Aufhebung im doppelten Wortsinn
The Fate of Monastic Libraries in Central Europe, 1780-1810
A presentation to the Conference "Der Beitrag der Orden zur katholischen Aufklärung," Piliscsaba, Hungary, October 3, 1997
Jeffrey Garrett (Northwestern University)
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First let me express my thanks for the opportunity to present my paper to you this evening, especially to the convenor of this conference, Professor Richard Blum, who has also kindly consented to serve as my proxy and deal with the surely vexing technology that accompanies this presentation. I would have much rather spared him this trouble and spoken to you myself, but alas, journeying to Hungary has been frustrated by calendar, expense, and distance. Please excuse Professor Blum for any mistakes in fact or in judgment he will be uttering in the next half hour, for he does this in my place: the mistakes and misjudgments are entirely my own.
I want to begin by considering a group of words in the German language that appear simultaneously to mean one thing, but also exactly the opposite. The word reizen, for example, can mean to irritate, to put off, but also to attract strongly: Das reizt mich ungemein. Surprisingly, technical terms are also not exempt from this kind of inherent inexactitude. The meaning of the word Säkularisierung, for example, is, as Martin Heckel described in a 1984 article, "vielfältig schillernd."(Heckel 1984) In Heckel's article and elsewhere in the literature, we read of the broad range of meanings that accrue to this word, reaching from desecration and desacralization, profanatio, to quite the other extreme, namely what might be seen as the greatest success of religious belief, its complete adoption and integration into secular life: this is the meaning of Verweltlichung that Karl Marx develops in "Zur Judenfrage" of 1844.(cf. Brunner, Conze, and Koselleck 1972-1990, V:815) A closely related term is Aufhebung, and it is of similar semantic ambivalence. On the one hand it can mean the abolition of an institution or a corporation (as happened to the Jesuits in 1773 by order of Clemens XIV-this is indeed an example explicitly used in Grimms' Wörterbuch [1843]) or the annulment or rescission of a law. Yet we also frequently use the very same word to mean "to preserve, to save for later use," as in the phrase gut aufgehoben. Are words such as these just there to make our lives more difficult, or does in fact their range of meanings relate, accurately and wisely, to paradoxes that inhere to real processes? I wish to argue here that in the case of the dissolution of monastic libraries in the German-speaking regions of Catholic Europe between 1780 and 1815, the seemingly contradictory word-meanings of Säkularisation and Aufhebung both appear to apply in almost equal measure: "Destruction" and "preservation" co-exist strangely and paradoxically to describe the course of these events and their outcome. Whether anything I say here applies to secularization outside the world of books and libraries, I must leave to others to debate and decide.
Let us look at the end of monastic library culture in Central Europe at the turn of the 18th to the 19th century. It is now commonly agreed that the monasteries did not collapse of their own, as proponents of the Enlightenment from Voltaire onwards regularly opined, but instead were experiencing a "letzte Blütezeit," a last flowering, as even the political inheritors of the Bavarian Secularization of 1802-03 now grudgingly admit.(Streibl 1991) The undeniable fact is that throughout the 18th century, often until the very moment of their dissolution, monasteries were flourishing across the southern, Catholic half of Germany and throughout the Austrian Empire like seldom before in their history. The Benedictine monastery of Altenburg, located in the hill country of northern Austria near Horn, was typical for having rebounded from the moral decline and ferment of the Reformation era and the depredations of the Thirty Years War. In the imperial capital of Vienna, the number of monasteries had soared from 25 in 1660-already a stately number-to no fewer than 125 forty years later, in 1700.(Vacha 1992, p. 333) In neighboring Bavaria, a much smaller European power, there were more than 200 monasteries by 1800, including the imperial abbeys, wealthy and reichsunmittelbar, like Sankt Emmeram in Regensburg. All told, 2163 abbeys, monasteries, hermitages, and other houses of monastic orders were counted in the Habsburg Empire around 1770. Between Austria and Bavaria-and of enormous relevance for the progress of the Enlightenment in the Bavarian-Austrian region and indeed throughout Central Europe-were the ancient and powerful ecclesiastical states of Passau and Salzburg. Their possessions, powers of taxation, and authority in religious matters extended deep into the territories of both of their secular neighbors, and this political power together with their sophistication as enlightened capitals, had become a serious irritation to their Catholic, but increasingly secular and aggressive neighbors.(Heilingsetzer 1991)
The period beginning with the coronation of Charlemagne in Rome in 800 and
ending with the French Revolution of 1789 has been called the Carolingian millenium.(Unterkirchner
1980, p. 1) Just as monasteries were central
to the preservation and cultivation of knowledge and the spread of Christianity
during this millenium, the library or armarium(
)
was a central fixture in almost every monastery: even smaller institutions often
lavished extraordinary attention on them, as in Waldsassen,
far north in the Upper Palatinate. Libraries served a dual function for monasteries.
They were on the one hand substance and source of the sapientia divina,
the knowledge of the divine, critical in the struggle against heresy and ignorance.
At the same time, libraries were also the very public manifestation of this
knowledge, integrating books, architecture, sculpture, and painting into a unified
programmatic statement celebrating the importance of books and scholarship,
an artistic program that in fact reached its peak in the 18th century,
celebrated in ceiling frescoes all over the southern German region, as well
as in the finest details, as at Rottenbuch
in Upper Bavaria.(Adriani 1935;
Garberson 1991; Lehmann 1996) This characterized not only the libraries
of religious orders with a long history of active scriptoria and the resulting
rich collections of manuscripts, such as Melk
and other Benedictine foundations and also the abbeys of the other prelate orders,
the Augustinians and Cistercians among them, but also the libraries of the so-called
mendicant, or beggar, orders, e.g. the Franciscans and the Dominicans. Despite
the admonitions of teachers like Francis of Assisi that books should be kept
only for liturgical purposes, the mendicant friars often developed sizeable
collections. Modern estimates have placed the total number of books in the libraries
of the mendicant orders in Bavaria alone at 342,000 volumes by 1800.(Buzás
1986, p. 159) The contemplative orders, too-the world-removed Carthusians
(
),
for example-often had libraries of substance, as we will see in greater detail
later on.
Since books and libraries represent a unique convergence of the physical and the spiritual, of the historically extraneous with the ultimately fundamental realm of ideas,(cf. Schmidt 1990) it is not surprising that rulers have often had difficulties deciding what to do with hostage libraries which in one way or another have fallen into their hands. They have often wavered between ignoring them as useless, burning them as harmful, or carting them off as valuable trophies. During the Reformation and Peasant Wars of the 16th century, the libraries of enemies were regularly destroyed, though more enlightened rulers were also quick to appropriate monastic libraries for their own use. Luther typically urged the suppression (and one assumes destruction) of what he called the "foolish, useless, and harmful monks' books, such as Catholicon, Florista, Grecista, . . . and similar such asses' dung."(Luther 1899, p. 50, trans. W. D. Boyd in Buzás, 1986, p. 149) The Thirty Years War saw the organized removal of whole libraries for the purpose of depriving one's religious opponents of their cultural arsenal and of enriching one's own.(Buzás 1986, p. 154) Perhaps the most notorious occurrence of this type was the sacking of the Heidelberg Palatina by Maximilian of Bavaria and its transfer to the Vatican, where it resides to this day. The crucial distinction for our purposes is the one between suppression and destruction on the one hand and confiscation and re-dedication on the other, for the latter disposition conforms precisely to the complex meanings of Aufhebung and secularization discussed above.
Among other causes, it was surely the wealth and prominence of the southern
German monasteries and religious orders that in the late 1700s led the absolutistic
state to abandon centuries of patronage
and seek to appropriate the wealth and, not incidentally, the intellectual potential
contained in their libraries. When the pope dissolved the Jesuit order in 1773,
the libraries of the Jesuits
were quickly confiscated by the Catholic powers to become the foundation on
which new universities were built and court libraries were expanded, not only
in Central Europe, but everywhere Jesuit influence extended, including the New
World.(Löffler 1922, p. 74) But
it was not only avarice on the part of European states that eroded their support
of monasticism. The entire Enlightenment period was decidedly unfriendly
to monkery as a decadent holdover of the Dark Ages. In an age when reason
and utility were held high, Voltaire commented scathingly on the monks' contribution
to the community with the following words: "They sing, they eat, they digest."(Blanning
1970, p. 8) In Austria, the views of Maria Theresia
towards monks and especially those of her son Joseph
were only slightly less caustic than Voltaire's, especially with regard to the
contemplative and mendicant orders. In his 1765 Denkschrift to his Maria
Theresia on the condition of the monarchy-he was at the time an impressionable
young man in his early 20s-he shows how well he had absorbed the anti-monastic
teachings of his teacher Bartenstein,(Hrazky 1958)
and his mother's ministers, chief among them, of course, Kaunitz, who wrote
at about the same time that " . . . la population et l'industrie souffrent
par le grand nombre de ces Célibataires."(Beer
1872, p. 107) Joseph, too, minced no words in expressing his disdain
for these supposed parasitic, indolent social elements.(Arneth
1867-1868, p. 350-51) Years later, soon after the death of his
mother in 1780, Joseph II issued a decree dissolving the monasteries of these
very orders, in his propaganda
(
)
cleverly invoking a non-existent close friendship with the pope to cover for
his actions that were presented as a pious renovatio ecclesiae.(Kovács
1984) Joseph also dissolved a number of monasteries of the prelate
orders, such as St. Paul (
)
in Carinthia, whose finances had fallen into disarray.(Laschitzer
1883; Wolf 1871) In the following years, a total of 738 monasteries
were dissolved across the monarchy, with much of their wealth and the revenue
from the sale of their possessions given over to an enormous state foundation
called the "Fund for Religion," which paid for much of the expenses
of the Church in Austria until well into the 20th C. This reallocation strategy
shows that Joseph, though antimonastic, was not fundamentally anticlerical.
As his biographer Derek Beales has pointed out, "one of the principles
of [Joseph's] legislation was that much of the proceeds from his suppressions
of contemplative monasteries should go to funding more parish clergy. He was
not atheist, deist or Protestant, but a Catholic reformer."(Beales
1985, p. 189) Joseph's fundamental attitude was not to destroy
or eradicate, but to reapportion resources within the Church: in keeping with
our earlier discussion of these terms, we could call this Aufhebung without
Säkularisation.
Let me offer an example. One monastery hit by the first wave of the Josephine measures was the charterhouse of the Carthusians at Gaming, some 30 km south of the Danube in the Alpine foothills. Its library contained 20,000 books, making it the largest of any Carthusian monastery in Europe. In accordance with the dissolution orders from Vienna, the Court Library was given first choice of books and manuscripts based on a review of the catalog. Seeing itself still in the Renaissance mold as a repository for the rare and the beautiful, the Court Library took only several hundred of the most precious works. Most of these, by the way, are still in Vienna today, and include 106 incunabula and 15 especially valuable medieval manuscripts. By far the greater part of the library, over 12,000 volumes, was transported to the university library in Vienna. That left 6000 to 7000 books in Gaming not selected for Vienna. Some of these came to the nearby 'Capuchin monastery at Scheibbs. Others were auctioned off or given away by the state commissars. Many were just left in the monastery and carried off by local peasants.(Hoffmann 1981, p. 45-48; Stenzel 1977, p. 180-81)
In the years following what today is still called the Klostersturm, the libraries of the dissolved monasteries were broken up much like that of Gaming. The Court Library in Vienna would take only a very few of the finest pieces, the so-called cimelia. The universities of the empire, such as those in Innsbruck, Prague, Graz, and especially Vienna, and the newly created public libaries, such as the Studienbibliothek in Linz, received second choice, which meant the lion's share of the books. Much religious literature went to the new Josephine seminaries, to the libraries of the new bishops in Linz and St. Pölten, or to parish house libraries. Everything else was sold to bibliophiles-or as scrap paper-with the proceeds applied to book purchasing needs of the schools or universities or for the general needs of the Religion Fund.
A recurring motif in the popular literature of the period and the years since
is that of monastery books on their way to the state depots being thrown out
in front of carriages to improve traction on muddy Alpine roads.(Reischl
1917, p. 55) Another is of 20th century customers
of Austrian cheese shops unpacking their wares at home and discovering that
the wrapping paper has been torn from some ancient monastery book. There may
be some truth to these claims, but by and large Austrian authorities appear
to have been quite meticulous in safeguarding and cataloging monastic libraries
before carting them off, both to prevent theft and to give the authorities in
Vienna and the local provincial capital an opportunity to make informed selections.(Tropper
1983, p. 138) The monks themselves were turned
out or became secular clergy (Weltpriester), but were never abused or
killed as they would be in France a decade later. Even the most hated of the
Josephine monastery commissars, the "Dictator Austriae," as one abbot
called him, Joseph
Valentin von Eybel, took care that as little as possible of the libraries
was lost, and that the books came reliably to their new homes.(Sturmberger
1948, p. 172) Not that he was so enamored of monastery books (or
of the monasteries themselves), as it turns out: His reports
(
)
reveal him to be just a conscientious civil servant with a mission to perform.
We do find in his pamphlet, Was
ist ein Pfarrer? (1782), in which he mainly inveighs against monks and
the Roman curia, an inkling of his plans for monastic libraries, recommending
that they be given over, at least in part, to parish priests, who were in the
front line of Joseph's pastoral reform plans. In this tract, Eybel argues that
the parish priests could put these books to far better use than the indolent
monks could. The disposition of monastic libraries in Austria
therefore reflects the very conservative, fundamentally pious nature of Josephine
absolutism: Their dissolution, or Aufhebung, was a destructive as well
as a preserving act.
Just a few years after the events I have described in Austria, true revolution convulsed France, changing forever the way contemporaries looked at the past and at the future, but also in the process brutally destroying French monasticism. When, in 1802 and 1803, the Austrian Klostersturm seemed to repeat itself in neighboring Bavaria, much was similar, but there were fundamental differences reflecting the passing of an age and of the Holy Roman Empire. A look at the architect and principal agent of library secularizations in Bavaria shows how thoroughly the entire ideological and philosophical context had been transformed by the events in France. Baron Johann Christoph von Aretin (1772-1824) was one of the most fascinating and controversial figures of 19th century Bavaria.(Aretin 1926; Dummer 1946; Dummer 1944; Ruf 1962) Historian, member of the academies in both Munich and Göttingen, an aggressive anti-Austrian, anti-Prussian pamphletist, in his student days in Wetzlar also a notorious womanizer, Aretin had already made a name for himself as a firebrand and sympathizer both of the French Revolution and the radical Illuminati before coming to the Court Library in Munich in 1802. His biographer (and great-grandnephew) Erwein von Aretin describes him as "one of the best-hated men of intellectual Munich."(Aretin 1926, p. 21) Aretin's life was ridden with intrigues, feuds, and scandals. Even his transfer from the Court Library in Munich to a judgeship in provincial Neuburg in later life was shrouded in allegations concerning a stabbing incident in which one of his many northern German enemies, the pedagogue Friedrich Tiersch, was the victim.(Aretin 1926, p. 129ff.) But of greatest consequence for Aretin's character in our context and for his role in the confiscation of monastic libraries was that he was, as Paul Ruf has put it, "an almost fanatical lover of books, one might even say a bibliomaniac."(Ruf 1962, p. 7) Hot tempers and bibliomania are a pairing of personal qualities which may have gone out of style today, but they were documentably rampant in many parts of Europe during the 18th and early 19th centuries.(Viardot 1988)
Aretin traveled to Paris for three months in 1801 for a visit to the Bibliothèque Nationale to study its organization and structure, probably sent by his friend, the later Marshall Ney. Eight million books and manuscripts are said to have flooded into Paris in these years-what a delight it must have been for Aretin to be there. His exposure to the French model in this revolutionary period was to find almost immediate application back home, where within a year Aretin was entrusted with the selection of books for the Court Library from the hundreds of monasteries in Bavaria. For Aretin, the liquidation of these venerable collections was nothing other than a "literary business trip" (eine literarische Geschäftsreise), as he put it. He began it at the Premonstratensian monastery of Schäftlarn, south of Munich.
Within a few weeks, Aretin had reached Benediktbeuern, after Tegernsee his first truly major prize. Founded about 740 at the foot of the Bavarian Alps by St. Boniface, Benediktbeuern possessed an important scriptorium in the Middle Ages, its library was among the most important in German-speaking Europe. A separate, free-standing building was erected between 1722 and 1724 to house the library and to protect books and archives in the event of fire in the main building.(Weber 1987) When Aretin arrived in April 1803, he estimated that Benediktbeuern possessed about 20,000 volumes.
Unlike Tegernsee, where the monks had hidden books under their beds and in their habits, Aretin seems to have had a fairly easy time of it in Benediktbeuern. For one, the abbot, Karl Klocker, had already been harassed into silence, if not submission, by the secularization commissar Von Ockel the month before, and the library had even been sealed the preceding November.(Jahn 1991) Aretin knew its contents well, since they had been inventoried in many published accounts that Aretin carried with him on his journey-the standard sources for the 18th century wandering scholar. He chose over 7000 manuscripts, printed books, and music scores for the Munich Hofbibliothek and the other libraries of the state. It was decided to send the more valuable books by land, the rest, well packed and sealed, by river downstream to Munich. Wooden boxes had to be assembled in all haste-the sawmill in Benediktbeuern spent days cutting boards for them.(Stutzer 1990, p. 300) Here, as in Austria, surely much was lost: Dietmar Stutzer describes in lurid detail how crates broke open, spilling their contents on the ground, and whole wagons collapsed under the weight of the booty. 12,000 or more books stayed behind in the library. Their fate is known. They were not lost, but instead remained relatively undisturbed for 35 years and were ultimately sold by auction in 1839 and 40, when the library and the rest of the former monastery was under the control of the Bavarian army.(Heyl 1978) As many of those present will no doubt know, Benediktbeuern is once again a monastery, and has been since 1930, when it was purchased by the Salesian order. It is now home to the Salesians' philosophical-theological university, and its library houses 130,000 volumes.(Goldner 1983)
One of the trophies Aretin sent back to Munich from Benediktbeuern was the manuscript of the Carmina burana, a collection of 318 often ribald songs in macaronic Latin and German, first published by the Munich librarian Johann August Schmeller in 1847 and made world famous by Carl Orff 90 years later.(Dachs and Klemm 1983, p. 106) As is clear from his journal and from anecdotes such as those surrounding the Carmina burana, Aretin loved his job as confiscator. He felt no shame at all in "extracting the brains from the corpses of the monasteries," as his biographer put it.(Aretin 1926, p. 28) It does little to change history that we now know that at the time the monasteries of Bavaria were anything but moribund, but instead were blossoming like rarely before in their past.
The quantity of books that issued forth from Bavarian monasteries was staggering even by today's standards. The ecclesiastical libraries of Bavaria had upwards of 1,500,000 volumes in their possession at the time.(Buzás 1986, p. 159f.) Of these, Aretin selected about 200,000 volumes for the court library, making it within a few decades, in the estimation of many contemporaries, including the British Museum's Antonio Panizzi, second only to the Bibliothèque Nationale as the foremost library of Europe.(Hauke 1991) Hundreds of thousands of other books went to schools and the Bavarian university in Landshut, now the library of the Ludwig-Maximilians-Universität in Munich.(Hilsenbeck 1937) Still, an extraordinary number of books were sold to paper dealers such as Kaut.
At first, of course, the flood of books led to a chaos in Munich of almost biblical proportions.(Hartig 1932. p. 398) Aretin actually lost his job not because of the Thiersch stabbing incident, but because he was at a complete loss to devise a system to replace the trained memory of the librarian in assisting scholars to find what they needed in the sea of new books. Ultimately, the totally unprecedented situation forced the caretakers of these new riches not only to build a monumental edifice to house these riches-the building that still houses the Bayerische Staatsbibliothek today-but also to abandon the traditional ideal of the librarian as a "vivant catalogue," and to recreate their discipline as something entirely new: an abstract science of information organization.(Jochum 1991) In 1808, we read for the very first time in any Western European language the term Bibliothek-Wissenschaft, "library science," as a conscious alternative to Bibliothekskunde, or "librarianship," which tends even to this day to be associated with the person and the scholarship of the librarian. Ironically, the creator of order in the chaos of Munich books was a secularized Benedictine monk, Martin Schrettinger alias Pater Willibald, who following his voluntary departure from the monastery of Weißenohe near Nuremberg, entered the service of the court library in 1802.(Hilsenbeck 1914; Schi* 1934)
A second irony of history: In the night of March 9, 1943, the first large air attack by Allied bombers was launched on the city of Munich. An incendiary bomb hit what was now called the Bavarian State Library, penetrating the roof of the main reading room and setting off a fire that would incinerate half a million volumes-one quarter of the entire library. Destroyed in the fire were whole collections in the humanities and natural sciences, including what had been the world's largest Bible collection, assembled by the atheist Aretin. The losses would have been far greater had not the director of the manuscript collection, Paul Ruf, already distributed 1400 large wooden crates of books and other treasures to safe places all over Bavaria, including many buildings that had been or were once again monasteries.(Dachs 1976, p. 175) This distribution recreated, if but for a moment in time, a decentralization of library resources that the Bavarian state had sought with uncompromising singleness of purpose to overcome 140 years before. The fate of the Munich Bible collection, left behind and destroyed, revealed the Achilles heel of all centralization, no matter how sophisticated the organization scheme at its root, and indeed the weakness of any dependence on a single system of information organization in an uncertain world.
How, if at all, do the losses of World War II affect our final judgment of the way monastery libraries were liquidated near the end of the Ancien Regime? One must ask the question in German to bring out the whole irony of the situation: Waren (bzw. sind) die aufgehobenen Klosterbibliotheken beim Staat gut aufgehoben? There is obviously no simple answer to this question. We must observe on the one hand that many thousands of copies of books were destroyed, and the artifactual values associated with individual copies of books-bindings, provenance remarks, etc.-have been lost forever. On the other hand, however, much of the intellectual and cultural value attached to the content of these works has not only been preserved, but also become more universally available through the centralization and concentration of these resources in Munich, Vienna, and other large libraries. We must also mention the innovations in library organization the Bücherflut led to, such as the modern indexing methods introduced by Schrettinger and others, making these resources more accessible to scientists and researchers than they would ever otherwise have been.(Löffler 1922, p. 6; Weis 1983, p. 51) The discovery and later celebrity of the Carmina burana may serve us as a pars pro toto in this discussion: it might never have happened had the manuscript continued to languish in the small room of the library at Benediktbeuern where Aretin discovered it. The same might just be said of many other discoveries of the 19th century made in libraries: The libraries of the monasteries had fulfilled their mission and passed what they had preserved during turbulent centuries back to secular society.
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Vortrag.htm, version 09/30/97 6:51:09 AM
Jeffrey Garrett
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Northwestern University Library
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