstands gewesen’, StAL Ra 39, 8. 56. This is almost certainly the letter of 22 November reproduced by Hans Löwe, Der Prediger Alexius Neukomm und der Lindauer Kirchenhandel des Jahres 1626 (Munich, 1904/1905). 57. StAL Ra 65, 5/C. 58. The document is not dated, but a reference to ‘den 9. Januarii jüngsthin übersendte weitere entschuldigung information und bitt’ probably denotes Daniel Heider’s letter to the Council, dated 9 January 1627, found in the same bundle. 59. For comparison see, for example, Walter Ludwig (ed.), Vater und Sohn im 16. Jahrhundert: Der Briefwechsel des Wolfgang Reichart genannt Rychardus mit seinem Sohn Zeno (1520–1543) (Hildesheim: Weidmann, 1999). 60. On succession, see Chapter 5, ‘Step-parents’. 61. On the politics of youth, see Chapter 5; also, Chapter 3, ‘The guild constitution’. 62. The Machiavellian logic, which is still with us today, goes something like this: ‘It is not in the interest of the government that the public should know; the preservation of government is in the interest of the public; therefore it is not in the interest of the public to know’. For the rulers, the conflation of ‘government’ and ‘the government’ spells ultimate success; for the ruled, disenfranchisement. 63. ‘Wanckhelmutt und lusttfahrung welche dem wohlstand unsers Stattwesens nicht weniger schwechen und verhindern thuett’, StAL Ra 65, 5/C. 64. ‘[D]z ihr vil, vonn Raths oder sonst gemeiner Statt geschäfft wegen, eine Zech Zuversaumen uber ihr hertz nicht bringen khönnen’, ibid. 65. Peter Eitel, ‘Die politische, soziale und wirtschaftliche Stellung des Zunftbürgertums in den oberschwäbischen Reichsstädten am Ausgang des Mittelalters’, in Maschke and Sydow (eds), Städtische Mittelschichten: also see Chapter 3. 66. One cannot help but feel that the advocates were falling prey to some of the less savoury tendencies of small-town society. Gerald Strauss has noted that the legal profession was victimized simply because ‘[p]ower and position invite hostility’: Strauss, Law, Resistance and the State, p. 3. 67. This is an isolated occurrence of the term fürnem, as opposed to gemein. It is unlikely that it simply denoted Lindauers of patrician status, since these were usually identified by their membership in the Sünfzen, as opposed to a guild. However, as demonstrated below (see Chapter 3), a clear two-rank system can be detected in the differentiation of career types in the lists of Council membership, and possibly Court membership, for the whole period c.1520–c.1630. 68. ‘Dz sie in dem Regiment nur alles nach ihrem Kopf richten’ StAL Ra 65, 5C. 69. Strauss, Law, Resistance and the State. 70. Heinz Schilling, Konfessionskonflikt und Staatsbildung (Gütersloh: G. Mohn, 1981). The full impact of Schilling’s phrase, ‘weltanschaulicher Ausschließlichkeitsanspruch’, does not come through in translation. See also Heinrich R. Schmidt, Reichsstadt, Reich und Reformation (Stuttgart: F. Steiner, 1986), according to whom: ‘In der Reformation verwirklicht die Stadt ihren Exklusivitätsanspruch als “corpus christianum” im Kleinen.’

Notes to pp. 30–6 185 71. Davis, ‘The Rites of Violence: Religious Riot in Sixteenth-Century France’, Past and Present 59 (1973) pp. 51–91; idem, ‘The Sacred and the Body Social in sixteenth-century Lyon’, Past and Present 90 (1981) pp. 40–70. See also Janine Estebe’s critical response: ‘The Rites of Violence: Religious Riot in Sixteenth-Century France: A Comment’, Past and Present 67 (1975) pp. 127–30. For recent critical engagement with the Durkheimian approach favoured by Davis, see Susan Rosa and Dale Van Kley, ‘Religion and the Historical Discipline: A Reply to Mack Holt and Henry Heller’, French Historical Studies 21 (1998) pp. 611–29; see also Robert W. Scribner, ‘Popular Politics and Cultural Conflict in Early Modern Europe’, European History Quarterly 18 (1988) pp. 71–5. 72. See, for example, Susanna Burghartz, Zeiten der Reinheit, Orte der Unzucht: Ehe und Sexualität in Basel während der frühen Neuzeit (Paderborn: Schöningh-Verlag, 1999). 73. This sheds an interesting light on means-based punitive justice, which remains a significant point of distinction between European and North American legal practice. 74. This paradox of a natural or divine order, set out textually in thousands of statutory documents, found its most potent expression in the use of the Bible as a code of divine law by the peasants of 1525. See Peter Blickle, The Revolution of 1525, trans. Thomas A. Brady, Jr, and H.C. Erik Midelfort (Baltimore, MD: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1981). 75. Peter A. Dykema and Heiko A. Oberman (eds), Anticlericalism in Late Medieval and Early Modern Europe (Leiden: E.J. Brill, 1993); Heiko Oberman, ‘Zwischen Agitation und Reformation: Die Flugschriften als “Judenspiegel” ’, in H.J. Köhler (ed.), Flugschriften als Massenmedium der Reformationszeit: Beiträge zum Tübinger Symosion (Stuttgart: Klett-Cotta, 1981); see also Christopher Friedrichs, ‘Anti-Jewish Politics in Early Modern Germany: the Uprising in Worms, 1613–17’, Central European History 23 (1990) pp. 91–152. 76. ‘Nämlich die uberhandnemmung aller ohnbußfertigkheit, ohntugent, wiederspenstigkheit, vortheilhaftigkheit’, StAL Ra 65, 5/C.

3

Historiographical Contours

1. For a discussion of the many criteria of legal validity which gave impetus to this early historiography, see T. Buehler, ‘Zum Gewohnheitsbegriff im Mittelalter nach schweizerischen Quellen’, in C. Schott and C. Soliva (eds), Nit anders den liebs und guets (Sigmaringen: Thorbecke, 1986). For a broader consideration of German political formation and historicism, see Celia Applegate, A Nation of Provincials: The German Idea of Heimat (Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 1990). 2. Daniel Heider, Gründliche Außführung, wessen sich deß H. Reichs Stadt Lindaw [etc.] (Nuremberg, 1643). Copies in the British Library and in the StAL were consulted. 3. K.O. Müller, Die oberschwäbischen Reichsstädte: Ihre Entstehung und ältere Verfassung, Darstellungen aus der Württembergischen Geschichte, vol. 8 (Stuttgart, 1912). Müller credits the work of two local historians: S. Keller, Patriziat und Geschlechterherrschaft in der Reichsstadt Lindau, Deutschrechtliche

186 Notes to pp. 36–7

4.

5.

6.

7.

8.

9.

10.

Beiträge, vol. 1, no. 5 (Heidelberg, 1907) and F. Joetze, ‘Die Entwicklung der Stadt bis zum Ende des 13. Jahrhunderts’ and ‘Lindaus Blütezeit (1300–1519)’ in K. Wolfart, Geschichte der Stadt Lindau im Bodensee (Lindau: Stettner, 1909), vol. 1.i. For an excellent historiographical overview, see Stefan Berger, ‘Historians and Nation-Building in Germany after Reunification’, Past and Present 148 (1995) pp. 187–222. John Walter’s approach to the persistence of rigid macro-structures in the historiography of early modern England is similarly ‘pragmatic’, in the sense that he actively evades classification of his work in terms of the dominant historiographical models or ideologies of English national historiography. See John Walter, Understanding Popular Violence in the English Revolution: The Colchester Plunderers (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1999) esp. pp. 1–9. It is impossible to underestimate the influence of Leopold von Ranke in this respect. Although his lectures Über die Epochen der neueren Geschichte (Leipzig: Duncker & Humbolt, 1899) were delivered nearly a century and a half ago, his influence has been preserved in standard teaching works such as Johannes Haller, Die Epochen der deutschen Geschichte (Stuttgart: Cotta, 1928). This work has enjoyed countless subsequent editions (including a 1930 English edition) and describes the basic framework for German historiography to the present day. On the continuing effect of this particularly German historiographical tendency, see Thomas A. Brady, Jr, ‘Early Modern Germany in the Encyclopedia of German History. Part 1: Population, Economies and the World of the Village’, Central European History 30 (1997) pp. 567–88, esp. p. 588. The tumultuous events of spring 1345 are related by Iohannes Vitoduranus. See F. Baethgen (ed.), Die Chronik Johanns von Winterthur. Scriptores Rerum Germanicum (Berlin, 1924), N.S. vol. 3, pp. 261–3. ‘Die zeitliche Begrenzung des Themas beruht auf einfacheren und eindeutigeren Voraussetzungen als die räumliche. Sie wird bestimmt durch die Epoche der Zunftherrschaft, den Zeitraum also, in dem die Zünfte das Grundelement der Verfassung waren, in dem die Gesamtheit der Bürgerschaft an der Herrschaftsausübung teilhatte’: Peter Eitel, Die oberschwäbischen Reichsstädte im Zeitalter der Zunftherrschaft. Schriften zur südwestdeutschen Landeskunde, vol. 8 (Stuttgart: Müller & Gräff, 1970) p. 9. Eitel’s appendices provide a variety of useful sources from Lindau, Memmingen, Ravensburg and Überlingen. ‘[D]ie Verfassungswirklichkeit, die tatsächliche politische Machtverteilung’, ibid., p. 4. Eitel also devotes an entire chapter to ‘Die politische Wirklichkeit im Zeitalter der Zunftherrschaft’. ‘Die Epoche der Zunftherrschaft, zugleich die politische und wirtschaftliche Glanzzeit der oberschwäbischen Städte, fand ein jähes Ende, als Karl V. in den Jahren 1551 und 1552 in allen diesen Städten kraft kaiserlichen Befehls eine neue Verfassung einführte, überall gegen den Willen der Bürgerschaft, aber trotzdem überall mit dauerndem Erfolg … Die Mehrzahl der Bürgerschaft verlor die Möglichkeit zur eigenen politischen Willensbildung … Einer weitgehend funktionierenden genossenschaftlichen Verfassungsordnung folgte ein rein oligarchisches Regiment’. Eitel, Zunftherrschaft, pp. 3–4. Similarly, the

Notes to pp. 37–8 187

11.

12.

13.

14. 15. 16.

17.

18. 19.

20. 21.

reforms of 1551 and 1552 meant the ‘Ablösung eines nach weitgehend demokratischen Grundsätzen gewählten Regiments durch eine oligarchische Obrigkeit’, ibid., p. 76. Bernd Moeller, Reichsstadt und Reformation, 2nd rev. edn (Berlin: Evangelische Verlagsanstalt, 1987), operates under much the same precepts as Eitel when he names the Hasenräte as a factor in the actual destruction of a real communal ethos. Eberhard Naujoks, Obrigkeitsgedanke, Zunftverfassung und Reformation (Stuttgart: Kohlhammer, 1958), rejects the argument that Charles V’s reforms were responsible for dissipating the power of the commune. For details on mid-century constitutional reforms, see L. Fürstenwerth, ‘Die Verfassungsänderungen in den oberdeutschen Reichsstädten zur Zeit Karl V’, Dissertation (Göttingen, 1893) and Eberhard Naujoks (ed.), Kaiser Karl V. und die Zunftverfassung: Ausgewählte Aktenstücke zu den Verfassungsänderungen in den oberdeutschen Reichsstädten 1547–1556 (Stuttgart: W. Kohlhammer, 1985). These reforms are not to be confused with the earlier programme of legal reforms commonly known as the Carolina. My thanks to Sheila Ogilvie for alerting me to the pitfall of indiscriminate early modern usage of the term Carolina. Gerd Wunder, ‘Geschlechter und Gemeinde: Soziale Veränderungen in südwestdeutschen Reichsstädten zu Beginn der Neuzeit’, in W. Rausch (ed.), Die Stadt an der Schwelle zur Neuzeit (Linz: Österreichischer Arbeitskreis für Stadtgeschichtsforschung, 1980) p. 45. ‘[D]as alle Zunfftmaister in dem Rhatt mogen bleiben, denn darvor bliben nur zwen alte darin und ist von 2 Zunfftmaister an ain gemain gezogen wordten vom Rhatt Matheus Spilman genant Loy, und Paule Steyer Mann mag auch einen Bergermaister nit [mehr?] dann ein Jar lang auß dem Rhatt lassen sein, darvor ist er Zwai Jar des Rhats freigewesen’: StAL Lit 25, p. 255. ‘[U]nd ist gemacht worden das man einen alten Burgermeister wider in den Rhatt nemen mag.’, ibid., p. 266. Alexius and Ulrich Neukomm disagree on the date. For example, 18 October 1532; StAL Rp 1532–51, p. 7v. For example, 24 January 1533; ibid., p. 16. ‘[D]as auch hinfüro kain dergleichen so schlecht gering sach, an ain gemaind gezogen werden. sonder ain Rat in solchen klainfuegen sachen handeln soll. was sy gemainer Statt Eer und nuz’, ibid., p. 70v. Apparently he failed to meet eligibility requirements established in the the Ausstandsordnung, which prevented close associates (Freund) from serving simultaneously on the Council. See below. ‘Auch Im [Zunftmeister] nit gestatten wollen, das er solches an ain gemaind pringen möchte’, ibid., p. 75v. Very crudely, ‘turning Swiss’ was synonymous with opposition to ‘imperialism’. The phrase itself gained wide currency after the Städtekrieg (1449–1550), when attempts to arrest decline were perceived as hinging on a difficult choice between monarchism and communalism: Thomas A. Brady, Jr, Turning Swiss: Cities and Empire 1450–1550 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1985) p. 22. StAL Rp 1528–31, pp. 214–5. ‘Jos Huober burger hie ist in meiner herren fanngknus komen umb wolverschuldt sachen, nemlich das er geredt hat, Burgermaister Bodmer sey zu Augs[burg] uff dem tag gewesen. Hab da gehandelt des Im nit bevolchen

188 Notes to pp. 38–42

22. 23. 24.

25.

26.

27.

28. 29. 30. 31.

gewesen, und ain saw bracht, dann er hab verhaltten, und nit anzaigt da er herhaim komen was zu Augs[burg] gehandelt worden’, StAL Rp 1532–51, pp. 32–3. On this ‘third estate’, see Robert H. Lutz, Wer war der gemeine Mann? Der dritte Stand in der Krise des Spätmittelalters (Munich: Oldenbourg, 1979). Eitel, Zunftherrschaft, p. 49. There is some indication in the Lindau Ratsprotokoll that fear of such infiltration did exist, and double membership in the Sünfzen and a guild, whether actual or virtual, was the occasion of heated confrontation. For example, in 1546 the Lindau tanners presented grievances to the Council, demanding that merchants (Kauffmanschaft) be strictly prohibited from engaging in commercial activities reserved for the guilds. This was justified with reference to the common good and the necessity of a peaceful coexistence of rich and poor: ‘von gemeines Nutz wegen, und damit Reich und arm beieinander pleiben mögen’. The immediate catalyst of the grievances, it seems, had been the acceptance of Dominicus and Sylvester Hünlin into the patrician Sünfzen: the two had not simultaneously relinquished the benefits of guild membership: see StAL Rp 1546–49, pp. 15–15v. Following this celebrated case, the issue of patrician interference in the guilds was an emotive one. In 1548 Martin Bomber’s son publicly refused to join the Smiths’ Guild as long as the guild tolerated the fact that members of the Sünfzen practised the smiths’ trade: ibid., p. 101v. Ironically, a few years later Charles V’s expansion of urban patriciates through the elevation of prominent guildsmen to patrician status was met with hostility by established members of the elite. See P. Eitel, ‘Die Auswirkungen der Reformation auf die Städterepubliken Oberschwabens und des Bodenseeraumes’, in W. Rausch (ed.), Die Stadt an der Schwelle zur Neuzeit (Linz: Österreichischer Arbeitskreis für Stadtgeschichtsforschung, 1980). ‘[D]as gemain Statt umb Ir Usstand gred und Korn gelt vor ersten ussgericht und bezalt werd und dann … arnach all gemain schuldner zu vormalz Josen Pfiffers verlassen hab und gut zugelassen werden sollen’, StAL Rp 1525–28, p. [228]; emphasis added. Two runs of lists of office holders have been considered. The first (Figure 3.1), covering the years 1519–1549, with the exception of 1548, was extracted from the volumes of Council minutes for those years. The second run, from 1588 to 1636 inclusive (Figure 3.2), is taken from a volume of lists begun by the city secretary Johann Bertlin in 1588: StAL Lit 14. ‘Item uff vorgeschriben tag alls die newen Burgermeister anstunden hat ain Rat dißes Jar zu Gehaimen Räthen und ausschussen alls bald erwölt die nachbenannten meine hern’: StAL Rp 1532–51, p. 86. StAL Rp 1532–51, p. 80v (7 September 1537). ‘Und sind daruff in Ausschuss und zu gehaimen Räthen verordnet’, StAL Rp 1532–51, p. 94 (25 June 1539). StAL Rp 1532–51, pp. 94 (1539), 103 (1540), 106v (1541), 115v (1542), 123 (1543), 145 (1544), 159 (1545). Studies of other towns have shown similar intra-elite divisions. Ingrid Bátori, ‘Ratsherren und Aufrührer: soziale und ökonomische Verhältnisse in der Stadt Kitzingen zur Zeit des Bauernkriegs und der Reformation’, in Wolfgang J. Mommsen, Peter Alter and Robert W. Scribner (eds), The Urban

Notes to pp. 42–5 189

32. 33. 34. 35.

36. 37. 38.

39. 40.

41. 42.

Classes, the Nobility and the Reformation (Stuttgart: Klett-Cotta, 1979), uses tax records to distinguish an inner from an outer Council on the basis of personal fortunes. Heinrich Rüthing, Höxter um 1500: Analyse einer Stadtgesellschaft (Paderborn: Verlag Bonifatius-Druckerei, 1986), found that the average time between setting up a household and occupying a seat in the Council was 6.8 years for artisans and only 2.7 years for merchants. Within an age-cohort, therefore, merchants inevitably had more seniority and probably more overall power. K. Wolfart, Geschichte der Stadt Lindau, vol. 1(i), pp. 371–2. StAL Rp 1552–55, 18 July 1552. StAL Rp 1552–55, 25 and 30 October 1553. The chronicler Ulrich Neukomm noted the intention of the reformers to sell the guildhouses and to invest the proceeds invested in grain to feed the ‘poor commune’ (armen commun) in times of inflation. The similarity to key implementations of ecclesiatical reformation is striking: see StAL Lit 25, ‘Neukomm’sche Chronik’ p. [282]. The institution of Quartiere to replace the guilds as the basic organizational structure of the citizenry (for military musters, tax collection, opinion polls, policing, and so on) seems to have been equally ineffective. Eitel calculates that 19 members of the pre-1551 Council or Court were able to continue their careers in a Hasenrat, as opposed to only eight who disappeared from the scene altogether (and even here a direct causal link is not established). At least some of those who were able to continue their career were guildsmen: Eitel, Zunftherrschaft, pp. 85–6. StAL Lit 14, ‘Amts- und Dienstleute’, p. [26]. Ibid., p. [29]. Demnach ain Ers: Rath, Jetzt lannge Zeit hero, anbracht worden, das Zum offtern maln, von wegen geringer Anzahl der Richter, und das etwan die selbern Freüntschafft halb aussteen, nit gericht gehalten werden khunde, Welches aber den Patheyen, so vor Gericht zuschaffen haben, merklich beschwerlich, So hat ain Ers: Rath die Anzahl der Richter Uff 23. Augusti anno 1591 umb 2 Personen gestärkht, und geordnet Joachim Egolten und Jacoben Weber obgenannt. StAL Lit 14, ‘Amts- und Dienstleute’, p. [12] In 1600 the individual at the top of the list of Judges was first identified as the ‘Stattaman Amptsverweser’: StAL Lit 14, p. [39]. Of these 77 recorded instances of the ‘inheritance’ of a public office, two were of the office of Stadtamman and seven of the office of Mayor. Council seats were ‘inherited’ 29 times, Court positions 25 times, and membership in the Commons 14 times. This adjusts for the fact that the different offices do not occur in the lists with equal frequency. ‘In den meisten Reichsstädten blieben die von Karl V. oktroyierten Verhältnisse bis zum Ende der reichsstädtischen Selbständigkeit bestehen. Einige geringfügige Modifizierungen, vor allem die äußerliche Wiederherstellung der Zünfte und die Wiedereröffnung ihrer Trinkstuben, änderten an der grundsätzlichen Entmachtung der Gesamtbürgerschaft nichts’: Eitel, Zunftherrschaft, p. 76. Indeed, as Christopher Friedrich has recently reminded us, the vast majority of early modern urban inhabitants and their politics remain invisible to an analysis conceived in such narrow

190 Notes to pp. 45–7

43.

44. 45.

46. 47. 48. 49.

50. 51.

52.

53. 54. 55. 56.

57.

58.

terms in any case. See Christopher Friedrichs, ‘But Are We Any Closer to Home?: Early Modern German Urban History Since German Home Towns’, Central European History 30 (1997) pp. 163–85. Briefly, points 1 and 4 of the ordinance disqualified blood relations (Bluotsverwandten) to the fourth degree, either ascending or descending, and siblings from simultaneously occupying a seat in the Council; one also had to leave the Council chamber when matters concerning such a relation were deliberated. Point 2 disqualified married men from serving with, or attending a discussion of, his wife’s relations to the third degree; if a couple was childless a man was also considered biased in matters concerning the children of his wife’s siblings. Point 3 required a man who had a son-in-law (Dochterman) or daughter-in-law (Sunsfrawen) to stand down on account of their relatives or siblings. StAL Rp 1548–50, pp. 80(v)–81 and Rp 1532–51, pp. 117, 171–83. StAL Lit 14, ‘Amts- und Dienstleute’, pp. [5], [21], [54], [68], [77], [83], [86], [105], [107] and [126]. On Lindau’s involvement in imperial politics and diplomacy at this time, see J.D. Marte, ‘Die auswärtige Politik Lindaus 1530–1532’, Dissertation (Heidelberg, 1904). Neukomm described it as ‘auf den Zwinglischen Schlag’: StAL Lit 25, p. 256. StAL Rp 1532–51, p. 17v; Emil Sehling, Die evangelischen Kirchenordnungen des XVI. Jahrhunderts, vol. 12.ii (Tübingen: J.C.B. Mohr, 1963). StAL Rp 1532–51, p. 36. Ibid., p. 36v. On the symbolic significance of bell-ringing in the Augsburg Reformation, see Lyndal Roper, The Holy Household (Oxford: Clarendon, 1989), p. 239. M. de Montaigne, Journal de Voyage en Italie par la Suisse et l’Allemagne en 1580 et 1581 (Paris: Société les Belles Lettres, 1946) p. 122. ‘On tient qu’à la vérité il est peu de villes qui n’ayent quelque chose de particulier en leut creance; et sous l’autorité de Martin qu’ils reçoivent pour chef, ils dressent plusiers disputes sur l’interpretation du sens ez escrits de Martin’: ibid., pp. 122–3. ‘M. Johann Wilhelm Hursich von M. Alexio Neukhum ad Ministerium Lindaviense publicé ordiniert, welcher actus Inerhalb hundert jaren Inn diser Kirchen nie fürgangen’, StAL Lit 25, p. 397. StAL Lit 25, p. 407. Ibid., p. 407. Ibid., p. 423. For a good overview, see Carter Lindberg, The European Reformations (Oxford: Basil Blackwell, 1996) esp. ch. 1. See also Berndt Hamm, Bernd Moeller and Dorothea Wendebourg, Reformationstheorien: Ein kirchenhistorischer Disput über Einheit und Vielfalt der Reformation (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1995). See especially Peter Blickle, Gemeindereformation: Die Menschen des 16. Jahrhunderts auf dem Weg zum Heil (Munich: Oldenbourg,1985). See above, Chapter 1, ‘The structure of the argument’. For a seminal discussion, see R.W. Scribner, ‘Is there a Social History of the Reformation’? Social History 2 (1977) pp. 483–505.

Notes to pp. 47–50 191 59. Robert W. Scribner, The German Reformation (London: Macmillan – now Palgrave, 1986). On Scribner’s criteria for a ‘movement’ see idem, ‘The Reformation as a Social Movement’, in Wolfgang J. Mommsen (ed.), The Urban Classes, the Nobility and the Reformation (Stuttgart: Klett-Cotta, 1979). 60. See especially Heinz Schilling, ‘Gab es im späten Mittelalter und zu Beginn der Neuzeit in Deutschland einen städtischen “Republikanismus”?’, in H.G. Koenigsberger (ed.), Republiken und Republikanismus in der frühen Neuzeit (Munich: Oldenbourg, 1988). 61. A. Westermann, ‘Der Pfarrer Markus Zangmeister und sein Streit mit Lindau’, Memminger Geschichtsblätter (October, 1933). 62. ‘Als mein hern hiervor ainen usschuss gemacht und verordnet haben in den sach betreffent dz Goz wortt mit den Stetten anzufangen so also haben si den selbigen usschuss nochmals geschickt’: StAL Rp 1528–31, p. 84. 63. Hans-Jürgen Goertz, Pfaffenhaß und groß Geschrei (Munich: C.H. Beck, 1987), p. 25. It is also impossible to overestimate the influence of Bernd Moeller’s work in this regard. 64. A similar debate has been waged over the history of sixteenth-century France, where the holistic, cultural history approach of Roland Mousnier, for example, has been subjected to vigorous criticism by Henry Heller. See, especially, Henry Heller, Iron and Blood: Civil Wars in Sixteenth-Century France (Montreal and Kingston: McGill-Queen’s University Press, 1991). 65. William Monter, ‘Reformation History and Social History’, Archiv für Reformationsgeschichte 72 (1981) p. 8. 66. Jonathan Z. Smith, Imagining Religion: From Babylon to Jonestown (Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press, 1982) p. xi. 67. Thus, for example, ‘religion’ conceptualized as ‘an irreducible independent variable’ continues to determine the historiography of seventeenth-century England. See, for instance, Peter Lake’s article reviewing works by Conrad Russell in The Huntingdon Library Quarterly 57 (1994) pp. 167–97. 68. For an interpretation of the long-term significance for early modern Europe, see Brian Tierney, Religion, Law and the Growth of Constitutional Thought 1150–1650 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1982). 69. See for example, W.D.J. Cargill Thompson, ‘The “Two Kingdoms” and the “Two Regiments”: Some Problems of Luther’s Zwei Reiche Lehre’, in idem, Studies in the Reformation: Luther to Hooker (London: Athlone Press, 1980). 70. The integral ‘religious’ – or, more precisely, ‘confessional’ – nature of bourgeois republican ideology is conceived along the lines laid out in David M. Luebke, ‘Naïve Monarchism and Marian Veneration in Early Modern Germany’, Past and Present 154 (1997) pp. 71–106, which addresses the ‘dominant trend among historians … to treat popular politics and popular piety seperately’ (76). Luebke’s approach also differs markedly from the Weberianism of Peter Blickle, which appears to be drawing him more and more towards the ‘idealist’ study of elite theology and political theory. See for example, ‘Reformation und kommunaler Geist: Die Antwort der Theologen auf den Verfassungswandel im Spätmittelalter’, Historische Zeitschrift 261 (1995) pp. 365–402.

192 Notes to pp. 50–4 71. ‘Sendschreiben Melanchtonis/das di Lindauische Apostel/und Reformatores, Capito, Blarer: dan Butzer und Zwingel wider die Augsburger Confession, nicht allein, mit Wortten, wie sie fürgeben, sonder ist ein Schweitzerischer Geist darhinder’, ‘Ob Lindau Zwinglisch gewesen? [etc …]’, Ms, Universitätsbibliothek Freiburg i.B., part II, ch. 13. See also Brady, Turning Swiss. 72. ‘Auß der Rebellion wider den Kayser würdt ein Religion sach’, ‘Ob Lindau Zwinglisch gewesen? [etc …]’, fols 16–16v. 73. Lorna Jane Abray, The People’s Reformation: Magistrates, Clergy and Commons in Strasbourg, 1500–1598 (Oxford: Basil Blackwell, 1985) p. 45. 74. ‘Ob Lindau Zwinglisch gewesen? [etc …]’, p. 23. 75. Robert W. Scribner, For the Sake of Simple Folk (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1981). 76. Goertz, Pfaffenhaß und groß Geschrei, p. 56. 77. See for example, Peter Dykema and Heiko Oberman (eds), Anticlericalism in Late Medieval and Early Modern Europe (Leiden: E.J. Brill, 1994). 78. In the Council minutes for the years 1525–28, for example, the Council arbitrations of 15 cases of disputed property ownership and 24 cases of disputed inheritance are recorded. Whereas 11 of the former involved only claims by men against men, 21 of the latter (approximately 87%) involved the property of a woman. That women had difficulty pressing property claims, and that their position as claimants was possibly unusual, is indicated by the fact that in litigation cases 18 out of 38 (approximately 50%) of all known plaintiffs were women or their representatives, whereas only six out of 48 (approximately 11%) of defendants were women or their representatives. 79. StAL Lit 19, ‘Bertlin’sche Chronik’, p. 419. 80. For example, a man named Enderlin appeared before the Council to claim the inheritance of Sturzeneger’s wife on the grounds that he had nursed her until death: StAL Rp 1525–28, p. 133. 81. Unfortunately the many honourable people who had, according to Mürgel, witnessed the agreement had since all succumbed to the disease themselves, therefore the Council could not decide in his favour: StAL Rp 1525–28, pp. 296–7. 82. Ibid., p. 93. 83. Ibid., p. 282. 84. Ibid., p. 290. 85. ‘[M]an hab och dem Pfaffen sin tail ussgesundert der beger aber nicz’, ibid., p. 291. 86. Ibid., pp. 283–4. 87. For a discussion of the term heimlich, see Chapter 6, ‘Taking sides’. 88. On connections between pamphlet depiction of Jews and popular anticlericalism, see Heiko Oberman, ‘Zwischen Agitation und Reformation: die Flugschriften als “Judenspiegel”’, in Hans-Joachim Köhler (ed.), Flugschriften als Massenmedium der Reformationszeit (Stuttgart: Klett-Cotta, 1981). 89. StAL Rp 1525–28, p. 4. 90. StAL Rp 1527–29, p. 380. 91. Wolfart, Die Geschichte der Stadt Lindau, vol. I.i, p. 270.; StAL Lit 18, Jacob Lynns, ‘Annales Lindavienses’, pp. 170; Lit 19, p. 431.

Notes to pp. 54–7 193 92. ‘als sie ir fürchtet von dem gemainen Popell von wegen der geenderten Religion’: StAL Lit 25, p. 259. 93. Abray, The People’s Reformation; Roper, The Holy Household. 94. Because of its essentially political cast, this ‘authoritarian Reformation’, although it is considerably broader in scope, nevertheless resembles the ‘Marsilian’ or ‘Erastian’ Reformations described by Scribner. These also imply considerable political intentionality and initiative. Robert W. Scribner, ‘Paradigms of Urban Reform: Gemeindereformation or Erastian Reformation?’, in Leif Grane and Kai Hørby, Die dänische Reformation vor ihrem internationalen Hintergrund (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1990). 95. On a basic definition of Obrigkeit, see Chapter 2, ‘A guildsman’s view’. 96. Recently, Philip Robinson has characterized the Swiss historiography as ‘einseitig verfassungs- und institutionsgeschichtlich’, quoted in Randolph C. Head, ‘Shared Lordship, Authority, and Administration: The Exercise of Dominion in the Gemeine Herrschaften of the Swiss Confederation, 1417–1600’, Central European History 30 (1997) pp. 489–512. 97. For example, Naujoks, Obrigkeitsgedanke, Zunftverfassung und Reformation. See also above, Chapter 2. 98. Head, ‘Shared Lordship’, pp. 491, 493. See also Randolph C. Head, Early Modern Democracy in the Grisons: Social Order and Political Language in a Swiss Mountain Canton, 1470–1620 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1995). 99. Sehling, Die evangelischen Kirchenordnungen, p. 182, concludes that similar legislation in Constance served as a model for the efforts of the Lindau magistrates. Neukomm actually attributed the formulation of the Zuchtordnung to Ambrosius Blarer: StAL Lit 25, p. 262. 100. Hurerei, literally ‘whoring’, will normally be translated as ‘fornication’ to distinguish it from prostitution. 101. StAL Rp 1532–51, p. 17v. 102. Sehling, Die Evangelische Kirchenordnungen, p. 197. 103. StAL Lit 25, p. 261. The Council established a six-member marriage court in 1543, but the ‘institution’ could hardly be considered independent of the Council: its membership at this time comprised two mayors, two regular council members and the two physicians retained by the Council: Wolfart, Die Geschichte der Stadt Lindau, vol. I.i, p. 309. 104. StAL Rp 1525–8, p. 6. 105. ‘[V]on swerns wegen und ander unfu[g]’, ibid., p. 231. 106. StAL Rp 1528–31, pp. 84 and 169. 107. ‘das die nachpurn zugeloffen sind und daruss wol ein afflof hot mogen werden’, StAL Rp 1528–31, p. 5. 108. Ibid., p. 6. 109. StAL Rp 1532–51, p. 30v. 110. Ibid., p. 104v. 111. StAL Rp 1527–9, p. 379. 112. StAL Rp 1528–31, p. 85. 113. StAL Rp 1532–51, p. 42. 114. Ibid., p. 47v. 115. Ibid., p. 11.

194 Notes to pp. 57–61 116. 117. 118. 119. 120. 121. 122. 123. 124.

125.

126. 127. 128. 129. 130. 131. 132.

133.

134. 135.

136. 137. 138. 139. 140. 141.

142.

Ibid. Ibid. Ibid., p. 59. Ibid., p. 82. ‘Bekanntmachung zur Einschärfung der Zuchtordnung (Lasterstraf) 1539’: Sehling, Die evangelische Kirchenordnungen, pp. 198–9. StAL Rp 1546–49, p. 57. StAL Rp 1532–51, p. 153. ‘Ires unerbern und unzüchtigen lebens und wesens und dz sie auch hinder den Juden sein’, StAL Rp 1548–50, p. 32v, also Rp 1532–51, p. 173. ‘Erraten wolcherm hinfuro hinder die Juden kompt unnd der selbig desshalber der Statt un Burgrecht verwisen werde Dz der oder die selbig hinfuro durch ainen Rath nit sonder ain ganze gemaind widerumben wenn es Ir gefällig angenommen werden solle’, StAL Rp 1548–50, p. 42v. ‘[U]nzucht … wider Gottes under Obrigkeit gepott’, StAL Rp 1548–50, p. 5v; n.b.: the ability to enforce Gebot and Verbot was the defining feature of a sovereign authority (Obrigkeit). ‘[I]n der vasten den leuten dz flaisch offentlich onegeschawet [insert] hinauss geben haben’, ibid., p. 46. Ibid., p. 16v. StAL Rp 1550–2, p. 136; Rp 1550–2, June. There are many other examples of denunciations encouraged by the Council. ‘Fluchens balderns und schwörns … Im hauss’, StAL Rp 1550–2, p. 36v. ‘In seinem hauss … auch usserhalb desselben’, ibid., p. 82v. Ibid., p. 106. ‘Bekanntmachung zur Einschärfung der Zuchtordnung (Lasterstraf) 1539’; Sehling offers ‘hinterlistiger weise’ as an equivalent to ‘gevarlich’ in Sehling, Die evangelische Kirchenordnungen, pp. 198–9. StAL Rp 1552–5. In 1626 masked (vermumbt) young men were blamed for public disorder in Lindau. See below Chapter 2 and Chapter 5, ‘The politics of youth’. Wolfart, Die Geschichte der Stadt Lindau, vol. I.i., p. 258. For example, in June 1533 the Council decided on a one-off award of one Malter wheat and one Fuder wine to Jeremias Lins. A rare copy of a complete contract of tenure, concluded between the Council and the preacher Othmar Schenck, is also contained in this volume: ibid., pp. 43–4v. ‘Wie offt sein die Predicanten da und dort abgeschaft?’, ‘Ob Lindau Zwinglisch gewesen? [etc.]’, p. 60v. StAL Rp 1532–51, pp. 99v, 112. In 1549 Burgawer finally left Lindau for the neighbouring town of Isny: StAL Rp 1548–50, p. 103. StAL Rp 1550–2, pp. 62v–63, 74–76, 188v–189; Lit 25, p. 283; ‘Ob Lindau Zwinglisch gewesen? [etc.]’, pp. 45v–46. Wolfart, Die Geschichte der Stadt Lindau, vol. I.i, p. 388. StAL Lit 25, p. 283. ‘Hette Darauff Sebastian Noschel gesagt Bey marter gots soll es denn darzu kommen dz zwen man sollen die Statt Regieren und sollen [illegible] dz wort goz selig gehapt haben … er hoff es soll noch annders werde’, StAL Rp 1550–2, p. 62v. StAL Rp 1550–2, p. 188v.

Notes to pp. 62–6 195 143. ‘Der Zanngkh hab sich mit dem Eisen erhept unnd der schmid vol gewesen und gesagt er sey ain luterischer paur gang in kain Kirchen und sag man der sey etlichen Meistern entlauffen’, StAL Rp 1548–50, p. 158. 144. For seventeenth-century England the relation of ‘confessional’ categories to ‘political’ language has been clearly outlined; for example, Mark Goldie, ‘The Civil Religion of James Harrington’, in Anthony Pagden (ed.), The Languages of Political Theory in Early Modern Europe (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1990). 145. StAL Lit 25, p. 416. 146. Ibid., pp. 430, 434.

4

The Macro-Political Contexts in Lindau 1. To ‘contextualize’ is, as Frank Kermode has pointed out, to engage in a practice whose history is inextricably linked to that of a particular Protestant hermeneutic: Frank Kermode, The Genesis of Secrecy: On the Interpretation of Narrative (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1979). I am not aware, however, of any historiographical interpretive practice capable of transcending that tradition. 2. For an overview of debate surrounding Skinner’s historical method, see Quentin Skinner and James Tully (eds), Meaning and Context: Quentin Skinner and His Critics (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1988). 3. Robisheaux is especially critical of Lorna Jane Abray and Heinz Schilling: Thomas A. Robisheaux, Rural Society and the Search for Order in Early Modern Germany (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1989). For general statements, see also James McMillan, ‘Social History, “New Cultural History”, and the Rediscovery of Politics’, Journal of Modern History 66 (1994) pp. 755–72 and Sharif Gemie, ‘French Social History and “The Return to Politics”’, European History Quarterly 27 (1997) pp. 411–15. 4. Fredric Jameson, The Political Unconscious: Narrative as a Socially Symbolic Act (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1981) p. 17. 5. David Warren Sabean, Power in the Blood: Popular Culture and Village Discourse in Early Modern Germany (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1984); see also Hans Medick and David Warren Sabean (eds), Interest and Emotion: Essays on the Study of Family and Kinship (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1984) esp. pp. 1–27. 6. Sabean, Power in the Blood, pp. 1–4. 7. The volumes are paginated, indexed and partially cross-referenced in the original hand. Unlike the sixteenth-century volumes they do not contain inserts of original documents, suggesting that the minutes were recorded into blank bound volumes rather than compiled at some later date. 8. The entry states rather laconically: ‘Martis den 7. Novembris Ist der Uffstand der Bürgerschafft fürgangen’, StAL Rp 1626, p. 702. 9. For Christopher Friedrichs, the Zunftkämpfe and the unrest of the seventeenth century, along with the citizens’ movements of the 1520s, ‘formed part of that persistent pattern of opposition to magisterial rule which runs as a constant thread in German urban history from the beginning of the fourteenth century to the end of the eighteenth’: Christopher Friedrichs, ‘Citizens or Subjects? Urban Conflict in Early Modern Germany’, in

196 Notes to pp. 67–70

10.

11. 12. 13. 14. 15. 16. 17.

18. 19. 20.

21.

22.

23. 24.

M.U. Chrisman and O. Gründler (eds), Social Groups and Religious Ideas in the Sixteenth Century (Kalamazoo, MI: Medieval Institute,Western Michigan University, 1978) p. 57. John Walter, Understanding Popular Violence in the English Revolution: The Colchester Plunderers (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1999) esp. pp. 1–9; William Beik, Urban Protest in Seventeenth-Century France: The Culture of Retribution (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1997) esp. pp. 1–27. Over the years Christopher Friedrichs has done more than anyone else to survey various aspects of seventeenth-century German urban revolts: see Christopher Friedrichs, ‘German Town Revolts and the Seventeenth-Century Crisis’, Renaissance and Modern Studies 26 (1982) pp. 27–51; idem, ‘Urban Conflicts and the Imperial Constitution in Seventeenth-Century Germany’, Journal of Modern History 58 (1986) pp. 98–123; idem, ‘Urban Politics and Urban Social Structure in Seventeenth-Century Germany’, European History Quarterly 22 (1992) pp. 187–216; for a synthetic interpretation of ‘urban conflict’ see: idem, The Early Modern City, 1450–1750 (London: Longman, 1995) ch. 12. StAL Rp 1626, p. 601. Ibid., pp. 619, 637. Ibid., p. 15. For example, Sigmund Kurz, ex-Bürgermeister Bensberg’s widow and Andreas Bärtsch’s widow and her son had to sue the Smiths’ Guild for their due: ibid. StAL Rp 1626, p. 503. Ibid., p. 15. There is one notable mention of the appointment of a Fünfer. On Monday 20 November 1626 Jerg Neukomm was nominated to replace Hans Burgawer as a Fünfer of the Tailors’ Guild: ibid., p. 725. The appointment was probably a concession to the Neukomms’ faction in the pacification and aftermath of the uprising of 7 November. See Chapter 7 below. Ibid., p. 602. Ibid., pp. 641–2. See also Friedrichs, ‘Citizens or Subjects?’, p. 51. Conventional Marxist interpretations of urban politics as a dialectical relationship between day-labouring journeymen and a class of masters who monopolized tools and materials is considerably complicated by elite wealth founded in long distance trade and speculative investment (that is, independent of local means of production). For the orthodox Marxist position and a critique, see Helmut Bräuer, Gesellen im sächsischen Zunfthandwerk des 15. und 16. Jahrhunderts (Weimar: Böhlau, 1989) and Martha C. Howell, Women, Production and Patriarchy in Late Medieval Cities (Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press, 1986). In the case of the Cobblers’ Guild, for example: why did the Council respond to the cobblers’ grievances about the supply of new apprentices, yet decline to regulate non-Lindavian production? StAL Rp 1626, p. 642. For example, in early May of 1626 the guild was informed that its members could no longer peddle their wares around the town; henceforth they were permitted to sell only at the fishmarket: ibid., p. 334. Ibid., p. 96. In March 1626 Alexius Neukomm noted that the price of Gangfisch had risen from 10 Bazen per hundred in February to 18 Bazen per hundred in March: StAL Lit 25, ‘Neukomm’sche Chronik’, pp. 462–3.

Notes to pp. 71–2 197 25. Wilhelm Abel, Agrarkrisen und Agrarkonjunktur: Eine Geschichte der Land- und Ernährungswirtschaft Mitteleuropas seit dem Hohen Mittelalter (Berlin and Hamburg: Parey, 1966). 26. For example, see Robert Jütte, ‘Household and Family Life in Late SixteenthCentury Cologne: The Weinsberg family’, Sixteenth Century Journal 17 (1986) pp. 165–82. 27. StAL Lit 25. 28. While the position of Kornwirt does not seem to have been a public office, those who discharged this function apparently did so only with Council sponsorship. 29. StAL Rp 1626, p. 123. 30. ‘Daher man iezt, wie inn allen Winkhlen Verather seyn, Humbler habs geredt’, ibid., p. 275. 31. ‘[D]aß sie in Kein verrather geheissen, sonder allein er und seins gleichen furdern die Pauren meher als die Bürger’, ibid., p. 276. 32. On 24 May it was decided that 200 Malter of grain from the common stores (Kasten) were to be sold to the citizenry on terms advantageous to the poor: ‘doch nur den Armen umb ein ladenlehen Pfenig geben’; two days later the Council decided to sell from its own stores (von Meiner Herren Korn Kasten) at the rate of 25 Bazen per Viertel (:1/4 Malter) and officials were appointed to oversee the distribution: ibid., p. 392. On 2 June the Council heard a report on the quality of the grain being sold to the citizenry and decided to lower the price to 24 Bazen per Viertel: ibid., p. 463. 33. The Council’s predicament illustrates a more general point about the political potential of poverty. Perversely, it is the state which attempts to support its needy which is most likely to become the object of popular wrath. In ideological climates where poverty is considered a personal or moral condition of the poor, governments are generally more successful at avoiding bread riots. This point is not lost on advocates of laissez faire, or so-called free markets. 34. ‘[D]ie verordnete sollen von meiner Herren Korn den Burgern allen geben, Zue ihrer haus noturff, doch sollen sie Kein verufft gelt nehmen’, StAL Rp 1626, p. 463. 35. Ibid., pp. 218, 263, 602, 671. 36. Ibid., p. 510. Fischer and Grimm cite the same source for a meaning of Trögel specific to Lindau. Principally, the Trögel were servants of the common grain stores, but they also guarded prisoners (possibly because the gaol was adjacent to the Schrannenplatz, where the grain was stored) and were accorded dishonourable status (unehrlichen Stands): J. Grimm and W. Grimm, Deutsches Wörterbuch (Leipzig: S. Hirzel, 1854–1960), vol. XI.i.2, p. 792; H. Fischer, Schwäbisches Wörterbuch (Tübingen: H. Laupp, 1904–36), vol. II, p. 303. 37. ‘[W]egen sie von meiner Herren Korn durch die Trögel erpracticiert und solches gegen einem andern Korn abgewechslet’, StAL Rp 1626, p. 512. 38. ‘[Sie] haben besser Korn an die Statt geben’, ibid., p. 513. 39. ‘Es ist jeder umb 15 lbd. gestrafft worden wegen ihres vortheilhafftigen verhandles armen leuten Zue nachteil’, ibid. 40. StAL Rp 1626, p. 727. In this case Trögel could either be one of the civic servants described above or, as a diminutive of Trog, denote a standard size measuring vat. Like their regional neighbours, Lindauers distinguished

198 Notes to pp. 72–5

41. 42.

43. 44.

45. 46. 47. 48.

49. 50. 51.

52. 53. 54. 55. 56. 57. 58. 59.

between a pound of ‘light pence’, or Pfund Haller, and a ‘pound-pence’ proper, or Pfund Pfennig. In 1381 the value of the latter was fixed at exactly twice that of the former, a relation which was apparently maintained until the nineteenth century. See Gustav Schöttle, ‘Geschichte des Münz- und Geldwesens in Lindau’, in K. Wolfart, Geschichte der Stadt Lindau im Bodensee (Lindau: Stettner, 1909) vol II, pp. 155–75. Ibid., p. 40. The documents consistently distinguish between flour used to bake bread and Musmehl, a fine meal mixed with milk to form a porridge. On 16 June weekly inspections of the porridge meal were ordered and a special deputy was appointed to share the regular inspectors’ task. In addition, it was stipulated that a city servant (Stadtknecht) or a Trögel was always to be present. On 23 June the Councillors Vögelin, Hasenschmidt, Weber and the porridge meal inspector were ordered to interrogate the porridge meal retailers (Musmehler) and the millers and to compare their testimonies: ‘Mußmeller und Müller gegenenander abzuhören sein verordnet’, ibid., pp. 450, 457. Ibid., p. 512. ‘Woll er den Merzel haben so soll er darzu sehen dz recht zugang and die Müller Ime guet werschafft Mußmel machen. Wa nit well man Ime den laden beschliessen’, ibid., p. 517. Ibid., p. 543. Ibid., p. 771. This patent was referred to simply as der Merzel. Ibid., p. 498. ‘[E]s hab einer under den Brotschawern gesagt, sie [the bakers] weren wert daß man Ihnen die händ uff den Ruggen bünde, und Zue der Statt ausfuehrte’, ibid., p. 499. StAL Rp 1626, p. 251. ‘Ein Ers. Rath last es bei der Ordnung verpleiben, welcher nit druff will schwören der mag hinaus stehn, Darauff sie alle ausgestanden’, ibid., p. 273. Strictly speaking, Fürkauf was regrating, but it was practically indistinguishable from forestalling which, because of Lindau’s geographical situation and the existence of the mainland manorial estates discussed above, was in the interests of, and probably secretly encouraged by, the Council. In nearly all of the contemporary examples of Fürkauf cited by Fischer, it was paired with Wucher (usury), which meant that its meaning was almost exclusively pejorative. Few things could incite popular hatred as accusations of usury and, given the troubled economic climate, it was indeed very unfortunate to be in any way associated with such practice: Fischer, Schwäbisches Wörterbuch, vol. II, p. 1859. StAL Rp 1626, p. 291. A relatively inaccessible, mountainous and forested region in Austrian territory, just inland from the administrative centre of Bregenz. StAL Rp 1626, p. 292. Hans Haug of Schachen, Conradt Haug of Aeschach and Conradt Cunlin of Degelstein: ibid., p. 293. The matter is marked ‘infra’ in the Council minutes: ibid., p. 298. Ibid., p. 399. Ibid., p. 435. Ibid., p. 387; see Chapter 6, ‘The Lindavian committee meeting’ and ‘The dual appeal to bourgeois emotion’.

Notes to pp. 75–82 199 60. ‘[O]b sie iezten uff die inen letstlich fuergelesener ordnung schwören wellen, wie von alters her, ausser deren Puncten die man drinen geendert hatt’, ibid., p. 691. 61. Ibid., pp. 691–2. 62. Ibid., p. 732. 63. ‘Sie sollen Im ins gesäß blasen’, ibid., p. 472. 64. ‘[Schweizer] stell nur frembde bueben an, sei In beschwarlich and frag den fuergesezten nichts nach, deswegen sies clagen muessen’, ibid. 65. Ibid., pp. 4–5. 66. ‘Es ist ihnen fridgebotten, zue allen theilen’, ibid, p. 472. 67. ‘Uff heut abends soll man der Oberkeit anfahren, Zinstag der Zunff, Dornstag Inen Selbß’, ibid., p. 110. 68. Friedrichs, ‘Citizens or Subjects?’, p. 53; Bräuer, Gesellen im sächsischen Zunfthandwerk. 69. The original appointees were Caspar Vögelin and Andreas Bärtsch. 70. StAL Rp 1626, p. 332. 71. Ibid., p. 71. 72. Friedrichs, ‘Citizens or Subjects?’, p. 51. 73. For example, see Mack P. Holt, ‘Wine, Community and Reformation in Sixteenth-Century Burgundy’, Past and Present 138 (1993) pp. 58–93. 74. According to Hans Löwe, Georg Neukomm and two members of the City Court actually presented the rebel demands to the Council, but it is unlikely they wrote them: Hans Löwe, ‘Der Prediger Alexius Neukomm und der Lindauer Kirchenhandel des Jahres 1626’, Forschungen zur Geschichte Bayerns (Munich, 1907) p. 57. 75. Ibid., p. 590. 76. Ibid., p. 655. 77. Ibid., pp. 646–7. 78. ‘[Excise] … von jedeß rinkhwein im hauß soll abgethan sein, doch will man iedem Burger und Pauren nach gestaltsame seiner haußhaltung ein trinkhwin aussetzen, daß ubrig soll er verumbgelten’, ibid., p. 711. 79. Ibid., p. 477. 80. Ibid., p. 95. 81. See below, Chapter 6, ‘Appeals to “higher” authority’. 82. ‘Musicanten welche umb der Religion willen auß Ostereich vertriben worden: Ihnen eine Steür zusamblen, ist auch erordnet daß man uff den Zunfften von der Burgerschafft was seinem beliebig und ihm Gott ermahnet, nach seinem vermögen ein steür einsamblen solle, weil man iezt gelegenheit hatt die Christliche liebe gegen vertribnen Exulierenden Personen umb der Religion willen zuerzeigen’, StAL Rp 1626, p. 533. 83. Ibid., p. 536. 84. Ibid., p. 552. Apparently, the refugees were musicians. 85. Ibid., p. 533. 86. Ibid., pp. 345–52. 87. ‘Der zehenden im Stöben ist zwischen dem Closter und Almusen streitig, daß solln die Pfleger mit den Ambtsleuten liquidiren, wie auch anderer zehenden halben’, ibid., p. 511. 88. Ibid., p. 588. 89. Such confessional panics were common during the Thirty Years’ War.

200 Notes to pp. 82–4 90. StAL Rp 1626, p. 661. 91. ‘[D]ie offentliche procession durch die Statt bei der Abtissin abzubitten’, ibid., p. 533. 92. This was patently not the case. Ulrich Neukomm noted that in 1615 a major Catholic display had taken place in Lindau. On this occasion 300 people had come from Wasserburg to Lindau to receive the blessings of a visiting Bishop. Nevertheless, it must have been a rare spectacle since Neukomm comments that they all wore white and the Lindauers thought that they had all been injured and were coming from the barber-surgeon’s house! StAL Lit 25, p. 407. 93. ‘Eß seien dise beede Religionen frei … wöllen verhoffen Eß werde weder einem E. Rhat noch der Burgerschafft … nicht mißfallen’, StAL Rp 1626, p. 541. 94. Ibid. 95. ‘Und man allso, umb verhüettung eines Argern, thun soll, alß ob manß nicht achte’, ibid. 96. Fürhalt of 28 July re: ‘wallfahrt, mit procession, Fahnen und Creüz zu den Gueten Bethen’, ibid., p. 545. 97. Heiko Oberman, ‘Zwischen Agitation und Reformation; Die Flugschriften als “Judenspiegel”’, in Hans-Jochen Köhler, Flugschriften als Massenmedium der Reformationszeit (Stuttgart: Klett-Cotta, 1981), argues that much antiJewish agitation, including Luther’s famous pamphlet of 1523, was directed more at the ‘Jewish’ politics of urban magistrates than at any Jews per se. Similarly, R. Po-chia Hsia, The Myth of Ritual Murder (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1988), suggests that there was a strong political element, not necessarily linked directly to anti-Jewish discourses, to the widespread pressure for imperial privileges permitting the expulsion of Jews from individual cities and towns. For a range of comparable ‘historicist’ approaches to the condition of European Jewish communities, see also William C. Jordan, The French Monarchy and the Jews: From Philip Augustus to the Last Capetians (Philadelphia, PA: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1989); David Nirenberg, Communities of Violence: Persecution of Minorities in the Middle Ages (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1996); Miri Rubin, Gentile Tales: The Narrative Assault on Late Medieval Jews (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1999). 98. See Chapter 3, ‘The civic clergy’. 99. In 1559 the Lindau authorities secured the long sought after Imperial privilege, the so-called Freiheit wider die Juden: Karl Schweizer, Jüdisches Leben und Leiden in Lindau: Ein Überblick (Lindau: Eigenverlag, 1989) p. 12. The privilege does not seem to have changed the position of Jews in practice, or to have reduced popular pressure on the Council. 100. ‘Errathen dz hinfuro kain Jud herein gelassen werde er hab dann ainen knecht mit im dem soll er all tag stund 1 k. geben’, StAL Rp 1552–5, 10 March 1553. 101. Ibid., 23 March 1553. 102. The volume for 1546–9 contains 13 prosecutions, 1548–50 contains 17, 1550–2 contains 14 and 1552–5 records a mere four accusations, only two of which resulted in punishment. 103. Chapter 3, ‘Religious reform’.

Notes to pp. 84–6 201 104. StAL Rp 1546–9, p. 100. 105. ‘[U]nerbern und unzuchtigen lebens’, StAL Rp 1548–50, p. 32v. 106. ‘[Ü]belhaltens, spilens und verschwennden des seinen auch dz er an verdechtigen ort offtermaln gegangen’, StAL Rp 1550–2, p. 45. 107. ‘Juden sollen nit mehr allein in der Statt umbgehen sonder die Stattknecht bei sich haben. Das ist den Stattknechten alles ernstes befohlen worden, bei gewartender straff’, ibid., p. 277. 108. ‘Ist errathen wil fürkommen daß die Juden hin und wider inn die heüser herumb schlieffen, allerhand münz uffwechseln und ringhaltige münzen einschleichen Als soll man sie nit mehr allein in der statt umbgehen lassen, sonder wan sie herein kommen, einen Bürger zugeben werden, welcher alle stund von inen 2 k. haben, und uffsehen soll womit sie umbgangen’, StAL Rp 1620, p. 441. 109. He was probably from Langenargen, to the west of Wasserburg and well into Montfort territory. 110. StAL Rp 1619, p. 276. 111. StAL Rp 1620, p. 632. 112. StAL Rp 1621, p. 69. 113. ‘[M]an hab wol schon inquirirt wer die sey man wolß aber von ihme vernemmen’, StAL Rp 1621, p. 599. 114. StAL Rp 1626, p. 451. 115. StAL Rp 1625, p. 488. 116. Undoubtedly an unusual event. Tom Scott has been especially critical of historiographical tendencies to minimize the differences between early modern peasants and urban dwellers. For example, see Tom Scott, Freiburg and the Breisgau: Town–Country Relations in the Age of Reformation and Peasants’ War (Oxford: Clarendon, 1986). 117. The Council acted on the advice of an ad hoc committee: ibid., pp. 517, 525. 118. StAL Rp 1626, p. 263. See also Bernhard Zeller, Das Heilig-Geist-Spital zu Lindau im Bodensee von seinen Anfängen bis zum Ausgang des 16. Jahrhunderts (Augsburg: Historischer Verein für Schwaben, 1952). 119. StAL Rp 1626, p. 455. 120. ‘Hauptinstrument der städtischen Territorialpolitik war das Heilig-GeistSpital, das seit der Wende vom 13. zum 14. Jahrhundert unter der Kontrolle des Rates stand’, Alois Niederstätter, Kaiser Friedrich III. und Lindau: Untersuchungen zum Beziehungsgeflecht zwischen Reichsstadt und Herrscher in der zweiten Hälfte des 15. Jahrhunderts (Sigmaringen: Jan Thorbecke, 1987) p. 65. ‘Vermögensrechtlich blieb das Spital zwar eine eigene Rechtsperson, in seiner Verwaltung und in der täglichen Wirklichkeit aber war das Spital völlig in städtischer Hand und das wirksamste Mittel der städischen Außenpolitik’, Manfred Ott, Historischer Atlas von Bayern, Teil Schwaben: Lindau (Munich: Kommission für Bayerische Landesgeschichte, 1968) p. 126. 121. Ibid., p. 235 122. Ibid., pp. 54, 85, 485, 563. 123. ‘Darauff soll den frembden Erben ufferlegt werden dz sie in Jarsfrist Ire ererbt guter in Burger händen wider verwerden. Dabei sollen sie den abzug zahlen’, ibid., p. 85. 124. StAL Rp 1626, pp. 106, 182, 326, 519. If Claudia Ulbrich’s basic thesis holds, that the lords used serfs strategically to consolidate territorial rule,

202 Notes to pp. 86–7

125.

126. 127. 128. 129.

130. 131.

132.

133.

134. 135.

then what we are seeing here is the ‘second phase’ of that strategy, the exchange of Leibherrschaft for Grundherrschaft. In the case of the Habsburg subjects of Vorderösterreich, Ulbrich claims, the multiple layers of legal authority eventually exhausted their strength: ‘Durch die umständliche und langwierige Konfliktregulierung wurden die Kräfte der Untertanen verbraucht, ohne daß sie durchschlagende Erfolge verbuchen konnten’. In the case of Lindau, the frustration of fruitless legal appeals must be weighed alongside other factors as an incentive for rebellion: Claudia Ulbrich, Leibherrschaft am Oberrhein im Spätmittelalter (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1979); idem, ‘Der Charakter bäuerlichen Widerstands in vorderösterreichischen Herrschaften’, in W. Schulze (ed.), Aufstände, Revolten, Prozesse: Beiträge zu bäuerlichen Widerstandsbewegungen im frühneuzeiteichen Europa (Stuttgart: Klett-Cotta, 1983), p. 216. For example, in April 1626 the Spital sued Ulrich Rupflin for cutting down some of its wood; he was already 500 florins in debt and his goods and properties were valued at no more than 300 florins. What, besides the wrath of Rupflin’s other creditors, could the Spital hope to achieve by this suit?: ibid., p. 292. ‘Spitalschreiber: sie haben den Selmischen Pawren Ire guter uff die gant geschlagen’, ibid., p. 491. ‘Es ist abgeschafft, sie [Spital officials] sollen kein wein nemmen, sonder die Zins einziehen wie sie sein an Kornfruchten und gelt’, ibid. Ibid., p. 443. Ibid., pp. 564, 581. The matter was far from resolved, however, and on 28 August Montfort asked that he be allowed to establish several markers on the frontier at Giessen. A week later the secretary of the Spital sought the help of Mayor Buchschor in the search for missing markers on the border with the Montfort lordship of Tettnang: ibid., p. 627. Ibid., pp. 663, 683. In addition to disputed Landherrschaft, border areas such as Leimnau were home to some peasants swearing allegiance to the Count of Montfort and some who swore their oath to Lindau. Hence, the request of Lindau’s peasant subjects that they be granted the right to gather leaves, as had the peasants of the Count of Montfort: StAL Rp 1626, p. 413. In February 1626 the miller at Giessen complained that he and another man had been summoned to Tettnang by the territorial lieutenant and, promises of safe passage notwithstanding, had been imprisoned. They were released the following morning without any compensation: ibid., pp. 136–7. At the end of July the lieutenant had ordered the peasants of Leimnau to deliver their cows and calves to Tettnang: ibid., p. 547. In April of that same year the peasants had informed the Lindau Council that the lieutenant had been introducing new provisions into customary laws: ‘der Landweibel hab zue Laimnow alten gebrauch nach ein Rueff ankundt, darunder aber etwas newes: ibid., p. 283. Same old tricks! Ibid., p. 288. On the ability to issue effective Gebote and Verbote as a criterion for Obrigkeit in Lindau, see Chapter 2, ‘An official view’. Lindau even claimed to have secured two Imperial mandates against Montfort: ibid., p. 220.

Notes to pp. 87–9 203 136. ‘Uff künfftigen sontag soll das verbot das die underthonen dem Graffen uff künfftigen zinstag zue Langnow nit schwören sollen zu Leimnow Herkhenschweiler und Sigmarszell verlesen werden. Zue Ober und Underreitnow soll man das interdict von Montfort sein mandat daselbst verlesen werden’, ibid., pp. 170–1. 137. On 13 March Hans Bernhart and Hans Müller, both of Zeisertsweiler, were summoned by the Council to answer charges of having attended the Count’s oath of territorial allegiance (Landeshuldigung). On 17 March the two appeared, accused of contravening the Council’s interdict and going to the Schwörtag at Langnau: ibid., pp. 217, 230. 138. Thus Hans Müller testified that he was in a quandary as to how he should conduct himself since he was in fact a Montfort serf: ibid, p. 230. 139. ‘Befragt ob sie dan nit wüssen das sie meine Herren underthone globt und geschworen seyn, und noch dazue einem anderen Herren schwören wollen den sie vor nie geschworen haben Und ob sie nit wellen meinen Herren gebotten gehorsam sein, Sollen di andern auch anzeigen, welche mehr hinuber gangen’, ibid. 140. Ibid. 141. Ibid., p. 135. 142. ‘Ist auch referiert, was der vogt zum Giessen sein selbst der zugemuteten Catholischen religion hab gestern berichtet’, ibid., p. 175. 143. An extensive correspondence between Lindau and Rauch, as well as a selection of documents pertaining to the court case, are held in StAL Ra 43, 4. 144. Ibid., Rauch to Lindau, 30 June 1626, p. 1. 145. ‘[S]o gar mit viel und stattlichen sommerheüser, und lustgartten, und guetter, auch alles so fruchtbare, enge und alle aneinander hangen da güetter seyen’, from Rauch’s own narrative of his dealings with Lindau entitled ‘Beschehene Abredt, so Statt Lindaw den 4. Martii 1627 [Rauch uses new style dates] in Ihrer Rebleuten Zunfft wegen der Mappen mit mir gethan’, ibid. 146. ‘Unndt gleich in der Mappen etlich schöne güetter vor der Statt liegendt, denen Obersten der Statt gehörig, fleißig scharpff abzumahlen’, ibid., p. 2. It is noteworthy that Rauch’s writing, unlike documents produced in Lindau, directly identified an upper stratum of Lindau society. 147. ‘Landtschafft inn Grundzulegen: Errathen das man den Maler zue Wangen Rauchen meiner herren juridiction welle delinieren lassen’, StAL Rp 1626, p. 490. 148. StAL Rp 1626, p. 528. 149. StAL Ra 43, 4, ‘Abhandlung mit Andree Rauchen Mahler den 24. Julii [old style] Ao. 1626’, p. 1 150. ‘Das Jeder so in diser lands art bekant, sich an allen ohrten und enden erkennen, und die lapides terminales et metas sichtbarlich ersechen und abzellen kan, und die dörffer oder heiser … alda abgemalt zu erfinden seind, sampt habenden hölzern, feldern, wißen, wassern, weyern, stegen und wegen’, ibid., Rauch to Lindau, 30 June 1626, p. 1. 151. Ibid., ‘Verdienst und Forderung über der Statt Lindaw gefertigten Kunst Mappen’, p. 1. 152. ‘[A]lso Künstlich und Contrafectisch von besten Öelfarben’, ibid., ‘Verdienst und Forderung’, p. 1. 153. Ibid., pp. 2, 4.

204 Notes to pp. 89–94 154. 155. 156. 157.

158.

159.

160.

161. 162.

163.

164.

165. 166.

5

A pedantic cartographer’s observation! Ibid., ‘Abhandlung’, p. 1. Ibid., ‘Beschehene Abredt’ (Rauch), ‘Abhandlung’ (Council). ‘[Rauch] … bitte auch umb gebürende protection, und den andern zu inhibiren daß er von Inen möge Ruebig sein’, StAL Rp 1626, p. 752. According to Fischer, ‘rubig’ is an equivalent of ‘ruhig’ with particular political overtones. Fischer, Schwäbisches Wörterbuch, vol. 5, p. 475. ‘Ich [Rauch] solle mit weib und Khindern sambt der Mappen nur frei in der stille, daß die burger nit vermerckhen, hinauff haim nach Wangen ziehen’, StAL Ra 43, 4, ‘Beschehene Abredt’, pp. 11–12. ‘Darauff bin ich [Rauch] Sambstag den 27 Martii, am Polen abendts zu Lindau, mit Weib und Kindtern und der Mappen von der Statt Lindaw auß befelch der Obrigkeit, abgewichen, den Überlauff und andere ungelegenheiten, wegen ihrer damahlen wehrendern rebellion … hab fliehen müeßen’, ibid., pp. 12–13. ‘[E]in Ehrlicher Mann zu mir [Rauch] kommen, welcher ein burger, unnd mich erfragt, ob es wahr seye, ettliche burger sagen, ein Magistrat gebe mir für meine werckh allein zue besoldung 3000 fl. und werde der Uncosten auch auff 2000 fl. kommen, das seye 5000 fl’, ibid., pp. 1–2. Ibid., pp. 4–5 and 7. ‘Und was sie Burger betreffendt Ihre reden, dörff euch das nit bekümmern, haltendt ihr euch an die Oberkheit, so euch bestellt hat, und haltendt kein gmainsame mit den burgern, Ihr habt euer gut Zimmer, beschließendts, und last niemandts zue euch, wartendt euer arbeit, und haltend euch der Oberkeit’, ibid., p. 9. ‘[The Council delegates] Habendts von diesem Kunstwerckh hin und wider geredt, also ist es dardurch under die burgerschafft außkommen, und had Jeder vermöglicher burger zu mir mit Wein und speisen wöllen kommen und mich verehren, darmit ich Ihme das Werckh fürweise’, ibid., p. 10. Rauch noted that Lindau citizens had considerably more estates in the surrounding countryside than those of Wangen: ibid., Rauch to Lindau, 30 June 1626, p. 3. Alexius Egger’s ‘Historia vom Interim Anno 1548’, in StAL Lit 25, pp. 360–9. StAL Ra 43, 4, ‘Verdienst und Forderung’, p. 5.

The Micro-Politics of Inter-Personal Relations in Lindau 1. There is a clear circularity here. 2. Bruno Bettelheim, ‘The Problem of Generations’, Daedalus 91 (1962) pp. 68–96. 3. E.P. Thompson, ‘The Moral Economy of the English Crowd in the Eighteenth Century’, Past and Present 50 (1971) pp. 76–136. 4. For example, see Hans Medick and David Warren Sabean (eds), Interest and Emotion: Essays on the Study of Family and Kinship (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1984) esp. pp. 1–27; see also Lyndal Roper, Oedipus and the Devil: Witchcraft, Sexuality, and Religion in Early Modern Europe (London: Routledge, 1994).

Notes to pp. 94–6 205 5. Steven E. Ozment, When Fathers Ruled: Family Life in Reformation Europe (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1983); idem, Magdalena and Balthasar: An Intimate Portrait of Life in Sixteenth-Century Europe Revealed in the Letters of a Nuremberg Husband and Wife (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1989); idem, Three Behaim Boys: Growing Up in Early Modern Germany (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1990); idem, The Bürgermeister’s Daughter: Scandal in a Sixteenth-Century German Town (New York: St Martin’s Press, 1996). 6. Ozment, Magdalena and Balthasar, p. 86. 7. Ozment, Three Behaim Boys. For example, ‘Stephan Carl had every opportunity to succeed, but he was emotionally disturbed’, p. 1; ‘But Michael was temperamentally more given to …’, p. 22. 8. Ibid., p. 6. 9. Georges Duby, ‘Youth in Aristocratic Society: Northwestern France in the Twelfth Century’, in idem, The Chivalrous Society (London: Arnold, 1977) p. 113. 10. For example, he derided his brother for leaving the management of his affairs to relatives and expressed the desire to dispose of his property at his will, impatience for which his older cousin and guardian, Friedrich Behaim, reprimanded him: Ozment, Three Behaim Boys, pp. 42–5. Also telling was the tension between Michael and his master in Breslau: ibid., pp. 29–33. 11. Ibid. p. 19. 12. J. Grimm and W. Grimm, Deutsches Wörterbuch (Leipzig: S. Hirzel, 1854–1960), vol. VI, p. 2032, derives Mensch from männisch, an adjectival form of Mann (:vir?). The possibility that Michael’s usage contained an archaic aspect must be considered. Likewise, recht has both common as well as specific, legal connotations. 13. For a ‘social history of ideas’ approach which attempts to de-mythologize early modern humanist education, see Anthony Grafton and Lisa Jardine, From Humanism to the Humanities: Education and the Liberal Arts in Fifteenthand Sixteenth-Century Europe (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1986). 14. For example, see Gerald Strauss, Luther’s House of Learning: Indoctrination of the Young in the German Reformation (Baltimore, MD: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1978); Robert W. Scribner, For the Sake of Simple Folk: Popular Propaganda for the German Reformation (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1981) suggested the importance of non-literary/nonlearned culture in the spread of Reformation ideas. Rab A. Houston has shown that Scottish Protestantism and broad-based, accessible education were neither chronologically nor geographically coextensive: Rab A. Houston, Scottish Literacy and the Scottish Identity: Illiteracy and Society in Scotland and Northern England, 1600–1800 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1985) esp. ch. 4. 15. Opportunities for maintaining and controlling the local ecclesiastical establishment cannot have escaped the notice of the city fathers, although with hindsight and the knowledge of pastors’ roles in the many disturbances occurring between the mid-sixteenth century and 1626, one can say that there would also have been definite advantages to an alien, un-allied clergy. 16. StAL Rp 1532–51, p. 80 17. Ibid., p. 57v.

206 Notes to pp. 96–8 18. See, for example, the description of Stephan Carl Behaim’s boarding school education in Ozment, Three Behaim Boys. 19. StAL Rp 1532–51, p. 119v. 20. Susan Brigden, ‘Youth and the English Reformation’, Past and Present 95 (1982) pp. 37–67; see also Paul Griffiths, Youth and Authority: Formative Experiences in England, 1560–1640 (Oxford: Clarendon, 1996). 21. ‘Die Zunfftmaister sollen auch dz Volckh ermanen sich aller bescheidenhait zu halten und Ire Jugend zu zichen darmit sie gemaine Statt ni in unrue bringen’, StAL Rp 1548–50, p. 17v. 22. ‘[U]nd man allso, umb verhüettung eines Ärgern, thun soll alß ob manß nicht achte und soll es inn den Zünfften und Schuelen der burgerschafft und Jugend angekhündt werden’, StAL Rp 1626, p. 541. Lindau boasted both a ‘Latin’ (grammar) school and a ‘German’ school, as well as a school for girls. 23. For example, see Roper, Oedipus and the Devil, esp. ch. 5, ‘Blood and codpieces: masculinity in the early modern German town’. 24. For example, StAL Rp 1548–50, p. 157; for comparison with an Italian city republic, see Dennis Romano, Housecraft and Statecraft: Domestic Service in Renaissance Venice, 1400–1600 (Baltimore, MD: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1996). 25. See Chapter 2, ‘A mayor’s view’. 26. StAL Rp 1615–16, p. 1074. 27. For example, see Richard C. Trexler, Public Life in Renaissance Florence (New York: Academic Press, 1980); see also Edward Muir, Civic Ritual in Renaissance Venice (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1981). 28. ‘[T]he plebs were a class, not a generation, and the pretentions of its members to the center were revolutionary in implication, totally unlike the evolutionary thrust of the hopeful younger generation’: Trexler, Public Life, p. 400. 29. ‘Youth came after adulthood in the Florentine vocabulary’: ibid., p. 388. 30. At least one Italian ‘revolution’ trumpeted youthful fervour in its banner song Giovilezza. 31. Sharon Kettering, Judicial Politics and Urban Revolt in Seventeenth-Century France: The Parlement of Aix, 1629–1659 (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1978), p. 182. 32. Ibid., pp. 45, 216. 33. George Huppert has alluded to a rather mysterious process whereby ‘sexual envy turned into social protest’: George Huppert, After the Black Death: A Social History of Early Modern Europe (Bloomington, IN: Indiana University Press, 1986) p. 80. When it comes to sex, however, even more clearly articulated interpretations (for example, those which attribute attempts to control inter-personal relations to economic strategies) must infer the act from the prosecution. For example, Hans Medick, ‘Village Spinning Bees: Sexual Culture and Free Time Among Rural Youth in Early Modern Germany’, in Medick and Sabean (eds), Interest and Emotion, pp. 317–39. Also, Thomas Robisheaux, ‘Peasants and Pastors: Rural Youth Culture and the Reformation in Hohenlohe, 1540–1660’, Social History 6 (1981) pp. 281–300. On such problems in general, see Edward Muir and Guido Ruggiero (eds), History from Crime (Baltimore, MD: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1994). 34. StAL Rp 1617, pp. 779–80; Lyndal Roper, The Holy Household: Women and Morals in Reformation Augsburg (Oxford: Clarendon, 1989), p. 153; Gerald

Notes to pp. 98–101 207

35. 36. 37. 38. 39. 40. 41.

42. 43. 44.

45. 46. 47. 48. 49.

50.

51.

52. 53.

Strauss, Law, Resistance and the State: The Opposition to Roman Law in Reformation Germany (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1986), p. 154. StAL Rp 1615–16, p. 904. StAL Rp 1626, p. 34. Medick, ‘Village Spinning Bees’, pp. 321 and 325. Ibid., p. 321. Ibid., p. 323; emphasis added. Thomas Robisheaux develops a very similar argument in ‘Peasants and Pastors’. ‘Und soll allzeit ein Prediger sich in der Kirchen finden lassen welcher daß Junge Volckh underrichte die communicieren wellen. Welches Junge Volckh auch frembde Ehehalter nit sollen zue der communion gelassen werede, sie haben sich dann forderst bei den Herrn Predigern der gestallt eingestellt’, StAL Rp 1626, p. 286. StAL Rp 1615–16, p. 1153. Cawazin is described as their Base. Witnesses variously reported what was said: ‘dz nemblich meine Herren Kein Ehegericht haben’, ‘dz meine Herren deß Ehegerichts nit befugt’, ‘Es sey meine Herren Ehegerichts nit befugt sie haben nichts drub uffzelegen, und mießte auch Keiner dabei verpleiben welcher nit gern wollte, Sie meine Herren Künden niemandt zwingen’, ‘meine Herren seyn deß consistorii nit priviligirt’; StAL Rp 1617, pp. 691, 697, 705, 706. Ibid., p. 92. ‘[W]egen Nachtlicher ungebür uff der Gassen’, StAL Rp 1615–16, p. 850. Ibid., p. 106. ‘Nächtliches umbschweifens halb und geübter ungebur uff der gassen’, ibid., p. 1044. Contemporary accounts from early modern England and France suggest that the political mobilization of ‘youth’ was well recognized at the time: Natalie Zemon Davis, ‘The Reasons of Misrule: Youth Groups and Charivaris in Sixteenth-Century France’, Past and Present 50 (1971) pp. 41–75; Brigden, ‘Youth and the English Reformation’. ‘Er hab kein Newkom uff der Gassen gesehen … hab gesagt wer soll die Gloggen sonst abgeschnitten haben dann die Newkom’, StAL Rp 1617, p. 378. ‘er [Egger] hab gewert es seyn de Beid Newkom seyn mit den Menteln vermumbt gewesen … konde eß nit für gwiß sagen, dan sie seyn mit den Menteln vermumbt gwesen’, ibid., p. 896. Ibid. According to Farge and Foucault, the same can be said for bourgeois family politics in eighteenth-century Paris. These were not centred on an abstract ideal marriage – as might have been the case with the aristocracy – but rather on a whole matrix of economic and emotional concerns which were taken to constitute proper behaviour. See Arlette Farge and Michel Foucault (eds), Le Désordre des familles: lettres de cachet des Archives de la Bastille (Paris: Juillard, 1982). The possibility of extreme divergence between the theory and practice of kin relation has been documented elsewhere, for example, among the Toba Batak. According to E.M. Bruner, Batak ideology prescribed matrilateral cross-cousin marriage; ‘however the frequency of Batak marriage to a real

208 Notes to pp. 102–3

54.

55. 56. 57. 58.

59. 60.

61.

62.

63. 64. 65. 66.

67. 68.

mother’s brother’s daughter is only 2.3 per cent’: E.M. Bruner, ‘Kinship Organization among the Urban Batak of Sumatra’, Transactions of the New York Academy of Sciences, 2nd Series, 22 (1959) pp. 118–25. For example, a property claim founded on a blood relationship might be adjudged most legitimate: ‘unser Statt bruch und Recht dz ain Jeder vom blut her mit bessern Rechten darzu ston mog’, StAL Rp 1525–28, p. 207. Then as now, however, the combination of patrilineal principles, patriarchal government and a male-dominated ‘official’ economy with a preference for blood relationships ultimately generated more problems than it solved. StAL Rp 1532–51, p. 5. StAL Rp 1548–50, p. 8. ‘[D]z Ir Kind ain handwerck lernen mochte’, StAL Rp 1525–28, p. 99. Although there was a distinction between legitimate (ehelich) and illegitimate (ledig), it is significant that, unlike its nearest English counterpart, the Lindavian terminology does not identify a child born out of wedlock (‘illegitimate’) as the negative opposite of one born into a marriage union (‘legitimate’): StAL Rp 1532–51, pp. 39v–41. Ibid., p. 35. For example, in 1548 the Council denied Hans Loblich’s request that his two illegitimate children be accepted as citizens and that their names be entered onto the tax register (Steurbuch): StAL Rp 1532–51, p. 173 and Rp 1548–50, p. 19. StAL Rp 1546–49, p. 11 and Rp 1548–50, p. 24v. See also Peter Laslett, K. Oosterveen and R.M. Smith (eds) Bastardy and its Comparative History (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1980). Otto Brunner, ‘Das “Ganze Haus” und die alteuropäische “ökonomik”’, in idem, Neue Wege der Verfassungs- und Sozialgeschichte (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1968), pp. 103–27; Peter Laslett, Family Life and Illicit Love in Earlier Generations (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1977), has drawn attention to the distinction between German-speaking regions and Engand and northern France in this respect. For a discussion of the wider theoretical problems of linking inheritance to social structures, see L.K. Berkner and F.F. Mendels, ‘Inheritance Systems, Family Structure, and Demographic Patterns in Western Europe, 1700–1900’, in Charles Tilly (ed.), Historical Studies of Changing Fertility (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1978). Robert Jütte, ‘Household and Family Life in Late Sixteenth-Century Cologne: The Weinsberg Family’, Sixteenth Century Journal 17 (1986), p. 167. Heinrich Götzger, Das Bürgerhaus der Stadt Lindau im Bodensee, Das Deutsche Bürgerhaus, vol. 11 (Tübingen: Wasmuth, 1969). StAL Rp 1546–49, p. 3. Heider, Gründliche Außführung [etc.] (Nuremberg, 1643); cited in Peter Eitel, Die Oberschwäbischen Reichstädte im Zeitalter der Zunftherrschaft (Stuttgart: Müller & Gräff, 1970), p. 25. StAL Rp 1532–51, pp. 137–40; Rp 1546–49, p. 1. Thus Alfred Otto Stolze rejected the conventional wisdom that the so-called Rienoldaufstand of 1395 originated in a dispute between patricians and artisans and supported, instead, Franz Joetze’s hypothesis that Lindau politics had become dominated by a partisan struggle, possibly between competing clans: ‘Danach handelte es sich um den Kampf von zwei Parteigruppen,

Notes to pp. 103–7 209

69.

70. 71. 72.

73. 74. 75. 76. 77. 78. 79. 80. 81.

82.

83. 84.

85. 86. 87.

88. 89.

vielleicht auch zweier Großsippen’: Alfred Otto Stolze, Der Sünfzen zu Lindau (Lindau and Constance: Jan Thorbecke, 1956) p. 74. Two of Alexius Neukomm’s brothers, Stadtammann Andreas and Councillor Georg, were active in government and Andreas’s son was trying, without much success, to procure the customs office (Zollamt); the Councillor and future Mayor Caspar Vögelin was the elder Neukomm’s brother-in-law. More importantly, the younger generation of male Neukomms participated regularly in the politics of the street. It was, indeed, the opinion of the authorities that there existed a ‘Faction’ or ‘Parthey’ commonly referred to as ‘die Neukomm’schen’: StAL Lit 14, ‘Amts- und Dienstleute’; Ra 65, 1; see also Chapter 2 and Chapter 6 ‘“Party” becomes “opposition”’. StAL Rp 1532–51, p. 43. ‘die er [Endriss] als ain Tochter Erzogen Im [Neukomm] geben und ussgestürt’, StAL Rp 1525–8, p. 6. ‘[Neukomm and wife] umb solichen handel dz si also gelt genomen und die sich aber dz Ers aim burgermeister clagt hinderecks vertragen hat statt verbotten bis dz man nach In schick’, ibid. StAL Rp 1532–51, p. 57v. Roper, Holy Household. StAL Rp 1548–50, p. 143v. StAL Rp 1532–51, p. 89. StAL Rp 1548–50, p. 56. Ibid., p. 30. In later decades this was abbreviated to Übelhalten. StAL Rp 1550–52, p. 45. ‘[U]bel haushaltung wegen und dz er seine gewin verschwendt und man Ime doch dz Allmusen in der Kirchen Reicht’, ibid., p. 55v. Farge and Foucault have noted that in French legal documents the ‘gallivanting’ of the eighteenth century and the ‘dissolution/wastefulness’ of the nineteenth century were linked by their contradiction of authoritative attempts to control movement or impose direction of movement: Farge and Foucault (eds), Le Désordre des familles, p. 161. In sixteenth-century Lindau the two – subsequently identified as Herumtreiberei and Verschwendung – effectively formed a single complex of anti-authoritarian transgression. ‘[W]ann er aber ain haushaltung hab wie ainem pider man zustennd so solle Ime weder weib noch kind vorgehalten werden’, StAL Rp 1550–51, p. 100. ‘[U]ngehorsame, ubeln haushalten und fravenlicher handlung’, ibid., p. 106. On the history of publicly supported schooling in Lindau, see A. Weninger, ‘Zur Geschichte des Lindauer Schulwesens im 16. Jahrhundert’, Schriften des Vereins für die Geschichte des Bodensees und seiner Umgebung 19 (1890). ‘[G]ute ingenia und ad studia gar tuchtig’, StAL Rp 1615–16, p. 1096. StAL Rp 1532–51. StAL Rp 1548–50. At the time the Council, probably subject to popular pressure, was especially interested in reducing debts to foreign creditors, particularly Jews: see Chapter 4, ‘Religious minorities and politics’. StAL Rp 1548–50, pp. 39v, 41, 42v, 49, 54, 62v, 163. StAL Rp 1525–28, p. 58.

210 Notes to pp. 107–10 90. Hurlewagen, described by Georg Truchsess of Waldburg’s chronicler as a ruined merchant (verdorbener Kauffmann), had served as a leader of the Rappertsweiler Haufen. Following the conclusion of the Treaty of Weingarten, of which Hurlewagen had been one of the first signatories, the band had sacked the monastery of Langnau. Although little is known about the position of the Lindau authorities and the sympathies of the citizenry in the Peasants’ War, it seems that Hurlewagen found a safe haven in Lindau. Werner Vogt, ‘Der Bodensee Rappertsweiler Haufen im Bauernkrieg und sein Hauptmann Dietrich Hurlewagen’, Schriften des Vereins für die Geschichte des Bodensees 21 (1892). See also D. Göpfert, Bauernkrieg am Bodensee und Oberrhein 1524/25 (Freiburg: Rombach, 1980) and Elmar L. Kuhn, ‘Der Bauernkrieg am See’, in D. Schott and W. Trapp (eds), Seegründe: Beiträge zur Geschichte des Bodensees (Weingarten: Drumlin-Verlag, 1984). 91. ‘[S]o hab er sin hab und gut nit Izo sonder vor langem siner Husfrawen und Kinder ubergeben’, StAL Rp 1525–28, pp. 149–51. 92. D. Schuster, ‘Das Lindauer Statuarrecht’, in K. Wolfart, Die Geschichte der Stadt Lindau im Bodensee (Lindau: Stettner, 1909), vol. II, pp. 132–4. Schuster bases his summary on the Statut of May 1540 and amendments of July 1636. Certain aspects of the law, especially provisions dealing with trusts and trustees, were somewhat vague; concepts, such as ‘mismanagement’ or ‘neglect’, left considerable scope for interpretation and dispute. 93. ‘Und des Vatters hab und gut soll In gemain Erbschafft komen, alls vil heupter alls vil tail. Nach der Stattrecht’, StAL Rp 1532–51, p. 4. 94. StAL Rp 1532–51, p. 60. Although there is no explicit statement which might reveal the Council’s intention, it is likely that the non-legal fosterparentage, so carefully distinguished from trusteeship, was in fact godparentage. Such a Council position is consistent with a more general ‘secularization’ of those social relationships which had traditionally been mediated through the church. 95. StAL Rp 1528–31, p. 91. 96. ‘[M]it dem Vogt verschafft dz mit Im tailt wird nach der Stat Recht’, ibid., p. 268. 97. ‘[D]as er Jung Feurstain alls Vogt den Jungen Knaben gregori loblich soll etwan zu erbern leuten ain Jar in cost verdingen’, StAL Rp 1532–51, p. 55v. 98. In Lindau, as elsewhere, a groom gave his bride a Morgengabe on the morning after their wedding. The salient feature of the institution was that it was the inalienable property of the wife and remained in her possession after her husband’s death. See H. Fischer, Schwäbisches Wörterbuch (Tübingen: H. Laipp, 1904–36), vol. 6, p. 1760. In Lindau Morgengabe came to symbolize all property which remained in the mother’s line. 99. On the link between a legacy-hunting discourse and anti-clericalism in Lindau, see Chapter 3, ‘The case of anti-clericalism’. 100. Hans Loewe [sic], ‘Der Neukommhandel’, in Wolfart, Geschichte der Stadt Lindau, vol I. ii, p. 28. Since no sources emanating from the Council mention legal action, it is unlikely that the minutes of the City Court (Gerichtsprotokoll) would contain any information; likewise, one would expect the Chancellery minutes (Kanzleiprotokoll) to be silent on the matter. In any case, Loewe drew his information from neither source. Using Council documents, he concentrated on one particularly lurid aspect of

Notes to pp. 110–12 211

101.

102. 103.

104.

105. 106. 107. 108.

the dispute: the rumour that the prospective purchaser of Miller’s house was the Society of Jesus (in fact, it is unlikely that the Jesuits required two establishments in Lindau). Loewe thus overlooked all other aspects of a particularly complex political constellation. Lindauers certainly feared that the Jesuits were preparing to establish themselves in Lindau under Imperial protection. On 13 October Dr Heider returned from negotiations with the Bishop of Constance, Jakob Fugger von Kirchberg-Weißenhorn, with news that the order had been granted the use of the Imperial armoury in Lindau. StAL Rp 1626, p. 661. ‘Herr Bürgermeister Buchschor soll den Herrn Bürgermeister Miller ansprechen weil allerhand seines haus halb ausgeprengt werde. Soll er anzeigen wie es doch damit beschaffen, sich darnach haben zurichten’, ibid., p. 683. Evidently Miller’s assurances were of little use in calming the general panic over Jesuit intentions which continued to grip government circles and the wider public alike. A draught copy of a letter from Lindau to Ulm dated 1 November expressed concern that the prospect of a Jesuit establishment in Lindau raised the likelihood of public unrest in Lindau. In letters to Saxony and Württemberg dated 2 November, the Council both asked for more detailed information, to substantiate the rumours, and presented a preemptory legal argument, based primarily on Lindau’s thirteenth-century Imperial patent and the Treaty of Passau. Throughout November Lindau carried on a lively correspondence with Ulm, Strasburg and Saxony; a letter from the Elector of Saxony dated 2 December advised the Lindauers to be on their guard but also to avoid bringing themselves to the attention of the Imperial authorities, lest they suffer the same fate as Memmingen: StAL Ra 65, 4/A. By then it was of course already too late. In 1628, following the Imperial Commission to investigate the uprising and in conjunction with the stationing of an Imperial garrison in Lindau, Jesuits did establish themselves. They remained active, providing a constant source of tension and provocation, until the Peace of Westphalia. The potential disruption of the Jesuits’ arrival is illustrated by an undated intelligence report on a conspiratorial meeting between several citizens and one ‘Heinrich the Jesuit’; the informant seems to have been the wife of a co-conspirator named Daniel Wilhalm. See also above, Chapter 2, Introduction. ‘Wegen er [Felß] Immerdar geheime Rath uber in [Miller] halte’; ‘man [Buchschor] halt jeden geheimen Rath uber In [Miller]’, StAL Rp 1626, pp. 178, 182. ‘Errathen, daß man fürter bis uff weitern erfolg dem Bürgermeister Müller nit mehr im Rath sagen soll’, ibid., p. 197. ‘[D]enn das haus und sein weib zuverschreiben sei er [Miller] nit mehr bedacht, er habs verschworen’, ibid., p. 210. Ibid., p. 296. ‘[E]r dardurch in grossen discredito kom, sei es Im zue schwer sich druff zu resolviren, seinem creditorn halben…’, ibid., p. 298. The function of ‘honour’ in early modern urban societies may be represented in analogy to an ‘economy’. For an adaptation of Pierre Bourdieu’s thesis, see Martin Dinges, ‘Die Ehre als Thema der Stadtgeschichte: Eine Semantik im Übergang vom Ancien Régime zur Moderne’, Zeitschrift für Historische Forschung 16 (1989) pp. 409–40.

212 Notes to pp. 112–15 109. 110. 111. 112.

113. 114. 115. 116. 117. 118. 119.

120. 121. 122.

123.

124. 125. 126. 127. 128. 129.

130.

StAL Rp 1626, pp. 310–11. Ibid., p. 336. Ibid., p. 336–7. Wöller was one of the most senior office holders in Lindau; his career in the City Court, ultimately as Stadtammann, spanned nearly 40 years, from 1596 to 1635: StAL Lit 14, ‘Amts- und Dienstleute’. Wöller’s experience was intended to lend credibility to his suspicions over the elections: ‘eß komm Im selzam für dz man nur 2. Bürgermeistern schwören soll, weil er Jezt bei 40 Jaren her gesehen dz man allwegen 3. Bürgermeistern geschworen’, StAL Rp 1626, p. 606. Ibid., p. 605. Ibid., pp. 610–11. ‘[E]r hab 600 fl. versteuert, diß Jar aber könd er nit wol 200 fl. ver-steuern un er [Weber] hab In [Tuen] umb 400 fl. beschissen’, ibid., p. 765. ‘[W]ir wellen In och nit In Rath’, ibid., p. 766. Ibid., p. 767. ‘[A]lso die sach ex officio uffgehebt worden’, ibid., p. 769. In her now classic article on youth abbeys in early modern France, Natalie Davis alluded to the real historical origins of the anxieties expressed in folk tales about wicked step-parents: Davis, ‘The Reasons of Misrule’, p. 53. For a more thorough consideration of the possibility of reconciling transhistorical, psychological approaches with historical realist or materialist approaches to early modern German culture, see Roper, Oedipus and the Devil, esp. pp. 1–34. Maria Tatar, The Hard Facts of the Grimms’ Fairy Tales (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1987) p. 142. Ibid., p. 143. See Robert Bjerke, ‘A Contrastive Study of Old German and Old Norwegian Kinship Terms’, International Journal of American Linguistics, Memoir 22 (Baltimore, MD: Waverly Press, 1969). Interestingly, Bjerke’s thirteenthcentury data contains terms for ‘step-father’, ‘step-son’ and ‘step-daughter’, but not for ‘step-mother’. Incidently, the fact that no terms equivalent to ‘half-brother’ of ‘half-sister’ are in evidence suggests that intra-generational distinctions, if any were made at all, were insignificant in comparison to the inter-generational ones. StAL Rp 1546–49, pp. 89, 89v. Ibid., p. 93. Ibid., p. 51. StAL Rp 1548–50, p. 77v. In early modern Germany ‘cook’ (Köchin) was a euphemism for concubine, commonly as in ‘priest’s cook’ (Pfaffenköchin). In fact, mothers were probably no more inclined towards tender and protective love of their offspring than fathers: for example, Elisabeth Badinter, The Myth of Motherhood: An Historical View of the Maternal Instinct (London: Souvenir Press, 1981), ventures that motherly love is a cultural construct with a history, rather than a universal ‘instinct’. T.A. Robisheaux, Rural Society and the Search for Order in Early Modern Germany (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press) p. 134.

Notes to pp. 115–18 213 131. A 1551 Imperial Appeals Court (Hofgericht) ruling in the case of Anna Krölin of Lindau stated that, in accordance with Lindau law (Stadtrecht), certain goods and properties which a woman brought into marriage were never at the disposal of her husband, regardless of her actions. That same year the Lindau Council awarded a wife the right to retrieve certain properties brought into marriage (zugebracht Heuratsgut). For taxation purposes the Council considered certain aspects of husbands’ and wives’ properties distinct; new citizens were reminded that separate declarations of husbands’ and wives’ property were required: StAL Rp 1550–52, pp. 78; 129; 134. D. Schuster concluded that Lindau followed the Dotalsystem customary in surrounding Austrian territories: ‘Das Lindauer Statuarrecht’, pp. 132–3. 132. ‘Er [Bodenmiller] der drew Kindhalb ein gemecht gemacht und die Kind usskofft namblich umb XXX gulden mit der beschaid dz si damit von vatterlichen und mutterlichen Erb ussgesturt’, StAL Rp 1525–28, p. 101. 133. A special term, beratig, is used, identifying marriage as the ultimate hurdle to manhood and full civic participation. According to Fischer, Schwäbisches Wörterbuch, vol. 1, p. 857, the term means something like ‘accomplished’ or ‘ready’, and indicates qualification both for the Rat as an institutional body and for consilium in general. 134. ‘[S]o hat er doch nie darzu verwilligt deshalben Er verhofft dz kain fraw macht hab hinder Irm man ein gemecht zumachen sy och unser Statrecht nit’, StAL Rp 1525–28, p. 102. 135. Ibid., p. 103. The legacy of Agathe von Essendorf, the wife of the Lindau patrician Oswald Kröl, was certainly more substantial than the sum disputed in the above case and the Kröls certainly possessed some business savvy (no figures are available, but, in addition to several large building projects, the Kröls could afford to have their portraits and coats of arms painted by Albrecht Dürer). Nevertheless, the claims of both husband’s and wife’s heirs were no more easily disentangled: StAL Rp 1525–28, p. 222. 136. ‘Unser statt brauch und Recht dz Kain Vatter und Mutter usser halb Irer Kinder die wil si noch tail und gemain by ainander haben kain hyrat noch gemecht haben zubeschrifften on Ir aller wissen und willen’, StAL Rp 1525–28, p. 175. 137. Ibid., p. 176. No more than a few weeks later the Council was again faced with a practically identical case in which Lazarus Bodmer’s son and son-inlaw, accompanied by the son’s Vogt, sued their mother’s second husband, Jos Schlainz, for a share of their mother’s legacy: ibid., p. 268. 138. The properties had been accumulated ‘mit saurem schwaiß’, StAL Rp 1546–49, pp. 83–83v. 139. Conrad repeatedly stated that Dr Ulrich was his natural father, ‘mein naturlichem vatter’, ‘aigen flaisch und blut’, ibid., pp. 86–87v. 140. ‘Es were Ir Stieffmutter deß Clegers [Hanns Rinnggler’s] schwester ain sollich bosshafftig weib das sy nie nit hetten nach könnden kommen, dann sy allwegen ain pflanzerin und ursprung aller zerrüttung und unainigkhait gewesen’, ibid., p. 89. 141. Bettelheim, ‘The Problem of Generations’, p. 76. 142. ‘[P]sychoanalysis is so often ineffective in adolescence – not because the sexual pressures are so great, and they are great, but because psychoanalysis,

214 Notes to pp. 118–21

143.

144.

145. 146.

147.

148. 149.

150.

151. 152. 153.

6

which is so well able to help with the problems of sex and repression and personal self-realization does not help with the problem of social selfrealization.’ Bettelheim, ‘The Problem of Generations’, p. 77. For example, see Manfredi Piccolomini, The Brutus Revival: Parricide and Tyrannicide during the Renaissance (Carbondale, IL: Southern Illinois University Press, 1991). In the witness’s words, ‘Goz Word und sacrament als lauren schennd’. The defendant did not deny the allegation and repeated that his father ‘Taufent Sacrament alls lauren und Böswicht schennd’, StAL Rp, 1546–49, pp. 88v, 90. Ibid., pp. 90v–92v. For a classic overview, see John Hajnal, ‘European Marriage Patterns in Perspective’, in David V. Glass and D.E.C. Eversley (eds), Population in History: Essays in Historical Demography (London: Arnold, 1965). Hajnal cites E. Rümelin’s 1926 study of urban genealogies in Württemberg, which shows that from the sixteenth century to the nineteenth century the mean age at first marriage of men rose from 25.3 to 31.1; that of women rose from 21.4 to 25.3 in the same period. For a more recent appraisal of Hajnal’s thesis of a unique north-west European marriage pattern in relation to earlier periods, see R.M. Smith, ‘Hypothèses sur la nuptialité en Angleterre aux XIIIe–XIVe Siècles’, Annales 38 (1983) pp. 107–36. A similar ‘prolonged’ adolescence or pre-adulthood is also widely considered a distinguishing feature of ‘generation next’, a point not lost on economic and political analysts. Bettelheim, ‘The Problem of Generations’, p. 70. Farge and Foucault, Le Désordre des familles, p. 35. The fundamental discomfort which attends indeterminate status in European cultures is illustrated by the case of the ‘Holy Greyhound’ investigated by Jean-Claude Schmitt. Underlying the entire complex of beliefs contained in the cult of the dog-saint is the need to be located on either side of, but never on, the threshold. Hence the numerous versions of the formula of invocation: ‘A Saint Guinafort, pour la vie ou la mort’, Jean-Claude Schmitt, The Holy Greyhound: Guinefort, Healer of Children since the Thirteenth Century (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1983), p. 121. Actually, at least one son of Lindau, Titus Neukomm, was among the very first young European men to seek his fortune and find himself in the New World. He joined a group of adventurers from south German cities who attempted conquest and settlement of what is now Venezuela in the 1530s. StAL Rp 1546–49, p. 73. Ibid., p. 7v. StAL Rp 1525–28, pp. 25–32.

A Harvest of Bureaucracy: Practical Politics in Lindau 1. In James Tully’s appraisal they ‘are intersubjectively normative: words that not only describe, but in describing, also evaluate. This evaluative dimension is called the word’s speech-act potential’: idem, ‘The pen is a mighty sword: Quentin Skinner’s analysis of politics’, in Quentin Skinner and James Tully (eds), Meaning and Context: Quentin Skinner and his Critics (Cambridge: Polity Press, 1988) p. 13.

Notes to pp. 121–4 215 2. For a fine theoretical consideration of the concept, see Bruce Lincoln, Authority: Construction and Corrosion (Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press, 1994). 3. On the linguistic intricacies of ‘oppositeness’, see John Lyons, Introduction to Theoretical Linguistics (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1968), esp. pp. 460–9. 4. Walter Ullmann, Principles of Government and Politics in the Middle Ages (London: Methuen, 1961); Peter Blickle, Oberschwaben: Politik als Kultur einer deutschen Geschichtslandschaft (Tübingen Bibliotheca: Academica, 1996). For a comparable consideration of multiple sources and inherent complexities of authority claims in seventeenth-century England, see Peter Lake, ‘The Laudians and the Argument from Authority’, in Bonnelyn Young Kunze and Dwight D. Brautigam (eds), Court, Country and Culture: Essays on Early Modern British History in Honor of Perez Zagorin (Rochester, NY: Rochester University Press, 1992) pp. 149–75. 5. ‘Das Fehlen einer zentralen Macht förderte die Gleichwertigkeit der Stände’: Blickle, Oberschwaben, p. 27. Curiously, Blickle omits Lindau from a list of Upper Swabian cities with guild constitutions: ibid., p. 11. 6. See, especially, J.G.A. Pocock, The Machiavellian Moment: Florentine Political Thought and the Atlantic Republican Tradition (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1975). 7. For an overview of a very productive debate in this regard, see Steve Pincus, ‘Neither Machiavellian Moment nor Progressive Individualism: Commercial Society and the Defenders of the English Commonwealth’, American Historical Review 103 (1998) pp. 705–36. 8. Frank Lentricchia, Criticism and Social Change (Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press, 1983) p. 3. 9. Two very different examples of such narratives are Hans Blumenberg, The Legitimation of the Modern Age, trans. Robert M. Wallace (Cambridge, MA: Massachusetts Institute of Technology Press, 1983) and J. Samuel Preus, Explaining Religion: Criticism and Theory from Bodin to Freud (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1987). 10. Lentricchia, Criticism and Social Change, p. 10. 11. Indeed, many of the recorded exchanges between Neukomm and members of the administration, which make up the ‘Neukomm affair’, resemble the formal confrontations before the Council throughout the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. For an excellent discussion of litigation and dispute settlement by urban Councils, see Susanna Burghartz, ‘Disziplinierung oder Konfliktregelung? Zur Funktion städtischer Gerichte im Spätmittelalter: Das Züricher Ratsgericht’, Zeitschrift für Historische Forschung 16 (1989) pp. 385–408. 12. Ibid. 13. On the significance of ritual in self-governing urban republics, see Edward Muir, Civic Ritual in Renaissance Venice (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1981) esp. ch. 5; idem, Ritual in Early Modern Europe (New York: Cambridge University Press, 1997). 14. StAL Ra 65, 3/A. 15. In Buchschor Neukomm faced a formidable adversary. Not only had Hans Heinrich’s career in public office eventually led to a seat in the Council, but

216 Notes to pp. 124–5

16. 17.

18.

19. 20. 21.

22. 23.

24. 25.

26.

he was a member of one of the most prominent families in Lindau politics. No fewer than a dozen Buchschors had held public office between 1588 and 1635, two of them as Mayor and one of them as Stadtammann; in 1626 there were Buchschors in the Court in the Great Council and in the office of the Mayor: StAL Lit 14, ‘Amts- und Dienstleute’. ‘Sonderlich waß gleichsam Standsgenossen sein’, StAL Ra 65, 3/A. ‘[G]leich über seinesgleichen keinen gewalt hat’: quoted in E. Maschke, ‘“Obrigkeit” im spätmittelalterlichen Speyer und in anderen Städten’, in idem, Beiträge zur Geschichte der Stadt, der Wirtschaft und Gesellschaft, 1959–1977 (Wiesbaden: Franz Steiner, 1980) p. 123. For example, Dr Funk appealed to the idea of estate solidarity in exhortations to peace and unity, probably between members of the clergy: ‘das Kein mensch den andern (sonderlich was gleichsam Standtsgenossen sein) an seinen wolhergebrachten Ehren, guten Namen und leimuth auch stand würde und ansehen, weder heimblich noch offentlich schmälich antasten verlezen, verkleinern, schänden und schmähen’: StAL Ra 65, 7/A. For example, in a contemporary marginal comment on the text ‘Herrn M. Alexio Newkhomen zubehändigen’, 21 June 1626, StAL Ra 65, 3/A. For example, Jacob Grimm, Deutsche Rechts Alterthümer (Göttingen: Dieterich, 1828) has no entries for either heimlich or öffentlich. Friedrich Kluge, Etymologisches Wörterbuch der deutschen Sprache, 22nd edn (Berlin: W. de Gruyter, 1989): heimlich: ‘zum Haus gehörig … von anfang an auch zur Bezeichnung des damit verbundenen Aspects: wer sich in das Heim zurückzieht, verbirgt sich vor anderen, vor Fremden’; öffentlich: ‘im Sinn von vor Augen liegend, erst spät im politischen Sinn … Hierzu Öffentlichkeit seit dem 18. Jh. als Ersatzwort für Publizität.’ Obviously, Lindauers freely substituted privatim/publicè for heimlich/öffentlich in the early seventeenth century. Ronald F.E. Weissman, Ritual Brotherhood in Renaissance Florence (New York: Academic Press, 1981) pp. 32–5. H. Heidrich, ‘Grenzübergänge; Das Haus und die Volkskultur’, in Richard van Dülmen, Kultur der einfachen Leute (Munich: C.H. Beck, 1983), pp. 17–41. As an aside, it is worth commenting that Heidrich’s assertion that visual sources show ‘domestic’ activity actually taking place in front of the German peasant dwelling does not account for the possibility that to depict the interior an artist had to employ representational conventions, turning the house ‘inside out’. This highlights the central problem of gaining access to historical ‘private’ places through inevitably ‘public’ sources. Regrettably, the content of the verse is not related. A. Rysman argues that in English ‘gossip’ was not pejorative until it was especially associated with women in the nineteenth century. Following Gluckman, he identifies gossip as an instrument of bonding and an expression of solidarity and eventually concludes that ‘for the gossip to develop social ties outside of the institutions of male dominance becomes the major sin’: A. Rysman, ‘How the “Gossip” Became a Woman’, Journal of Communication 27 (1977) p. 180. The term ‘women’s tattle’ has been been chosen both to avoid ‘gossip’ and as the best equivalent of Weibertandt. ‘[E]in Poema erdichter weiber Tandt (darauf er sonderlich vill: und dergleichen mhärlein pro foliis sibillinis helt) und eigens poema und invention’, StAL

Notes to pp. 126–9 217

27. 28. 29. 30. 31.

32. 33.

34.

35. 36.

Ra 65, 3/A. The author was referring to the prophetic leaves, supposedly sold to Tarquinius Superbus and thereafter consulted in times of danger to the state. Thus this statement drew attention, among other things, to Neukomm’s naïve and unqualified attitude towards statecraft. Ironically, the Sybilline Oracles had only very recently been exposed as a forgery by the Calvinist scholar Johannes Opsopoeus. See Anthony Grafton, Forgers and Critics: Creativity and Duplicity in Western Scholarship (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1990) p. 94. StAL Ra 65, 3/A, ‘clag contra Hursich, Hans Heinrich Buchschor und tochterman und Augustin Miller’. Ivan Illich, Gender, 2nd edn (London: M. Boyars, 1983) p. 112. ‘dz ich [Neukomm] für den Altar trette’, StAL Ra 65, 3/A. ‘Zweyn frembden Handtwerckhs gesellen’, ibid. ‘Ich [Neukomm] hätte vor 2. Jaren verdient, dz man mir den Kopff abgehawen, und zwischen die Bein gelegt hette’, StAL Ra 65, 3/A; see also StAL Ra 65, 2/D, ‘Impietas et Ataxia Ecclesiae Lindauiensis’. A legal suit launched by Marcus Zangmeister from Memmingen resulted in Neukomm’s forced admission of authorship of a pamphlet; by that time Zangmeister had already been dismissed. The revelation coincided, unhappily, with a furore caused by Neukomm’s sermon against the advocates on St Bartholomew’s Day, 1624. ‘mich [Neukomm] in offentlicher Zech einen Sacraments Pfaffen gescholten’, StAL Ra 65, 3/A. StAL Ra 65, 5/A, ‘Schuelrathsprotocoll vomm 7. Febr. anno 1626’; ‘geheimen und geistlichen Rathsprotocoll, vomm 9. Febr anno 1626’. Both documents appear to have been written by someone present at the meetings; they are both quite rough and there is reason to suspect, at least for the record of the second meeting, that these were not subsequently copied and issued as official transcripts. The hand appears to be the same as that of the narrative of the uprising attributed to Mayor Ulrich Miller (see Chapter 2, ‘A mayor’s view’. Because of their poor legibility and abbreviated prose, a few passages in these texts cannot be recovered. For a review of literature relevant to ‘professionalization’ in early modern Germany, see Thomas Broman, ‘Rethinking Professionalization: Theory, Practice and Professional Identity in Eighteenth-Century German Medicine’, The Journal of Modern History 67 (1995) pp. 835–72. See also Gerald Strauss, Law, Resistance and the State: The Opposition to Roman Law in Reformation Germany (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1986). This was almost certainly Hans Mittler the elder, Privy Councillor without interruption from 1605 to 1634: StAL Lit 14, ‘Amts- und Dienstleute’. One of the reasons why Neukomm was such a troublesome figure was that he defied the traditional methods of compensating for the authorities’ constitutional weaknesses. His extended family displayed few (if any) fissures, and attempts by the Council to influence Neukomm through indirect channels consistently proved ineffective. In fact there may have been more to the impermeability of Neukomm’s family than loyalty, since pastors’ families were commonly ostracized. See Robert W. Scribner, ‘Anti-clericalism and the German Reformation’, in idem, Popular Culture and Popular Movements in Reformation Germany (London: Hambleton, 1987).

218 Notes to pp. 129–36 37. This was evidently not the first time Neukomm’s objection to the wine excise had been officially negotiated. Presumably the Revers was the result of Neukomm’s previous unsuccessful resistance. 38. ‘[I]hren neid, imm abendtmahl, ihr anzeigen’, StAL Ra 65, 5/A. 39. The names of no other members were recorded. It is probable, however, that both Mayor Buchschor and Privy Councillor Hans Mittler were present and significant overlap with the Education Committee thus existed. It seems that Mayor Ulrich Miller was not exaggerating the number of offices which one individual might hold. See Chapter 2, ‘A mayor’s view’. 40. Augustin Müller, or Miller, with whom Neukomm was involved in protracted legal wrangling, was the brother of Mayor Ulrich Miller. 41. StAL Ra 65, 1. This document runs to six pages, whereas the record of the same meeting discussed above filled only one. 42. The expression used, über die oberkheit schwürig, suggests that the authorities feared an open insurrection as early as February of that year. 43. This is best exemplified by Neukomm’s polemical writings, such as his ‘Impietas et Ataxia Ecclesiae Lindauiensis’. 44. According to Gerald Strauss, meisterlos had a legal equivalent, herrenlos, which meant ‘lordless and therefore lawless, flouting authority’: Strauss, Law, Resistance and the State, p. 112. 45. ‘[E]in nicht durch eine übergeordnete Autorität gerechtfertigtes Handeln … war der Gegenbegriff zur “oberkeit’’ ’: Maschke, ‘’Obrigkeit’ im spätmittelalterlichem Speyer und in anderen Städten’, pp. 128–31. 46. This could be described with equal accuracy as ‘autocratic’ (that is, selflegitimating) or ‘absolutist’ (that is, inherently legitimate). Both of these terms have been avoided because they cannot be stripped of pejorative aspects. For a nuanced discussion of terminology, see James Daly, ‘The Idea of Absolute Monarchy in Seventeenth-Century England’, Historical Journal 21 (1978) pp. 227–50. 47. ‘Weil dann ie meine Herren sich der Kirchen allso annemmen, so er doch vermeine ihnen nicht gebühre’, StAL Ra 65, 1. 48. ‘Er [Neukomm] rufe auch ume schuz und schirm ahn wider Augustin Millern, welcher zu ihme in sein Hauß kommen, mit ihme expostuliert, alß halte er ihn für einen Calvinisten’, ibid. 49. ‘Dieweil er [Neukomm] vermein alß seyen meine Herren gleichsam nit legitimi mit ihme deßwegen zuhandeln, so hab manß aber albereit einem Schuelrhat communicirt’, ibid. 50. ‘[D]aß er aber solches auf der Oberkheit gewissen verschüebe, das befrembde meine Herren, dann was einer nit verstehe, soll er auch nit offenlich auf die Canzel bringen’, ibid. 51. ‘Er sei der meinung daß ein geheimer Rhat sei über den Kirchen- und Schulrhat, und sollen sich beide Ämbter einandern die Hand büeten’, ibid. 52. ‘[Neukomm says] haben fürenemlich die armen sich dessen beklagt (da ist ihm abermal alle beschaffenheit desselben, und das es gar kein Newerung, sonder vil mehr für die Armen angezeigt worden)’, ibid. 53. For an intensive consideration of private confession in Lindau, see J.C. Wolfart, ‘Why was Private Confession so Contentious in Early SeventeenthCentury Lindau?’, in Bob Scribner and Trevor Johnson (eds), Popular Religion in Germany and Central Europe, 1400–1800 (London: Macmillan – now Palgrave, 1996).

Notes to pp. 136–41 219 54. StAL Ra 65, 5/A, ‘Extract Kirchen- und Schuelrhats Prothocollß den 4. und 27. Aprilis auch 29. May Ao. 1626 gehalten’. Like all ‘clean copy’ documents, this appears to have been produced in administrative circles within a few days of the last recorded meeting. By the summer of 1626 the Lindau Council was seeking the advice of outside experts, and reference to copies of relevant documents as Beilagen suggests that this document was part of an information packet designed for an uninitiated non-Lindavian reader. These briefs provide welcome elucidations of the Lindavian self-evident, but, given the complicated character of Lindavian external affairs, they should be read with scepticism. 55. A copy of the ‘Extract der Lindawischen Kirchen Agend’ which was read out is included. It corresponds exactly to that reproduced in Emil Sehling, Die Evangelischen Kirchenordnungen des XVI. Jahrhunderts, vol. 12.ii (Tübingen: J.C.B. Mohr, 1963). 56. The individuals are described as ‘ledigen standß Personen’, which usually denoted marital status. If this is the case, it says something about the status of marriage as a rite of passage into the community of citizens. Conversely, it implies that individuals who were not part of a marriage unit were somehow beyond the pale. It has already been suggested that the family was a basic unit of economic, social and political definition in Lindau. See Chapter 4, ‘Internal guild politics’, and Chapter 5. 57. The chairman is not named. Since he was apparently not a preacher, the position was filled either by a member of the Privy Council or an advocate. The formulation of the text suggests that it was not the work of a lawyer, but rather of a Privy Councillor, in which case the chairman was probably a Mayor. 58. The term used is Wanderschafft, which means ‘travels’, but also specifically refers to the journeymanship of artisans. 59. ‘Mit der Zeit die durchgehende gleicheit desto leüchtlicher zuerheben’, StAL Ra 65, 5/A. See Chapter 3, ‘Reformation or confessionalization?’ and ‘The case of anti-clericalism’. 60. ‘Herr Neukomm aber selbiges allerdingß misßfällig auffgenommen und ist hierauff under die burger und baurschafft auf dem land ein starckh geschrey erschollen’, ibid. 61. Presumably old sinners cost more because they had amassed more to confess. 62. As bemoaned by Ulrich Miller, Lindau was indeed a rumour mill, and lack of discretion on the part of some Councillors frequently limited options and pre-empted governmental decisions. See Chapter 2, ‘A mayor’s view’. 63. StAL Ra 65, 6/A. 64. These primarily affected the timing of the sermon. The noise from the market in front of the church was causing disruptions so it had been proposed that sermons be delivered in the afternoon. It seems that Neukomm would have preferred a ban on noisy work instead: ibid. 65. ‘[B]iß mir gemelte allerhöchste beschwerden, durch Oberkaitliches ambt, abgenommen werden’, ibid. 66. StAL Ra 65, 5/A, ‘Extract Kirchen- und Schuelrhatsprotokollß’, 29 May 1626. 67. For example, Neukomm complained that he was not being treated as a pastor, but as a swineherd: ‘Samb ob er nicht ein Seelen- sondern Sawhirt wäre’, ibid. 68. The concern is expressed throughout the diplomatic correspondence and administrative records of Lindau.

220 Notes to pp. 142–3 69. That this indeed mattered to Lindauers is demonstrated by the inclusion of documents pertaining to Neukomm’s tenure and his relationship to the margrave at Durlach in the investigation files more than a quarter of a century later. Oblique references to liturgical practice at Durlach were even recorded in the minutes of the Education Committee meeting under discussion here. On the religious orientation of Margrave Friedrich of Baden-Durlach, see Benno Gassman, Ecclesia Reformata: Die Kirche in den reformierten Bekenntnisschriften (Basle and Vienna: Herder, 1968). 70. The last book of Calvin’s Institutes was particularly influential in this debate. See Carlo B. Schmitt and Quentin Skinner (eds), The Cambridge History of Renaissance Philosophy (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1988) p. 446; see also Robert M. Kingdon, ‘Calvinism and Resistance Theory 1550–1580’, in J.H. Burns (ed.), The Cambridge History of Political Thought 1450–1700 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1991). 71. The doctrine of ‘things indifferent’, adiaphora, had been the subject of hot debate amongst the second generation of evangelical reformers. See S.B. Ferguson and D.F. Wright (eds), The New Dictionary of Theology (Downers Grove, IL: InterVarsity Press, 1988) p. 5. In the early 1570s all but one of the Lindau pastors were still considered Flaccianer; however, the single junior pastor to reject gnesio-Lutheranism, Samuel Lins, enjoyed the patronage of the Council and was promoted over the head of a more senior man. There was some unrest and the Council decided to invite the author of the Formula of Concord himself to a disputation. The public spectacle, known as the ‘Lindauer Gespräch’ or ‘Lindau Colloquium’, began on 3 August 1575, lasted four days and ended in the humiliation of the two leading gnesio-Lutherans, Magister Tobias Rupp and Magister Sebastian Scheffler, at the hands of Jacob Andreae. In October, after consulting Strasburg, Memmingen and Ulm, the Council dismissed the two pastors and announced their expulsion from the city. Support for the men in the congregation, however, was considerable and a petition of 150–200 signatures was gathered. Furthermore rumours circulated that the peasants of mainland Reutin, which had always been part of the city parish, were planning to maintain Magister Rupp as their pastor independently. The movement appears to have fizzled out although, in 1577, the year of the conception of the Formula of Concord, four adherents of Rupp were expelled from the town. See Gottwalt Karo, ‘Das Lindauer Gespräch: Ein Beitrag zur Geschichte der Konkordienformel’, Zeitschrift für wissenschaftliche Theologie, N.S. 10 (1902) pp. 513–64; K. Wolfart, Die Geschichte der Stadt Lindau im Bodensee, (Lindau: Stettner, 1909), vol. I.i; Albert Schulze, Bekenntnisbildung und Politik Lindaus im Zeitalter der Reformation (Nuremberg: Verein für bayerische Kirchengeschichte, 1971). On parallel unrest in Strasburg, see Lorna Jane Abray, The People’s Reformation: Magistrates, Clergy and Commons in Strasbourg, 1500–1598 (Oxford: Basil Blackwell, 1985). For a classic survey of the Formula of Concord, see Lewis W. Spitz and W. Lohff (eds), Discord, Dialogue and Concord: Studies in the Lutheran Reformation’s Formula of Concord (Philadelphia, PA: Fortress, 1977); see also Martin Brecht and R. Schwarz (eds), Bekenntnis und Einheit der Kirche: Studien zum Konkordienbuch (Stuttgart: Calwer Verlag, 1980). See also above, Chapter 3, ‘The civic clergy’.

Notes to pp. 143–6 221 72. This distinction comes from Quentin Skinner’s adaptation of John Searle’s speech-act theory. See especially ‘Meaning and Understanding in the History of Ideas’, in Skinner and Tully, Meaning and Context. 73. Now that the court of Baden had become the epitome of a Calvinist nest, Neukomm’s former allegiance to the court was not necessarily proof of heterodoxy, but could be used to embarrass him. 74. Undertaking unwarranted autonomous actions was precisely what Neukomm had accused his colleagues of doing. 75. StAL Ra 65, 2/D, ‘Impietas et Ataxia Ecclesiae Lindauiensis’ (original in Neukomm’s own hand). This constituted perhaps the most damaging slight. 76. ‘Und hab man sich nichts wenigers versehen, dann daß er sich hierwider sezen werde: Weil khein recht Evangelischer Lutherischer Christ ihm diß werckh khönne mißfallen lassen; Dahero man vonn ihm daß widerspihl mit bedawern erfahr; Und müeß man schier gedenckhen, das er allein die Arbeit hierunder fliehe’, StAL Ra 65, 5/A. 77. ‘Da auch etwas ohngleichs auß diser beichteinführung erfolgen sollte, wurd allein der jenig Ursächer sein, so zimlich darzue geholffen, das sie der Gemeind so widerig eingebildet un so schimpflich davon geredt worden sei’, StAL Ra 65, 5/A. 78. ‘([U]nd weil sie [the Privy Council] befunden, das solche Injuri vonn einer Kirchensach herrühre, auch schon verjähret sei) per decretum zu rueh gewisen’, ibid. 79. ‘Hab allso die sach erstmal auf die Canzel widerwertig gebracht’, ibid. 80. ‘[Neukomm] beschuldigt werd; alß hab er die bürgerschafft incitirt; item ihnen eingebildet, alß wollten die herren Prediger vonn der beücht ihre Seckhel spickhen’, ibid. 81. ‘Weil man eine sach einzuführen begehr, die schon sei; sintemal wir alhie die privat beücht, per bonam consequentiam, schon haben’, ibid. 82. ‘Hat herr Neukhum … die herren Schuelrhät alle dahin angezogen, das sie, pace ipsorum dicendo, cum larvis & umbris luctieren: weil man eine sach einzuführen begehr, die schon sei’, ibid. 83. The image is that of Plato’s famous cave allegory in Book VII of Republic (Stephanus 514a–515a). 84. This suggests a lack of understanding of a central feature of the Formula of Concord: namely, that the admissibility of compromise in matters concerning things indifferent depended on the specific circumstances of the potential compromiser. There could be no admissible compromise under duress. 85. ‘[D]a er [Neukomm] selbige [private confession] einzurichten gesucht hette, würden die ältere Ministri ihms wol gemacht haben’, StAL Ra 65, 5/A. 86. ‘Sonst dörffen ihn die Weltliche Juristen nicht lehren Predigen’, ibid. 87. D. Herbrandus, D. Andreae, D. Gerlachius and D. Pappus are named. Jacob Andreae (1525–90) had to relinquish a position in Stuttgart, due to his oppositon to the Interim; in 1548 he was appointed to the Stiftskirche in Tübingen. In 1561 he became Chancellor of the University, Professor of Theology and Provost. Andreae’s Schwäbische Concordie (1574) abandoned hopes for a reconciliation with either the Calvinists or the Philippists. Andreae subsequently played an instrumental role in the production of the Formula of Concord and the Book of Concord: Friedrich Wilhelm Bautz, Biographisch-Bibliographisches Kirchenlexikon (Hamm: Verlag T. Bautz, 1975) p. 165. Johannes Pappus

222 Notes to pp. 146–8

88.

89. 90.

91. 92. 93. 94. 95. 96.

(1549–1610) was the son of a Lindau mayor and in 1562 undertook studies in Strasburg under the aegis of fellow-Lindauer, Johannes Marbach. He was appointed to Strasburg Cathedral (1578) and, due to his attempts to subvert the legacy of the Tetrapolitana, became embroiled in a feud with Johannes Sturm. In 1581 Pappus convinced the Council to dismiss Sturm from his position as Rector of the Academy; in 1597 the Council took his advice and banned Calvinist conventicles and barred Calvinists from participation in church services. In 1598 the Council accepted his Kirchenordnung which tacitly endorsed the Formula of Concord: Allgemeine Deutsche Biographie (Leipzig: Duncker & Humblot, 1880), vol. XXV. Jacob Heerbrand (1521–1600) lost his position at St Georg in Tübingen during the Interim, but enjoyed the patronage of Dukes Ulrich and Christoph of Württemberg. In 1556 he and Andreae were among those invited by Margrave Karl of Baden-Durlach to carry out the Reformation in Baden. From 1561 he was Vice-Chancellor to Andreae and became his successor in 1590: Allgemeine Deutsche Biographie, vol. XI. Stephan Gerlach (1546–1612) was the official preacher of the diplomatic mission to Constantinople mounted as a result of the plan, hatched by Andreae and Heerbrand in 1573, to form an anti-papal alliance with Patriarch Jeremias II. Gerlach became a Professor of Theology at Tübingen in 1579 and was elected Vice-Chancellor and Provost in 1598. In addition to writing a travelogue of the Orient, Gerlach was the author of countless anti-Calvinist and anti-Jesuit tracts: Allgemeine Deutsche Biographie, vol. IX. ‘Sonderlich aber het herr Magister Raiser dises werckh inn der Pfingst Vesper Predig wol bleiben lassen: alß der noch vil zu geel umb den schnabel seye’, StAL Ra 65, 5/A. No relation to the brothers Augustin Miller and Mayor Ulrich Miller can be established. ‘Magister Martin Millern … vonn ihme Neukhum gesagt, wann der Betterich Khinder hette, würde er wol darzue helffen, und sich nicht also darwider setzen [against private confession]’, ibid. Betterich does not appear in either Fischer or Grimm, but it probably means something like ‘pious old fool’. See Chapter 5, ‘Succession’. ‘[D]ie Auditores zwar ihre Prediger, daß predigen nicht lehren, aber doch ihre Predig ex verbo DEI judicieren dörffen’, StAL Ra 65, 5/A. ‘Er wöll doch seine privat affect cohercieren, und daß bonum publicum seinem empfangnen privat disgust praeferieren’, ibid. Probably an allusion to 1 Timothy 3, verse 8, advocating episcopal/clerical sobriety. ‘[P]rivat-werckh’: that is, not decided by a public body and hence not in the public interest, ibid. ‘Ob er [Neukomm] dann allein publicus und dargegen ein privatwerckh sei, was ein ganzer Schuelrhat … beschlossen?’, ibid. ‘Die Juristen sollten ihren Bartol. und Baldum; die Medici aber ihren Galenum darfür ann die hand nemmen, diß werckh gehör allein den Theologis zue’, ibid. Neukomm subsequently repeated such invocations of his own special competence on frequent occasions. For example, in criticizing the authors of a decree issued against Neukomm on 21 June, he remarked that the Church Council/School Board included three doctores: two jurists and one medicus. What confusion might ensue, asked Neukomm (who was evidently

Notes to pp. 148–51 223

97. 98. 99.

100. 101.

102. 103. 104.

105. 106. 107. 108.

109. 110. 111. 112.

113.

114.

not lacking a sense of humour), if the one wished to lend the other a hand in the execution of his duties? ‘Was wurde auch zu letst in ista confusione daraus werden, wan einer dem andern in sein offentlich ampt eingreifen wolte?’, StAL Ra 65, 3/A. On the differing perceptions of the power of the mob, see Chapter 2. ‘Und wäre besser man ordnente gelehrte Leüt hierzu, alß Schuester und Schneider, die zu allem seinem begünnen ja sagen müssen’, StAL Ra 65, 3/A StAL Ra 65, 7/C, ‘Verlornes Protocoll’. Probably the work of the secretary David Felß, this is a summary narrative of the authorities’ negotiations with Neukomm and official attempts to promote popular acceptance of private confession from June up to the eve of 7 November, with reference to specific official documents. The rather curious title suggests that the protocol had been unavailable at some critical juncture and had only subsequently reappeared. Indeed, elsewhere it is mentioned that Dr Heider had taken important documents with him to his country retreat. Whether this was among them is not ascertainable; the possibility of forgery cannot be ruled out entirely, either. StAL Ra 65, 5/B. The term employed to describe how this outcry came about, außgesprengt, emphasizes both the passivity of the populace and the work of an agent in sowing discord. ‘Ja allerdings das Pabstumb wider einschüeben oder doch guete vorbereintung und ahnlaß darzu machen wöll’, ibid., p. 1. ‘[A]llein auß eitler ehr und ahngewohnter aigensinnigkeit’, ibid., p. 4. ‘Eß will auch ein Ers. Rhat nicht underlassen, auf die jenige, so nicht ablassen werden, diß werckh so hässig, verkhert und widersinning außzutragen, ferner inquisition anzustellen’, ibid., p. 6. StAL Ra 65, 3/A, ‘Herrn M. Alexio Neukomm zubehändigen’, 21 June 1626. Five are mentioned by name in this document, but there had been others as well. ‘[A]llein der ursachen dz Er [Neukomm] nit selbs deren Autor und Ersten anfänger’, StAL Ra 65, 3/A. ‘[D]z Er [Neukomm] … alles dz jenige waß von Kirchen- und Schulrhat fur guet angesehen und per maiora beschloßen, auch darauf von einem Ers: Rhat placidirt, beliebt und gut gehäyßen worden, für lauter privatwerckh (weil sein Stim alß welche allein publicam Authoritation haben solte, nicht darbei gewesen) zuhalten und anzugeben’, ibid. ‘[A]us lauterm aigen willen und angemasster Autoritet’, ibid. As Neukomm had apparently on occasion claimed. ‘[A]llein auß pur lauter flaischlicher affecten’, StAL Ra 65, 3/A. StAL Ra 65, 7/E, ‘Vita Neukomii Sincere delineata weil er zu Lindau im Predig Ampt’ (possibly the work of Dr Funk); also a catalogue, in Neukomm’s own hand, of disputes involving Neukomm from c.1600 to 1623. While the former lists 15 incidents, those listed by Neukomm himself number 16. StAL Ra 65, 3/A, ‘Nottrungliche, warhaffte verantwortung und Endtschuldigung’, no date. A copy in Neukomm’s own hand is also extant: StAL Ra 65, 8/B. Significantly, Vögelin’s career was not visibly disrupted in 1626; indeed, he became Mayor in 1628. This contrasts sharply with the case of Neukomm’s

224 Notes to pp. 152–3

115.

116.

117.

118. 119. 120.

121.

122. 123. 124.

125.

brother, Andreas, whose career as Stadtammann ended in 1627. Vögelin’s access to the highest echelons and the innermost circles of government must have been valuable. StAL Lit 14, ‘Amts- und Dienstleute’. ‘[Dem] Concipisten, Er seye wer Er welle, leg ich [Neukomm] auf sein Gewissen volgende scharpfe wort Gregorii Turonensis Episcopi in Franckhreich so vor Eylff und halb hundert Jaren gelebt ‘Omnes obstupescant, et admirentur, et metuant, ne inferant Injurias DEI Ministris, Quia Ultor est DNS servorum, sperantium in SE’, ibid. Neukomm is referring to the Merovingian chronicler Bishop Gregory of Tours (AD 538–94). Marsilius of Padua, The Defender of Peace, trans. by A. Gewirth (New York: Columbia University Press, 1956), vol. II. Heinz Schilling cites an early modern German rebel who insisted on the justness of his cause by stating that: ‘der convent … über dem Abt ist’: Heinz Schilling, ‘Gab es im späten Mittelalter und zu Beginn der Neuzeit in Deutschland einen städtischen “Republikanismus”?’, in H.G. Koenigsberger (ed.), Republiken und Republikanismus im Europa der frühen Neuzeit (Munich: Oldenbourg, 1989) pp. 101–43. On the connection of mediaeval conciliarism to early modern republicanism, see also Brian Tierney, Religion, Law and the Growth of Constitutional Thought, 1150–1650 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1982). Neukomm was especially aggressive on this point precisely because he was on the defensive: over the course of the sixteenth century the clergy had lost much ground to the legal profession, who were steadily gaining in both expertise and standing. ‘[M]eine herren seyn in vilen stukhen ubel informirt’, StAL Ra 65, 7/C, p. 3. Ibid. StAL Ra 65, 3/B, ‘Copia Bedenckhenß Herrn Dr Georg Zeaemannß’. The extant copy of Dr Zaeman’s response to the Council is dated 1 August, but it was not presented to the Council until 18 August. StAL Ra 65, 8/D, ‘Heylsamer Rhat, Instruction unnd Process’. Zaeman included a manuscript advice manual, which he claimed was based on a work by the former Superintendent of Braunschweig, Dr Martin Chemnitz (1522–86), on how the authorities should deal with a fractious ministry. Its five basic points stated that (1) it was the duty of an Obrigkeit to mediate disputes between preachers; (2) both sides (thesis & antithesis) should be heard and a common ground sought: one should strive to establish an agreement to the most basic principles of the confession (Bekanntnuß); (3) the disputants should be made to pledge peace; (4) they were to be encouraged in friendly discussion; (5) the Obrigkeit should take seriously its task of enforcing the unity thus established among its ministers. Obviously, this plan was of very limited practical value: the idea of an Obrigkeit-enforced unity among the clergy actually encapsulated most of the contradictions central to the conflict in the first place. ‘Sowol dero Kirchen: alß Policeywesen in rühigen fridstand gebracht werden’, ibid. ‘[Neukomm] per applausum populi noch durch zutringen begert’, ibid. Zaeman credited Zwingli with the following: ‘Eß könne ein Beichtvatter mit seiner Absolution so wenig einen Confitenten Göttlicher Gnad versichern, allß er auß einer Müeckhen einen Elephanten machen’, ibid. ‘H. Evangelium, es werde gleich offentlich un ins gemein, ob der Canzel, ob dem Altar, oder anderstwo, oder privatim und inn sonderhein imm

Notes to pp. 154–6 225

126. 127. 128. 129.

130. 131. 132. 133.

134. 135.

136.

137. 138. 139.

140. 141.

Beüchtstuel oder in Privat absolution verkhundiget, khein leer feld geschrey oder todter buchstab, sonder ein Khräfftig mittel und werckhzeüg deß heyl. Geissts sei, dardurch wir bekhert, widergeborn, erleuchtet, geheiligt, gerecht und ewig seelig werden’, ibid. Neukomm probably did not need to identify his reliance on John 3, verses 3–8 here. StAL Ra 65, 3/B. The authorities assured Neukomm that his colleagues’ accounts would remain sealed until they had received his version. StAL Ra 65, 3/A. StAL Ra 65, 3/B (original in Neukomm’s hand). Neukomm’s concluding protestation of his innocence intimated that his colleagues knew of Dietrich’s intention to publish. StAL Ra 65, 8/D. StAL Ra 65, 3/A. In Neukomm’s own words the ‘haupt statum totiae Controversiae’, StAL Ra 65, 5/B. In 1603, just a few years after his appointment in Lindau, Neukomm had been involved in a pastors’ campaign for increased powers to coerce parishioners, especially through the exercise of some form of excommunication. Dr Daniel Heider had headed the secular authorities’ resistance to proposed extentions of ministerial authority: StAL Ra 68, 3. Such disputes were fairly widespread throughout Germany. ‘Er M. Neukomm … dem Statum Causae zu pervertieren gesucht’, StAL Ra 65, 5/B. ‘Da ihme [Neukomm] nemlich, über sein selbs wißen, angezeigt worden, dz In der Predigern Häusern khein confessio & absolutio gegen der Jugendt geübet, als sich auch solches nit gebürt: sonder mit demselben nur ein Examen, wie sie in ihrem Cathechismo, sonderlich dz Häylige Abendtmal betreffend, fundirt seyen, angestelt und fürgenommen worden’, StAL Ra 65, 3/A. ‘[D]z in verrichtung eines Ambts nit vill an dem Gelegen ober einer ein: oder außgeborn seye, sonder ob Er sein Ampt und gehorsam gegen der Obrigkeit recht verrichte und In Acht nemme’, ibid. StAL Ra 65, 3/A. Hence the ‘lost protocol’ proceeds directly to Neukomm’s sermon of 5 November: StAL Ra 65, 5/B. StAL Ra 65, 5/B, ‘Notae über Newkhomische schrifftliche resolution vomm 26. Octobr. An. 1626’. This piece is in the same hand as the post mortem account of the uprising ascribed to Ulrich Miller. Since Miller was at this time suspended from office, it makes sense that this document should lack all official markings or designations. ‘[E]in offt interpolitiertes Oberländisches werckh’, ibid. Apparently the exact words to be spoken had never been fixed in the Kirchenagend and the customary formula was open to expedient revision: ‘ex stilo allso gebrauch worden, der leib und blutt Christi für dich inn todt gegeben, stärch und erhalt dich zuem leben [sic] ewigen leben Amen. Dieweil aber dise wort einen Calvinischen Communicanten nicht genugsam stringieren Allß haben die allten herren ministri … die anderstwoh gebräuchliche wort, nimm hin und iß oder trinckh, dz ist der leib oder blutt Christi, auch zuaddieren’, ibid.

226 Notes to pp. 156–7 142. On the ‘Jesuit panic’ in Lindau, see Chapter 4, ‘Religious minorities and politics’; also Chapter 2, ‘A mayor’s view’. 143. ‘[W]as er Herr Newkhom, für weitere variationes und tergiversationes, dieses [private confession] und anders halben, einstreyen, und hierunder sich, auf sein donum eloquii und daher habender anhang von einem gueten theil deß Gemeinen Rathfreündts und Mannes nich wenig verlassen thuet’, StAL Ra 65, 5/B. 144. One must consider the following scenario as improbable yet, especially in view of the half-hearted draft Fürhalt (ostensibly for presentation to the citizens and peasants on 7 November), not impossible: the authorities now considered a crisis to be inevitable, and the suspension and the Fürhalt were an elaborate charade which would provide the rulers of Lindau with a firm documentary basis for re-establishing their credibility and authority following the expected uprising. 145. ‘[E]ine gar Scharpf nachdenkhliche und zur eregung der Burgerschafft anlasliche Predig’, StAL Ra 65, 7/C, ‘Lost protocol’. The following day no fewer than ten prominent Lindauers, including Neukomm’s colleagues Magister Hager and Magister Müller, the schoolmaster Magister Bayer, the advocates Dr Räm, Dr Funk and Dr Heider, the secretaries David Felß, Heinrich Felß the younger and at least one unidentified individual, were interrogated by the authorities about the content of Neukomm’s sermon. 146. For example, Magister Hager claimed that he could not recall details; Magister Bayer asserted that he had been confused by Neukomm and could not follow his sermon; and Magister Müller excused himself with reference to his catarrh and coughing fits which had kept him outside the church and had prevented him from hearing most of the sermon. 147. StAL, 65, 5/B, Dr Abraham Räm’s testimony. ‘Die beicht alhie im Chor seye gleichsam ein Privat beicht, weiln in selbiger den Communicanten vorgelesen werde waß daß H. Abentmal seie’. 148. StAL Ra 65, 5/B, Heinrich Felß’s testimony. ‘Und das khein Mensch auch die geringste sünd nicht büessen oder für die selbe vollkommenlich genug thun khönne … sie [Catholic orders] nicht allein die sünden büessen, sonder auch mehrers thun und andern mitheilen khönnen, darbei ihre vermeinte guete werckh erzehlend, und andeütend, welcher gestalt man auch die gaabe Gottes misbrauche, welches sonderlich auch Päpstliche gaistlichen thuen’. 149. StAL Ra 65, 5/B, Michael Felß’s testimony. ‘Dieweil nit allein der Erzfeind deß Christlichen namens der Türckh (deme mann ohne das, wegen fürgangener Mauscherei und dahero erscheinenden geltmangels, inn der ganzen Christenheit schwerlich werde widerstand thuen künden) so starkh erzeige und sehen lasse, sonder auch die grewliche Bluethünd die Jesuiter schon albereit am zaun’. Here Neukomm also quoted Luther’s translation of Paul’s epistle to the Galatians, ‘So ihr euch aber untereinander beißet und fresset, so sehet zu, daß ihr nicht untereinander verzehrt werdet’ (Galatians 5, verse 15). 150. ‘Daß du verdammt werdest mit deinem Gelde’ (Acts 8, verse 20). 151. StAL Ra 65, 5/B, Michael Felß’s testimony, ‘Mann fünd aber solche leüth, die sich darob nit entsezen, sonder dörffen, auß der hand derselben Predigers, deme sie doch von Herzen feind, dz H: Abendmahl empfangen’.

Notes to pp. 157–9 227 152. Notably, this is a point recounted only in testimony of the City Syndic Dr Daniel Heider. 153. StAL Ra 65, 5/B, Magister Matthias Hager’s testimony: ‘Fern soll es sein, das alle die Jenigen, so bisher diser ordnung nach, das H. Nachtmal empfangen, dasselbig nit rechtm. und unwürdig, solten empfangen haben, und also ewig müßten verlohren sein. Darumb dann Unser Kirch und Gemein bei diser alten guten ordnung billich ohnverändert verpleiben soll’; ibid., Calixt Riedtmann’s testimony: ‘Fern und aber Fern von uns seye daß unsere In Gott ruhende Voreltern, Und andere So noch bey uns Leben, so Sie in dieser Jetzigen Beicht horen daß Sacrament empfangen Solten verdampt Sein. Auß ursach Sam soll Ir dise beicht nicht genugsam oder vervolkomen sein’; ibid., anonymous testimony: ‘so soll fern und aber fern sein daß solche wohlbestellt nun bei 80 Jahren gewährte, bißher mit guetem nuzen gebrauchte Kirchenordnung Jezo alß ohnrecht solte abgethan werden. fern solle sein, daß wir unsern verstorbenen Voreltern die ohnehr aufthuen, und sagen, daß sie ein ohncristlich, ohnrechte und ohncräfftige ordnung sollten gehabt, oder aber daß H. Abentmal nicht recht gebraucht haben, und also ewig müssen verlohren sein.’ Ibid., Dr Daniel Heider’s testimony: ‘Dise Kirchenordnung sie vonn 60. 70. 80. jahren gewesen, und soll man unsern verstorbnen voreltern nich aufthuen, dz sie ein ohnchristliche, ohnrechte und ohnkräfftige ordnung solten gebraucht haben’. 154. According to the Neukomm Chronicle, the Felß family were recent arrivals from Constance: StAL Lit 25, p. 444; Heider hailed from Nördlingen. 155. ‘Wir (ministri) hencken uns an die Juristen, deren werckh seye es [the proposed changes]. Andere Theologi und Antecessores und Prediger allhie haben besser gewußt wz der Kirchen nuzlich und erbawlich alls wir, die erst daher kommen’, StAL Ra 65, 5/B. 156. ‘Andere Evangelische Kirchen wissen solches eben so wol, welche die privat confession und absolution haben’, ibid. 157. Heinrich Schmidt has noted consciousness of both time (Zeitbewußtsein) and space (Flächenbewußtsein) which was fundamental to the self-perceptions of German urban chroniclers: Heinrich Schmidt, Die deutschen Städtechroniken als Spiegel des bürgerlichen Selbstverständnisses im Spätmittelalter (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1958). 158. Such an extremely long view is by no means novel. For example, Thomas A. Brady has linked the Reformation to the ‘age of the guild revolts’, identifying Zwinglianism as part of the guilds’ last stand against the patriciates. Thomas A. Brady, Jr, Ruling Class, Regime and Reformation at Strasbourg 1520–1555 (Leiden: E.J. Brill, 1978), p. 238. Plainly, as the ‘guild revolts’ persisted, so did their connection with religious issues, although the Reformation complicated the equation immeasureably. 159. The ‘lost protocol’ states that the decision to proceed in this matter was unanimous (einhellig), StAL Ra 65, 7/C. 160. StAL Ra 65, 3/A, ‘Decret Alexio Newkhommen zu behändigen’. 161. A Revers bearing Neukomm’s signature is mentioned, but no date is specified. 162. Meaning his ‘Nottdrungenliche, warhaffte, veranttworttung und Entschuldigung’; this was almost certainly written in late June, following the Fürhalt of 21 June. The copy in Neukomm’s own hand, however, bears a chancellery receipt mark dated 25 October 1626.

228 Notes to pp. 159–62 163. StAL Ra 65, 5/B, ‘Concept fürhalt so der burgerschafft von der Canzel bescheehen sollen den 7. Novembris 1626’.

7

After the Uprising: Obrigkeit Regained

1. See Chapter 3, ‘A guildsman’s view’. 2. Of outstanding importance are a ‘clean’ protocol covering 13–29 November and a virtually unique set of ‘rough’ minutes and voting lists from the consultations of various Lindau authorities on 24, 26, 27, 29 November and 1 December: StAL Ra 65, 5/A and Ra 65, 4/B. Significant diplomatic sources include the correspondences of Neukomm’s four colleagues with Dr Zaeman of Memmingen and Dr Dietrich of Ulm. 3. ‘[B]esser vertrawen zwischen einem E. Rhat und der Bürgerschaft zupflanzen’, StAL Ra 65, 5/A. 4. ‘[D]er ertheilte Rhats schein, welcher Unordenlich, Unformblich und wider ein E. Rhats willen, armata manu außhanden gezogen’, StAL Ra 65, 5/A. 5. ‘Bei diser Zunfft is es gar Ungestümm daher gangen, und hat der gemeine Mann geschreyen, wir wöllen beim alten Vertrag bleiben’, StAL Ra 65, 5/A. 6. ‘Und daruff die 3 herrn Bürgermeister mit der Burgerschafft, und sie hingegen mit Ihnen deßwegen mit dem gewohnlichen Burger Ayd von Newem sich zusamen verpinden’, StAL Ra 65, 4, ‘Der Gemeind [guild committee] Resolution’. 7. ‘Und obwoln nachdencklich gewesen, das auch die drei Herrn Burgermeister schwören sollen … denoch amore pacis, und damit der Burgerschafft daß eingewurzelte Mißtrawen benommen werde, hat man alle privat considerationen beiseit gesezt und in allen Puncten der Burgerschafft zuwillfahren sich resolvirt’, StAL Ra 65, 5/A. 8. The accord thereby established is identified throughout as the Vertrag. 9. ‘Von Zunfften verordnete außschuz Ir fürbringen acceptiert, und wellen morgen schwören, doch nit uff dem Gerichtshauß, man mochte sie etwan wellen mit Pulffer sprengen’, ibid., p. 17. The news of the 1605 ‘gunpowder plot’ to blow up the English Parliament had captured continental imaginations. Indeed, Ulrich Neukomm commented on the news of the conspiracy to blow up King James and his Parliament reaching Lindau: StAL Lit 25, ‘Neukomm’sche Chronik’, p. 333. 10. The difference between ‘rough’ Concept and ‘clean’ Protocol is revealed in annotations to the Concept by one of the advocates. Dr Kreidenmann, who apparently took the initiative throughout the proceedings, suggested that the minutes of the deliberations be compiled into a protocol but that, after the advocates in Ulm and Memmingen had been fully briefed, the original transcripts be stored in a safe place because they documented how negotiations had actually been conducted with the rebels. It can be inferred that the protocol provided an account which was expedient at the time; the official position, however, and therefore also the official representation of that position, might require adjustment at some later date. An imperial commission or renewed trouble with the citizens and peasants were mentioned as situations in which recourse to the original Concept might be appropriate: StAL Ra 65, 4, p. 19.

Notes to pp. 162–4 229 11. 12. 13. 14. 15.

16. 17. 18. 19.

20.

21. 22.

23. 24.

25. 26. 27.

28.

29.

30.

‘[D]er gehorsamen seyen mehr dan der anderen’, StAL Ra 65, 4, p. 1. ‘[F]ast die ganze Burgerschafft in armis gewesen’, ibid., p. 6. Ibid., pp. 9–10. ‘[D]ie Burger sagen man well dz wetter uff sie richten’, ibid., p. 10. An annotation to the register of public office holders in 1626 records Weber’s dismissal from the Council on 29 November: StAL Lit 14 ‘Amts- und Dienstleute’. There is some indication elsewhere in the Council minutes that Weber had become something of a political liability for other reasons as well and might simply have been considered the most expendable member of the Council. Ibid., pp. 7–8. Ibid., pp. 16–17. StAL Ra 65, 3/B. This would appear to be the earliest dated Lindau document registering a response to the uprising of 7 November. The instruction can be deduced from a letter from the ministers to Dr Zaeman, of Kempten, dated 11 November: StAL Ra 65, 3/B, ‘Missiva An hern D. Georginn Zeaeman’, p. 3. ‘[H]ierin von uns [pastors] weder zu vil noch zu wenig geschehen damit die Schwürigen durch schärpffe nicht noch mehr irritirt, und die Unrhue ernewert’, ibid. ‘Darauff aber bald sein [Neukomm’s] faction eingebrochen, welche auch andere von der Burgerschafft auffgewickeilt und getriben’, ibid., p. 2. ‘[W]ir [pastors] dann bei der noch Schwürigen Burgerschafft, wenig poenitenz oder berewung, solcher Ihrer wider Gott und der fürgesezten Obrigkeit, begangnen schweren Sünd und verbrechung bißdaher verspüren könden’, ibid. ‘Vil auch under solchen tumult gewesen die von den anderen, wider Iren willen, darzu gezogen worden’, ibid., p. 3. In correspondence with the Superintendent at Ulm, Dr Dietrich, the pastors reiterated the ‘party line’: ‘Da nicht allein vil under der Burgerschafft in der statt die an disem Tumult kein gefallen, sampt den Weibspersonen, sonder auch die Baurschafft auff dem Land, deren ettlich hundert sich diser empörung nicht interessert gemacht’, StAL Ra 65, 3/B. StAL Ra 65, 3/B. ‘[Pastors] … sind in unserm herzen versichert, dz wir eine gutte gerechte Sach, auch an fürgelauffnen Tumult die wenigste Ursach nicht haben’, ibid. ‘So ist uns [pastors] selber nicht alles (ausserhalb wz sich in der Kirchen sich verloffen) durchaus eigentlich und unfehlbar bewusst wz abendens darvor [6 November] in Neoventurae [Neukomm’s] behausung für praeparatoria darzu gemacht worden’, ibid. For example, a summary sent to Dr Jelin on 30 November stated that Neukomm had held particular sway among Lindau’s female population: StAL Ra 65, 4/B, ‘Summarischer Kurzer Begriff’. This contradicts the pastors’ claims, cited above, that women were not involved. See also Chapter 2. ‘[D]er beste weg aber wäre wann man Ihn [Neukomm] gar auß der Stadt bringen köndte’, StAL Ra 65, 5/B, Zaeman to four junior pastors, 30 November 1626. ‘Neoventurs bedrewlicher lezten verantwortung [before the uprising] so nach ein Münsterischen und Münzerischen Geist starck gewohn’, ibid.

230 Notes to pp. 164–6 31. StAL Ra 65, 7/A. 32. StAL Ra 65, 3/B. They avoid calling it Vertrag, but rather refer to a Tractation. 33. ‘Welches [Kreidenmann’s Vertrag] auch be vilen verständigen ehrlichen Burgern, wol hette gefrucht … So ist doch die Schwürigkeit bei dem verhezten unverständigen gemeinem Pöpel, wie auch sonderlich das hoche mistrawen, so groß gewesen, dz sie sana consilia nit admittiren wollen’, ibid. 34. On the retention of the Schein: ‘Darein dann auch obangedeüte gutherzige Burger, mit einstimmen und consentieren müessen, da sie anderst mit grosser gefahr, blutvergiessen inter Cives, einfall in die Häuser und blünderung (so die heillosesten am liebsten gesehen) wollen gewärtig sein’, ibid. 35. ‘Er [Alexius Neukomm] höre gern, dz es wider zu einer composition und vergleichung zwischen der Obrigkeit und Burgerschafft gelangt und kommen sei’, ibid. 36. In a letter from the Lindau ministry to Dr Zaeman dated 9 December the recalcitrants were described as ‘Unverständigen Pöpel’ or ‘Unverständigen harten Pöpel’: StAL Ra 65, 3/B. 37. Ulm sent Privy Councillors Hans Schad and Leonhard Erasmus Schorer, the advocate, Dr Mattheus Stürzel, and the Councillor, Philipp Albrecht Rhad; Memmingen sent their Mayor, Hans Luz von Freyberg, and the advocate, Dr Jacob Jenisch; Kempten sent Mayor Lucas Freiberger, Stadtammann Martin Geiger and their City Secretary, Zimprecht Sattler. 38. Kreidenmann’s account is unexceptional but for the claim that before agreeing to the Vertrag of 30 November the peasants had not just demanded a free drink of wine (as is suggested by the original transcript, StAL Ra 65, 4/B), but had actually been pressing to have all wine for personal consumption exempted from the hated excise: ‘Item von dem Ungelt einen Trinkhwein nachsehen solle’. Later comments by the delegates show that they indeed understood Kreidenmann’s words to mean that the peasants had forced the Council to relinquish some of the excise. On the issue of the Umgeld, see Chapter 4, ‘The wine excise’. 39. StAL Ra 65, 6/C. 40. The opening address, delivered by the delegate Dr Stürzel, said that the other cities wished to intervene in accordance with the Städteabschied of 1591 and 1606 and that they sought to uncover ‘ob dieses [Lindavian] wesen also componirt daß dardurch kheine weitere gefahr zubesorgen und sonderlich auch die Oberkeitliche Autoritet erhalten worden’, ibid. 41. ‘[D]aß dardurch ein Völliges guetes vertrawen zwischen dem Magistrat und den Unterthonen möge erhalten werden’, ibid. 42. ‘Item daß man noch gern dem Magistrat die schuld solcher unruhe zumessen wollt, weil derselbig bei der Nacht Rhat gehalten’, ibid. 43. ‘Wann schon die Oberkheit den Türckhischen glauben einführen wollen, hette doch den Unterthonen wider sie zu rebelliren nicht gebürt’, ibid. An interesting variation on a confessional trope. 44. Heider had sought refuge in Kempten and a letter from him to the Lindau authorities dated 12 November shows that he thought it best to avoid Lindau. As a justification Heider cited the example of Lindau’s first Syndic, Dr Rudolph Ehinger, who had fled to Ulm following the Lindau Colloquium of 1575, in order to facilitate efforts at calming the citizenry: StAL Ra 65, 6/C. Letters received by Lindauers in early January 1627 show that Heider

Notes to pp. 166–7 231

45.

46.

47. 48.

49.

50.

51.

52. 53. 54. 55. 56. 57. 58.

had taken up residence in Kempten; for example, StAL Ra 65, 4/A, Heider to Felß, 4 January 1627. Weber held Dr Funk responsible for overturning a decision on a testament disputed by Weber and his son-in-law; an initial decision had been in Weber’s favour, but the second time around his adversary had been awarded the inheritance. See also Thomas A. Brady Jr, Turning Swiss: Cities and Empire 1450–1550 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1985); and Gerald Strauss, Law, Resistance and the State: The Opposition to Roman law in Reformation Germany (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1986). ‘[W]eil nunmehr Rhat, Gericht und Gemeind ein Corpus und für ein Mann stehen, Eß wollte ein jeder unter ihnen, seine befreündte und angehörige auf guete weeg disponieren und daß Werchk wol einleuchten, wanns geschech, wurde es nicht wenig nuz Schaffen’, StAL Ra 65, 6/C. See Chapter 3, ‘The “guild-constitution” ’. Three official copies were issued for safekeeping to the foreign delegates, the Council, and the Stadtammann on behalf of the Court. Two Lindavian copies are extant: (1) ‘Copia Vergleichs’ (the Council copy, bearing the signatures of Hans Schad, Hans Luz von Freyberg and Martin Geiger), StAL Ra 65, 4/B; (2) ‘Corrigierter Vertrag Zwischen einem E. Raht der Statt Lindaw und den Bürgern betrefent den Aufstanndt welcher sich den 7. Novembris daselbsten wegen ihres Predigers Herren M. Alexii Neukomß welcher die Privat beicht alhie einzufuhren verhindret aufgericht worden’ (rather revealingly entitled and possibly the Court’s official copy), StAL Ra 65, 6/B. ‘[E]ineß Ers: Raths Oberkeitlichen gebotten, verbotten, und verhandlungen willfährig gelebt, denselben aller schuldiger gehorsam, Ehr und respect gelaistet, und Alleß daß trewlich und redlich in Acht genommen werden solle, was der Bürger- und Baurschafft unlangst glaister Ayd außweyset’, ibid. ‘[E]inem Ers. Rhat seine in Gayst- und Weltlichem … und allen andern Oberkeitlichen sachen, handlungen, und verordnungen habende jurisdiction Ober- Und[er] herlichkeit, allerdings ungetadelt, und ungeschmelert und dero Exercitium ohne alle der Bürgerschafft einträg und verhinderung verbleiben, Auch der [Council’s] diener und Advocaten gewalthätiger weiß nicht molestiert oder beunrüewiget’, ibid. ‘Und ihre [Council’s] liebe Bürger- und Baurschafft, alß guetlich und völlig versöhnet, widerumb zue Oberkaitlichen hulden, schuz, schirm und versorgung empfangen und genommen’, ibid. ‘Ehr, würde, herrlichkeit, gerechtigkeit, freyhait, immuniteten, und stand’, ibid. ‘[D]aß Oberkeitliche Ampt Vätterlich, güetlich, gebürlich vor Gott und der welt verantwortlich gefüehret werden möge’, ibid. ‘[H]iermit alleß in altem ruhigen wolstand so wol in der Kürchen … alß auch in der Policey, gesezt worden’, ibid. ‘Extract protocolli’, StAL Ra 65, 5/C. ‘Erstlich … daß er [magistracy] sich inn ihrem officio animos erzeigen, und nit gleich einem ieden weichen sollen’, ibid. In mediaeval Latin cautela generally denoted caution or a safeguard and could refer specifically to a bond of good behaviour. ‘Und weil die beede alte reces cassirt, werde bei einem Ers. Rath stehn, waß weiter zuthun von nöten’, ibid.

232 Notes to pp. 168–70 59. ‘Durch der Erb. Stätt Ulm, Memmingen, und Kempten abgesandte erinnert worden, die ienige männgell und gebrechen so zue ferntigem Auffstand anlaß und ursach gegeben, etwaß genawer dann biß dahin, zuerkundigen’, StAL Ra 114, 9, p. 1. 60. Although the advocates were here responding to the guild supplication to the Council of 9 February 1627, there is also a supplication dated 3 July 1623 (receipt acknowledged 12 April 1624). Chronologically, this coincided with yet another apex of citizen-Council tension. In 1623 the guild had complained that female tailors were training female apprentices and that, although the guild statutes allowed women to purchase membership, they were not qualified to train successors. The essentially male guild thus reserved the sole right to replicate itself. The tailors further complained that their inability to control the unlicensed practice of their trade stemmed from the immediate circumstances of rampant inflation which meant that the old set fines of four or five florins were no deterrent: StAL Ra 114, 9. 61. ‘[N]icht offentlich, jedoch heimlich’, ibid., p. 1v. In theory, the difference between Schneiderarbeit and Näharbeit was that the latter involved only alterations and repairs. Finally, this Jahrmarkt coincided with the uprising of 1626. 62. ‘[M]orgens langsam an der Arbeit, deß Tags verdrüssig, und zue abent balt wider darvon’, StAL Ra 114, 9, p. 3. 63. Which was somehow connected to an increase in Hauszins, presumably because it reduced the number of households (that is, marriage unions) in Lindau. 64. ‘[D]ie Hoffarth, Meisterlosigkeit, und Schlupfwinckhell befürdert werden’, ibid., p. 4. 65. StAL Ra 45, 7, ‘Copia der Straff Urthel’; the original was signed by Count Hugo of Montfort, Dr Erasmus Pascha and Dr Johann Laurenz Riesch. 66. ‘Sie [inquisitors] haben aber dabei sovil verspürt, daß zubesorgen, der gelaiste Inquisitions oder Zeügen Eyd bei ettlichen nit inn gebührende obacht gezogen sei’, ibid., p. 1. 67. Jacob Käß, a clothcutter, formed the rebels into command units; Mathiß Burgawer, a pursemaker, went to fetch the peasants from the mainland village of Aeschach; Hans Abbt organized the inhabitants of the Fischergasse and helped formulate demands; Peter Lang, a chandler, was described as having been an instigator. 68. Citizens reportedly collected swords, halberds, lances and muskets. 69. The 23 names seem to be ordered according to the gravity of the transgression. 70. StAL Lit 14, ‘Amts- und Dienstleute’. 71. Once again, the lack of fiscal data for Lindau precludes any closer analysis along socio-economic criteria. In a sixteenth-century uprising in Kitzingen, although a citizen opposition openly provided a leadership alternative to the Council, those ultimately punished as troublemakers can be differentiated as a third economic stratum. See I. Bátori, ‘Ratsherren und Aufrührer: soziale und ökonomische Verhältnisse in der Stadt Kitzingen zur Zeit des Bauernkriegs und der Reformation’, in W.J. Mommsen, Peter Alter and Robert W. Scribner (ed.), The Urban Classes, the Nobility and the Reformation (Stuttgart: Klett-Cotta, 1979).

Notes to pp. 170–4 233 72. ‘[G]rossen schaden und merckhliche Cösten … welche vilernante M. Alexius Newkhom hauptsächlich verursachet’, ibid., p. 12. 73. Indeed, since there is no evidence of any substantial intra-citizen clash on 7 November, the entire citizenry may have been liable. 74. On 2 June 1628 Magister Hager delivered from the pulpit a Fürtrag concerning private confession and absolution: StAL Ra 65, 8/D. 75. StAL Ra 65, 8/A, Bürgermeister and Council of Lindau to Johann Friedrich Duke of Württemberg, 18 July 1628. 76. Questions concerning the legal independence of Lindau, brought to the attention of a general audience by Daniel Heider’s Gründliche Ausführung, became the subject of a celebrated jurisprudential debate known as the bellum diplomaticum Lindaviense. Gerold Meyer von Knonau, ‘Das bellum diplomaticum Lindaviense’, Historische Zeitschrift 26 (1871) pp. 75–130; idem, ‘Nachtrag zu Bd. XXVI S, pp. 75–130: Das bellum diplomaticum Lindaviense’, Historische Zeitschrift 27 (1872) pp. 208–10. 77. Steven Pincus, ‘Neither Machiavellian Moment nor Possessive Individualism: Commercial Society and the Defenders of the English Commonwealth’, American Historical Review 103 (1998) pp. 705–36.

8

Conclusions

1. Natalie Zemon Davis, Fiction in the Archives: Pardon Tales and their Tellers in Sixteenth-Century France (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 1987) p. 4. The lineage is widely accepted; for a brief recent exposition see Carlo Ginzburg, ‘Aristotele, la storia, la prova’, Quaderni Storici 85 (1994) pp. 5–17. 2. Joyce Appleby, Lynn Hunt and Margaret Jacob, Telling the Truth About History (New York: W.W. Norton, 1994) p. 290. 3. See for example, Joachim Whaley, ‘Obedient Servants? Lutheran Attitudes to Authority and Society in the First Half of the Seventeenth Century: The Case of Johann Balthasar Schupp’, The Historical Journal 35 (1992) pp. 27–42; also Peter Blickle, Oberschwaben: Politik als Kultur einer deutschen Geschichtslandschaft (Tübingen: Bibliotheca Academica, 1996). On historiographical developments and other representations since 1990, see Stefan Berger, ‘Historians and Nation-Building in Germany after Reunification’ Past and Present 148 (1995) pp. 187–222, and Yosefa Loshitzky, ‘Inverting Images of the 40s: The Berlin Wall and Collective Amnesia’, Journal of Communication 45 (1995) pp. 93–107. 4. Edward Muir, Ritual in Early Modern Europe (New York: Cambridge University Press, 1997).

Appendix I: Glossary of Some Key Lindavian Terms Ammann: bailiff. Ausschuß: an appointed governmental subcommittee. Ausstand: the practice of disqualifying an individual from public office or service because of a possible conflict of interests. In Lindau the practice was formalized in the Ausstandsordnung. Beiwohner: Lindauer of semi-citizen status, usually an inhabitant of the mainland territories. Canzleisubstitut: junior clerk. Damenstift: aristocratic ladies’ convent. Decret: a decree or direct Council order. Deprecation: an official acknowledgement of error submitted to the authorities. Elfer: one of the eleven representatives of each guild which together constituted the 88-member Great Council before 1551. The Sünfzen also had Elfer, and although these were not included in the Great Council, a number of them regularly occupied positions in the City Court. Filz: an unofficial scolding. Fuder: a standard large volume commonly used to measure wine; it is named after a vessel roughly equivalent to a ‘tun’. Fünfer: one of five men appointed in each guild to help administer the guild after 1551. Fürgesetzter: appointed guild official of the post-1551 period; function unclear; possibly identical with the Vorsteher. Fürhalt: an official admonition. Fürsprech: a formally appointed spokesman, especially in a public forum such as a court of law; not the same thing as a professional advocate. Gemeind: (1) the guild or citizens’ commune, or an assembly thereof; (2) a village commune, or an assembly thereof; (3) the parish commune; (4) the ‘Commons’; a post-1551 governmental body of 20 representatives from the guild or citizens’ commune. Hauptmann: village captain; as the Council liason to the rural population he functioned much like a guild Obmann. Heiratsgut: property brought into a marriage by a woman and specified as the unalienable property of herself and her heirs. Kellnhof: one of four manorial estates (and associated villages) situated on the mainland around Lindau. The control of these was contested by the City and the Convent of Lindau. Kindsvogt: trustee. Landschafft: all those mainland peasants who swore allegiance to the City or the Council of Lindau. Landweibel: a territorial lord’s lieutenant. Marktverseher: Council-appointed overseer of Lindau’s market. Morgengabe: a substantial gift of a groom to his bride on the morning following the nuptials. Possibly viewed in analogue to the dowry, it remained at the 234

Glossary 235 disposal of the woman and her heirs, distinct from any conjugal property pool. Musmehlschauer: Council-appointed porridge meal inspector. Narrenhaus: a detention cell for petty offenders, especially women. Obmann: after 1551, the leading appointed guild official; possibly the same as the Vorsteher. Obrigkeit: (1) jurisdiction; (2) sovereign authority; (3) the authorities; the government. Pfleger: warden; apparently not as powerful or prestigious as a Vogt (2). Pfund Pfennig: a ‘pound-pence’; by the sixteenth century the value of this currency was fixed at twice that of a Pfund Heller, or pound of ‘light pence’. Ratsknecht: Council attendant or servant. Revers: receipt; formal capitulation or withdrawal. Richter: judge; a member of the City Court. Spital: common shortened form of Heilig Geist Hospital, the main charitable foundation in Lindau and a major lord (owning both land and serfs) in the area. By the sixteenth century the Spital was firmly under the control of the Council. Stadtammann: generally, ‘mayor’; in Lindau the head of the City Court and keeper of one of the city’s (as opposed to the Council’s) seal. Stadthalter or Statthalter: Lindavian usage obscure. In Swabia generally taken to denote a Landvogt’s lieutenant or Schultheiß. Stadthauptmann: City Captain; a professional military man employed to lead Lindau’s militia. Stadtknecht: City attendant or guardsman. Stadtrecht: Lindau’s statute law. Sünfzen: Lindau’s patrician sodality and merchant association. Trögel: servant in charge of measuring grain in the municipal stores. Umgeld: excise; in Lindau it commonly denoted a consumption tax on wine. Verehrung: a discretionary award by the Council, often of wine or grain. Vermöglich: of means, capable, empowered. Verweis: an official reprimand. Vogt: (1) governor; (2) trustee; Council-appointed administrator of personal or municipal property. Vormundschaft: guardianship; a Vormund had a predominantly legal function and apparently did not share the financial responsibilities of a Vogt (2). Vorsteher: one of a variety of guild officials appointed in accordance with Charles V’s revised constitution; possibly the same as the Obman. Zunftbuch: volume of guild statutes kept by each of Lindau’s eight guilds. Zwanziger: a member of the 20-member Great Council or Commons after 1551.

Appendix II: Important Government Offices and Bodies (up to c.1551) Major bodies Council (Rat): Normally 24 members. Included: a Chief and Lieutenant Bürgermeister (Oberbürgermeister and Unterbürgermeister); 14 Councillors (Rät); 8 Guildmasters (Zunftmeister), one from each guild. City Court (Stadgericht): Normally 18 members. Included: one Stadtammann; 11 or 12 Judges (Richter); four to six representatives of the Sünfzen (Elfer). Great Council (Großer- or Gemeinderat): 88 members (Elfer) in all, eleven from each of the eight Guilds.

Sub-committees and offices Privy Council (Geheimrat): Membership recorded from 1544 onwards. Seven members. Included: two serving Bürgermeister; the previous year’s two Bürgermeister (Altbürgermeister); the three most senior Councillors. Finance Committee (Stüblin): Three members, usually from the City Court. Included: a Chief Works Commissioner (Oberbaumeister); a Bursar (Seckhelmeister); a Secretary (Stüblinschreiber). Chancery (Canzlei): several secretaries under the leadership of the City Secretary (Stadtschreiber); the office of Council Secretary (Ratsschreiber) is also in evidence, although its official relation to the Chancery remains unclear.

Other administrative appointees The daily administration of Lindau necessitated a host of government servants and appointees. These looked after everything from the collection of special taxes and the procurement of municipal grain, armour, etc., to the organization of the civil defence (Bürgerwehr) and safety inspections (Feurschau) to the organization of the market and the quality inspection of bread (Brotschau), meat (Fleischschau), etc. In the late 1520s this petty officialdom was greatly enlarged because of the necessity of overseeing the dissolution of Catholic institutions in Lindau and administering the considerable properties appropriated by the City.

236

Appendix III: Important Government Offices and Bodies (after c.1551) Major bodies Council (Rat or Senatus): 16 members. Included: three Bürgermeister, one of whom, designated as Amtsbürgermeister, acted as the Council’s ‘chair’ or ‘chief executive’; two Privy Councillors, who together with the three Bürgermeister constituted the Privy Council. City Court (Stadtgericht): 14 members; 16 from 1591 onwards. Included: a Stadtamman, nominal mayor of Lindau, and his deputy, the Stadtammanamtsverweser. Commons (Großer Rat, Gemeind, Zwanziger): 20 members.

Sub-committees and offices Privy Council (Geheimrat or Seniores): Five members. Included the three Bürgermeister and the two Geheime Rät who were the two most senior members of the Council. These five men dominated the daily administration of Lindau. Chancery (Canzlei): Towards the end of the sixteenth century, the standards of administrative recordkeeping in Lindau were greatly improved, with an associated enhanced importance for the Chancery and its Secretaries. The extraordinary career of the Secretary Johann Bertlin (1588–1615) undoubtedly also contributed to the increased definition and prestige of this office. Education Committee (Kirchen- und Schulrat): Apparently no fixed size. Included: several representatives of the clergy (including schoolmasters), Privy Councillors, Syndics and, possibly, the Medicus. Because representatives of the Clergy and of the secular administration were normally present in equal numbers, the Doctores held the balance of power. As a rule they sided with the Bürgermeister and his Privy Councillors. This committee basically functioned as a Consistorium, although the authorities carefully circumvented the term, probably to forestall popular resistance. Syndics (Stadtsyndicus, Ratsadvocat): Lindau hired its first Syndic, Dr Rudoph Ehinger, in 1558. By the next generation there were already at least two professional advocates, Dr Daniel Heider and Dr Ulrich Funk, in City or Council employ. Pastors (Pfarrer, Prediger): The Lindau Council first engaged a preacher in 1526. By mid-century there were four ministers who were responsible for the pastoral care of a large mainland area as well as the City itself. In 1617 a fifth pastoral position was created. In addition to these five pastors, Lindau also engaged schoolmasters who, by the seventeenth century, normally used the title Magister. 237

238 Appendix III

Other administrative appointees Charles V’s constitutional reforms did nothing to rationalize Lindau’s municipal administration and bureaucracy and the host of petty officials and appointees retained their importance throughout the sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries.

Appendix IV: Chronology* 1518–22: The Franciscan preacher Michael Hugo reads and annotates Luther imprints published in these years. Hugo’s copies remain in Lindau. 1522–3: Hugo enters into open dispute with Johannes Faber. The former is very popular and the dispute is avidly followed in the city; numerous songs and verses about Faber are sung in the streets. 1524: The Council demands that Faber relinquish all control over the affairs of St Stephan. When Faber’s tithe is not paid, he holds the Council responsible and initiates a lengthy legal action. 1525: 26 February. The monastery of Langnau is sacked by the Rappertsweiler Haufen of peasants. Their leader, Dietrich Hurlewangen, is a citizen of Lindau. In May, following the Treaty of Weingarten, Langnau is sacked a second time. 1525: March. The sacrament is dispensed in both kinds for the first time. 1526: A committee of school inspectors, or visitatores, is established. 1526: The Lindau Council formally engages Magister Thomas Gassner as the first City pastor. 1527: Marriages and baptisms are celebrated in German with the congregation of St Stephan as witness. 1527: Lindau deliberates following the example of Constance in joining the Swiss evangelical cities in a mutual defence agreement. 1528: Council assumes control over what is left of the Franciscan monastery in Lindau. 1528: Several practising Anabaptists are expelled from Lindau. When they return, they are incarcerated; none is ever executed. 1530: The articles of the Confessio Tetrapolitana are presented to the Emperor at Augsburg. 1530: The pastor of St Stephan, Thomas Gassner, marries a former nun of the Convent, Katharina von Ramschwag. 1530: 15 June. Zunftmeister Job Nesar heads a Council-sanctioned destruction of the images of St Stephan, which had already been removed and stored in 1528. 1531: The guilds reject a proposed mutual defence pact with Zürich or Bern. 1531: 27 February. Lindau officially joins the Schmalkaldic League. 1532: Wolfgang Capito and Johann Zwick preach in Lindau. Zwick intoduces a catechism into the Latin school.

*This chronology is based on the following primary and secondary sources: (1) K. Wolfart, Geschichte der Stadt Lindau im Bodensee, vol. 1 (1909); E. Sehling, Die evangelischen Kirchen Ordnungen des XVI. Jahrhunderts, vol. 12.ii (1963); (2) Jacob Lynns, ‘Annales Lindavienses’, StAL Lit 18; Johann Bertlin, ‘Bertlin’sche Chronik’, StAL Lit 19; Ulrich and Alexius Neukomm, ‘Neukomm’sche Chronik’, StAL Lit 25; (3) Stadtarchiv Lindau, Ratsprotokolle (StAL Rp) 1525–8, 1527–9, 1528–31, 1532–51, 1546–9, 1548–50, 1550–2, 1552–5, 1616, 1617, 1618, 1619, 1620, 1621, 1622, 1623, 1624, 1625, 1626.

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240 Appendix IV 1532: A commune ratifies a measure which prohibits citizens from attending mass in the Convent church. 1532: The Abbess and the nuns of the Convent move to Bregenz, apparently intimidated by the common crowd. 1533: The Council takes over the adjudication of marriage disputes and prohibits its citizens from appealing to the episcopal marriage court at Zell; a woman is prosecuted for taking her case to Zell. 1533: 23 February. The first set of discipline ordinances is proclaimed. 1533: 7 September. The first poor ordinances are proclaimed. 1534: 13 March. The Council suspends the ringing of St Stephan’s bells for matins or vespers. 1534: 10 June. It is decided that subjects of the Spital will no longer be liable to punishment for Ungenosami. 1534: 2 July. The mass in the Convent is abolished by an order of Council. 1534–6: The Council regulates the removal of images from the churches of several mainland parishes. 1536: 29 May. Lindau signs the Wittenberg Concord. 1538: 9 August. The civic library is founded. 1539: 24 March. The Council issues an edict for the stricter enforcement of the discipline ordinances. The ordinances are reissued periodically throughout the following century. 1547: 7 February. After the collapse of the Schmalkaldic League, Lindau throws itself on the mercy of the Emperor and is granted a reprieve. 1548: 19 June. The Council boldly rejects the proposed Interim. 1548: 13 August. The Interim is finally accepted, but not before the exodus of many notable citizens who fear an Imperial military attack. 1549: 11–14 January. The Interim exiles wish to be re-accepted as citizens; Council hesitates dramatically and then acquiesces. 1549: September. First Ratsprotokoll reference to a policing ordinance. 1551: 16 October. The first so-called Hasenrat is announced. 1552: 4 January. Council effectively circumvents Charles V’s orders to dissolve the guilds by actually purchasing at least four of the guildhalls itself; they are to be used as drinking venues and meeting places, much as they had been. 1552: 28 March. A Council proclamation makes the attendance at sermons compulsory. 1552: The Ratsprotokoll records the names of officials elected in accordance with the guild constitution. This ‘restoration’ lasts for only a few months. 1555: February. Council invites Johannes Marbach and Valentin Rot (Erythräus), both of whom are native sons of Lindau, to advise on how best to ‘lutheranize’ the church. 1555: 25 September. Religious Peace of Augsburg. 1560: A wedding ordinance, drafted by the first City Syndic, Rudolph Ehinger von Balzheim, is enacted. 1575: 3 August. Lindau hosts a colloquium between Jacob Andreae and the Lindau pastors Rupp and Scheffler. 1582: Lindau signs the Formula of Concord. 1604: The City Syndic, Dr Daniel Heider, oversees the revision of Lindau’s Zuchtordnung; the new ordinances now include, in addition to previous

Chronology

241

proscriptions, a prohibition of mummeries and an attack on disobedience (Ungehorsam) by the citizenry, especially in times of war. 1606: Revised church ordinances (Kirchenordnung) are proclaimed by authority of the magistrates. 1608: A lightning strike and ensuing fire damage St Stephan. Over the next few years extensive renovations are undertaken. 1608–9: After much deliberation, the Lindau authorities decline to join the Protestant Union; likewise, joining the Catholic League is not an option. 1610: The Ministry is put in charge of the Latin School. 1613: Alexius Neukomm ordains his new junior colleague; it is noted that this is the first such act in a century. 1617: In celebration of the Luther jubilee, the Lindau clergy is expanded to five full-time pastoral appointments. Lifesize stone statues of the evangelists are mounted over St Stephan’s main entrance. 1618: The circulation of the Alexius Neukomm’s pamphlet ‘Impietas et Ataxia Ecclesiae Lindaviensis’ results in the wrongful dismissal of the pastor Magister Marcus Zangmeister. 1620: Ludwig Brem’s press, the first of its kind in Lindau, is shut down by the authorities for printing works by Magister Marcus Zangmeister. 1620: Lindau and the Bishop of Constance contest spiritual jurisdiction in the Imperial Cameral Court at Speyer. 1624: Lindau’s Ehegericht is expanded by the permanent addition of three Doctores and the body is elevated to the status of Education Committee (Schulund Kirchenrat). 1624: 24 August. Alexius Neukomm’s St Bartholomew’s Day sermon is an untempered attack on the advocates with whom he now shares power in the Education Committee. 1624: 3 September. The Council relieves Neukomm of his duties; he remains suspended until he makes a formal deprecation and apology on 14 December. 1625: 10 January. A three-man Imperial Commission arrives in Lindau to investigate, among other things, the feasibility of: (1) removing the Kellnhöfe from Lindau’s control; (2) re-establishing the Franciscan order in Lindau; (3) introducing the Gregorian calendar. 1626: 11 June. The Council formally announces plans to introduce Private Confession. 1626: 13 October. Dr Daniel Heider returns from negotiations with the Bishop of Constance and confirms the rumour that the Jesuit Order has been granted the use of the imperial armoury in Lindau. 1627: 18 April. Count Hugo of Montfort and the Landkomtur of the Teutonic Order, Hans Kaspar Stadion, arrive in Lindau to mount an Imperial Commission of Investigation into the Neukomm uprising. 1628: 1 January. Representatives of the Franciscan Order arrive in Lindau to reclaim properties and deeds appropriated by the Lindau administration in 1528. 1628: 14 February. The Emperor announces punitive measures against both individual citizens and the City as a whole. 1628: 14 March. Count Hugo of Montfort and the Bishop of Constance, appointed as Imperial Commissars, take possession of the keys to the city and oversee the disarming of the citizenry.

Lindau Manuscript Sources Stadtarchiv Lindau, Literalien 14. ‘Amts- und Dienstleute der Stadt Lindau, 1588–1799’. Stadtarchiv Lindau, Literalien 16. Bonaventura Riesch, ‘Lindauische Predigerund Schulhistorie’. Stadtarchiv Lindau, Literalien 18. Jacob Lynns, ‘Annales Lindavienses’. Stadtarchiv Lindau, Literalien 19. Johann Bertlin, ‘Bertlin’sche Chronik’. Stadtarchiv Lindau, Literalien 24. Oswald Kröll, ‘Annales Lindavienses’. Stadtarchiv Lindau, Literalien 25. Ulrich Neukomm and Alexius Neukomm, ‘Neukomm’sche Chronik’. Stadtarchiv Lindau, Ratsprotokolle 1525–8; 1527–9; 1528–31; 1532–51; 1546–9; 1548–50; 1550–2; 1552–5; 1615–16; 1616; 1617; 1618; 1619; 1620; 1621; 1622; 1623; 1624; 1625; 1626. Stadtarchiv Lindau, Reichsstädtische Akten. 6, 80; 6, 83; 6, 84; 6, 86; 6, 94; 6, 104; 39, 8; 43, 4; 45, 7; 65, 1; 65, 2; 65, 3; 65, 4; 65, 5; 65, 6; 65, 7; 65, 8; 68, 3; 112, 3; 114, 9. Stadtarchiv Lindau, Accounts ledger for 1624. Uncatalogued (formerly identified as D,V, 30).

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Index Abel, Wilhelm, 197 n.25 Abray, Lorna Jane, 12, 50, 54, 179 n.21, 192 n.73, 193 n.93, 195 n.3, 220 n.71 adiaphora, 145, 220 n.71 administrative records in Lindau authorship of, 181 n.33 change in during sixteenth century, 65–6, 197 n.7 description and probable function of, 3–4, 136, 160, 162, 182 n.45, 188 n.26, 218 n.54, 223 n.99, 228 n.10, 231 n.48 rhetorical aspects of, 131–6, 164, 173–4 advocates, see lawyers Aix-en-Provence, 97 aliens (Fremde) attitudes towards, 5, 22, 29–30, 68, 76, 79, 86, 99–100, 122, 137, 154–5, 158, 159 Althausen, 86–7 Andreae, Dr Jacob, 155, 221 n.87 anti-clericalism, 4, 32, 50–3, 127, 162 Appleby, Joyce, 173, 176 n.10, 177 n.2, 178 n.5, 223 n.2 Applegate, Celia, 185 n.1 apprentices (and journeymen), 13, 68, 95–6, 99–100, 127 Aristotle, 10, 173 artisans, 19–20, 170 see also guilds Augsburg, 38, 85, 180 n.26 Confession of, see Confessio Augustana Religious Peace of, 4 auricular confession, see private confession Ausstand, 45–6, 102, 190 n.43 Austen, Jane, 178 n.4 Austria, 92, 122, 213 n.131 authority, 5, 7, 121–2, 135, 150, 179 n.16 of guilds, 77

paternal authority, 96–7, 104–5, 120, 122, 149, 231 n.53 public authority, 28–9, 56, 58–9, 151 secular and spiritual authority, 16, 22, 58–60, 124, 128, 134, 152, 167 sovereign authority: meaning Obrigkeit, 70, 91, 118, 128, 132–3, 140; as translation of Obrigkeit, 5, 54; see also Obrigkeit Baden-Durlach, Margrave of, 142, 144, 146, 220 n.69, 222 n.87 Badinter, Elisabeth, 212 n.129 Basel, 185 n.72 Bátori, Ingrid, 188 n.31, 232 n.71 Bavaria, 30, 85, 122 Beik, William, 66, 196 n.10 Berger, Stefan, 186 n.4, 233 n.3 Berkner, Lutz K., 208 n.62 Bertlin, Johann (City Secretary of Lindau), 130–2 Alexius Neukomm’s funeral sermon for, 51 Bettelheim, Bruno, 93, 117–18, 204 n.2, 213 n.141, 213–14 n.142, 214 n.148 Bjerke, Robert, 212 n.122 Blickle, Peter, 47–8, 122–3, 177 n.14, 185 n.74, 190 n.57, 191 n.70, 215 ns.4–5 Blumenberg, Hans, 215 n.9 Brady, Thomas A. Jr., 186 n.6, 187 n.19, 192 n.71, 227 n.158, 231 n.45 Brandenburg-Ansbach-Kulmbach, 181 n.36 Bräuer, Helmut, 77, 179 n.22, 196 n.20, 199 n.68 Brecht, Martin, 220, n.71 Bregenz, 21, 54, 60–1 Spanish troops in, 62

254

Index Brigden, Susan, 96, 206 n.20, 207 n.49 Broman, Thomas, 217 n.34 Bruner, E.M., 207 n.53 Brunner, Otto, 208 n.62 Buchschor, Hans (Mayor of Lindau), 215–16 n.15 crowd humiliation of, 13, 17–18, 169 in legal dispute with Alexius Neukomm, 128–30 Buehler, T., 15 n.1 Bumsted, Jack, 175 n.4 Burghartz, Susanna, 123, 175 n.1, 185 n.72, 215 n.11 Burke, Peter, 49

Calvinism accusations of, 141–3, 154, 157 anti-Calvinism, 46–7, 62 liturgical filtering of, 225, n.141, 230 n.43 see also confessionalism capitalism, 69, 78, 123, 173, 196 n.20 Cargill Thompson, W.D.J., 191 n.69 Charles V constitutional reforms of, 40, 42, 124 historiographical significance, 4, 35–7, 186–7 n.10 lasting effects, 66 Chemnitz, Dr Martin, Superintendent of Braunschweig, 224 n.121 Chur, 85 church ordinance (Kirchenordnung or Kirchenagend), 63, 136, 144, deviation from, 155–6 City Court (Stadtgericht), 15, 42–5, 148, 166 clergy in competition with schoolmasters, 80 and pacification of rebels, 163–4 and resistance to Obrigkeit, 59, 61 terms and conditions of employment, 60 Colchester, 175 n.1, 186 n.5 Cologne, 197 n.26, 208 n.63

255

‘common’ (gemein) ‘common good’, arguments from, 69, 73, 188 n.24 ‘common man’, 20–1, 38, 156, 165 Commons or commune (Gemeind) attempts to limit effectiveness of, 38 ‘Christian’, 159 civic commune, 112 ‘communalism’, 47–8, 177 n.14 as a constitutional structure, 25, 26, 148, 166–7, 181 n.35 endurance of concept, 63 parish commune, 80 peasant commune, 2, 76, 79, 85–7, 162 as a rhetorical trope, 15, 16, 20, 39, 144, 156 concealment, topos of, 23, 26, 28, 53, 59, 66, 98–9, 101, 116, 125–7, 139 and bourgeois republicanism, 146 and Obrigkeit, 169 Confessio Augustana, 137, 143, 171, 192 n.71 Confessio Tetrapolitana, 46, 50 confessionalism, 4, 53, 62, 81–3, 137–8, 157 bi-confessionalism, 30 in historiography, 35 and republicanism, 144 confessionalization, 3, 11, 30, 61, 160, 172 ‘confessional cleansing’, 199 n.82 in Lindau territory, 88, 203 n.142 and Reformation, 46–7, 49, 174 Constance, 21, 46, 85, 100, 227 n.154 Johann Truchseß von WaldburgWolfegg, Bishop of, 82, 85, 169–71, 178 n.10, 211 n.110 constitution of Lindau, 40–6, 156, 166, 187 ns.12–13, 212 n.112, 218 n.39 see also political culture convent (Damenstift), 47, 53, 82 Council (Rat) capitulation document issued by, 2, 9, 18, 231 n.18 citizen opposition to, 11–12, 13, 20 composition and function of, 39–46

256 Index Council (Rat) – continued and guilds, 67–76 and pastors, 61; see also clergy and sovereign authority (Obrigkeit), 54 Crew, David F., 175–6 n.5 Crosby, Alfred W., 176 n.10 currency, 197–8 n.40 see also inflation Daly, James, 218 n.46 Darnton, Robert, 175 n.1 Davis, Natalie, 9, 30, 173, 177 n.1, 178 n.7, 185 n.71, 207 n.49, 212 n.119, 223 n.1 Dickens, A.G., 3 Dietrich, Dr Conrad, Superindentent of Ulm public dispute with Alexius Neukomm, 153–4 theological consultant to Lindau Council, 159, 164 Dijon, 183 n.54 Dinges, Martin, 211 n.108 Dixon, C. Scott, 181 n.36 Duby, Georges, 94, 205 n.9 Dürer, Albrecht, 213 n.135 Dykema, Peter, 185 n.75, 192 n.77 Education Committee, 19, 75, 80, 127–31, 182 n.46 boycotted by Alexius Neukomm, 139–41 Einsiedeln, 47 Eitel, Peter, 29, 37, 39, 47, 184 n.65, 186 ns.8–9, 186–9 n.10, 188 ns.23–4, 189 n.35, 189–90 n.42, 208 n.66 Estebe, Janine, 185 n.71 Evans, Richard J., 175 n.5 family relations, 93–6, 114–20 structure of, 103, 106, 208 n.62, 214 n.146 Farge, Arlette, 118–19, 207 n.53, 209 n.81, 214 n.149 Feldkirch, 21

Felß, David (Canzleisubstitut), 15, 17, 157, 226 ns.145, 149 Hans Heinrich (City Sectretary) 155–7, 181 n.33, 226 n.145 Fischer, Hermann, 197 n.36, 198 n.51, 210 n.98, 213 n.133 Florence, 125 food supplies, regulation of, 69–73 foreigners, see aliens Formula of Concord, 60, 137, 143, 221 n.84 see also Lindau Colloquium Foucault, Michel, 118–19, 176 n.10, 207 n.53, 209 n.81, 214 n.149 Frankfurt am Main, 38 Freiburg im Breisgau, 201 n.116 Friedeburg, Robert von, 177 n.14 Friedrichs, Christopher, 66, 77–8, 185 n.75, 190 n.42, 195–6 n.9, 196 n.10, 199 n.68 Funk, Dr Johann (City Syndic of Lindau), 87, 111, 128–9, 161–2, 216 n.18, 223 n.112 Fürstenwerth, L., 187 n.10 Gallant, Thomas, 176 n.11 Gassman, Benno, 220 n.69 Gemie, Sharif, 195 n.3 generational conflict, 26, 96, 117–20, 147 see also youth Ginzburg, Carlo, 178 n.9, 223 n.1 Goertz, Hans-Jürgen, 48–9, 51, 191 n.63, 192 n.76 Goldie, Mark, 195 n.144 Goldstone, Jack, 176 n.10 Götzger, Heinrich, 208 n.64 Grafton, Anthony, 205 n.13, 216–17 n.26 Graubünden (Grisons), 193 n.98 Gregory, Bishop of Tours, 152 Gribaudi, Maurizio, 175 n.5 Griffiths, Paul, 206 n.20 Grimm, Jacob, 216 n.20 Grimm, Jacob and Wilhelm, 178 n.11, 180 n.29, 197 n.36, 205 n.12; fairy tales collected by, 114–15

Index ‘guild constitution’ (Zunftverfassung), 3, 29, 36–7, 186–7 n.10 criticism of, 148 see also Charles V, constitutional reforms of guilds, 19–21, 67–9, 73, 160, 162 Bakers’ Guild, 20, 161 Butchers’ Guild, 21, 73–6, 161 Coopers’ Guild, 81, 161 Fishermen’s Guild, 76–8, 103, 161, 183 n.52 grievances of, 168–9 Smiths’ Guild, 81, 161 Tailors’ Guild, 161, 163, 168 Vinegrowers’ Guild, 89, 161 Haag, Norbert, 6, 16, 176 n.9, 178 n.12, 182 n.39 Hager, Magister Matthias, 2, 13, 226 n.145, 227 n.153 Hajnal, John, 214 n.146 Haller, Johannes, 186 n.6 Hamilton, Richard F., 176 n.10, n.12 Hamm, Bernt, 190 n.56 Harlan, David, 178 n.5 Has, Heinrich (Imperial Commissioner), 42 Hawkes, David, 176 n.9 Head, Randolph C., 54, 193 ns.96–8 Heider, Dr Daniel (City Syndic of Lindau), 1, 2, 13, 18, 36, 82, 88, 100, 168, 223 n.99, 225 n.113, 227 n.154 Gründliche Außführung [etc.], 185 n.2, 208 n.66 in Kempten after uprising,130–3 n.44 Heidrich, Hermann, 216 n.23 Heller, Henry, 191 n.64 Hessen, 176 n.9, 178 n.12 historiography, 3, 6, 64–5, 122–3, 171–3, 227 n.158 of anti-judaism, 32, 200 n.97 early modern, 19–20, 36, 164, 173–4, 182 n.42 of early modern urban revolts, 20, 66–7 German, 35–7, 186 n.6 and psychology, 93–5

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of the Reformation, 48–9 Swiss, 193 n.96 Holt, Mack P., 180 n.25, 183 n.54, 199 n.73 Hornstein, Sigmund von, Landkomtur of the Teutonic Knights, 42, 86 Houston, Rab A., 205 n.14 Howell, Martha C., 196 n.20 Höxter, 188–9 n.31 Hsia, R. Po-chia, 177 n.14, 200 n .97 Hunt, Lynn, 173, 177 n.2, 223 n.2 Huppert, George, 206 n.33 Hurlewagen, Dietrich (peasant leader of 1525–6), 107, 209–10 n.90 Hursich, Magister Wilhelm (Lindau pastor), 132, 140 in legal action against Alexius Neukomm, 126–7 ordained by Alexius Neukomm, 47, 80 his wife, 128 iconoclasm, 53–4 Illich, Ivan, 126, 217 n.28 inflation (Kipper- und Wipperzeit), 20–1, 31, 69, 71, 85 inheritance law, 51–2, 108 Innsbruck, 24 Interim, 46–7, 60, 83, 91, 96 Isny, 21, 75, 137 Jacob, Margaret C., 173, 176 n.10, 177 n.2, 223 n.2 Jameson, Fredric, 64, 195 n.4 Jardine, Lisa, 205 n.5 Jesuits, fear of, 82, 110, 149, 157, 210–11 n.100, 211 n.101 see also confessionalism Jews, Lindavian treatment of, 32, 57–8, 83–5, 103 Joetze, Franz, 185–6 n.3, 208 n.68 Jordan, William C., 200 n.97 Jütte, Robert, 103, 197 n.26, 208 n.63 Karo, Gottwalt, 220 n.71 Keller, Siegmund, 185 n.3 Kelley, Donald, 179 n.16 Kempten, 85, 137, 170, 229 n.19, 230 n.37, 231 n.44

258 Index Kennedy, Sean, 175 n.2 Kermode, Frank, 195 n.1 Kettering, Sharon, 97, 206 n.31 Kingdon, Robert M., 220 n.70 Kitzingen, 188 n.31, 232 n.71 Kluge, Friedrich, 216 n.21 Lake, Peter, 191 n.67, 215 n.4 Laslett, Peter, 208 ns.61–2 lawyers, 11, 162 in competition with pastors, 135, 147–8, 225 n.133 see also professionalization as policy-makers, 138, 161–3 prejudice against, 29–30, 166–7, 184 n.66; and anti-clericalism, 32–4 Lentricchia, Frank, 123, 215 ns.8, 10 Leutkirch, 21, 75 Lincoln, Bruce, 176 n.6, 215 n.2 Lindau Colloquium, 143, 155, 220 n.71, 220–31 n.44 see also Formula of Concord Lindberg, Carter, 190 n.56 Levi, Giovanni, 175 n.5 Loewe, Hans, see Löwe, Hans Lohff, W., 220 n.71 Loshitzky, Yosefa, 233 n.3 Löwe, Hans, 184 n.56, 199 n.74, 210 n.100 Ludwig, Walter, 184 n.59 Luebke, David M., 191 n.70 Lutz, Robert H., 188 n.22 Lyon, 185 n.71 Lyons, John, 215 n.3 marriage court, 100, 135, 193 n.103, 207 n.44 see also Constance, Bishop of Marsilius of Padua, 152, 224 n.116 Marte, J.D., 190 n.45 Maschke, Erich, 179 n.22, 180 n.29, 181 n.37, 216 n.17, 218 n.45 Maza, Sara, 175 n.2 McMillan, James, 195 n .3 Mecklenburg, churches of, 137 Medick, Hans, 98–99, 195 n.5, 204 n.4, 206 n.33, 207 n.37 Meersburg, 85

Meissen, churches of, 137 Melanchthon, Philipp, 50 Memmingen, 46, 79, 110, 137, 170, 186 n.8, 228 ns.2, 10, 230 n.37 Mendels, F.F., 208 n.62 Meyer von Knonau, Gerold, 233 n.76 Mezler, Caspar (Lindau Cordwainer), 4, 11–14 Miller, Ulrich (Mayor of Lindau), 2, 4, 11, 13, 18, 78, 161, 170, 225 n.139 account of the uprising by, 23–34 conversion to Catholicism of, 178 n.10 sale of properties belonging to, 110–13, 210 n.100, 211 n.103 suspension of, 170–1, 179 n.15 Moeller, Bernd, 17 n.10, 190 n.56, 191 n.63 Monahan, Arthur P., 182 n.40 Montaigne, Michel de, 46 Monter, William E., 6, 49, 176 n.7, 191 n.65 Montfort, Count Hugo of, 85–9, 142, 169–71, 178 n.10 morality ordinances, 84, 209 n.81 attributed to Ambrosius Blarer, 193 n.99 discipline ordinance (Zuchtordnung), 46, 97, 100, 193 n.99 and Obrigkeit, 59 übel Haushalten (Übelhalten), crime of, 55–6, 58–9, 84, 105, 119 vice ordinance (Lasterstraf), 31, 46, 54–8, 97 wedding ordinance (Heiratsordnung), 98 Mousnier, Roland, 191 n.64 Muir, Edward, 174, 176 n.11, 206 n.33, 215 n.13, 233 n.4 Müller, Karl Otto, 36–7, 185 n.3 Müntzer, Thomas, 164 narrative, 9–11, 121, 123, 173–4, 175 n.2, 177 n.2 Naujoks, Eberhard, 187 n.10, 193 n.97

Index Neukomm, Magister Alexius, 1–2, 5, 77, 80 accused of Calvinism, 142, 157 authorship: Impietas et Ataxia…, 144, 146, 217 n.31, 218 n.43, 221 n.75, 223 n.113; Neukomm Chronicle (with brother Ulrich), 47, 71 blamed for uprising, 19, 22–3, 138, 144, 163–4 in competition with lawyers, 11 in competition with schoolmasters, 105 conventional characterization of, 16 criticism of Council policy by, 83 death of, 19, 171 intellectual lineage claimed by, 221–2 n.87 legal action against, 124–6 residence in Fischergasse, 12, 17 his supporters, 12, 21, 134, 151 his wife: as agitator, 22; Neukomm’s defence of, 132–3; official sanctions against, 129, 132, 159 Neukomm, Andreas, Stadtamman, 2, 15, 16, 78, 112, 170 career ended, 223–4 n.114 family faction or party, 78, 97, 101, 103, 150–1, 170, 196 n.17, 209 n.69, 217 n.36 Jerg, 100–1; son of Andreas, 119 Neukomm, Joachim, 100–1 Niederstätter, Alois, 201 n.120 Nirenberg, David, 200 n.97 Nuremberg, 94, 204–5, n.5 Oberman, Heiko, 32, 185 n.75, 192 ns.77, 88, 200 n.97 Obrigkeit, 5, 11, 12, 14, 50, 133, 149, 159, 160–5 definition of, 16, 54, 180 n.29, 182 n.41, 194 n.125, 218 n.45 early modern theory of, 165–7 Neukomm’s recognition of, 151 opposition to, 13, 15, 17, 20, 58, 144, 169; by Butchers’ Guild, 74; civic clergy focus for, 59–62 see also authority, sovereign

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Ogilvie, Sheila, 187 n.10 oligarchy, trend towards, 37, 39, 45–6, 66, 171 Oosterveen, K., 208 n.61 Ott, Manfred, 201, n.120 Ozment, Steven, 94–5, 204–5 n.5, 205 ns.6–8, 10, 11, 18 Paris, 207 n.53 peasants subject to Lindau jurisdiction, 178 n.11, 230 n.38 see also territorial consolidation; Commons or commune (Gemeind) Piccolomini, Manfredi, 214 n.143 Pincus, Steven, 171, 176 n.13, 215 n.7, 223 n.77 plague, 51, 106–7, 116 Plato’s Republic, 146 Pocock, J.G.A., 122, 215 n.6 political culture, 7, 26, 27, 32, 34, 38–9, 45, 50, 66, 122–3, 134, 136, 158, 172, 175 n.1 corruption, Lindavian conception of, 28–9, 33, 66, 109, 166 trust (Vertrauen), Lindavian conception of, 12, 33, 26, 29, 110, 112, 161, 165 Pomerania, churches of, 137 Preus, J. Samuel, 215 n.9 private confession, 22, 83, 129, 136–41, 145–9, 153–4, 163, 171 private/public distinction, 124–7, 147–8, 150 Privy Council (Geheimer Rat), 25, 110–12, development of, 27, 40–3, 58–9 dispute with Neukomm, 130–6 professionalization, 32, 127–8, 135, 147–8, 152, 155, 222–3 n.96 public office avoidance of, 71–2 disqualification from, see Ausstand Ranke, Leopold von, 47, 186 n.6 Rauch, Andreas (mapmaker), 88–92 Ravensburg, 21, 186 n.8

260 Index Reformation, 22, 35, 54, 59, 82 and confessionalization, 4, 48–9, 176 n.8, 193 n.94 and education, 95, 105, 205 n.14 mythology, 143, 145, 156, 174; see also historiography and social control, 31, 104 and 1626 uprising, 158 religion, concept of, 49–50, 81, 152, 191 n.67, 199 n.82 republicanism bourgeois republican ideology: invoked by rulers, 19, 149, 150, 166, 171; key features of, 3, 22, 50, 107, 109, 112–13, 144–5, 158; and Lindau’s lawyers, 34; and political opposition to Obrigkeit and oligarchy, 32, 38, 45, 59, 62, 66, 145; and religion, 51, 53, 141, 191, n.70, 224 n.16 classical theory of in Lindau, 26–8, 75, 91, 95–6, 125, 132 see also Plato’s Republic and historiography, 48, 123, 171, 172, 177 n.14 Robinson, Philip, 193 n.96 Robisheaux, Thomas A., 64, 115, 195 n.3, 206 n.33, 207 n.40, 212 n.130 Romano, Dennis, 206 n.24 Roper, Lyndal, 54, 93, 104, 106, 180 n.26, 190 n.49, 193 n.93, 204 n.4, 206 ns.23, 34, 209 n.74, 212 n.119 Rosa, Susan, 185 n.71 Rubin, Miri, 200 n.97 Rublack, Ulinka, 183 n.48 Ruggiero, Guido, 206 n.33 Rüthing, Heinrich, 189 n.31 Rysman, A., 216 n.25 Sabean, David Warren, 65, 93, 176 n.8, 195 n.5, 204 n.4 Sachße, Christoph, 183 n.49 Sahlins, Marshall, 175 n.2 Saxony, 38, 78, 196 n.20, 199 n.68 churches of, 137–8 Prince Moritz of, 61

Schilling, Heinz, 30, 48, 177 n.14, 184 n.70, 191 n.60, 195 n.3, 224 n.116 Schlumbohm, Jürgen, 175 n.5 Schmidt, Heinrich, 30, 184 n.70, 227 n.157 Schmitt, Carlo B., 220 n.70 Schmitt, Jean-Claude, 214 n.149 Schöttle, Gustav, 197–8 n.40 Schulze, Albert, 220 n.71 Schuster, D., 210 n.92, 213 n.131 Schwarz, R., 220 n.71 Schweizer, Karl, 200 n.99 Scott, Rebecca J., 175 n.3 Scott, Tom, 177 n.14, 182 n.44, 201 n.116 Scribner, Bob see Scribner, Robert W. Scribner, Robert W., 48, 50, 177 ns.14, 16, 182 n.44, 191 ns.58, 59, 192 n.75, 193 n.94, 205 n.14, 217 n.36 Searle, John, 221 n.72 secrecy, see concealment, topos of serfdom, 86 freedom from, 106 Sehling, Emil, 190 n.47, 193 ns.99, 102, 194 ns.120, 132, 219 n.55 Shakespeare, William, 180 n.30 Skinner, Quentin, 64, 195 n.2, 220 n.70, 221 n.72 Smith, Jonathan Z., 49, 191 n.66 Smith, R.M., 208 n.61, 214 n.146 Speyer, 180 n.29, 218 n.45 spinning bees (Kunkelstuben), 98–9 Spital, 85–6, 105, 202 ns.125–30 Spitz, Lewis W., 220 n.71 St Gall, monastery of, 22, 110 St Gallen, city of, 60 step-parents, 113–17 see also trustees Stolze, Alfred Otto, 208 n.68 Stone, Lawrence, 10, 178 n.6 Strasburg, 46, 179 n.21, 192 n.73, 220 n.71, 227 n.158 Gymnasium of, 95 Strauss, Gerald, 30, 98, 183 n.49, 184 n.66, 205 n.14, 206 n.34, 217 n.34, 218 n.44, 231 n.45

Index Sünfzen, 39, 41 Sydow, Jürgen, 179 n.22 Tatar, Maria, 114, 117, 212 n.120 Tennstedt, Florian, 183 n.49 territorial consolidation, 79, 85–92 Tettnang, 87 Thompson, E.P., 65, 93, 204 n.3 Tierney, Brian, 16, 182 n.40, 191 n.68, 224 n.116 Tilly, Charles, 175 n.5 Torre, Angelo, 176 n.9 Trexler, Richard, 97, 206 n.27 trust, see political culture trustees, 106–13 see also step-parents Tully, James, 214 n.1 Überlingen, 186 n.8 Ulbrich, Claudia, 201–2 n.124 Ullmann, Walter, 122, 215 n.4 Ulm, 41, 85, 137, 170, 228 ns.2, 10, 229 n.24, 230 n.37, 230 n.44 Van Kley, Dale, 185 n.71 Vogt, Werner, 209–10 n.90 Walter, John, 66, 175 n.4, 186 n.5, 196 n.10 Wandel, Lee Palmer, 183 n.49 Wangen, 21, 75, 88, 203 n.149 Wegert, Karl, 176 n.12 Weinsberg, Hermann (of Cologne), 71, 94 Weissman, Ronald F.E., 216 n.22 Wendenbourg, Dorothea, 190 n.56 Weninger, A., 209 n.94 Westerman, A., 48, 191 n.61 Whaley, Joachim, 223 n.3 White, Hayden, 175 n.2 wine excise (Umgeld), 22, 30, 72, 78–82, 103, 128–9, 132–3, 136

261

Winterthur, 100 Johann von, 186 n.7 Wolfart, Karl, 178 n.10, 181 n.33, 189 n.32, 192 n.91, 193 n.103, 194 ns.134, 139 women considered supporters of Neukomm, 13, 126, 229 n.28 considered legacy hunters, 52 as mothers, 102, 114, 212 n.129 in political culture, 51–3, 129, 133, 216 n.25 and private confession, 136–8 property of, 109, 115, 192 n.78, 210 n.98, 213 n.131 prosecuted for moral crimes, 56–7 unregulated artisanal production by, 168–9, 232 n.60 Worms, 185 n.75 Wunder, Gerd, 37, 187 n.11 Württemberg, 102, 122, 176 n.9, 178 n.12, 214 n.146 Duke Johann Friedrich of, 171 youth, in civic politics, 25–26, 95–101, 118, 147, 206 n.28, 213 n.133 and the Reformation, 95 see also generational conflict Zaeman, Dr Georg, of Memmingen, theological consultant to Lindau Council, 152–3, 156, 163–4 Zangmeister, Magister Marcus, 48, 144, 217 n.31 Zell, 55 Zeller, Bernhard, 201 n.118 Zwinglianism, 137, 141, 153 accusations of, 137, 141 anti-Zwinglianism, 46–7, 62 see also confessionalism