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TRANSCRIPT
THE SWANSEA UNIVERSITY HISTORY AND CLASSICS STUDENT ONLINE JOURNAL
ISSUE 1: JANUARY 2015
ISSN 2056-7901
2
This journal is published by students and staff of the Department of History and Classics at
Swansea University.
The online version of this journal can be found at
http://gorffennol.swansea.ac.uk/?page_id=38.
ISSN 2056-7901
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval
system, or in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the
publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form or binding or cover other than that in
which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed
on the subsequent publisher.
Cover design by Jed Rual
© Swansea University
We are grateful to the National Museum of World Cultures (Amsterdam) for kindly letting us
use an image from their collection: National Museum of World Cultures. Coll. no: TM-496-3,
and to the British Museum for the use of the Horus Cippus Stela image.
We would like to thank SALT (the Swansea Academy of Learning and Teaching) for the
generous start-up funding they provided, and Phil Brophy particularly for acting as mentor of
the project. We would also like to thank Dr Steven Gray (History and Classics) for
proofreading the penultimate draft.
3
Gorffennol: Background and aims
Gorffennol is Welsh for Past. It is the online student journal of the History and Classics
Department at Swansea University. It produces two journal issues a year as well as regular
blog posts. It is run by an editorial team consisting of students and members of staff from the
Department.
The online journal is published biannually and showcases outstanding student
assignments from all subject areas in our Department (hence ‘Past’ as this includes
everything from ancient Egypt, Greece, and Rome through the Medieval period to the early
modern and modern periods).
On our website http://gorffennol.swansea.ac.uk/, you can find regular blog posts by
students and staff on module-specific research. There links to the website from module
Blackboard sites, so you can find out what excellent work in particular modules looks like.
This project has received funding from the Swansea Academy of Learning and
Teaching (SALT). It works as a pilot project not only to display excellent student work, but
also to help our students increase their career skills by providing them with editorial
experience.
A note for current students
Please note that these articles may not be used as references in your own assignments.
Although these essays received a first class mark, they may still contain errors, and the
responsibility for the content of the essays ultimately lies with their authors. Please do not
rely on these assignments for your own: plagiarism is severely punished. We publish essays
with either APA or MHRA referencing, as both are accepted by the College.
4
Gorffennol
Volume 1
Table of Contents
Year One
Laura Wiseman, ‘Behind Hittite lines’, written for Introduction to ancient Egyptian
History and Civilisation (CLE121)
6
Catriona Allon, ‘Was the Falange fascist?’, written for Europe of Extremes (HIH121)
15
Year Two Oliver Leighton, ‘What benefits could a small city expect from joining a large
hegemonic league?’, written for Greek City States (CLH264)
23
Sam Price, ‘In what way can the Wehrmacht be viewed as complicit in atrocities
committed by the SS against Jews, POWs and civilians in Russia?’, written for
Occupied Europe (HIH258)
33
Edwin Rose, ‘How important was religious affiliation to the reception of the
Copernican account of the universe in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries?’,
written for Athens to Los Alamos: Science in the ancient and modern worlds
(HIH260)
41
Year Three Lois Robinson, ‘How important was rope to antiquity?’, written for Ancient History
Dissertation (CLD300)
53
Charlotte Watts, ‘Why is water an effective ingredient in rituals, when it is considered
a source of danger in Ancient Egypt?’, written for Magic and ritual in ancient
Egypt (CLE335)
62
Howard Leung, ‘In what ways did the city of Batavia slowly adapt to the realities of
life in tropical Java?’, written for European Empires in the East (HIH3178)
78
Gemma Almond, ‘To what extent has the concept of ‘deformity’ affected Richard III’s
image and character?’ written for Blood and Roses: England 1475-1500
(HIH3258)
88
5
Gorffennol
Cyfrol 1
Tabl Cynnwys
Blwyddyn Un
Laura Wiseman, ‘Tu ôl i linellau Heth’, a ysgrifennwyd ar gyfer Cyflwyniad i Hanes a
Gwareiddiad yr Aifft Hynafol (CLE121)
6
Catriona Allon, ‘A oedd y Ffalanche yn ffasgaidd?’, a ysgrifennwyd ar gyfer Ewrop o
Eithafion (HIH121)
15
Blwyddyn Dau Oliver Leighton, ‘Pa fanteision allai dinas fach ei disgwyl o ymuno â'r gynghrair
arglwyddiaethol fawr?’, a ysgrifennwyd ar gyfer Dinas-wladwriaethau Groeg
(CLH264)
23
Sam Price, ‘Triniaeth carcharorion rhyfel gan fyddin yr Almaen yn yr ail ryfel byd’, a
ysgrifennwyd ar gyfer Ewrop Feddianedig (HIH258)
33
Edwin Rose, ‘Pa mor bwysig oedd cysylltiad crefyddol i dderbyniad cyfrif Copernicws
o'r bydysawd yn yr unfed ganrif ar bymtheg a'r ail ganrif ar bymtheg?’, a
ysgrifennwyd ar gyfer Athen i Los Alamos: Gwyddoniaeth yn yr henfyd a'r byd
modern (HIH260)
41
Blwyddyn Tri Lois Robinson, ‘Pa mor bwysig oedd rhaff i hynafiaeth?’, a ysgrifennwyd ar gyfer
Traethawd Hir Hanes yr Henfyd (CLD300)
53
Charlotte Watts, ‘Pam bod dŵr yn gynhwysyn effeithiol mewn defodau pan y'i hystyrir
yn beryglus yn yr Aifft Hynafol?’, a ysgrifennwyd ar gyfer Hud a Defod yn yr
Aifft Hynafol (CLE335)
62
Howard Leung, ‘Ym mha ffyrdd yr addasodd dinas Batafia yn araf i wirioneddau
bywyd yn Jafa drofannol?’, a ysgrifennwyd ar gyfer Ymerodraethau Ewropeaidd
yn y Dwyrain (HIH3178)
78
Gemma Almond, ‘I ba raddau mae cysyniad ‘anffurfiad’ wedi effeithio ar ddelwedd a
chymeriad Rhisiart III?’ a ysgrifennwyd ar gyfer Gwaed a Rhosod: Lloegr 1475-
1500 (HIH3258)
88
6
Behind Hittite Lines
The battle of Kadesh has been a topic of much discussion, and is indeed a vital source of
evidence with regard to our understanding of military operations during the second
millennium BCE.1 That aside, it is also highly valuable to use as a starting point from which
to assess the internal politics and the reasons that were behind the eventual treaty between
Ramesses II of Egypt, and Hattusili III of Hatti, in the formers 21st year of reign. The treaty,
initiated by Hattusili III, came after a period of great animosity between the two rival
kingdoms. What was it then that convinced these two ‘Great Kings’, to abandon hostility and
enter into a relationship of ‘Brotherhood’ and co-operation?
From looking at ancient sources, in particular the Egyptian version of events,2 one
could easily be persuaded by the hyperbole of Egyptian interpretation that Ramesses II had
full control of the situation in Syria and therefore, the upper hand in decisions behind the
treaty. However, this form of style and presentation are typical of Egyptian ideology and it
was in fact Hatti that had control over important border territories such as Amurru.3 Egypt
was undoubtedly a powerful rival, but having the territorial advantage the Hittites did, why
did Hattusili III feel a treaty was needed?
Looking at the treaty, some conclusions to this question could be drawn, and the idea
that possibly Hattusili III was more concerned with the politics within his country and the
loyalty of his subjects, than any actual military threat from Egypt.4 In comparing the two,
both the Hittite and Egyptian versions seem to be mostly identical but there are some
1 Morris (2005), p. 362.
2 For translations of the battle of Kadesh see Breasted (1962), pp. 142-157. See also the ‘Poem of the Battle of
Kadesh’ in Kitchen (1996), pp. 2-14. 3 After the battle, Hatti had control of Kadesh, Amurru and had even pushed the Egyptians back as far south as
Aba giving them a confortable ‘buffer-zone’; see Bryce (1992), pp. 261-262. 4 Liverani (2001), pp. 133.
7
exceptions,5 as noted by Langdon and Gardiner (1920). In the opening to both, there is a
subtle difference in the references to the kings (Ramesses II and Hattusili III), which again
highlights Egyptian ideology. The cuneiform tablets for example,6 make no distinction be 4
tween the two and both are referred to as šarru rabû (Great King). In the Egyptian text
however, the pharaoh is referred to as ḥqȝ ʿȝ n kmt (Great King of Egypt) and the Hittite king
as wr ʿȝ n ḫtȝ (Great Prince of Hatti). It is worth noting however, that this practice was used
by the Egyptians to distinguish the pharaoh from any foreign rulers, rather than to show any
contempt toward the Hittite king.7
Another difference between texts is the clause referring to the legitimacy of Hattusili
III’s rule to be acknowledged by Ramesses II, and also that the pharaoh should provide
protection to his successors. This seems to reflect the insecurities Hattusili III may have had
towards rival nobility in Hatti, and also from Urhi-Tesup who at the time was seeking refuge
in Egypt.8 There is no such clause applied to Ramesses II, and indeed the idea that an
Egyptian king would need assistance from a foreign king in the matter of succession, would
have been completely in conflict with Egyptian ideology.9 Furthermore, an interesting detail
which should be noted is the omission of both Muwatalli and Urhi-Tesup, from the genealogy
contained at the beginning of both the Hittite and Egyptian versions.10
This might also be
concluded as an intention by Hattusili III to authenticate the legitimacy of his claim as ruler
and again highlights his political insecurity, and potentially the reason why a treaty was
needed.
5 The Egyptian version (Karnak and Ramessum stelae), represents the translations form the Akkadian version
written on a silver tablet: the Hittite version is written from a copy of a tablet addressed from Ramesses II to
Hattusili III; see Spalinger (1981), p. 299. 6 Discovered by Hugo Winckler at Boghazkoi in 1906; see Luckenbill (1921), p. 161.
7 Spalinger (1981), p. 302.
8 Bryce (1999), pp. 292-293.
9 Liverani (2001), p. 133.
10Spalinger (1981), p. 309.
8
The Hittite political structure, compared by Van de Mieroop (2009), as to that of
‘medieval western European vassalage’,11
was governed over by a ‘Great King’ and included
a number of vassal states and ‘buffer-zones’. While many of the key states were ruled over by
minor Hittite kings (Carchemish for example, who was also a relative), many (the ‘buffer-
zones’) remained under their own rule. An important factor in maintaining and strengthening
relationships between these states was through the marriage of a minor king to a female
relation of the ‘Great King’.12
So while these autonomous states did have some power, it was
ultimately the ‘Great King’ who had authority over the land.13
It was this structure, however,
that would provide problems for Hattusili III during his battle for power with Urhi-Tesup.
Despite rallying enough support against his nephew to usurp him, there did not seem to be
unfaltering loyalty from the nobility of Hatti.14
Doubtless then, much of his time would have
been spent trying to reconcile those who opposed him and certifying his legal position as
king.15
Hattusili III’s ‘Apology’ seems to have been composed to justify this usurpation of
Urhi-Tesup to the influential members of Hittite society,16
and an attempt to secure his line of
succession.
In addition to this need to stabilise his station as ‘Great King’ within his own borders,
Hattusili III would have been intent on securing his position from rival kingdoms: recognition
from other ‘Great Kings’ would help to fortify his claim against his nephew as rightful
ruler.17
Anxiety of status from opposing kingdoms was a typical feature of Bronze Age
diplomacy,18
and Hattusili III’s position was definitely precarious. He sort to reconcile with
Assyria as situations between the two had been increasingly strained during Urhi-Tesbup’s
11
Van de Mieroop (2009), p. 162. 12
Benteshina, King of Amurru for example was married to a daughter of Hattusili III; see Bryce (1999), p. 294. 13
Kuhrt (2000), pp. 267-268. 14
Bryce (1999), pp. 288-289. 15
Brand (2007), p. 26. 16
Collins (2007), p. 58. 17
Brand (2007), p. 22. 18
Avruch (2000).
9
reign. The lost vassal state of Hanigalbat had renewed its allegiance with Hatti and in doing
so had incurred the retaliation of Assyria,19
who had in turn re-claimed the land causing it in
turn to lose its vassal status. Rowton (1959) writes that it was Hattusili III who had been on
the throne, and that it was he, whom had refused in writing, to refer to the Assyrian king,
Adad-Nirari, as ‘Great King’. It seems now however, to have been during the reign of Urhi-
Teshup that the defeat of Wasasatta of Hanigalbat had taken place.20
If this attack had
happened later, and it was indeed Hattusili III whom had sent the letter, then tensions with,
and possible attacks from Assyrian, could have been a reason behind the need for a treaty
with Egypt. But as Bryce (1999) and Brand (2007) suggest, if it was Urhi-Tesup that had sent
the letter during his reign, then concerns over Assyrian threat seem less likely.
Whichever king had sent the letter however, the fact remains that there was no love
lost between the two kingdoms. This might have been why a treaty with Egypt would have
seemed more appealing to Hattusili III than with that of the Assyrian king. Adad-Nirari could
also have been in a position to help secure his kingship, just as Ramesses II went on to do.
Nonetheless, on evaluation of his position, seeking peace and ‘brotherhood’ with the king of
Egypt may have been more enticing to the troubled king, Hattusili III, than losing face to the
Assyrians.21
In addition to this point regarding Assyria, is the consideration of the likelihood
of a treaty between Egypt and Assyria, as had happened during the reign of Tutankhamun.
The possibility of this re-unification could have had a devastating effect to the Hittite position
in Syria.22
Hattusili III may have contemplated this fact on entering into talks with Ramesses
II.
Babylonia was another kingdom, one of equal status with that of Egypt, Hatti and
Assyria, to which Hattusili III sought recognition from. During his reign, he was in contact
19
While preoccupied with the Battle of Kadesh, the Assyrian king had seen his chance and had seized the Hittite
vassal state of Hanigalbat. 20
Bryce (1999), p. 283. 21
Brand (2007), p. 30. 22
Morris (2005), pp. 374-375.
10
with the Babylonian king, Kadasman-Turgu, to offer treaty and seek help against Ramesses
II, who, as mentioned above, was in possession of the usurped Urhi-Tesub. Unfortunately for
Hattusili III however, the death of the Babylonian king shortly after the treaty was in place,
was disregarded by his son, Kadasman-Enlil II. The young king restored Babylonia’s
diplomatic relationship with Egypt, possibly under the influence of his anti-Hittite vizier, Itti-
Marduk-balatu.23
Hattusili III would likely have been unable to push the situation under fear
of angering Babylonia, and in doing so, fortify the Egyptian-Babylonian relationship further
against Hatti.
The exiled Urhi-Tesup had sort contact with rival kingdoms of Babylonia and
Assyria, in order to gain assistance against his uncle.24
Hattusili III’s underestimation of the
determination with which Urhi-Tesup would use to regain the throne, had allowed his
position to be placed under threat. Urhi-Tesup’s plans to gain foreign support to his cause
however, were discovered and halted, and a new place of exile was purposed by his uncle.
Unfortunately for Hattusili III, his nephew escaped and as previously discussed, ended up in
the Egyptian court of Ramesses II.25
Hearing the pharaoh’s refusal to return the usurped king
would likely have been a huge blow to Hattusili III and his position as king. Fear of an
attempt to regain the throne by Urhi-Tesup with Egyptian backing, which would have placed
Hattusili III in a very vulnerable position, would therefore have been another valid reason for
a seeking a treaty with the Egyptian king.26
Despite rivalry between these four kingdoms, open war was highly unlikely to have
been an intention of any of the ‘Great Kings’. War of that size would have been long and
costly with the likely chance of no eventual winner. Instead, to uphold the ideology of
23
Bryce (1999), pp. 292-293. 24
Ibid. p. 290. 25
Bryce (2006), p. 5. 26
Brand (2007), p. 23.
11
kingship, these rulers sought to impose authority by taking control of border territories.27
The
political structure of these vassal states meant that allegiances could interchange between
rival countries, either through duress or allurement. Just as Hatti and Egypt fought over
Kadesh and Amurru, the area of Mitanni and Hanigalbat, had long been fought over by both
Hatti and Assyria.28
By looking to the political history of these great kingdoms, it is easy to
see why treaties were an important part in foreign relations. The acceptance of status as
‘Great King’ was vital to the progress and stability of a country.29
Being classed as an equal
would decrease the risk of border hostility, while countries of smaller status, would require
the protection and assistance from their larger neighbours.
It seems to have been the politics within his own country that was behind Hattusili
III’s need for a treaty. His military position over Syrian (lands such as Amurru and Kadesh)
was strong, evidence of the power the Hittite’s held, and despite the loss of Hanigalbat, the
Assyrians had not tried to advance further into Hittite territory. Likewise, the Babylonian
King did also not pose any real threat to the stability of Hatti.30
Indeed, Hattusili III’s main
concern seems to have been the legitimacy of his reign, especially owning to the fact that
both sons of Muwatalli were alive and could threaten his position. As Van de Mieroop (2010)
suggests, Hattusili III’s need to write his ‘Apology’ could be an indication of his trying to
convince some levels of Hittite society of his right to rule and to appease any local resistance.
There is acknowledgement within his ‘Apology’ that he was openly opposed.31
He saw an
opportunity then, to not only strengthen his rule, but also that of his successors.
In signing a treaty, Ramesses II had pledged himself to not only recognise Hattusili III
and his successors as legitimate rulers, but also to aid them with military backing if required.
27
Bryce (2006), pp. 1-2. 28
Rowton (1959), p. 11. 29
For foreign relations in the Ancient Near East see Moran (1992), Liverani (2001) and Cohen & Westbrook
(2000). 30
Spalinger (1981), p. 357. 31
Hoffner (1975), pp. 53-55.
12
Hattusili III had succeeded in eliminating the treat due to Urhi-Tesup residing in Egypt: the
possible political threat he posed was far greater than any military threat from Egypt.32
So the
long period of hostilities, which had existed since the later half of the 14th century, had come
to an end with the installation of a peace treaty, which was also later secured, by the marriage
of Ramesses II with a daughter of Hattusili III.33
Laura Wiseman, [email protected]
Written for Introduction to ancient Egyptian history and civilisation (CLE-121)
Bibliography
Avruch, K. (2000). Reciprocity, equality, and status-anxiety in the Amarna letters. In R.
Cohen & R. Westbrook (Eds.), Amarna diplomacy: The beginnings of international
relations (pp. 154-164). Baltimore: The Johns Hopkins University Press.
Brand, P. J. (2007). Ideological imperatives: Irrational factors in Egyptian-Hittite relations
under Ramesses II. In P. Kousoulis & K.D. Magliveras, K. D (Eds). Moving across
borders: Foreign relations, religion, and cultural interactions in the ancient
Mediterranean (pp. 15-33). Leuven: Peeters Publishers & Department of Oriental
Studies.
Breasted, J. H (1962). Ancient records of Egypt. Volume III, The Nineteenth Dynasty. New
York: Russell & Russel Inc.
Bryce, T. (1999). The kingdom of the Hittites. Oxford: Oxford University Press.
Bryce, T. (2006). The 'Eternal Treaty’ from the Hittite perspective. BMSAES, 6, 1-11,
http://www.thebritishmuseum.ac.uk/bmsaes/issue6/bryce.html
32
Spalinger (1981), p. 357. 33
Bryce (1999), p. 311.
13
Cohen, R. & Westbrook, R. (Eds.). (2000). Amarna diplomacy: The beginnings of
international relations. Baltimore: The Johns Hopkins University Press.
Collins, B. J. (2007). The Hittites and their world. Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature.
Hoffner, H. A. (1975). Hittite mythological texts: a survey. In Goedicke, H. & Roberts, J. J.
M. (Eds) Unity and diversity: Essays in the history, literature, and religion of the
ancient Near East (136-45). Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press.
Kitchen, K. K. (1996). Ramesside inscriptions translated & annotated translations. Vol. II.
Oxford and Massachusetts: Blackwell.
Kuhrt, A. (2000). The ancient Near East c. 3000-330BC. Vol. 1. London: Routledge.
Langdon, S. & Gardiner, A. H. (1920). The treaty of alliance between Hattusilli, king of the
Hillites, and Pharaoh Ramesses II of Egypt. The Journal of Egyptian Archaeology, 9,
pp. 179-205.
Liverani, M. (2001). International relations in the ancient Near East, 1600-1100 B.C.
Hampshire: Palgrave Macmillan.
Luckenbill, D. (1921). Hittite treaties and letters. American Journal of Semitic Languages
and Literatures, 37, pp. 161-211.
Moran, W. L. (Ed. and Trans.), (1992). The Amarna letters. Baltimore and London: The
Johns Hopkins University Press.
Morris, E. F. (2005). The architecture of imperialism. Leiden: Brill.
Rowton, M. B. (1959). The background of the treaty between Ramesses II and Hattusili III.
Journal of Cuneiform Studies, 13, pp. 1-11.
Van de Mieroop, M. (2009). The history of the ancient Near East, ca. 3000-323 B.C. Oxford:
Blackwell.
Van de Mieroop, M. (2010). The eastern Mediterranean in the age of Ramesses II. Oxford:
Blackwell.
14
Spalinger, A. (1981). Considerations on the Hittite treaty between Egypt and Hatti. In Studien
zur Altägyptischen Kultur, 9, pp. 299-358.
Was the Falange fascist?
In order to determine whether or not the Falange was fascist, it is first necessary to determine
what fascism is and what is meant by the term. The historiography concerning the nature of
fascism is vast, and many varying definitions of fascism have been established by different
historians. The term ‘fascist’ was first used to define a political movement based upon both
ultra-nationalism and hostility towards the Left by Mussolini in 1919.1 This is a basic
definition of fascism at its core. However, there are many other different features of fascism
as a political movement, which means that interpretations and definitions of fascism change
depending on what is being focused on. For example, Marxist approaches to fascism all
emphasize its links with capitalism, stating that when pressure from the proletariat for the end
of capitalism rose to extreme heights, capitalists used terror to defend their monopoly over
industry, and used the mass fascist movement to destroy socialism.2
Marxist scholars therefore emphasise the difference of fascism to communism.
However, fascist and communist regimes have been compared for their similarity, despite
being at opposite ends of the political spectrum.3 This is due to the totalitarian aspect of
fascism. Totalitarianism in fascism is often part of the drive to incorporate the masses into a
total hierarchical and mobilized community serving the needs of the country.4 Totalitarian
scholar C.J. Friedrich defines totalitarianism as having seven key aspects- a single mass party
led by one man which forms the hardcore of the regime; a system of terror by the police or
secret police against the real and imagined enemies of the state; a total control of mass media;
a near monopoly of weapons; central control of the economy; an elaborate ideology which
covers all aspects of man’s existence and finally an aim to restructure society in accordance
1 Passmore (2002), p. 10.
2 Ibid. pp. 14-15.
3 Forman (1974), p. 14.
4 Passmore (2002), p. 8.
16
with an ideological blueprint.5 However, focusing solely on the totalitarian or capitalist
aspects of fascism ignores the aspects of the movement which set it apart from other political
concepts, such as its nationalist focus and attack on ‘enemies’ of the nation state on a racial or
biological basis.
Due to these many varying aspects and perspectives on fascism, many historians have
therefore attempted to make a concise definition of fascism. One such definition is that of
Stanley Payne. He argues that fascism can be defined through three ways. Firstly, through the
fascist ideals: anti-liberalism, anti-communism and anti-conservatism, though the fascists are
willing to engage in temporary alliances with groups from other sectors, most commonly
from the Right.6
Secondly, through ideology and goals: creation of a new nationalist
authoritarian state; organisation of a new kind of regulated national economic structure; and
the achievement of an empire.7 Thirdly, through their style and organisation: attempted mass
mobilisation with the militarization of political relationships; the goal of a mass party
military; positive evaluation and use of violence; extreme stress on a masculine principle;
adoration of youth; and a tendency towards an authoritarian, charismatic, personal style of
command from their leader.8 An alternative definition is one by Kevin Passmore who states
that fascism is a series of ideologies that seek to place a nation (which is defined in select
biological, cultural or historical terms) above all other potential sources of loyalty and to
create a mobilized national community. Fascism acts in the name of the people and the
movement is headed by a charismatic leader and personified in a mass militarized party, but
above all, all aspects of its policy are infused with ultra-nationalism.9
Roger Griffin also attempts to define the generic features of fascism as a movement.
His definition includes: the values of the fascist party are expressed in its writings, speeches,
5 Passmore (2002), p. 19.
6 Renton (1999), p. 21.
7 Ibid. p. 21.
8 Ibid.
9 Passmore (2002), p. 31.
17
propaganda, uniforms, and above all the style of its politics; a utopian vision of the future
under the party which will never actually be realized in practice; fascist ideology and the
impact it has is not due to any one leader; and that fascism is defined in a series of values and
goals all centred around its ideological core.10
Finally, there is the definition reached by
James D. Forman. He states that since fascism is largely a reaction to communism, the main
support of fascism will come from those groups whose social or economic positions are
threatened by communism, such as the economic elite.11
As for the fascist movement itself,
he identifies key elements of the fascist state- misfits are eliminated; politically, the
individual has been eliminated; a final objective of imperialistic expansion; the youth
participate in mandatory athletic programmes; military forces are quickly expanded; the
seizure and control of economic, social, political and cultural aspects of a state; fear of the
communists and the Left; and overall the state has become fiercely nationalistic, anti-
communist, militaristic and imperialistic.12
Overall, these many definitions demonstrate that what fascism is as an ideology and
as a political movement is subject to interpretation by the person defining it. There are also
things that one scholar may identify as a key aspect of fascism whilst another may not, or
may have missed out of their definition entirely. For example, Griffin argues that the impact
of fascism is not centred around any single leader, whilst Passmore states that a key aspect of
fascism is that the group is led by a charismatic, authoritarian leader. However, by comparing
and grouping these varying definitions, a common definition of fascism with key elements
can be identified, which can then be used to determine whether or not the Falange was a
fascist group.
The background for the rise of the Falange in Spain is one of disparity and economic
hardship, something which also gave rise to the fascist regimes in Germany and Italy. Spain
10
Griffin (1993), pp. 22-23. 11
Forman (1974), p. 15. 12
Ibid. p. 16-17.
18
boasted a slow rate of economic growth due to low levels of popular education, as well as
archaic agricultural and industrial equipment, an extremely slow rise in the standard of living,
and low wages- Spanish workers in 1914 were paid the lowest real wages in Western Europe
besides Portugal.13
Between the 1870s and the outbreak of the First World War, Spain, along
with Germany and Italy, experienced deep structural problems and the tensions of a
backwards political regime which was challenged both by the bourgeoisie and a militant
working class.14
However, Spain did not participate in the First World War and did not
experience a national psychosis of defeat or a plethora of angry war veterans to swell the
ranks of fascist groups, unlike the other two countries.15
This may suggest that nationalism in
Spain was not as contentious an issue as it was in Italy and Germany, and therefore that the
Falange was not as infused with ultra-nationalism as the definition of fascism dictates.
However, the leader of the Falange, José Antonio Primo de Rivera, did dictate that misery
would only be over once the Spanish had an empire once more, and privately talked of
absorbing Portugal.16
The Falange was formed by José Antonio Primo de Rivera, the son of the previous
dictator of Spain. He advocated national reform based on authoritarianism and a radical
national authoritarian reconstruction, aggressive towards liberals and the Left.17
This can be
seen in José Antonio's first official address of the Falange's party goals in October 1933. He
stated that the Falange aimed for unity of all classes and individuals: ‘All the people of Spain,
however diverse they may be, feel in harmony with the irrevocable unity of destiny’.18
Furthermore, the Falange wanted more respect for the liberty of man, which would happen if
13
Payne (1961), p. 2. 14
Preston (1990), p. 12. 15
Ibid. pp. 12-13. 16
Payne (1999), pp. 43-44. 17
Ibid. p. 29. 18
Ibid. pp. 38-39.
19
liberty were joined to a system of order, hierarchy and authority.19
This system may have to
be achieved by violence but that was necessary, as the Falange were fighting for all the
people of Spain, including the working class which would feel the benefits of a totalitarian
state.20
Overall, the Falange was captured by a powerful feeling for Spain and aimed to
collapse the ‘tired’ political system.21
This address encapsulates many of the key features of
fascism identified in the aforementioned definitions, such as nationalism, authoritarianism,
aggressiveness towards the Left, an enthusiasm for violence and totalitarianism. However,
there is no mention of mass militarization, which is a key part of the aforementioned
definitions. El Sol, Spain's leading liberal newspaper also stated: ‘We reject it in the first
place for wanting to be fascist...and in the second, for not truly being it, for not being a deep
and authentic fascism. This suggests that although the Falange had fascist elements to its
ideology, it was not true fascism.
Looking at the Falange throughout its time as a political party, there are many key
elements that can be identified as fascist according to the established definitions. The most
striking is that identified by Paul Preston, who states: ‘If style and ideology, rather than social
and economic function, are the main criteria for defining fascism, then the Falange is the
clear choice.’22
He goes on to talk about the Falange's cult of violence and its blue-shirted
militias with Roman salutes and ritual chants.23
The one consistent part of the Falange party
programme was its fervid nationalism and desire for economic reform,24
which is a key
element of fascism as a movement. The ideology of the Falange showing crucial fascist
aspects is a common occurrence. For example, José Antonio maintained that only an integral,
19
Ibid. p. 39. 20
Ibid. p. 40. 21
Ibid. p. 41. 22
Preston (1990), p. 9. 23
Ibid. p. 9. 24
Payne (1999), p. 76.
20
totalitarian, national state could bring Spain to glory.25
Furthermore, General Franco had used
the Falange to gain power during the Spanish Civil War and with them, created a totalitarian
national syndicalist state which remained in power until after the Second World War, until
Franco attempted to cut all ties with fascism and established a traditionalist Catholic state
instead.26
However, there are also key elements of the Falange throughout the years which
suggest that they were not a fascist group, or possibly not a true fascist group. Perhaps most
significantly, José Antonio declared publicly that Falange was not a fascist movement after
the Spanish people were beginning to reject fascism.27
There were also doubts that José
Antonio had the proper temperament to be a fascist- he continued to secretly have dinner with
liberal friends and did not act like his political opposition was inhuman or less human than
himself.28
There is also the fact that between sixty and seventy per cent of all Falangists were
under twenty-one and students.29
This is in direct opposition to Forman's definition of
fascism, which states that the majority of support for the fascists will come from those whose
elite economic and social positions are challenged by communism, a group which does not
include students. Furthermore, the Falange separated themselves from racism to avoid
comparison with other nationalistic fascist parties.30
However, the definition of fascism above
states that there must be enemies of the state defined in exclusive racial or cultural terms.
Falangist propaganda also differed radically from that of most other European fascist groups
with an emphasis on Catholicism and Christianity.31
Fascism normally eschews religion as it
implies that there is a higher and more important power than that of the totalitarian leader.
25
Ibid. p. 87. 26
del Boca & Giovana (1970), p. 236. 27
Payne (1999), p. 70. 28
Ibid. p. 75. 29
Ibid. p. 82. 30
Ibid. p. 126. 31
Ibid. p. 127.
21
Overall, it is difficult to determine whether or not the Falange was a fascist political
party. The group never fully rose to power in Spain and therefore cannot be fully assessed by
all the criteria available for determining fascism, as they never had an opportunity to
implement policies such as mandatory participation in activity programmes for the youth or a
mass militarized party. However, the Falange does display key elements of fascism such as a
total focus on nationalism, a use of violence, a goal of empire, a uniting uniform and salute,
and a goal to overthrow the current political system and implement reform. Despite this,
elements of the party which were not associated with fascism, such as it being made almost
completely of students, a lack of a racial or national enemy, a focus on religion and the party
not being centred completely around one leader who had total authoritarian power, cannot be
ignored. Due to this, it is necessary to conclude that the Falange was not a fully fascist group.
It is arguably not inaccurate to call the Falange fascist, as it certainly displayed central fascist
aspects such as those outlined above. However, when compared to the major European
fascisms of the twentieth century and the definitions which aim to encapsulate these fascisms,
the Falange is found lacking.
Catriona Allon, [email protected]
Written for Europe of Extremes (HIH-121)
Bibliography
del Boca, A. & Giovana, M. (1970). Fascism today: A world survey. London: Heinemann.
de Felice, R. (1976). Fascism: An informal introduction to its theory and practice. New
Jersey: Transaction.
Forman, J. D. (1974). Fascism: The meaning and experience of revolutionary reaction. New
York: New Viewpoints.
22
Gregor, A. J. (1997). Interpretations of Fascism. New Jersey: Transaction.
Griffin, R. (1993). The nature of Fascism. London: Routledge.
Passmore, K. (2002). Fascism: A very short introduction. New York: Oxford University
Press.
Payne, S. G. (1961). Falange: A history of Spanish Fascism. Stanford: Stanford University
Press.
Payne, S. G. (1999). Fascism in Spain 1923-1977. Wisconsin: The University of Wisconsin
Press.
Preston, P. (1990). The politics of revenge: Fascism and the military in twentieth-century
Spain. London: Unwin Hyman.
Renton, D. (1999). Fascism: Theory and practice. London: Pluto Press.
What benefits could a small city expect
from joining a large hegemonic league?
Large Leagues were formed to protect the interests of multiple states, serving as large scale
alliances, often in the face of a common enemy that required the combined power of states to
overcome. The key example of this is the union of Greek states against the Persian invaders
in 480 BC where the Spartan led defence meant that Greece was free from the control of an
outside state. The Hellenic League was first developed from the earlier Peloponnesian
League, which offered protection to members, with the power of Sparta, but also limited
some of their freedom. The effect that Leagues had on smaller members is also seen in the
Delian League, which offered safety and protection from invaders and pirates, but also forced
members to pay tribute to Athens, and limited the members’ autonomy. The Boeotian League
was also created to strengthen the overall power of its members, with Thebes as the centre,
first fighting off a common enemy and then forming a united coinage and assembly to form a
cohesive force.
The Peloponnesian League was originally formed as a collection of states, which had
treaties with Sparta, meaning that these states could war amongst themselves, but if any of
them were attacked by a non-‘member’ then Sparta would intervene and vice-versa . This
collection of Spartan allies was not formally linked together, meaning that Sparta could ask
for military support from any of the allies and they would be obliged to follow,1 this was
something which did not benefit any of the allies. Therefore around 505 BC it was decided
that all decisions would first be ratified by an assembly of representatives, with each member
getting a single vote, no matter their size, and the decision of the assembly was final (unless
1 Cartledge (2001), p. 225.
24
there was a religious reason why a state could not join).2 The democratic system of decision
making was key to ensuring that smaller states were treated in the same way as larger ones,
meaning that they had a say in the policies of the league. However, the Allies council was
counter-measured by a Spartan Assembly which had as much weight as the council, meaning
that the Spartans were the leaders of the League, and often dominated discussions.3 Despite
the power of Sparta in the league, their decision was not always forgone, with Herodotus
telling us that around 504 BC a Spartan proposal to instil a tyrant in Athens was overruled.4
The formation of a group of allies into a hegemonic league with a council of representatives
was important as it meant that all states could decide on a course of action, rather than Sparta
forcing one onto them, it gave smaller states a say in actions and meant that Sparta could not
control the members as part of an empire.
The League offered smaller states a great deal of support, as Sparta was bound to give
aid if a state was attacked by a non-member. The league was also a way to shore up support
for oligarchies, as the threat of a Spartan force to crush any anti-oligarchic movement could
be seen as a huge benefit to joining the League. However there was also the fact that any hint
of disobedience to Sparta, such as signing a treaty with a sworn Spartan enemy, or refusing to
participate in league action, was crushed by the Spartans, without the need to call an
assembly.5
In reality this meant that there were few areas in which members of the
Peloponnesian League had full autonomy. This being said the decision of the League was
always down to the will of the Allies rather than the Spartans, such as in the declaration of
war on Athens in 432 BC which started the Peloponnesian War. This decision was taken by
the Allies as a way to ensure freedom and justice against the aggressive Athenian Empire.6
The reasons for this decision, as given by Hammond (1967), seem to imply that smaller states
2 Cartledge (2001), p. 226.
3 Hammond (1967), p. 195.
4 Hdt. 5.91-3.
5 Cartledge (2001), p. 228.
6 Hammond (1967), p. 322.
25
felt threatened by the power of Athens and were using the Peloponnesian league as a way to
ensure their freedom, showing that being part of the League was a huge benefit for the
smaller members.
The Hellenic League was created from the Peloponnesian League, widening it to
incorporate the majority of Greece against the common enemy of Persia. Members took an
oath to prevent states from submitting to the Persians in 480 BC, and promised to support any
action taken against the Persians.7 The Spartans were the strongest power in the League so
they were given the role of leading the League, as well as contributing the major generals for
the war.8 The League’s primary objective was to force the Persians out of Greek lands, and
end their Greek intentions. Smaller states also joined the League, with the hopes of
continuing their autonomy, and preventing the Persians from taking over, however there was
a feeling that it was a lost cause and that victory seemed impossible.9 The League itself was
not a way to protect members from attack, through the threat of League action (as with other
Leagues) but was used as a way to join states against the Persians, as well as formally
agreeing actions against the invaders.10
The Hellenic league was a union of states that fought against the Persian advance,
with the objective of repulsing the Persian invasion, however there must also have been an
argument to continue military action against the lands that the Persians already owned once
the first objective had been accomplished. Brunt (1953) argues that the oath for the League
also bound members to free Greeks from Persian rule, as well as joining members in an
alliance that was designed to stop inter-fighting between members.11
Bearing in mind that the
members of the League made up the majority of Greece, this was a huge commitment, and so
it is unsurprising that it disintegrated after the war, when the war weary states left the League
7 Hdt. 7.145.
8 Ibid. 1.18.2.
9 Brunt (1953), p. 137.
10 Hdt. 7.145.
11 Brunt (1953), p. 151.
26
after the immediate threat had been dealt with. However, the original aim of the League
seemed to promise an end to the petty disputes between the Greeks and join them together,
meaning that it would have seemed very beneficial to smaller states to join the League. An
example of this policy in practice can be seen with Aegina, as Athens and the island are said
to clearly have stopped their hostilities when they joined the League, going as far as fighting
together at Salamis.12
This end to hostilities seems to hint towards a more peaceful Greece
under the League, along with the obvious benefits, such as a stronger military that could deal
with foreign threats (as demonstrated by the Greeks victory against Persia) there was also the
idea of liberating fellow Greeks from the tyranny of Persian rule in Asia Minor. However, the
benefits of joining the Hellenic League did not materialise, with the Union effectively ending
when Sparta and the Peloponnesians left the leadership of the continued war against Persia
(which was primarily naval) in the hands of the Athenians, virtually ending their involvement
as well as much of the benefit that the league had for small states.
The Delian league was formed to continue the naval war against the Persians;13
however it soon became clear that this collection of states was under the thumb of Athens,
dominating the states, and eventually forcing them to pay tribute to Athens for the liberty to
be part of the league. Diodorus tells us that Athens dominated the league, and ruled with
violence and terror,14
which would imply that many member states stayed in the league
because of fear of what Athens would do to them if they left. This was not an unfounded fear,
as Athens crushed several states that had wanted to leave the League, Thucydides particularly
mentions Mytilene which revolted against the League in 428 BC.15
Athens reacted to
Mytilene’s ‘revolt’ by crushing them, and then debating whether to slaughter the entire
12
MacDowell (1960), p. 119. 13
Larsen (1940), p. 175. 14
Diod. 70.3-4. 15
Thuc. 3.2.
27
population or not, eventually deciding to spare them.16
The Mytilenaean dialogue proves that
Athens was violent towards any members that preferred to rule itself autonomously, and used
its power to bring the members of the league into line with Athenian wishes.
French (1979) tells us that Thucydides shows only a few examples of Athenian and
Delian action to represent the stages that Athens went through towards dominating the
League with fear. Firstly, there are the purely league actions that were taken against Persia to
free Greek settlements, such as Eion, undertaken around 476 BC,17
then there are the more
aggressive acts that are taken toward several states, with the ‘enslavement’ of Naxos as the
key case shown by Thucydides.18
There is also the case of Thasos, which revolted against the
league, and was brutally crushed by Athens, forcing it to demolish its walls, surrender its
ships and pay tribute.19
The action taken to stop Thasos from revolting meant that Athens’
own fleet grew, and that Thasos had no defences. The destruction of Thasos’ walls could
signify that the Delian League would guarantee the safety of the city; however it would seem
more likely that it was simply a punishment for rebelling, and would make it easier to destroy
the city if they rebelled again. Therefore, the benefits for Thasos being part of the Delian
League were almost non-existent, along with their lack of defence (both in the form of a fleet
or city walls) they were also forced to pay tribute, and it seems clear that any attempt made to
distance themselves from the league would end in destruction.
One of the benefits that the Delian league could offer was the fact that Athens would
not attack members; this was a major part of the League’s structure. It was also a key way in
which members were forced to join the league. Such as the island of Aegina, which Athens
invaded and which became part of the Delian League, paying tribute to Athens, around 457
16
Thuc. 3.36-49. 17
French (1979), p. 136. 18
Thuc. 1.98. 19
Rhodes (2010), p. 22.
28
BC.20
However, even the promise of a member’s safety from Athens was not always true, as
Aegina was invaded and all the inhabitants expelled in favour of Athenian colonists during
the Peloponnesian War, despite no immediate Aeginitan action being taken to warrant such
cruel treatment.21
The action taken against Aegina would seem to prove that there was no
benefit for a small state to join the Delian League. However, this is not necessarily correct
with several states choosing to join the Delian League as a way to oust their harsh systems of
government in favour of a democratic government that Athens could support. This served as
a way to both revolutionise the state into a more inclusive government as well as joining a
league that would help to prevent any invasion of the state. States that underwent this change
often did so with the support of Athens, such as in Corcyra where the pro-democratic faction
was supported by Athens.22
Samos, a relatively large state, was part of the Delian league from its beginning,
meaning that it had originally promised some of its fleet to Athens to be used in League
actions. This policy was continued beyond the point when other states were told to pay
tribute, which was unusual for a member of the League but it served to bolster Athens’ fleet,
which was the key power base behind Athens’ influence.23
However the majority of states
were made to pay tribute, the exact amount of which varied between members, with Athens
demanding only as much as the state could afford. This system of tribute was a way to make
sure that the members could pay for their membership; it was also a way of limiting their
individual military power, as they wouldn’t have enough spare money to pay for a build-up in
military. Tribute also meant that Athens wouldn’t have to rely on other states’ military to
fight battles, as well as having more money to build up their own military. Tribute was also
beneficial for smaller states as it meant that they didn’t have to contribute citizens to wars
20
Thuc. 1.108. 21
Ibid. 2.27. 22
Ibid. 3.75. 23
Legon (1972), p. 145.
29
that Athens wanted, therefore having Athens as the protector for all members of the Delian
league meant that states could prosper in the peace that Athens guaranteed. Athens also
promised to protect members from the terror of Persia and from pirates, which helped
members of the Delian League trade, which was a major benefit for any state, and became a
huge part of the Delian League’s attraction.24
Athens was also seen as the cultural centre of
Greece and they saw themselves as benefitting the Delian League by passing on their culture
to the other members.25
These benefits were wide ranging and helped to stabilise many states
in the League, however Hammond (1967) argues that political freedom was held in greater
esteem than these benefits, and so Athens was seen as a tyrant state that sought to rule others
by force rather than through respect.26
The formation of the Boeotian League is argued by Buck (1972) as being around 520
BC, serving originally as a military alliance it soon fought off the aggressive state of Thessaly
which invaded them at this time.27
Similar to the Hellenic League, the Boeotians banded
together to fight off a common enemy, forming a group that then continued under the strong
leadership of one state, much like the Delian League. The benefit to a smaller member is
clear, with the League able to fight off a common enemy, whereas one state would not have
been powerful enough, meaning that the members could feel safe as part of the League,
whereas before they would have been vulnerable. The League also stressed a form of unity
between the members, with a shared coinage becoming part of this. The coins changed from a
unified coinage, to ones showing the individual name of the town that they were minted in,
with it being suggested that this showed that members of the league held a certain amount of
autonomy.28
24
Hammond (1967), p. 327. 25
Thuc. 2.40-41. 26
Hammond (1967), p. 327. 27
Buck (1972), p. 97. 28
Ibid. pp. 97-98.
30
The League was built around shared values, religiously, militarily and politically,
therefore members were all originally governed by a moderate oligarchic government,29
with
league action having to be approved by a council first before any action could be taken. The
council allowed all members to have a vote in league policies; however it seems clear that
Thebes was the most powerful state, and often dominated these councils. Members of the
Boeotian league did however have some say on all actions of the League, and could vote
against anything they didn’t agree with, which was a benefit to any state that was part of the
League, and despite Theban dominance it could still be outvoted. The Boeotian states also
incorporated a form of exclusivity in the league, with a property qualification to be part of the
individual city councils,30
which could be seen as a benefit to small members as the people
who presumably had the most free time could be part of the council, both in the city and
possibly as part of the League council.31
Overall, there were several benefits that large leagues could bring to small states,
often guaranteeing their safety against invasion from larger states. The Hellenistic
amalgamation of states against Persia guaranteed the freedom of all Greece; however the later
Delian League sought to destroy this freedom, in favour of Athenian dominance over smaller
states that were forced to pay tribute. The Delian League did also bring stability to its
members, and guaranteed safe trading with the destruction of pirates in the Aegean. The
league also brought about the freedom of Greek cities in Asia Minor that had previously been
under Persian control. The Peloponnesian League also helped its members in times of
struggle, with small states’ oligarchic governments being propped up by the power of Sparta,
while the states’ safety was also guaranteed by the League. The Boeotian League did a lot for
smaller states as well, by bringing about stable trading in the area with a shared currency, as
well as the shared protection of members in the League. The Boeotians were also led by a
29
Hammond (1967), p. 485. 30
Hellenica Oxyrhynchia, 19.2. 31
Mitchell (2006), p. 372.
31
council, as was the Hellenic and Peloponnesian Leagues which meant that all members had a
say in League action, giving smaller states at least some degree of sway in the Leagues. All
of these benefits meant that small states were often safer and better off being part of a larger
league as their benefits often outweighed the more negative aspects.
Oliver Leighton, [email protected]
Written for Greek City States (CLH-264)
Bibliography
Brunt, P. A. (1953). The Hellenic League against Persia. Historia: Zeitschrift für Alte
Geschichte, 2 (2), 135-163.
Buck, R. J. (1972). The formation of the Boeotian League. Classical Philology, 67, 94-101.
Cartledge, P. (2002). The origins and organisation of the Peloponnesian League. In M.
Whitby (Ed.), Sparta (pp. 223-230). New York: Routledge.
French, A. (1979). Athenian ambitions and the Delian Alliance. Phoenix, 33, 134-141.
Hammond, N. G. L. (1967). A history of Greece to 322 BC. Oxford: Oxford University Press.
Larsen, J. A. O. (1940). The constitution and original purpose of the Delian League. Harvard
Studies in Classical Philology, 51, 175-213.
Legon, R. P. (1972). Samos in the Delian League. Historia: Zeitschrift für Alte Geschichte,
21 (2), 145-158.
MacDowell, D. (1960). Aigina and the Delian League. Journal of Hellenic Studies, 80, 118-
121.
Mitchell, L. G. (2006). Greek government. In K.H. Kinzl (Ed.), A companion to the Classical
Greek world (pp. 367-386). Oxford: Wiley-Blackwell.
32
Rhodes, P. J. (2010). A history of the Classical Greek world: 478-323 BC. Oxford: Wiley-
Blackwell.
33
In what way can the Wehrmacht be viewed as complicit in atrocities
committed by the SS against Jews, POWs and civilians in Russia?
Following the end of the Second World War much attention was focused upon the atrocities
committed by the SS on prisoners of war, civilians and the Jewish population of the countries
occupied by Nazi Germany. It was not until forty years later, following the end of the cold
war and Germany’s unification that some historians started to suggest that atrocities against
these groups had not solely been committed by SS forces, but that the Wehrmacht had been
complicit in many of these crimes. It has even been suggested by some historians, that many
major figures within the Wehrmacht were as guilty of war crimes as the leaders of the SS
sentenced during the Nuremburg trials of 1946.1 The time taken for the discovery to emerge
was mainly due to tensions that arose after the Second World War between Western powers
and Russia. Although atrocities were committed throughout Eastern Europe, it was not until
the German forces turned their focus towards Russia in the summer of 1941 that the
Wehrmacht’s role within these appears to emerge. The reasons behind the Wehrmacht’s
complicity must therefore be associated with the way in which the war changed during the
invasion of Russia. When looking at ways in which the Wehrmacht can be viewed as
complicit in SS atrocities it is therefore important to study the possible reasons why
Wehrmacht attitudes to Jews, POWs and civilians changed once they entered Russia.
The war in Russia brought with it unprecedented numbers of deaths on both sides
with one third of German frontline soldiers having been killed, lost or wounded by March
1942.2 It is perhaps not surprising therefore that the mentality of soldiers within the armies of
both Germany and Russia quickly changed during such a bloody conflict. Based on this view,
historians have argued that as the war intensified, a desire to enact retribution on prisoners for
1 Headland (1992), p. 145.
2 Mazower (2008), p. 139.
34
things witnessed whilst fighting in Russia grew within the ranks of the German army.3 Many
within the Wehrmacht can therefore be seen to have developed a certain desensitisation to
violence that would not be present had they not been witness to atrocities themselves. This
led to reprisal killings of a vast scale within Russia, with areas within the Wehrmacht actively
cooperating with the Einsatzgruppen killing squads.4 One such example of this can be found
within an Einsatzgruppen report dated 12 November 1941, which states within that the
actions against Jews, communists and partisans in Borispol were carried out smoothly thanks
to the ‘energetic’ help of the German army forces there.5 This ‘energetic’ willingness to take
part in acts of violence against the civilian population of conquered territories was present on
both sides. This has led to some historians, such as Mark Mazower (2008), describing the war
in Russia as a ‘war of annihilation’ as this is what Hitler asked of his generals when he turned
his focus from Western Europe to Russia in 1942.6 Another possible reason suggested for the
increase in violence by Wehrmacht soldiers is that many Germans at the time had a deep set
racial hatred of Russians prior to Hitler taking power, which had been amplified through the
vast amount of Nazi propaganda targeting communist Russia. The threat of communism on
the western world had been highlighted throughout numerous anti-communist and anti-
Russian propaganda drives by the Nazi party once they had taken power in 1933.7 This
feeling of racial hatred and fear of Russian communism was present in many within the
Wehrmacht, with Russian soldiers often being referred to as Mongols.8 This racial view was
played on by the Nazi propaganda department who issued posters portraying Russians as
wolf like figures preying on Germans as well as ones focusing on the threat of Communism
3Mackenzie (1994), p. 491.
4 Headland (1992), p. 140.
5 Operational Situation Report USSR No.132 (Nov. 12, 1941) Retrieved from
http://www.jewishvirtuallibrary.org/jsource/Holocaust/sitrep132.html. 6 Mazower (2008), p. 159.
7 Welch (1983), p. 208.
8 Mazower (2008), p. 159.
35
taking over Western Europe. This helps to explain why Wehrmacht actions towards prisoners
of war changed once they entered Russia.
When the Second World War first broke out in Europe, the International Committee
of the Red Cross asked for assurances that the Geneva Convention would be followed in
prisoner of war camps by all major parties.9 This meant that prisoners of war had to have
access to a certain standard of food, labour, shelter and hygiene. Despite this two million red
army soldiers had been allowed to starve to death whilst captured by the Wehrmacht.10
The
Nazis further went against conditions stated within the Geneva Convention when Hitler
issued the ‘Commissar Order’ which stated that all captured Russian commissars were to be
killed as they were an enforcer of the communist ideology. This moment is significant when
looking at the role played by the Wehrmacht in committing atrocities as this is the first truly
illegal order that was issued to the Wehrmacht which was followed, and can therefore be
viewed as the turning point in Wehrmacht actions during the war.11
The sheer number of
Russian soldiers captured during the war is staggering, with an estimated 900,000 being
captured in the first week alone.12
Throughout the period in which Germany was at war with
Russia, around 5.5 million soviet soldiers were captured by the German army in total and it
has been argued that as a Russian prisoner of war you were in essence sentenced to death by
slave labour.13
This treatment can be directly linked with the way those who were sentenced
during the Nuremburg trials were charged with having committed war crimes, as one case
given for war crimes was the murder or ill treatment of prisoners of war. This means that
many within the Wehrmacht were culpable of war crimes against soviet prisoners of war as
despite the SS’s involvement in camps following a decree by Hitler on 19 August 1943,
9 Mackenzie (1994), p. 489.
10 Auron (2003), p. 262.
11 Headland (1992), p. 139.
12 Mazower (2008), p. 159.
13 Krammer (2008), p. 35.
36
prisoners of war remained solely in the custody of the Wehrmacht.14
The reasons behind this
treatment can be linked to the idea of a racial hatred of communism and the believed threat
that the ‘Mongol horde’, as the Russian army was portrayed, possessed to Western Europe.
An example of racial thinking being prominent within the German prisoner of war camps can
be seen through the account of Bronislaw Szpakowski, a Polish prisoner of war at the Groves
Rosen camp. In his account he makes reference to the treatment of eastern European
prisoners in comparison to a group of Norwegian prisoners who were at the camp at the same
time as him. He explains how those prisoners from countries such as Norway were given
different levels of care by the guards at the camp, including better food and access to
packages from home.15
This example helps to highlight that even at a basic level, such as
food, racial ideals were prominent in the minds of the German soldiers in charge. He then
highlights how the lack of food given to eastern European prisoners of war often led to the
breakout of illnesses such as rickets among those held there.16
Szpakowski’s account further
highlights how the conditions specified within the Geneva Convention were not met by many
within the Wehrmacht and that some of the higher ranking members were culpable of
committing war crimes against those in their custody.
Collaboration between Wehrmacht forces and the specialised SS killing squads
known as the Einsatzgruppen is perhaps the most shocking example of how some within the
Wehrmacht can be seen as complicit in SS atrocities. Although these elite killing squads
operated predominately behind the main bulk of the German army as it advanced into Russia,
there are dozens of examples, within the reports sent by Einsatzgruppen commanders to the
German high command, of operations in which the killing squads were assisted by members
14
Vourkoutiotis (2003), p. 105. 15
Szpakowski, Arbeit Macht Frei, as in unpublished lecture given on time in Groves Rosen prisoner of war
camp. 16
Ibid.
37
of the German army. The two groups have been long thought of as ‘hostile bedfellows,’17
and
the rivalry between the SS and the Wehrmacht throughout the Nazi regime within Germany
had led many to believe that the Wehrmacht leaders had not been aware of the role played by
the Einsatzgruppen as they advanced into Russia. Following the end of the war however
during the Nuremburg trials, Walter Schellenberg the head of counterintelligence for the
Reich Security Main Office stated in his affidavit that he was convinced that the Wehrmacht
were aware of the murderous nature of the tasks given to the Einsatzgruppen prior to the war
with Russia.18
Whilst this shows that many within the Wehrmacht were conscious of the
systematic killing of Jews within Russia, it was not until the Operational Situation Reports by
the Einsatzgruppen were discovered in early 1947 that the true role played by the Wehrmacht
was unearthed. This (alongside the strenuous relationship between America and Russia
during the decades after the war and Germany’s position at the centre of this) is perhaps one
of the main reasons why many high ranking officials within the Wehrmacht were not put on
trial for war crimes alongside those key figures within the SS involved with the
Einsatzgruppen. Although Wehrmacht leaders were aware of SS activities it is only when you
look at how the regular army units took part in the killings carried out that you get a true
understanding of the Wehrmacht’s overall role in SS atrocities. Just as seen with Russian
prisoners of war, the motivations behind these killings can be viewed as stemming from a
mixture of a deep set racially geared view of Jews, as well as in reprisal to crimes committed
by Russian soldiers against Axis forces. Both of these motivations can be seen within one
report in particular in which several hundred Jews were sentenced to death by Wehrmacht
forces in Zloczow in retaliation for the killing of Ukrainians in the area by Soviet soldiers.19
This example is especially striking as the order is given by commanders within the
Wehrmacht instead of the Wehrmacht playing a side role in an Einsatzgruppen task as found
17
Headland (1992), p. 135. 18
Ibid. p. 138. 19
Ibid. p. 141.
38
within a lot of the other reports. A source such as this helps to support the view that many
within the German army had become desensitised to the brutality of war. While at first the
killing of Jews, such as those in Zloczow, can be viewed as sporadic reprisals, the methods
used by SS and Wehrmacht forces soon became much more systematic in their nature.20
It
was because of this method of warfare that the war with Russia has become synonymous with
the term ‘a war of annihilation.’ The scale of atrocities involving Wehrmacht collaboration
during this can be clearly seen within a winter draft report for Einsatzgruppe A, in which it
states that as of December 1941 ‘about 19,000 partisans and criminals, that is, in the majority
Jews’ had been killed by Wehrmacht forces alone in just white Russia.21
The Einsatzgruppen
reports can therefore be extremely useful when studying the role played by Wehrmacht forces
in war crimes carried out during the Nazi invasion of Russia as they give clear examples of
how the German army heads not only know of Einsatzgruppen tasks but they actively
participated with them.
Although the main role of the Einsatzgruppen was the liquidation of Jews in eastern
European territories, the reports also mention several cases of other groups within Russia
being targeted by the killing squads, including gypsies and those with mental disabilities. As
with the killing of Jews, the Wehrmacht can once again be viewed as being complicit in
crimes against these groups. Two separate occasions can be used to show how the
Wehrmacht played a role in the deaths of members of groups outside of Jews and prisoners of
war. The first is from Polatava in which 595 mental patients were killed following the
approval of Wehrmacht commanders.22
The second example once again shows the racial
ideology of the Wehrmacht that was present in the murder of other groups within Russia.
Wehrmacht actions in the Karasubasar region of Russia led to the murder of 800 gypsies and
20
Mazower (2008), p. 140. 21
Headland (1992), p. 141. 22
Ibid. p. 142.
39
‘insane’ people.23
The fact that the report gives no reason as to why gypsies were targeted
further suggests that many crimes committed by the Wehrmacht were motivated simply by
race. These two examples both further support the idea that the Wehrmacht were complicit in
SS atrocities and were guilty of committing war crimes against the people of Russia.
To conclude, despite the initial belief that war crimes against Jews, prisoners of war
and other civilians had been carried out by the SS alone, it is clear that this was not the case
and that the Wehrmacht played an important part in many of the atrocities committed by the
SS during the invasion of Russia. Through the emergence of primary evidence such as the
Einsatzgruppen Operational Situation Reports, Walter Schulenburg’s testimony at the
Nuremburg trials and the personal accounts of surviving prisoners of war such as Bronislaw
Szpakowski, historians have discovered the truth of Wehrmacht atrocities. It was only
because of political tensions between Russia and the western powers brought about by the
cold war in the middle of the twentieth century, and the German position within this, that
historians did not study the matter to a greater degree out of fear of shaming the army of an
allied nation. The reasons behind the violence shown by the German soldiers have been
linked to the bloody and unforgiving nature of the ‘war of annihilation’ that occurred once
the German army reached Russia in 1941. This is believed to have desensitised those
involved and allowed pre-existing racial views of Jews, Communists and Asiatic people to
play a much stronger role in the psychology of the German army. There is therefore no doubt
that many within the Wehrmacht were not only complicit in atrocities committed by the SS
but also, as shown in attacks on civilians such as the reprisal killings of Zloczow, often acted
on their own in committing crimes against Jews, prisoners of war and other groups. These
acts of violence against civilian groups and prisoners of war can be directly compared with
offenses committed by those found guilty of war crimes at the Nuremburg trials and therefore
23
Headland (1992), p. 142.
40
many leading members of the Wehrmacht can also be viewed as guilty of committing war
crimes.
Sam Price, [email protected]
Written for Occupied Europe (HIH-258)
Bibliography
Auron, Y. (2003). The banality of denial. New Jersey: Transaction Publishers.
Headland, R. (1992). Messages of murder: A study of the reports of the Einsatzgruppen of the
Security Police and the Security Service, 1941-1943. London: Associated University
Presses.
Krammer, A. (2008). Prisoners of War: A reference handbook. Westport: Greenwood
Publishing Group.
Mackenzie, S. (1994). The treatment of Prisoners of War in World War II. Journal of Modern
History, 66 (3), 487-520.
Mazower, M. (2008). Hitler’s empire. London: Penguin.
The Einsatzgruppen operational situation reports collection. Retrieved from
http://www.jewishvirtuallibrary.org/jsource/Holocaust/sitreptoc.html.
Vourkoutiotis, V. (2003). Prisoners of War and the German High Command. Hampshire,
Palgrave Macmillan.
Welch, D. (1983). Propaganda and the German cinema 1933-1945. Oxford: Oxford
University Press.
How important was religious affiliation to the reception of the
Copernican account of the universe in the
sixteenth and seventeenth centuries?
Nicolaus Copernicus’ De revolutionibus orbium colestium was recognised as an extremely
important book by the late sixteenth century, with its revolutionary heliocentric account of
the universe, which Owen Gingerich argues to be ‘the most significant astronomical treatise
since antiquity.’1 Throughout the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, natural philosophy and
Christian belief were heavily interwoven, with the ‘Copernican Revolution’ and the
Reformation both causing the emergence of a ‘new astronomy.’2 Copernicus was a supporter
of Erasmian humanism, not reform, as seen by him dedicating De revolutionibus to the first
Counter Reformation Pope, Paul III. This demonstrates that the ‘Copernican Revolution’ did
not originate from the reformation, although it was essential for the publication and wide
scale distribution of De revolutionibus, with Adam Moseley arguing that without the
Lutheran reformation, ‘the astronomical revolution as traditionally understood might never
have happened.’3 This prompted a startling response to De revolutionibus from Lutherans,
notably from the scholars at the University of Wittenberg, where they shaped their
interpretation of the Copernican account of the universe by praising its mathematical
proficiency, but denying the reality of Copernican cosmological models, which Peter Barker
argues to have been essential in ‘motivating Lutheran interest in astronomy.’4 This caused the
wide scale reception of Copernican ideas throughout protestant Europe.5 It took much longer
for the Copernican account of the universe to rise to prominence in Catholic Europe, most
1 Gingerich (1993), p. 269.
2 Mosley (2008), pp. 232-233.
3 Ibid. pp. 234-235.
4 Barker (2000), p. 62.
5 Ibid.
42
notably with Galileo Galilee. Nevertheless, it is clear to see that religious affiliation with
Galileo’s attempts to interpret some areas of the bible to fit Copernican theories led to the
famous ‘Galileo Affair,’ with the subsequent condemnation of heliocentric theory by the
Catholic Church.6
Religious affiliation was important for the circulation of the Copernican account of
the universe throughout reformed Europe in the late sixteenth century, as seen by the ‘Ad
Lectorem’ of De revolutionibus, added by its editor, Andres Osiander.7 Osiander, a leading
protestant reformer of Nuremberg, was given the job of editing De revolutionibus after Georg
Joachim Rheticus’ departure.8 During this process, he added an ‘Ad Lectorem,’ which alleged
that astronomers were not making ‘true claims’ about the universe, but merely providing a
basis for calculations regarding Copernicus’ theory, which Osiander stated to ‘not be true or
even probable.’9
The Ad Lecturum has traditionally been renowned for increasing the
negative reception of De revolutionibus, although it has been interpreted more favourably by
Bruce Wrightsman, who argues that by not signing it, and effectively branding it with the
name of an infamous Protestant reformer, saved De revolutionibus from incurring ‘criticisms
had Osiander’s name appeared on it.’10
Osiander’s name on Copernicus’ work, a Catholic
Cannon, would have increased scrutiny and the chances of an unfavourable theological
reaction, as seen by Dennis Danielson, who contends that the Ad Lectorem brought ‘time for
heliocentrism.’11
The Ad Lectorem protected the work in the politically unstable city of
Nuremberg, where the independence of the city and Protestants were being threatened by the
Catholic authorities.12
Therefore, by not signing Ad Lectorem, Osiander succeeded in
protecting De revolutionibus from controversy, meaning the work was studied by scholars
6 Wisan (1986), p. 473.
7 Gingerich (1993), p. 271.
8 Mosley (2008), p. 235.
9 Osiander (2002), p. 28; Mosley (2008), p. 235.
10 Wrightsman (1975), p. 233.
11 Ibid.; Danielson (2006), p. 107.
12 Wrightsman (1975), p. 233.
43
throughout both Catholic and Protestant Europe, which is why Adam Mosley argues that ‘the
potential of De revolutionibus to excite controversy’ was only ‘properly realised’ with the
Galileo Affair of the seventeenth century.13
The Lutheran response to the Copernican account of the universe can clearly be seen
in the northern universities, especially the University of Wittenberg, where scholars used
Copernican theories to pursue practical mathematics.14
This led Robert Westman to formulate
the ‘Wittenberg Interpretation,’ showing how scholars at the University of Wittenberg and its
satellite universities developed a ‘consensus on how to ‘read’’ De revolutionibus.15
The main
aspect of Wittenberg scholar’s interpretations of Copernicus’ theory was by praising his
cosmological models, but ‘flatly denying’ their representation of reality.16
A key contributor
to the ‘Wittenberg Interpretation’ was Philipp Melanchthon, a major Lutheran intellectual
reformer and collaborator with Martin Luther, who was influential in reforming universities
and whose religious affiliation for studying the heavens had a resounding impact upon the
Lutheran adoption of De revolutionibus.17
Melanchthon’s main reasons for studying
astronomy were because he thought celestial motions implied the existence of a creator, with
natural philosophy revealing God’s providential plan, as shown by Sachiko Kusukawa, who
argues that Melanchthon’s natural philosophy was ‘shaped into a distinctive Lutheran
formula.’18
This interpretation was spread throughout the other reforming universities
through scholars ‘who carried with them Wittenberg models of teaching and scholarship,’
which is why Robert Westman argues that satellite universities, such as Jena and Tübingen,
‘reflected the Melanchthonian humanist spirit of education.’19
This resulted in Lutherans,
especially those at the Wittenberg universities, appropriating the new astronomy to support
13
Mosley (2008), pp. 235-236. 14
Westman (1975), p. 168; Mosley (2008), p. 236. 15
Ibid. p. 166. 16
Mosley (2008), p. 236. 17
Westman (2011), p. 143. 18
Kusukawa (1995). 19
Westman (2011), p. 143.
44
their doctrines regarding the ubiquity of Christ, leading to their beliefs of a ‘providential
deity,’ whose cosmic design could be discovered through studying natural philosophy.20
This
attitude towards natural philosophy in Lutheran Universities shows that Lutheran tradition
was ‘favourably inclined’ towards Copernicus’ cosmological models, as demonstrated by
Melanchthon writing that he started ‘to love and admire Copernicus more,’ which is why
Peter Barker asserts that ‘Lutheranism was a positive force in the spread of the new
science.’21
This clearly shows that Lutheran religious affiliation was vital for the reception of
the Copernican account of the universe in the late sixteenth century, albeit only to the extent
of the cosmological models, meaning Melanchthon’s legacy was inherited by future scholars
such as Johannes Kepler, who explored Copernicus’ astronomy further, along with other
contemporary astronomers trying to find alternative systems to those explained in De
revolutionibus.22
An example of scholarly use of Philipp Melanchthon’s Lutheran reception of the
Copernican model can be seen through Johannes Kepler, who Peter Barker and Bernard
Goldstein argue to be an ‘heir to a Lutheran project that succeeded in publicising Copernican
astronomy.’23
Kepler was trained in theology at the University of Tübingen, with the aim of
becoming a Lutheran pastor, meaning his views on theology were ‘well formed’ and ‘firmly
held’ from a young age.24
This meant that Kepler adapted the Lutheran stance on De
revolutionibus to suit his personal, religious, astrological and theological beliefs, such as his
rejection of the Lutheran doctrine representing the ubiquity of Christ, with him referring to
himself as a Lutheran astrologer ‘throwing away the chaff and keeping the kernel.’25
However, instead of using the Copernican account for the universe as a mere mathematical
20
Barker (2000), p. 62. 21
Ibid. p. 64. 22
Ibid. p. 71; Mosley (2008), p. 238. 23
Barker & Goldstein (2001), p. 89. 24
Mosley (2008), p. 238. 25
Ibid. pp. 238, 241; Caspar (1993), pp. 213-20.
45
tool for solving mathematical problems, Kepler produced the ‘first major defence of
heliocentrism after the death of Copernicus,’ in books such as Mysterium cosmographicum
(Secret of the Universe).26
This was because Kepler believed that God fashioned the cosmos
according to an ‘intelligible plan’ which he was discovering through mathematics and
astronomy.27
This can be seen through Kepler mentioning in the preface for Mysterium that
he is searching for ‘God’s motive and plan for creating the universe,’ showing that Kepler
believed God was a ‘geometric’ entity, supporting the Lutheran belief of God’s ‘providential
design.’28
Kepler attributed the causes of the differing planetary positions to ‘God’s
geometrical plan,’ with the choice of the geocentric Ptolemaic system or the heliocentric
Copernican system to demonstrate the patterns of the cosmos ‘and the divine laws by which
God regulated its moving parts’ through mathematics.29
Kepler postulated that only the
Copernican system worked for the ordering of the planetary positions, therefore fitting in
with God’s providential plan. In 1619 he concluded that ‘it is absolutely certain...that all the
planets revolve around the sun.’30
This shows that Kepler’s religious affiliation was essential
for his acceptance of the Copernican system because he believed that God’s providential
design was to be discovered through studying natural philosophy, which is why Barker
argues that Kepler wanted to ‘determine the divine blueprint underlying the cosmos.’31
This
demonstrates that without his religious affiliation, Kepler would not have given ‘the strongest
possible defence of Copernicus’ system in the later sixteenth century,’ although many of his
views derived from teachings at the Lutheran Universities of Wittenberg and Tübingen.32
The ‘Wittenberg Interpretation’ not only inspired natural philosophers such as Kepler
to defend the Copernican account of the universe, but also inspired natural philosophers to
26
Barker & Goldstein (2001), p. 112. 27
Barker (2000), p. 84. 28
Barker & Goldstein (2001), p. 84. 29
Ibid. 113; Barker (2000), pp. 85-86. 30
Kepler (1619) trans. C. G. Wallis (1952), in Oster (2002), p. 57. 31
Barker (2000), p. 240. 32
Barker (2000), pp. 87-88; Methuen (1996), pp. 230-231.
46
develop rival cosmic systems which still held religious merits, such as the ubiquity of
Christ.33
The Danish astronomer, Tycho Brahe, introduced a geo-heliocentric celestial
scheme in 1588, while using the argument of the immovability of the earth to ‘undermine
Copernicus’’ account of the universe, causing some astronomers to renounce
Copernicanism.34
Tycho, like Kepler, was heavily influenced by the teachings of
Melanchthon through his studies at the universities of Wittenberg and Leipzig, where he was
first introduced to Copernican cosmology.35
Although Tycho was a Lutheran, Adam Moseley
argues that his piety was not readily apparent in his works or daily life, as opposed to
Kepler's well-formed theology, because ‘he made some efforts to distance himself’ from
theological disputes.36
However, he referred to scripture in his efforts to prove the
Copernican hypothesis to be incorrect, although he refused to ‘treat religious matters... under
the guise of mathematics.’37
Despite this, Tycho did site scripture as a primary obstacle to the
regular and perpetual revolution of the earth’ which is why Ann Blair argues that Tycho took
the Bible seriously when regarding ‘its silence when concerning the reality of celestial
spheres.’38
This scriptural ambiguity prompted Tycho to question the existence of ‘orbs’
carrying the planets, although his main arguments focused on astronomical and mathematical
problems with the Copernican system.39
Christine Schofield argues that the combination of
the physical problems with the motion of the earth along with scriptural evidence is what
‘sealed Tycho’s rejection to heliocentrism.’40
This clearly shows that Tycho’s Lutheran
religious affiliation contributed to his rejection of the Copernican system, although his
33
Barker & Goldstein (2001), p. 92. 34
Ibid. p. 92; Christianson (2003), pp. 123-124. 35
Westman (2011) 305-306; Mosley (2007), p. 82. 36
Mosley (2007), p. 242. 37
Ibid. 38
Blair (1990), p. 362. 39
Ibid. pp. 363-364. 40
Schofield (2003), p. 38; Blair (1990), p. 364.
47
primary issues were with the physical and cosmological problems of Copernican
cosmology.41
The Copernican account of the universe rose to prominence in Roman Catholic
Europe later than that of Protestant Europe because the reformation had the effect of
‘diminishing contact’ with Catholic countries.42
This became apparent with the increase in
communication with northern Protestant Europe, with Tycho Brahe attempting to ‘widen his
circle of acquaintances,’ to include Catholics, such as the Italian mathematician Giovanni
Magni, which is why Isabelle Pantin calls Tycho a ‘pioneer in scientific [natural
philosophical] communication.’43
Moreover, this was apparent with Johannes Kepler, who
sent two copies of his Mysterium cosmographicum to Italy in 1597, where they found their
way to Galileo Galilei, who admitted to be a Copernican to Kepler, although their
correspondence dwindled, possibly because Galileo realised the flaws in Kepler’s work.44
Galileo’s rise to prominence regarding cosmological issues spanned from the invention of the
telescope in 1608, with his startling discoveries such as the phases of Venus, published in The
Slidereal Messenger (1610) which saw the first occurrences of Galileo using scripture to
support his views on celestial matters.45
Galileo’s Letters on Sunspots (1613) uses scriptural
evidence in support of the Copernican theory was censored by the Catholic authorities,
although they left the earlier passages where Galileo declared his ‘open support’ for
Copernicanism.46
This shows that at this stage, the Roman censors did not associate
Copernicus’ theories with heretical thought, although they did have significant problems with
Galileo using it to interpret scripture. This was because the interpretation of scripture was
reserved for the highest levels of Catholic clerical society, which is why Thomas Mayer
41
Blair (1990), p. 362. 42
Pantin (1999), pp. 239-241. 43
Ibid. p. 239. 44
Voelkel (1999), pp. 38-40. 45
Lindberg (2003), p. 41; Blackwell (1991), p. 57, Gingerich (2005), p. 197. 46
Blackwell (2008), p. 261.
48
argues that ‘Galileo moved in a dangerous direction when he tried to interpret the bible to fit
his Copernican views.’47
However, it was not until Galileo visited Rome in 1615 to join the
debate in support of Copernicus’ ideas did the authorities begin to take an interest in
heliocentric theory, especially when Galileo persuaded the young cardinal, Alessandro
Orsini, to defend Copernicanism before Pope Paul V, who subsequently turned the matter
over to the inquisition.48
This resulted in the Roman inquisition finding the fact that the earth
moved to be ‘erroneous in the faith’ and the sun to be at the centre of the universe
‘heretical.’49
This led to Galileo receiving a precept, which forbade him ‘from defending or
teaching’ Copernican views ‘in any way at all,’ which gained importance in his later trials.50
This shows that although De revolutionibus had not been prohibited in the seventy years
since its publication in 1543, it was Galileo’s actions which alerted the church to the dangers
De revolutionibus posed to its authority, which is why Andrea Frova and Mariapiera
Marenzana argue that Galileo ‘forced the ecclesiastics into taking a stance.’51
This suggests
the root of Galileo’s problems with the Catholic Church was the interpretation of scripture,
not the theories expressed in De revolutionibus, which Winifred Wisan argues to be the
problem of Galileo feeling ‘quite sure that it was he himself who best understood God’s
creation,’ ultimately leading to the condemnation of Copernicus’ theory.52
Religious affiliation was important for the reception of Copernicus’s account for the
universe in the sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries, in both Protestant and Catholic
Europe. Religious affiliation becomes apparent in Andreas Osiander’s Ad Lectorem, which he
wrote in an effort to cause opponents ‘antagonism’ to ‘disappear’ so they would ‘go over to
47
Mayer (2011), p. 5. 48
Mayer (2010), pp. 237-238. 49
Ibid. p. 238. 50
Ibid. 51
Frova & Mariapiera (2006), p. 279. 52
Wisan (1986), p. 486.
49
the opinion of the author.’53
Although Georg Rheticus felt this degraded De revolutionibus,
with him crossing out the Ad Lectorem in every copy which came into his possession, the Ad
Lectorem did save Copernicus’ theories from theological scrutiny for the next seventy
years.54
Religious affiliation and Copernicanism were heavily intertwined in northern
Protestant Europe, with the reformation being an essential element for ‘spreading a special
Lutheran interest in astronomy,’ because of the Lutheran doctrines regarding the ubiquity of
Christ and their belief that god’s ‘Providential design’ could be discovered through studying
natural philosophy.55
This is why Barker and Goldstein argue that Lutheranism ‘succeeded in
publicising the new astronomy,’ particularly through the reformed universities, to which
Kepler owed a lasting legacy.56
Lutheranism was essential in shaping the ‘Wittenberg
Interpretation of the Copernican Theory’ with this family of scholars ‘reading’ De
revolutionibus in a similar way, under the reformed curriculum of Philipp Melanchthon.57
This meant that Phillippist teachings, which praised Copernicus’ cosmological models and
denied there reality, were ‘reflected’ in Wittenberg and its satellite universities such as
Tübingen, which influenced Copernicans such as Kepler, allowing him to ‘give the first
defence of heliocentrism through his interpretation of Copernicus’ scheme [being] nothing
less than God’s plan for the world.’58
The ‘Wittenberg Interpretation’ also had a clear impact
upon Tycho Brahe with the development of his Geo-heliocentric system, with his
interpretation of scripture contributing to his rejection of heliocentrism, although it was not
his primary issue with Copernican cosmology.59
With an increase in contact between
Catholic and Protestant countries, the issue of heliocentrism was brought to the attention of
53
Danielson (2006), pp. 107-108. 54
Ibid. pp. 109-110; Gingerich (2005), pp. 158-159; Mosley (2008), p. 235. 55
Barker (2000), p. 62. 56
Barker & Goldstein (2001), p. 89. 57
Westman (1975), pp. 165-166. 58
Barker & Goldstein (2001), pp. 88, 93. 59
Blair (1990), p. 362.
50
the Roman inquisition by Galileo using the bible to ‘fit his Copernican views.’60
This clearly
shows that Galileo’s religious affiliation to Roman Catholicism was essential for his
acceptance of the Copernican account of the universe, and its subsequent condemnation by
the Catholic Church.61
Religious affiliation to the Copernican account of the universe was
essential for its acceptance and rejection throughout Europe in the sixteenth and early
seventeenth centuries.
Edwin Rose, [email protected]
Written for Athens to Los Alamos: science in the ancient and modern worlds (HIH-260)
Bibliography
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(Ed.). Rethinking the scientific revolution (pp. 59-88). New York: Cambridge
University Press.
Barker, P, and Goldstein B. R. (2001). Theological foundations of Kepler’s astronomy.
Osiris, 2 (16), 88-113.
Blackwell, R. J. (1991). Galileo, Bellarmine and the Bible. London: University of Notre
Dame Press.
Blair, A. (1990). Tycho Brahe’s critique of Copernicus and the Copernican system. Journal
of the History of Ideas, 51, 355-77.
Caspar, M. (1993). Kepler. London: Dover Publications Limited.
Christianson, J. R. (2003). On Tycho’s island: Tycho Brahe, science, and culture in the
sixteenth century. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
60
Mayer (2011), p. 5; Blackwell (1991), p. 58. 61
Wisan (1986), pp. 473, 486.
51
Danielson, D. (2006). The first Copernican: Georg Joachim Rheticus and the rise of the
Copernican revolution. New York: Walker and Company.
Finocchiaro, M. A. (2008). The Church and Galileo. The Catholic Historical Review, 94 (2),
260-282.
Frova, A & Mariapiera, A. (2006). Thus spoke Galileo: The great scientist’s ideas and their
relevance to the present day. Oxford: Oxford University Press.
Gingerich, O. (2005). The book nobody read: Chasing the revolutions of Nicolaus
Copernicus. London: Arrow Books.
Gingerich, O. (1993). The eye of heaven: Ptolemy, Copernicus and Kepler. New York:
American Institute of Physics.
Kepler, J. (2002). Harmonices Mundi (The Harmonies of the World), 1619. trans. C. G.
Wallis, in Great books of the world, vol. 16. Chicago: Encyclopaedia Britannica.
Kusukawa, S. (1995). The transformation of Natural Philosophy: The case of Philip
Melanchthon. Cambridge & New York: Cambridge University Press.
Lindberg, D. C. (2003). Galileo, the Church and the cosmos. In Lindberg, D. C. & Numbers,
R. L. (Eds.). When science and Christianity meet (pp. 33-60). London & Chicago:
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Mayer, T. F. (2010). The Roman inquisitions precept to Galileo (1616). British Journal for
the History of Science, 43, 327-351.
Mayer, T. F. (2011). The censoring of Galileo’s Sunspot Letters and the first phase of his
trial. Studies in the History and Philosophy of Science, 42, 1-10.
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textbook and disputations. Isis, 87, 230-247.
52
Mosley, A. (2008). The reformation of astronomy. In B. Heal & O.P. Grell (Eds.) The impact
of the European Reformation: Princes, clergy and people (pp. 231-249). Aldershot:
Ashgate.
Mosley, A. (2007). Bearing the heavens: Tycho Brahe and the astronomical community of
the late sixteenth century. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
Osiander, A. (2002). Ad Lectorem, To the Reader: Concerning the Hypotheses of this Work.
In Oster, M. (Ed.). Science in Europe: 1500-1800. London: Palgrave Macmillan.
Pantin, I. (1999). New philosophy and old prejudices: Aspects of the reception of
Copernicanism in a divided Europe. Studies in the History and Philosophy of Science,
30, 237-262.
Schofield, C. (2003). Tychonic and semi-Tychonic world systems. In Taton, R. & Wilson, C.
(Eds.). Planetary astronomy from the Renaissance to the rise of Astrophysics.
Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
Voelkel, J. R. (1999). Johannes Kepler and the New Astronomy. Oxford: Oxford University
Press.
Westman, R. S. (1975). The Melanchthon Cycle, Rheticus, and the Wittenberg interpretation
of the Copernican theory. Isis, 66, 164-193.
Westman, R. S. (2011). The Copernican Question: Prognostication, skepticism, and celestial
order. Berkeley & Los Angeles: University of California Press.
Wisan, W. L. (1986). Galileo and God’s creation. Isis, 77, 473-486.
Wrightsman, B. (1975). Andreas Osiander’s contribution to the Copernican achievement. In
Westman, R. S. (Ed.). The Copernican achievement (pp. 213-243). Los Angeles:
University of California Press.
How important was rope to antiquity?
The importance of hemp rope to ancient ships
Rope and cordage are essential to almost every aspect of ancient seafaring. The fundamental
uses of rope on board a vessel are; anchorage, docking, rigging, cargo transit and hauling the
boat out of water when not in use. The biggest difference between ancient and modern ships
is the hypozoma, a bracing rope which enables warships to withstand the forces of the
turbulent sea. All of these uses of rope on board will be studied in this chapter to show how
essential rope was to seafaring in antiquity.
Lionel Casson puts it beautifully that ‘men of the ancient world... were loth to stray
far from the sea. It was woven into the fabric of their lives, and among their great
contributions to later ages was their mastering of this superbly useful but tricky and
dangerous way of communication’.1 The ancients’ use of water transport can be traced back
10,000 years,2 and seafaring was probably being used before this, with deep sea fish bones
such as tunny being found in Greek Neolithic sites.3 The use of sea travel was important to
the ancients because it facilitated provision of adequate food supplies for cities such as Rome
enabling them to grow beyond the surrounding capabilities of their land ‘its chief item,
outstripping all others by a wide margin, was grain’.4 It enabled conquests and expansions
around the Mediterranean without having to walk or ride for thousands of miles allowing
empires to be built and broken. It encouraged the trade of luxury goods and metals to distant
shores, allowed new skills and industry to spread and develop across countries, whilst
enabling faster communication between different cultures and civilisations; amongst other
1 Casson (1971), p. vii.
2 Stieglitz (1984), p. 134.
3 Vinson (1990), p. 13.
4 Casson (1965), p. 31.
54
things. The epics of the time The Odyssey and The Iliad revolve around warfare and sea
journeys, demonstrating how important to these people their ships and nautical skill was so
that it became impregnated within their cultural identity.
The Egyptians like the Greeks used rope as an integral part of the build in their ships,
but unlike the Greeks they used this rope to ‘ships the mortice and tenon joints were
reinforced by cord lashings’.5
This demonstrates that rope was used all over the
Mediterranean as a vastly integral point of the ships structures, and without it the kinds of
vessel that the ancients used for voyaging would have been undoubtedly impossible to make.
It also demonstrates the variants in ways that rope use at sea had developed within different
communities.
The first boats or rafts were made from bundles of logs or ‘rafts of reed bundles came
into use’6 before structured hulls came into play, tied together using primitive rope made
from hemp or leather pieces showing that rope has been important from the first aspect of
travel over water. Hemp was the most common type of rope used on these early ships
throughout antiquity and well into the following millennia, although flax is also frequently
seen. Hemp rope was even found on the wreck of the Tudor ship the Mary Rose who sank
around five hundred years ago,7 and is still being made commercially today. It is however
now far more common to use a hemp blend or steel ropes because hemp can break because of
its ability to hold water. This is due to the capillary effect of the fibre, keeping it wet on the
inside when dry on the outside and causing the rope to rot resulting in breakages.8 This would
mean that the ancients had to keep replacing their rope on board and require them to keep
spare lines on deck. In antiquity the standing rope (rope that does not move i.e. hypozoma)
5 De Souza (1999), p. 165.
6 Casson (1971), p. 4.
7 www.maryrose.org [last accessed 17/04/2013]
8 Schubert (2009).
55
would be coated in tar or pitch to help protect from water damage, as would the hull of many
ships.9
The hypozoma is a bracing rope structurally important to ancient warships and galleys
‘hypozoma that was standard on both galleys and sailing ships’10
but until the experimental
archaeology that was the trireme The Olympias, conducted in 1987,11
was its role fully
realized. Frank Brewster postulates that the now known use of the hypozoma was ‘such use
of a rope would be of no practical value... a conversation with a sailor, who expressed an
equally positive opinion of the uselessness on such a contrivance’12
this demonstrates that the
research on ships and seafaring has hugely developed in the past century, Casson explains
that ‘no scholar came close to doing it (ancient marine research) justice until the end of the
last century’13
like rope seafaring was massively under searched until very recently. The
hypozomas’ role on the ship now shown by the reconstruction was to ‘put a tension on each
extremity, so that the planks should fit well together with the dowels and withstand the
opposing force of the sea’. The role of this rope simply put is to ensure that the ships’ hull
won’t crack when offshore due to adverse weather. Casson explains another reason for the
hypozoma ‘another argument for this style of structure is that it would better enable so light a
hull to take the strains of combat’14
so the hull would also be strong enough to withstand the
characteristic ramming that happened in ancient naval battles. The hypozoma’s length is
described as ‘twice the length of a trires, with a good deal to spare’15
(this can be anything
from 85-108m) and so is a huge single amount of rope to be made using ancient techniques.
The reason the hypozoma needed to be so long because it ran ‘from stern to stem and back
9 Casson (1971), p. 211.
10 Ibid. p. 250.
11 www.triremetrust.org.uk [last accessed 17/04/2013]
12 Brewster (1923), p. 63
13 Casson (1971), p. vii.
14 Ibid. p. 91.
15 Morrison & Coates (1986), p. 170.
56
again within the hull’16
to ensure the adequate amount of bracing support needed by the ship
was supplied. The hypozoma’s importance to warships is not only shown by its role on board
but by inscriptions written about shipbuilding. The hypozoma rope is always ‘the first named
and hence the most important and considerable of the ship’s ropes’17
showing its significance
as the first rope needed when equipping a vessel of this kind. Not only this but ‘a decree lays
down the minimum number of men to be employed in fitting it to a ship (but unfortunately
this number is not preserved)’18
this decree demonstrates not only how important this rope is
to a ship, but that its proper installation must be done with maximum care also showing how
complex this rope is.
The ropes concerning anchorage and mooring were vital to boats in antiquity. They
are used to secure the ship when it is not moving or moored, and can be useful in times of
heavy fog where the crew cannot navigate so are forced to drop anchor, amongst other
reasons. Anchors are even mentioned in the bible, showing the magnitude of influence they
have had over society for thousands of years (Acts 27.29-30). Cecil Torr writes in concern to
the rope holding anchors that ‘cables of each sort were carried by each ship, one set to serve
the two anchors at the bows, and the other for making the ship fast to the shore by her
stern’.19
Casson embellishes on this point concerning galleys saying ‘each galley carried two
anchors with arms and a shank of iron that weighed less than 50lb’20
along with ropes ladders
and fending poles for mooring. Torr goes on to describe that ‘the cables were sometimes
made of chain, but usually of rope: and a thicker rope was needed for large merchant-ships
than for the war ships’21
and later that ‘cables of two sizes were used in the Athenian navy,
one described as six-inch the other as four-inch and a half but unfortunately there is nothing
16
Morrison & Coates, (1896), p. 170. 17
Ibid. 18
Ibid. 19
Torr (1964), p. 75. 20
Casson (1971), p. 251. 21
Torr (1964), p. 73.
57
to show whether these measurements refer to the circumference or diameter’22
so we know
the ropes they were using would be very thick and like the chain heavy to haul from the
water. Casson however explains that ‘its use (chain) was strictly exceptional’23
demonstrating
how rope is more useful to ancient ships and seafaring. He also goes on to say that sailing
ships with larger and numerous anchors would be ‘equipped with winches and capstans’24
to
help draw them up from the seabed.
Ships and seafaring were heavily involved in trade and exploration, so secure
moorings for ships are essential so the crew can go and do this. The moorings are used to tie
the ship somewhere secure near land so the crew can disembark. In The Odyssey the crew
moor their ships in a natural harbour when visiting the Laestrygonians showing that this was
common practice. The ships would also be moored when arriving at ports where the later
Greeks would go to trade, although there are many instances when if a harbour is unavailable
the boats would be dragged up onto the shore ‘ships were small and drawn easily up on
shore’25
as we also see in the Odyssey and Iliad, but this practice appears less as communities
developed fortified harbours and it is also only possible for shallow light boats such as
galleys or warships. Regardless rope would be needed to help drag the ships up the shore and
back to the sea. Casson explains that these lighter ships ‘warships needed lighter mooring
lines and ground tackle than merchantmen since they were much less heavy in construction
and most often hauled up on the beach or put into slips instead of lying at anchor. In the
Athenian navy each trireme and quadreme had two sets of lines... the other (set) of four lines
of c.3.65cm in diameter; one set, probably the heavier, were the mooring lines the other the
anchor cables’26
this comment shows us the multitude of ropes used on a ship for mooring
22
Torr (1964), p. 73. 23
Casson (1971), p. 252. 24
Ibid. 25
Ludlow (1883), p. 193. 26
Casson (1971), p. 250.
58
and anchorage two sets of four ropes so at least eight lines, demonstrating the magnitude of
use that rope presented just to mooring and anchorage, a key aspect of seamanship.
Rigging is the term used for the equipment on a ship used to propel it forwards. That
is anything to do with the sail, mast, and cordage used in conjunction with these items on a
ship. Here the role of rope is to manipulate the sail so as to move the vessel in the right
direction, an essential role. Torr tells us that ‘in every age and every district of the ancient
world the method of rigging ships was substantially the same: and this method is first
depicted by the Egyptians’.27
Casson explains this in further detail that ‘its rig consisted of a
retractable mast steeped amidships on which hung a single broad square sail. We see rigging
in numerous representations, and it is described in Homer’s verses’.28
He also describes in
detail the rig of a sixth century ship ‘a broad type bent by lacings ... the yard was held to the
mast by a parrall, a collar of twisted cords ... Apparently they were made of lightweight cloth,
for they had to be reinforced with ropes running at fixed distances horizontally from the edge
over the front surface; these together with the brails, which they crossed at right angles
marked off the face of the sail like a checkerboard’29
In this passage alone we can see several
ways that rope helped to keep the mast in place and fulfil its role of propelling the ship
forwards. Rigging on ancient vessels tended to consist of one mast carried by two supporting
ropes or lines to keep it steady, this is a very basic but effective kind of rigging. As most
ancient triremes and galleys were rowed by a team of oarsmen in conjunction with the
rigging its importance to the structure of these ships is not as significant as later vessels and
the merchants’ ships that graced the Mediterranean Sea. The mast would not be sufficiently
supported without the ropes and this shows us another reason as to how important rope was
on board.
27
Torr (1964), p. 78. 28
Casson (1967), p. 43. 29
Casson (1971), pp. 68-69.
59
Casson describes the emergency rigging that was used in the fourth century BC in the
Athenian Navy. It was used to flee when the ship was crippled as it was common practice at
this time to pack away the usual rigging or leave it onshore if possible as it got in the way.
These kits consisted of ‘not a smaller scale version to replace the working mast and the sail
but rather what we see on certain Roman galleys, a bow-sail’30
but in the next century (third
century BC) the emergency rig was abandoned and ships ‘returned to the old practice of
using two rigs’.31
This demonstrates to us that the Greeks were experimenting on what was
most useful to their ships showing that they had a hugely well thought out criteria and
considered many possibilities when constructing ships. It also shows one of the trends that
rope plays a part of the emergency rig was for a time useful, but fell out of fashion being
replaced with a spare standard rig that also heavily relied on rope.
As we can see rope plays a vital role in many aspects of ships and seafaring. It is
essential to all kinds of ship from the first boats being tied together to the triremes and
merchant ships that graced the Aegean Sea in later centuries. Casson’s book Ships and
Seamanship is one of the most in depth studies of this topic, drawing huge amounts of
research from the marine archaeology that occurred after the Second World War. His work
demonstrates the importance of cordage in every aspect of; rigging, anchorage, docking,
mooring, and structural importance to ships and hugely embellishes on the previous authority
to his book, the publication of Ancient Ships by Torr. Both of these studies have been
incredibly important to my brief exploration of the importance of rope to ships warships and
seamanship. It is obvious that rope is a key element in all of these topics, perhaps the reason
as to why it has been so overlooked in research and why some scholars such as Brewster have
speculated about its usefulness as it is so obvious it can be overlooked.
30
Casson (1971), p. 264. 31
Ibid.
60
Lois Robinson, [email protected]
Written for Ancient History Dissertation (CLD-300)
Bibliography
Brewster, F. (1923). The ὑποζωματα of ancient ships. Harvard Studies in Classical
Philology, 34, 63-77.
Casson, L. (1965). Parts 1 and 2 harbour and river boats of ancient Rome. Journal of Roman
Studies, 55, 31-39.
Casson, L. (1967). The emergency rig of ancient worships. Transactions and Proceedings of
the American Philological Association, 98, 43-48.
Casson, L. (1971). Ships and seamanship in the ancient world. Princeton: Princeton
University Press.
De Souza, P. (1999). Piracy in the Graeco-Roman world. Cambridge: Cambridge University
Press.
Haldane, D. (1990). An underwater view of the ancient world. The Biblical Archaeologist, 53
(1), 19-24.
Ludlow, T. W. (1883). The harbours of ancient Athens. American Journal of Philology, 4 (2),
192-203.
Morrison, J. S & Coates, J. F. (1986). The Athenian trireme: The history and reconstruction
of an ancient Greek warship. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
Schubert, P. (2009). Our ropes are much stronger than we believe. Union Internationale Des
Associations D'Alpinisme.
Stieglitz, R. R. (1984). Long-Distance seafaring in the ancient Near East. The Biblical
Archaeologist, 47 (3), 134-142.
Torr, C., Tarn, W. W & Podlecki, A. J. (1964). Ancient ships. Chicago: Argonaut.
61
Vinson, S. (1990). An underwater view of the ancient world. The Biblical Archaeologist, 53
(1), 13-18.
Why is water an effective ingredient in rituals,
when it is considered a source of danger in Ancient Egypt?
Rituals played a significant role in both the religion and daily life of Ancient Egypt. Of the
many ingredients which could be used in rituals, one of the most intriguing is water.
Although to a modern audience it seems trivial and almost mundane, it is one of the more
elusive ingredients in the ancient world. In particular, what is striking is how it is used as a
source for purification and rejuvenation, despite the inherent dangers water, especially the
Nile, brings to Egypt.
Water for the Ancient Egyptians appears to have largely been regarded as a symbol of
rejuvenation and renewal. It was one of the more commonly used liquids in temple rituals.1
Moreover, it was vital for the purification of the temple and consequently appears to have
been a prominent ingredient in rituals. It can therefore be suggested that they were an
effective way of activating HkA2in such instances. Such rituals were well attested in Egypt
3
where water was either poured onto the ground or an object, or it was offered as a drink or
libation.4 In particular, deities were ‘urged’ to drink water offered in rituals as it symbolised
rejuvenation and life.5 In the second night hour of Stundenwachen Horus explicitly states that
he is purified with water, amongst other things,6 demonstrating that it is even acknowledged
on a divine level that water had a purifying quality which could not be ignored.
A papyrus found in a Roman Period temple reveals that at least 6 rituals involving
libations were included as a part of the daily temple ritual.7 The temple needed to be cleaned
1 Poo (2010), pp. 1-2.
2 Pinch (2006), pp. 9-11.
3 Dils (1993), p. 109.
4 Poo (2010), p. 5.
5 Ibid.
6 Dils (1993), p. 110.
7 Poo (2010), p. 5.
63
and purified before any ritual could take place,8 and so the water used was symbolically pure.
The sacred lakes in temples were representations of the watery Nun and so their use within
the sphere of temple rituals represents the regenerative nature of this primordial element. This
property of the Nun is a seemingly unique Egyptian perception: that water existed as a
‘primordial element’ was a general feature of creation in many cultures, although it appears
its abilities and uses in regeneration were entirely native.9 The Nun itself was attested solely
in the mythical sphere until the New Kingdom, when it became synonymous with the Nile
and was incorporated into its terminology.10
Moreover, this new representation of the Nun
was assimilated with the Nile god Hapy, a manifestation of the inundation. A stela of
Thutmose III in Karnak details that a ‘podium of hard stone’ had been in place since the
temple was flooded, ‘because of the Nun, when he was coming at his season’.11
This brief
reference indicates that now the annual flood, which revitalised the land and enabled crops to
grow, was now associated with the primeval waters and consequently with renewal and
rebirth. This appears to be a logical connection: it was the Nun which rejuvenated the
sleeping, and where the dead reappeared in a new form of life.12
It is therefore not surprising that water was considered the most significant means of
purification. Its connotations with life meant that it was an entirely positive force in Egyptian
culture.13
Moreover, its importance can be demonstrated in the emergence of the epithet nw
wr, or the Great or High Nun. This became an aspect of individual gods from the New
Kingdom, particularly Amun and Ptah. Papyrus Berlin 3048 presents the High Nun as Ptah,
‘who does create the food offerings’. Amun is likewise presented as a provider of food in
royal decrees of Pinodjem and Neskhonsu, describing him as the ‘High Nun who emerges at
8 Heiden (2003), p. 309.
9 Bickel (2005), p. 191.
10 Rotsch (2005), p. 229.
11 Ibid. p. 230.
12 Bickel (2005), p. 191.
13 Ibid. p. 192.
64
his due time’.14
The epithet here emphasises the rejuvenating nature of both the gods it
becomes associated with and the cosmic forces it invokes, consequently demonstrating the
symbolic significance of water. Allusions to the inundation were often made in rituals too,15
further suggesting that there was an awareness of the revitalising potential of the inundation,
and an eagerness to incorporate this imagery in order to emphasise the aim of the invocation.
This suggestion can further be explained by the associations made between the Nile
and Osiris.16
By the end of the Late Period, Osiris was the principal figure of Egyptian
funerary beliefs, largely because of the nature in which he was revived after death.17
Papyrus
Rhind mentions ‘lustral water’ from Elephantine, near where Osiris was supposedly buried at
Biga Island.18
According to the Coffin Texts, the deceased who bathed in water issued from
Osiris were then associated with him, acquiring divine attributes.19
In particular, CT94, Osiris is ‘remade’ from the ‘efflux which was in his flesh’.20
The
Nile efflux, rDw, was physically the flood, and symbolically the life force of the god Hapy.
Libations were therefore essential in funerary contexts as they revitalised the deceased,
allowing them to become youthful.21
This can be demonstrated by a scene at the temple of
Osiris at Abydos. Horus and Thoth libate Seti I, pouring anx and was signs over him, thereby
‘conferring life and divine power’.22
Such scenes are representative of the regenerative
qualities of water which are symbolically transferred through libation to the deceased,
enabling them to continue to live in the afterlife.
Moreover, from around the New Kingdom, water used in rituals was said to have
come from the Nun: in a nineteenth dynasty ritual outlined in the Cairo Papyrus, it is stated
14
Rotsch (2005), pp. 231-232. 15
Poo (2010), p. 5. 16
Delia (1992), p. 182. 17
Ibid. 18
Ibid. p. 185. 19
Ibid. p. 183. 20
Ibid. pp. 183-184. 21
Ibid. p. 183. 22
Ibid. p. 184.
65
that ‘what is in the Nun’23
will be brought as an offering,24
highlighting that now the Nun was
represented in a physical manifestation, providing a force of HkA which could be invoked
and activated in rituals. The Greco Roman period in particular saw the increase in use of
objects known as Horus Cippus stelae,25
which were activated by pouring such water over the
object, which was then drunk by the one who was invoking its power.26
Intended to cure
snake and scorpion bites, the artefact depicts a young Horus facing forward standing on two
crocodiles, holding back snakes and other wild animals.27
The inscriptions make it clear that
the amulets are activated by libation and that they invoke the protection of Isis as the role of
mother in the Osirian mythology. In particular, she healed Horus when he was bitten by a
snake, and so the stela acts as both a ritual ingredient and a deterrent against dangerous
creatures.28
The water used in this ritual was to be consumed,29
reiterating its revitalising
properties. Although a symbolic action, the consumption of this water, infused with HkA,
demonstrates the way in which it could be used as a positive, regenerative force, echoing the
powers of the Nun and the purifying temple rituals.
Water was also seen as a source of pleasure. In Papyrus Westcar, the priest
Djadjaemankh suggests that the king organises a group of girls to row up and down the lake
in order to ‘refresh’ his mind.30
The imagery here is all beautiful, natural, floral descriptions
which further emphasise the intention of relaxation and enjoying one’s self. Imagery of
fishing and fowling in a funerary context were laced with erotic symbolism with a focus on
rebirth and indeed this is reflected in the literature.31
The Tale of the Herdsman refers to a
23
pr.t m N W. 24
Rotsch (2005), p. 233. 25
See appendix Fig. 1. 26
Ritner (1989), pp. 106-107. 27
Seele (1947), pp. 43-44; Fig 3. 28
Hart (1986), p. 88. 29
Frankfurter (1998), p. 107. 30
Simpson & Ritner (2003), p. 16. 31
Booth (2005), p. 350; Loprieno (2005), p. 30.
66
water spell, which reads here more like a “pastoral fertility poem” than a spell,32
further
emphasising the beneficial nature of water and the tranquillity it can provide in a pastoral
setting. The eighteenth dynasty text on the ‘Pleasures of Fowling and Fishing’ also
emphasises the enriching qualities of water and praises ‘idyllic pleasures.’33
There is a
distinct appreciation for the life and harmony provided by pastoral settings, which
complements the function of water as a vital resource in society. A fishing scene from the
tomb of Montuemhat in Thebes utilises the necessity of water whilst hinting towards its
danger.34
The fish are speared in the water, encompassing both the death of a creature and
sustenance of the fisherman. These scenes first appeared in the Old Kingdom, going out of
fashion towards the nineteenth dynasty until they were revived in the twenty-fifth dynasty as
a part of a reflection of the past.35
The revival of scenes like this indicate that there was an
appreciation for the idyllic values they portrayed, further generating a respect and admiration
of these qualities of water which would otherwise be missing.
However, the Egyptian records rarely record anything negative, and so the official
records ignore the negative connotations that come with water. Texts never record how
someone dies, and the Nile as a source of disaster seems to be only mentioned in
comparisons.36
Although it was a significant provider of life, it had the potential for
incredible danger and one of the ‘most frightening possibilities’ of death.37
Storms, plague,
floods and rain had catastrophic consequences for the Egyptians. Disasters, such as a great
flood during the 6th
year of Taharqo’s reign, were commemorated in a positive manner,
32
Loprieno (2005), p. 30. 33
Ibid. p. 32. 34
Robins (2008), p. 220. 35
Ibid. 36
Bickel (2005), p. 193. 37
Muhlestein (2005), p. 179.
67
paralleled with the cosmogony surrounding the Nun. Consequently, they were often reflected
upon as a new beginning.38
Moreover, drowning was such a frequent occurrence that special conceptions were
developed in order to allow the drowned, whose bodies would be lost and therefore would not
receive a proper burial, a guaranteed access into the afterlife.39
If someone lost their body in
such a way, its consequent destruction meant that there would be no afterlife, and therefore
their existence, and the practices of the funerary cult, would be compromised.40
In Papyrus
Westcar, the wife of the Ubainer is burnt, destroying her body and denying her an afterlife,
then scattered on the Nile as a method of ensuring that she cannot receive any of her burial
rites. In the Osirian mythology, Osiris’ body is rescued from the Nile. This is done not to
ensure that he lives, but rather that he can be buried properly and receive an afterlife.41
It is
clear that the necessity for a body in the afterlife was a fundamental principal of Egyptian
society,42
and so its loss or destruction could be described as an ultimate death.
There was no afterlife for the many that drowned, and so the funerary cults adapted in
order to make allowances for this. This can perhaps be best emphasised by the Book of Gates,
a text similar to the Amduat concerning the twelve hours of night of the solar journey.43
The
fifty-eighth scene, and central motif, of the ninth hour portrays a lake of water containing
four types of the drowned. These are labelled as ones who are submerged, capsized,
swimming and spread out. Here they benefit from the regenerative properties of the Nun,
their bA remaining intact. Their noses are also clearly depicted, demonstrating that they can
breathe.44
Ra addresses these deceased, stating that their bau are ‘pleased with what you are
38
Bickel (2005), pp. 195-196. 39
Ibid. p. 192. 40
Loprieno (2005); Muhlestein (2005), p. 177. 41
Muhlestein (2005), p. 177. 42
Ibid. 43
Hornung (1999), p. 59. 44
Ibid. p. 162; Hornung (2005), p. 64.
68
breathing, without them decaying,’45
demonstrating that despite their bodies being lost,
allowances have been made in order to accept these people into the afterlife.
It is also interesting to note that water in the third hour is presented as a lake of fire,
which is damaging to the damned but benefits the ‘provisioned dead’.46
In the fourth hour,
the lake of life is guarded by jackals: ‘the bau of the dead cannot approach’ it and so it is
protected from any force.47
The imagery here indicates the unique nature of water and how it
affects something as fundamental as funerary culture. Although it has these refreshing, life-
giving qualities, it is essentially a danger and where possible, it should be treated with the
caution and respect it is given in the Book of Gates.
Furthermore, the danger of water is loosely reflected in mythology. The Nun in the
mythical sphere is located outside of the order of creation, and so is by definition, outside of
order.48
The Pyramid Texts and the Late Period Monument of Memphite Theology also
mention the drowning of Osiris,49
whose recovery facilitated the potential of life after death,
rather than rejuvenation.50
The battles between Horus and Seth, in particular when Seth
transforms into a hippo and their race across the Nile, also indicates that water is a dangerous
element. When Seth is defeated, his blood runs into the Nile, turning the river red.51
His
destruction within the body of the Nile under the guise of a hippopotamus reveals two things:
although water is portrayed as a source of rejuvenation its powers are primarily symbolic; the
Nile is also home to threats other than the possibility of drowning.
In this instance, the hippopotamus is possibly considered one of the most potentially
dangerous creatures in the Nile. Residing primarily in the marshes of the Delta, it was a
45
Hornung (2005), p. 163. 46
Hornung (1999), p. 60. 47
Ibid.; Hornung (2005), p. 129. 48
Loprieno (2005), p. 28. 49
Ibid. pp. 28-29. 50
Muhlestein (2005), p. 177. 51
Dils (1993), p. 120.
69
largely peaceful creature considered a threat by people.52
This fear stemmed from its
overbearing size and its aggression when threatened.53
It was also the only true enemy of the
crocodile in Egypt,54
making its place as a ‘Sethian animal’55
a justifiable representation. The
crocodile, however, was utilised in stories as a ‘symbol of all maliciousness,’56
and so its
ferocious nature is utilised to emphasise danger. This is perhaps most evident in Papyrus
Westcar, where a crocodile of wax is used to emphasise the dangers of swimming and is
eventually used in the downfall of the townsman,57
who is taken into the lake and presumably
drowned. This is later reiterated at the end of the papyrus, when a maid is snatched by a
crocodile as she goes to tell the king of the three children born to Ruddjedet.58
Crocodiles are also depicted on the Horus Cippus stelae,59
demonstrating that they are
a powerful force whose power is both invoked and suppressed by Isis and the child Horus.
Seth also attacked Horus under the guise of a crocodile after attacking him with scorpions,60
indicating that there was a connection in mythology between the protective nature of the
Cippus, which invokes the healing abilities of Isis, and the destructive nature of the creatures
the artefacts display, in particular crocodiles. It is also perhaps out of respect for such
creatures that gods are portrayed with animal manifestations: these portrayals would extract
the element of power and respect held by such animals and so they can be revered in a similar
way. In the Greco-Roman period, men would place clay crocodiles in small lead coffins with
names of power and the names of their wives inscribed on them, in order to keep their wives
from cuckolding them.61
This manner of invoking HkA is similar to the use of wax models to
52
Jong (2001), p. 100. 53
Ibid. 54
Ibid. p. 101; Brunner-Trout (2001), p. 321. 55
Velde (1977), p. 26. 56
Booth (2005), p. 348. 57
Simpson (2003), p. 16. 58
Booth (2005), p. 352; Simpson & Ritner (2003), p. 24. 59
Walter Museum: Horus Cippus stela. Accession number: 22.173. Available from
http://art.thewalters.org/detail/39655/horus-stele-cippus/. 60
Ritner (1989), p. 105. 61
Pinch (2006), p. 97.
70
invoke various gods during this period,62
indicating that crocodiles were creatures worthy of
respect in Ancient Egypt; their images were used in rituals in a similar way as invocations of
deities, demonstrating that there was an element of danger. This is further reminiscent of
Papyrus Westcar, where a crocodile of wax is thrown into the water, becoming the threat in
the case of the adulterous wife.
However, perhaps one of the most widespread dangers of water in Ancient Egypt was
the constant threat of disease. Many of these diseases were caused by parasites in the water
and can only be attested now through the analysis of mummies. In particular, the mummy of
the weaver Nakht was unfortunate enough to display symptoms of a handful of these
diseases, which has illuminated the extent of the dangers which were caused by parasites in
the water.
Ova of a parasite causing schistosomiasis were found in his liver, intestines and
kidneys. This disease may have caused Symmer’s Fibrosis in some cases: representations of
Akhenaten’s chief sculptor, Bak, demonstrate symptoms of the disease.63
There were also
lice eggs found in his hair, remnants of epidemic typhus. Hair was usually shaved to
eliminate this problem, and soldiers’ hair was likely to have been cut short to minimise the
risk.64
Finally, Nakht’s intestines also contained taenia solium eggs, or pork tapeworm.65
Filariasis, a disease caused by thread-like worms which eventually causes swelling
and thickened skin, is more difficult to detect as it does not affect the bones, but it can be
seen in representations. The Queen of Punt is a particularly plausible sufferer.66
Guinea worm
in particular may have been a painful parasite to endure. The worm grows up to a meter in
length, settling in the legs. It causes ulceration and blisters, which burst when the foot is
immersed in water. Mummy 1770 had sores associated with the worm, along with smaller
62
Ibid. 63
Heagren, (2005), pp. 151-152. 64
Ibid. pp. 154-155. 65
Ibid. pp. 156-157. 66
Ibid. pp. 155-156.
71
male worms found in the remains. Ebers Papyrus outlines the treatment for Guinea worm: it
was wound out using a stick and the area was to be kept clean and bandaged during this
process, which lasted about three weeks.67
There were three diseases caused by water which
were of particular danger to armies on campaign: malaria, typhus and poliomyelitis, a disease
predominantly associated with childhood, which caused deformities in the leg.68
Heagren’s list of water-related diseases demonstrates that there was a constant threat
to Egyptian society in almost every aspect of life.69
It is likely that many people died or
suffered greatly because of the unsanitary condition of water, made more dangerous during
times of Low Nile Tide. The term jAdt rnpt, or ‘yearly plague’ emerged: during times of low
water the most diseases appear to have been contracted too.70
The highest mortality rate in
nineteenth century Cairo was recorded in March and April, when the water table was at its
lowest.71
It is therefore almost certain that the same problems with parasites and diseases
would have arisen as a result of the low water table. It is not surprising that from the Old
Kingdom this period of low tide was associated with death, rather than the connotations of
life the flood brought with it.72
The tale of the Shipwrecked Sailor can also be used to explain the potential for death
and demonstrates the extent of the power of water. As the result of a storm, the boat sinks,
leaving one survivor, who is carried to an island ‘by a wave of the sea.’73
The threats of water
seem to be an underlying theme in such texts of the Middle Kingdom.74
The Shipwrecked
Sailor is unable to completely avoid such a catastrophe, but survives nonetheless, whilst the
Eloquent Peasant urges the steward not to ‘taste the evil/peril of the river.’75
With the dangers
67
Heagren (2005), pp. 153-154. 68
Ibid. pp. 156-157. 69
Heagren (2005). 70
Bickel (2005), p. 198. 71
Ibid. p. 199. 72
Ibid. p. 198. 73
Blackman (1972), p. 42; Simpson & Ritner (2003), p. 48. (Rdj.kw(j) r jw jn wAw n) 74
Loprieno (2005), p. 28. 75
Ibid.; Simpson & Ritner (2003), p. 29. (Nn dp=k Dw.t n.t jtrw).
72
presented by crocodiles, these examples indicate that despite the idealism of fishing and
fowling scenes, there was a constant threat posed by water, whether it was contained within
the Nile or out at sea. It was therefore something which needed to be respected. In the
Shipwrecked Sailor, it was the god who saved the sailor by appearing to him. The Eloquent
Peasant shares his wisdom with the steward in his appeals, potentially saving him from
danger.
Records in Deir el-Medina also reveal that water was used in trials. The phrase ‘taken
to the river’ appears, but it is unclear as to what this alludes to. It may be that their sentence is
to be drowned.76
Interrogations also took place there, in the case of the great tomb
robberies,77
demonstrating that it could be seen as a symbol of both great power and the
threat of punishment. In military campaigns, armies left and returned via the Nile,78
using it
as a positive, victorious force whilst also demonstrating the potential destructive qualities.
Enemies were tied to the prow of ships upon successful campaigns; an action recorded in
detail by Tutankhamun at Karnak, and Amenhotep III in Amarna and Elephantine.79
These
scenes outline a more sinister nature encompassing victory processions on the Nile. The
destruction of foreign power was represented by the enemies’ undignified portrayal on the
ships and it is therefore not surprising that the smiting scene can be seen on representations of
royal barques, such as in the tombs of Akhenaten, Ramesses III and Herihor.80
Such
representations reveal the harsh, destructive qualities of Egyptian victory and in particular,
the way in which water was used to advertise these qualities.
Allusions to water are also made in reference to women. The Teachings of Ptahhotep
in Papyrus Butler is concerned about the treatment of his wife, evoking the potential dangers
76
Muhlestein (2005), pp. 175-176. 77
Ibid. p. 176. 78
Muhlestein (2005), p. 173. 79
Ibid. pp. 173-174. 80
Muhlestein (2005), pp. 174-175.
73
of ‘untamed water.’ In this comparison, it is ‘a woman left to herself,’81
and so he alludes to
the whimsical, unpredictable nature of water. This aspect is also utilised in some love poems
to emphasise the lengths people would go for their loved ones. In one poem, the narrator
states ‘I enter the water and brave the waves,’82
whilst Loprieno notes that others used water
to emphasise a new perspective on purification, with heavy religious overtones.83
Ramesside literature in particular seems to highlight the negative aspect of water and
regards it with a degree of scepticism, whilst the New Kingdom in general appears to have
focused on how it was both a vital and dangerous element.84
Wenamun’s ship is robbed
during an expedition to Dor,85
where he is forced to stay for 9 days, that the prince may help
search for the thief.86
It is by the water that this event takes place, not as a result of it,
indicating that although it was a problematic and dangerous force, water was not the direct
cause of many problems, rather a circumstance. In the case of Papyrus Westcar, it is the
crocodile that is the true threat, not the lake. The fifth dynasty autobiographical text of
Kaemtjanet demonstrates the dangers of sailing on the Nile in a storm.87
Again, it is the storm
which causes the problems, not the Nile itself.
Water, especially the Nile, was a powerful force in Ancient Egypt. From the New
Kingdom onwards, its function became more prominent in religion as the mythology of the
Ennead developed and more stories concerning the death of Osiris emerged. Consequently
the importance of the Nile, which was also assimilated with the primeval Nun, was elevated
to such a position that it was now an embodiment of power and creation. Despite the dangers
and the constant threat of death and disease water posed, and still poses, to Egyptian society,
81
Loprieno (2005), p. 31. 82
Booth (2005), p. 349; Lichtheim (1976), p. 193. 83
Loprieno (2005), p. 37. 84
Ibid. p. 35. 85
Gardiner (1932), p. 62. (twj Tay-tw n tAy=k mr). 86
Ibid. p. 63. 87
Loprieno (2005), pp. 27-28.
74
it was used in rituals as an effective ingredient to invoke its positive aspects, rather than to
accentuate the negative connotations.
Charlotte Watts ([email protected])
Written for Ancient Egyptian Magic and Ritual (CLE-335)
Appendix: Image
Figure 1: British Museum: Horus Cippus stela. Accession
number: EA 60958.
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Brill.
Batavia was built as a clear cut copy of a Dutch town at that time with
canals, drawbridges, canal houses, step-gables, a church, church
bell-ringing and streets paved with cobble stones.
In what ways did the city slowly adapt to the
realities of life in tropical Java?
Batavia, the ‘Jewel of Asia’, was established by the VOC (Vereenigde Oost-Indische
Compagnie) in 1619, after the razing and burning of the former settlement Jayakarta.
Throughout the 17th
Century, it saw unprecedented economic prosperity mostly in the hands
of the Dutch, whilst the neighbouring regencies of the Sultanate of Mataram acted effectively
as ‘agents’ and ‘tributaries’ to the VOC. However, within a century, it had become a
‘graveyard’1 and the need to ‘adapt’ or acclimatise to the climate change was fundamental.
However, as many earlier and recent commentators have attested such as J.J. Stockdale,
Blussé and Windodo collectively argue, it was more of a case of the eventual ‘desertion’ of
Batavia, led by the upper echelon of society, often VOC officials, for the cooler highlands
that became the key approach to dealing with the tropical conditions that Java had presented.
During VOC rule, Dutch colonial cities were built alongside rivers which flowed
perpendicular to the coastline. Water features were an important aspect of Dutch colonial
cities, and Dutch civil engineering specialised in managing these waterways.2 Batavia was
similarly planned in this manner by Simon Stevin, a mathematician and engineer, who
became an advisor for its construction.3 Under his ‘Ideal Scheme for a City’, the town
planning for Batavia resembled a typical Dutch city with canals.4 According to Putri and
1 Blussé (1986), p. 16.
2 Oers (2000), p. 164.
3 Devresse (2008), p. 105.
4 Oers (2000), p. 163.
79
Rahmanti, Dutch water management during 1500-1800 took on an aggressive characteristic,
challenging delta areas,5 perhaps because the Dutch had a natural affinity with water, and to
build a permanent base against inland native rivals such as the Sultanate of Mataram.6 Similar
to other ‘Indonesian’ settlements like Bantam and Makassar, Batavia was situated by the
coast, with a river-like partition separating two parts of the settlement.7 Likewise, Batavia
followed the formula of an ideal town plan, later depicted in Cornelis Speelman’s
Memorandum for Dutch Makassar: a fortified castle, kampong (native quarters) and a
merchant town.8
At first, visitors were astounded by how magnificent the city was; Christopher
Schewitzer arrived in Batavia around June 1676 and noted that Batavia, despite having
become a commercial port, still retained its defensive characteristics, remarking how strong
the city and fort were and how all the Dutch enemies could be housed within the fort.9
Similarly, in late 1680, Christoph Fryck described the city in detail, considering it greater
than Amsterdam itself. Attention was paid to the river Jacatra (probably a reference to the
Ciliwung) which was used extensively, as well as the abundance of fruit, vegetation and life
encountered in the city.10
Thus, Batavia soon became the ‘Jewel of Asia’ (for the city
structure, see figure 1 in the appendix).
The residents of Batavia also helped to shape the city itself, most notably the Chinese
immigrants of Java. They outnumbered native Javanese, Balinese and the Dutch in Batavia
and were the richest on average. Jan Coen was said to have initially welcomed and
incorporated the Chinese traders and were soon perceived as an ‘indispensable element to the
5 Putri & Rahmanti p. 64 and p. 67.
6 Ibid. p. 67.
7 Wake p. 76.
8 Sutherland (1989), p. 109.
9 Frick & Schewitzer, (1700), pp. 250-251.
10 Ibid. p. 33.
80
city’.11
They were assigned their own kapitan who conducted civil affairs for his own people.
‘Bencon’ or Jan Con, (心肝 , sam gon), was the kapitan under Jan Coen. He became
fundamental in procuring the limestone and wood for the city and fort walls, but fell into
heavy debt towards his demise in 1639.12
Similarly, the Bandanese, Bengalese slaves and
other Asians were segregated in their kampongs with their own headsman, sent to the
Ommelanden as agricultural workers. The Mardijkers, freed Christian slaves who became an
infantry force, were another population whose numbers stood around 5,000-7,000 in the
period 1691-1739.13
Unsurprisingly, Europeans constituted the smallest population, but had a
disproportionate amount of power.14
P.L. Gie argues that the Chinese had denunciated their
citizenship to their motherland and that they were at the mercy of their hosts.15
However,
Kratoska suggests that the Dutch were at the ‘mercy’ of the extensive Chinese trading
network and argue that the Dutch required the Chinese and their trade for their survival in
Batavia.16
Furthermore, their tried-and-tested clay method of processing sugar and arak
meant they monopolised sugar refineries in Batavia between the 17th
-18th
centuries. This led
to the opening of the Ommenlanden, beyond the walls of Batavia, further changing the
physical dynamics of the city.17
Unfortunately, sugar plantation became one of the causes of
the decadence of the city due to the water contamination that occurred.18
By 1740, 15,000
resided outside the wall and 2,500 inside the citadel.19
It was the same year as the Chinese
massacre, which marked deterioration in Dutch-Chinese relations, and the Chinese quarter,
the Glodok, outside the city walls.20
11
Gie p. 9. 12
Blussé (1986), pp. 51- 68. 13
Kanumoyoso pp. 4-5, 50, 51. 14
Ibid. p. 54. 15
Ibid. p. 8. 16
Kratoska, (2001), p. 120. 17
Matsuyama (2009), pp. 259-260 18
Blussé (1986), p. 26. 19
Kumar (1997), p. 32. 20
Blussé (1986), p. 95.
81
In contrast, the tropical swamp and the climate soon proved to be a physical hindrance
to economic progress for the VOC. These conditions were exacerbated due to the
construction of canals and tightly-packed buildings, both contributing to the manifestation of
water-borne diseases such as cholera. Several commentators associated these attributes to the
decay of the city, and suggested ways for the city to adapt to tropical Java. Sir Raffle’s
publication History of Java indicated a clear contrast between the natural beauty and wealth
of the island Java and the wretchedness of Batavia as a hovel of disease.21
Stockdale and
another author, whose name is unknown, described Batavia as an ‘ancient and dilapidated
aspect strangely at variance with the luxurious verdure of the tropical scenery’.22
The
‘demise’ of the Old City and the suburbanisation of Batavia are described briefly. All well-to-
do individuals gradually moved out as a result of the ‘insalubrious’ climate and miasma that
permeated Batavia.23
More contemporary critics of this issue include Blussé, who argues that
the tropical climate was the main cause of logistical problems in the city, and that Batavia
became a graveyard within a century of its founding due to reckless sugar plantations.24
Van
der Brug indicates how the fish ponds were situated next to a thriving culture of malaria-
carrying mosquitos.25
Additionally, Gillen-Wood agrees with Blussé that the irresponsible
and unsustainable sugar plantations caused the decay of the city, criticising Raffles for his
incorrect deduction of the compactness of the building layout.26
Conversely, Widodo argues
it was the direct transplantation of European architecture in an unfamiliar, tropical
environment that was the catalyst for the ‘insalubriousness’ of the city.27
He suggests, at the
beginning of the Early Modern period, when European influences were at its zenith, the
architecture built emphasised security, not comfort nor adaptability to the local climate. This
21
Raffles (1883), Appendix A, ix-xi. 22
Unknown Author (1875), p. 130. Also see Stockdale (1812), p. 129. 23
Unknown Author (1875), p. 135. 24
Blussé (1986), p. 17. 25
Nas (1993), p. 9. 26
Wood p. 5. 27
Widodo (2007), p. 19.
82
was demonstrated through the construction of military forts, garrisons and trading posts: thick
walls, flat façades and lack of ventilation allowed the ‘insalubriousness’ to manifest
throughout the city.28
The uninhabitable conditions meant medicine was consumed as
frequently as food in order to cope with the depravity of the environment.29
Yet this did not
seem to halt the rate of mortality. At the time of the malaria outbreak in 1733, there was a
general rise in mortality. A 54% decline in 1735 with 910 deaths was recorded, in
comparison to 1692 deaths in 1732. In the period 1735-1737, the death rate sharply rose to
2671 deaths, an increase of 293.5 per cent.30
Unmistakably, there was a fundamental need to adapt to the environment of tropical
Java, lest the entire commercial operation of the VOC collapse. A conscious move to the
south of Batavia and changes in architecture adopting characteristics, brought about by
Indische culture, were ways to cope with the tropical climate of Java amongst the ‘elite’ of
Batavian society.31
Due to the lack of a Dutch female population during the establishment of
Batavia, many Dutch soldiers chose to intermarry with the local female population as they
did not pass on a typical Dutch bourgeoise culture onto their wives or offspring.32
Furthermore, Asian women tended to not have as many material demands as their European
counterparts. European women wished to return home as soon as possible to show off their
new riches in front of their acquaintances in Holland.33
Thus through miscegenation there
was a gradual ‘indianisation’ of the Dutch and ‘europeanisation’ of the natives.34
An intentional move outside of the city walls was prominent among this class, though
the original intentions for suburbanisation had been a desire to have country houses away
28
Widodo (2007), p. 19. 29
Stockdale (1812), p. 130. 30
Raffles (1883), Appendix iv-v. 31
Milone (1967), pp. 410-411. 32
Hollander (2008), 10. 33
Ibid p. 11. 34
Nas (1993), p. 10.
83
from the city and display their wealth in the form of gardens and estates.35
Similarly,
Protschky argues the southern suburbs of Buitenzorg (meaning ‘without care’) and
Weltevreden (‘well-kept’) became a place of retreat away from the swampy mouth of the
Ciliwung. However, these detrimental features of Kota Batavia later became the primary
reason for relocation. People began to commute to the city, as opposed to residing there.36
Additionally, the human impact upon Batavia (tightly-packed, and later, abandoned,
buildings) restricted airflow and allowed the spread of disease.37 38
With these estates,
emerged an architectural peculiarity which reflected the indische culture, the pendopo,
incorporating a roof design with large gaps to allow air flow to circulate, thus allowing a
constant cool breeze to enter these houses.39
This limited the effects of the tropical climate
that Java presented as well as reduced the mugginess that European-styled buildings in
Batavia were known to have.
Meanwhile, in the city, conditions only worsened for the average inhabitant.
Furthermore, a lack of social consciousness of the ‘common’ people, who settled in Batavia,
impeded living standards.40
Therefore an effort to improve physical amplifications to the
canals were installed such as levied edges, heightened streets and deepened canals to
accommodate the increasing amount of waste and refuse dumped into these waterways.41
Despite these measures, the phenomenon of banjir (flooding) continued to be a recurring
problem through the VOC and colonial era. Another approach employed by the VOC was to
convert Batavia from a trade and administration centre to a garrison city by the turn of the
19th
century.42
By the mid-1800s, the canals, which were seen as one of the causes of disease
35
Taylor (1983), pp. 52-53. 36
Molen (1993), p. 317. 37
Raffles (1883), Appendix xi-xii. 38
Molen (1993), p. 317. 39
Milone (1965), p. 418. 40
Ibid. p. 413. 41
Nas (1993), p. 11. 42
Blussé (1986), p. 34.
84
in the city, were filled up and converted into streets.43
This enabled the suburbanisation of
Batavia, to the extent that Buitenzorg became the administrative centre in the early 19th
century.44
To conclude, Batavia was a striking city built with Dutch, native and Chinese
influences. However, by the 18th
and 19th
centuries, the effects of the tropical environment
and human impact upon the city turned it into a blot. The city attempted to acclimatise to
tropical Java, but arguably failed in its attempts, and these problems persisted throughout the
colonial era. The gradual ‘exodus’ of citizens, most notably of the gentry, from the centre of
the city towards the newly-founded suburbs best demonstrates this.
Howard Leung
Written for European Empires in the East (HIH-3178)
Appendix: Image
Figure 1: National Museum of World
Cultures. Coll. no. TM-496-3. The city
of Batavia, circa. 1627. Notice the
extensive use of canals and walls, as
well as Casteel Batavia.
43
Cobban (1985), p. 309. 44
Protschky (2011), p. 53.
85
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Crawford, J. (1920). History of the Indian Archipelago. Vol. 1. Edinburgh: Archibald
Constable and co.
Frick, C. & Schewitzer, C. (1700). A relation of two several voyages made in the East Indies.
trans. By S. L, London: D. Brown, S. Crouch, J. Knapton, R. Knaplock, Y. Wyate, B.
Took and S. Buckley.
Raffles, Sir T. S. (1883). A history of Java. Vol. 2. London: John Murray.
Stockdale, J. J. (1812). Sketches, civil and military, of the island of Java and its immediate
dependencies: Comprising interesting details of Batavia, and authentic particulars of
the celebrated Poison-Tree, London: J.J. Stockdale.
Unknown Author (1875). Many lands and many people with one hundred and forty-seven
illustrations. Philadelphia: J.B. Lippincott & Co.
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Blussé, L. (1986). Strange company: Chinese settlers, mestizo women and the Dutch in VOC
Batavia. Holland: Foris Publications.
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(3), 300-318.
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Hollander, I. (2008). Silenced voices: Uncovering a family’s colonial history in Indonesia.
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Kratoska, P. H. (2001). Colonial history: Imperialism before 1800. London: Routledge.
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Indonesia. Leiden: Brill.
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Wake, C. (1997). Banten around the turn of the sixteenth century: trade and society in an
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%20Complete%20Version.pdf?sequence=2.
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To what extent has the concept of ‘deformity’ affected
Richard III’s image and character?
Shakespeare’s portrayal of Richard III as the evil ‘crook back’ has dominated his image for
centuries.1 A villainous king supposedly responsible for the death of his young nephews,
Richard III was the embodiment of an evil and malformed soul beneath. As the eleventh child
of Richard Duke of York, he was ‘very little’ unlike the powerful and domineering build of
previous Plantagenet’s , including his elder brother Edward IV, but whether he possessed any
form of physical disfigurement has been subject to question, and until very recently,
dismissed.2 The confirmation of the skeleton, found at Greyfriars in Leicestershire, as
Richard III in February 2013, adds an interesting dimension to the contention that surrounds
his deformity.3 Concrete evidence that Richard III had a curvature of the spine and the
seeming significance of this leads, naturally to the question of why this mattered. This essay
will adopt a chronological approach in an attempt to assess when, how, and why the concept
of ‘deformity’ or disfigurement became so integral to the central argument surrounding
Ricardian historiography, and whether Richard was a ‘good’ or ‘bad’ king.
Exploring the king’s appearance becomes challenging when few contemporary
accounts, and no contemporary portraiture survives. Early surviving accounts do not mention
a deformity, although the body and appearance of Richard III was commented upon. The
earliest documentary evidence was written before he was eight in Richard Duke of York’s
lifetime and states no more than ‘Richard liveth yet.’4 This has often been interpreted to mean
that Richard was a sickly child, which is supported by John Rous’ description of ‘a small
1 Martin (2006), p. 181.
2 Ellis (1968), pp. 183-184; Ross (1999), pp. 138-139; Potter (1983), pp. 9-141; Hicks (1991), p. 49; Kendall
(1955), p. 500; Rhodes (1977), pp. 1650-1652. 3 Dockray & Hammond (2013), p. 3.
4 Halsted (1844), p. 409; Peter, Hammond & Weeks (1985), p. 5.
89
body… weak in strength’. As the chronicler of the Earls of Warwick and Chaplain at the
Chapel of Guys Cliff, he would have almost certainly have met him. 5 Further accounts of
his ‘smallness’ can be seen in ‘Archibald Whitelaw’s Address to Richard III’ where ‘never
before has nature dared to encase in a smaller body such spirit,’ and ‘in his small body the
greatest valour held sway.’6 Further description is offered by Nicholas von Poppelau, a
Silesian nobleman, who was acquainted with Richard in 1484 and held a private audience
with the king on the 1st
of May. 7
Von Poppelau does not comment on a deformity but
provides similar allusions to a ‘smallness’ of physique in that Richard was described as
‘slimmer’ and possessing ‘delicate arms and legs.’8 This absence of comment on any form of
deformity is apparent in the two authoritative works from the period, Dominic Mancini and
the Croyland Chronicle, whereby we only learn of Richard’s appearance from the Croyland
Chronicle’s depiction of a lean face and pale complexion.9
The first mention of any noteworthy physical anomaly is in the form of a striking
monstrous birth and is depicted in John Rous’ account following the accession of Henry VII.
In marked contrast to Rous’ previously mentioned description in the ‘Rous Roll,’ his History
of the Kings of England described Richard as ‘retained within his mother’s womb for two
years… emerging with teeth and hair to the shoulders.’10
Whilst the only significant post-
natal physical difference presented by Rous at this later date is that of ‘unequal shoulders, the
right higher than the other’ it is notable that Rous used Richard’s physicality as one way of
reverting his previous commendations of Richard prior to Henry VII’s accession.11
The
earliest surviving portraits of Richard similarly provide a visual representation of the
transformation found in Rous’ two descriptions. The earlier Society of Antiquaries portrait
5 Rous (1745), p. 218; Peter et al (1985), p. 5; Walpole (1768), p. 107.
6 Pollard (1996), pp. 193-195.
7 Peter et al (1985), p. 5; Potter (1983), pp. 138-139; Ross (1999), p. 141; Armstrong (1989), pp. 136-138.
8 Ibid. pp. 136-138.
9 Hammond & Weeks (1985), p. 5; Potter (1983), p. 137.
10 Hammond & Weeks (1985), p. 5; Dockray & Hammond (2013), pp. 9-10.
11 Ibid. p. xix.
90
ring-tree, dated c.1516-22, is free from the allusion of the hunched back found in the portrait
in the Royal Collection. However, an x-ray of the Royal Collection portrait for the special
exhibition of 1973 revealed that the ‘hunch-back’ was an over-painting, and the original
shoulder line was straight.12
This disfiguring alteration, which also included a narrowed eye
shape, has been carried through by all subsequent editions.13
The editing process undergone
by the two most overt allusions to physical abnormality relates to the ‘monster making’ effect
ascribed to history by Jeffrey Cohen whereby the figure of the ‘real’ Richard III has been
distorted by posthumous accounts and culture.14
The only other written account prior to the
sixteenth century which includes deformity is found in an incident at York in the early 1490s,
where Richard was accused of being a ‘hypocrite, a crookback.’15
Although deemed
unreliable by Charles Ross, the source is valuable for it shows the apparent need for John
Payntour to deny these claims and therefore correspondingly suggests the contemporary
negative connotations that surround the use of the term ‘crookback.’16
Rous, portraiture and
the brawl at York suggest the possible negative connotation for which disability could be
utilised, yet based on near-contemporary evidence alone, the notion of Richard actually
possessing any deformity is ambiguous.17
The sixteenth-century authorship of Thomas More and Polydore Vergil erased any
form of ambiguity surrounding the body of Richard.18
Vergil describes a king ‘deformed of
body, the one shoulder being higher than the other’ and Thomas More suggests a man of ‘ill-
featured… limbs, crook-backed, his left shoulder much higher than his right.’19
The works of
More and Vergil have been viewed collectively by historians as pioneering a century’s worth
12
Ross (1999), p. 139; Potter (1983), p. 262; Tudor-Craig (1977), pp. 80-93. 13
Ibid. 14
Cohen (1996), p. 9. 15
Dockray & Hammond (2013), p. 5; Ross (1999), p. 139; Tudor-Craig (1977), p. 80; Hammond & Weeks
(1985), p. 5; Potter (1983), p. 140. 16
Raine (1978), pp. 71-73. 17
Potter (1983), p. 136; Ross (1999), p. 139. 18
Ross (1986), pp. 139; Myers (1954), pp. 511-21. 19
More (2005), p. 7; Ellis (1968), p. 227.
91
of elaborate historical writing termed the ‘Tudor Myth.’20
Vergil’s work has often been
viewed with more historical merit as a more subtle account for it contains admiration for a
king of ‘sharp wit… courage also high and fierce…rather yieldeth [death] to take with the
sword, than by foul flight to prolong his life.’21
More’s work has received more criticism
however, Polydore Vergil likewise claims to state the truth when a component of his purpose
was to present the Tudor dynasty favourably. 22
Yet, these writers are not inventing a so-
called myth.23
Their ‘histories’ were not just a construction for Tudor propaganda but it is
significant that both More and Vergil utilise the ‘monstrous’ references to Richard’s
appearance which were markedly fewer and did not appear in the contemporary accounts. It
has been argued by Ross and R. Sylvester that the value of the Tudor works rests in their
representation of the current and popular view of the time.24
This begs the question of how
contemporaries would have perceived this ‘deformed’ image and why Shakespeare likewise
exploited Richard III’s ‘lump of foul deformity’ as central to his evil character.25
Irina Metzler has cautioned the medieval and later-medieval connection between
deformity and sin to have often received sweeping misinformed and generalised statements.26
Henri-Jacques Stiker likewise states ‘for the middle ages as a whole physical aberrancy was a
‘normal anomaly’… there was neither revulsion, nor terror.’27
Yet Richard was a king, not a
‘normal anomaly,’ and the conflicting and transforming accounts of his physical appearance
fits more into the context of sixteenth-century physiognomy as opposed to contemporary
reactions to physical difference. At the beginning of Thomas More’s account Richard’s
physical malformations and negative appearance is juxtaposed next to a description of his
20
Ross (1999), p. xxxiv; Kendall (1955), p. 500. 21
Ross (1999), p. xxxvii; Hipshon (2011), p. 213; Ellis (1968), pp. 226-227. 22
Ross (1999), p. xxxvii; Hipshon (2011), p. 216; Potter (1983), pp. 110-111; Kendall (1955), p. 500; Hanham
(1975), pp. 194-195; Hay (1952), p. 154. 23
Ross (1999), p. xlv; Kendall (1955), p. 504. 24
Ross (1999), pp. xxv and xlv; Sylvester (1963), p. lxxviii. 25
Hammond (1981), pp. 139 and 163-164. 26
Metzler (2006), p. 5. 27
Ibid.; Stiker (1999), p. 66.
92
character as ‘close and secret, a deep dissimuler… outwardly companionable where he
inwardly hated’, he was ‘dispitious and cruel.’28
Whilst perhaps More only hints at a possible
link between the two, William Holinshed in The Third Volume of Chronicles beginning at
Duke William the Norman published in 1587 asserted ‘that the full confluence of these
qualities, with the defects of favour and amiable proportion, ague proofe to this rule of
physiognomie.’29
Anthony Hammond argues that Shakespeare had read and was aware of the
1587 edition of Holinshed’s work which contains not only the idea of Richard’s deformity,
but also alludes to this so-called ‘science’ of physiognomy.30
Physiognomy was founded in classical antiquity but it peaked in popularity in the
sixteenth century and was based on the value that the physical body and soul are reflective of
each other.31
Shakespeare’s deformed character of Richard III demonstrates this
physiognomical notion that a malformed outer appearance automatically represents that of an
inner evil soul: ‘Why, I… Have no delight to pass away the time, Unless to see my shadow in
the sun/ And descant on mine own deformity.’ 32
His soul is not only warped but his actions
are pre-determined in a form of ‘moral logic’ that his body presents.33
The contextual focus
on appearance and character may have caused Shakespeare, More and Vergil, even Rous, to
create an appropriate body according to these physiognomical ‘rules’ and their interpretation
of Richard as ‘evil.’ This intertwined relationship between the body and soul is not an
isolated phenomenon with physiognomical references to a hunched back found in the
seventeenth-century work of James Ferrand whom based on the ‘sympathy… betwixt the
body and the mind… seldom saw any person, being crooke backed, which were of a good
28
More (2005), p. 7. 29
Torrey (2000), pp. 124-125. 30
Hammond (1981), p. 79. 31
Metzler (2006), pp. 54-55. 32
Hammond (1981), pp. 126-127. 33
Williams (2009).
93
nature.’34
In terms of Richard III, physiognomy persists beyond these later accounts and the
relationship between appearance and character has made its mark on the subsequent
historiography.
The effect of deformity on Richard III’s character can perhaps be best seen following
the end of the Tudor dynasty where the defence of Richard emerged alongside the traditional
image in what could almost be described as a ‘battle’ for his reputation.35
Sir George Buck’s
The History of the life and reigne of Richard the Third, written in the early seventeenth
century and published in 1646, was the first attempt to deconstruct the traditional image.36
An
Elizabethan and Jacobean courtier, Buck’s comprehensive account defends the king against
all his charges, including that of his ‘pretended deformity.’37
Questioning the physiognomical
concept that ‘a man of blemish’ is unable to have a ‘wise, valiant… liberall and religious
soule’, Richard is proportioned and ‘decently compacted’ and therefore a victim of the
‘harsh… most nobly’ furnished fabrications of previous commentators.38
Yet this was soon
met with criticism from Thomas Fuller in 1655 who accused Buck of not only ‘eveneth his
shoulders’ and ‘smootheth his back’ but ‘proceeding from his naturals to his morals, maketh
him as virtuous as handsome.’39
Although not necessarily intentional Buck and Fuller, despite
their differences in opinion, were seemingly unable to separate the question of the king’s
physical appearance and his character.
Fuller’s more traditional stance trickled into the early eighteenth century where Paul
Rapin de Thoyras’ two publications on a history of England between 1723 and 1725 not so
cautiously painted Richard as ‘sirnamed Crook-back’d because he was so in reality.’40
However, the defence of Richard was gathering pace, most especially in Horace Walpole’s
34
Ferrand (1640), sig. L4v, sigs. X8v-Y I. 35
Hipshon (2011), p. 218. 36
Ibid. p. 217; Myers (1968), p. 187. 37
Myers (1968), p. 187; Buck (1647), p. 79. 38
Buck (1647), pp. 79-80. 39
Fuller (1847), p. 528. 40
Myers (1968), p. 190.
94
appropriately titled Historic Doubts on the Life and Reign of Richard the Third. Describing
the previous centuries as having ‘transmitted… ignorance and misrepresentation’ Walpole
clears Richard of all his charges in a similar manner to Buck.41
Richard once again is pictured
as a ‘correctly’ formed king ‘who was slender, and not tall.’42
He does however accept that he
may have ‘had one shoulder a little higher than the other’ but as ‘with regard to the person of
Richard, it appears to have been as much misinterpreted as his actions.’43
Yet, like Buck and
Fuller, Walpole still finds the apparent relationship between appearance and character
imperative in his analysis by dismissing the ‘amplification’ of his deformity through tradition
with the question: ‘cannot a foul soul inhabit a fair body?’44
By this mid-eighteenth century
period only one historical account stood out against the general pattern of defence and that
was David Hume’s History of England published in 1761 a few years prior to Walpole’s.
Hume depicted a king who fitted his own opinion on the Middle Ages, the ‘barbarous’ era
prior to ‘the dawn of civility and science.’45
Richard III’s ‘hump-back’ physique had come
full circle for Hume was adamant that ‘his body was in every particular no less deformed than
his mind.’46
At the turn of the twentieth century the historiography of Richard III has maintained a
polarisation of opinion in terms of the traditional Tudor image and his defence.47
Two
approaches are adopted when addressing the question of Richard’s possible deformity,
complete reform or a process of ‘explaining away.’ The Richard III Society was established
in 1924 and was ‘dedicated to reclaiming the reputation of a king of England who died over
500 years ago.’48
Integral to this defence of Richard was the desire to disprove any form of
41
Hipshon (2011), p. 219; Walpole (1768), p. iii. 42
Walpole (1768), pp. 102-103. 43
Ibid. pp. 102-103. 44
Ibid. pp. 102-103. 45
Hume (1767), p. 311; Myers (1954), pp. 190-191. 46
Hume (1767), p. 311; Potter (1983), p. 185. 47
Myers (1954), p. 199; Hipshon (2011), pp. 226-227. 48
http://www.richardiii.net/aboutus.php.
95
deformity as ‘merely inventions of those trying to blacken his image.’49
To use Jeremy
Potter’s words, this ‘obsessively personalised’ aspect of Ricardian studies has gone to much
effort to reform the bodily appearance of this misinterpreted king.50
Personal identification or
justification to slight physical difference as ‘normal’ is one method. It is not just found in
Paul Murray Kendall’s defence but also on assessment it is in the earlier works of Horace
Walople and Sir George Buck whose modern biographer, Arthur Kincaid, felt obliged to
argue that it was not a ‘heated emotional defence.’51
Focusing on the unreliability of More
and a lack of contemporary evidence, they firmly disprove any monstrous physicality.
However, even in the twentieth century, the reasoning behind this need to disprove deformity
is evident in Potter’s conclusion which juxtaposes character and appearance: ‘ambitious to do
well and good, Richard was far from abnormal.’52
The other approach has been to provide explanation. Paul Murray Kendall does this
when ‘reforming’ the appearance of Richard by providing a rational reason for an uneven
shoulder height. As a result of ‘rigorous training’ Richard’s right shoulder became more
muscular than the left, and Potter provides consensus to this theory by stating that more
modern cavalry regiments provide evidence of this imbalanced physique.53
This explanatory
method highlights the seeming need for historians to address the contention surrounding
Richard’s ‘deformity’ but it also leads to conclusions more inclined to admit mild physical
difference as a possibility. Michael Hicks determines that he was a king of ‘uneven shoulders
as those who knew him said, but was certainly neither a cripple nor incapable of bearing
arms.’54
Similarly, Charles Ross addresses Richard’s appearance and concludes the likelihood
49
http://www.richardiii.net/aboutus.php. 50
Potter (1983), pp. 141-142. 51
Walpole (1768), pp. 103-107; Kendall (1955), pp. 47-48 and 458-459; Kincaid (1979), pp. cxxviii & cii-cxxx. 52
Potter (1983), p. 144; Kendall (1955), p. 500. 53
Kendall (1955), pp. 47-48; Potter (1983), pp. 141-142. 54
Hicks (1991), p. 49.
96
that he ‘had no great deal of bodily deformity.’55
Philip Rhodes in the British Medical
Journal provides the most focused modern analysis on Richard III’s deformity where in a
similar manner he suggests that Richard had no great degree of physical abnormality.56
Proposing that the nerve lesion caused by Klumpke’s paralysis or Erb’s palsy was unlikely,
Rhodes concludes that Richard may have suffered from a minor degree of Sprengel’s
deformity for the best medical hypothesis is that he showed a ‘normal though unusually
raised shoulder.’57
More interestingly, Rhodes dismisses the hypothesis that Richard could
have suffered from kyphoscoliosis on the basis that contemporary description, ignoring later
Tudor works, does not mention a severe enough abnormality of this kind. Hammond and
Weeks likewise in their study of the king’s deformity follow the same logical pattern in the
belief that any arguments of scoliosis or a more severe disfigurement would require an over
reliance on the image that Shakespeare presents.58
The explanations to Richard’s deformity in
these works are brief, less symbolic and more significantly are not in conjunction with
character or kingship.
However, the discovery and later confirmation of a skeleton with a spinal curvature,
the seemingly improbable scoliosis, brought Richard’s appearance back to the fore.59
The
response of Ricardians is best portrayed in Philippa Langley’s reaction of disbelief in the
television documentary ‘Richard III: The King in the Car Park.’ The repetition of ‘no’ and
her request to sit down highlights the impact of such a discovery by those who had gone to
great efforts to revert this opinion of Richard.60
The argument that Tudor propaganda was not
merely invention could be applied with new confidence to Richard’s physical appearance
because the curvature was likely to have caused one of Richard’s shoulders to have been
55
Ross (1999), p. 139. 56
Rhodes (1977), p. 1652. 57
Ibid. p. 1652. 58
Rhodes (1977), p. 1651; Hammond & Weeks (1985), pp. 5-9. 59 http://www.theguardian.com/higher-education-network/blog/2014/feb/04/richard-iii-researchers-stories-
discovery-anniversary. 60
http://www.channel4.com/programmes/richard-iii-the-king-in-the-car-park/4od
97
higher than the other.61
What is more alarming is that, even with a modern perception,
subsequent studies saw this new evidence as an opportunity ‘to re-evaluate his personality,
especially in light of what we now know about his physical condition.’62
The newly
discovered physical anomaly though was not the hunchback, limping or withered arm of
Shakespeare but it could fit Vergil’s description of ‘deformed of body, the one shoulder being
higher than the other’ and More’s ‘ill-featured… his left shoulder much higher than his
right.’63
However, it is important to note Metzler’s application of the modern disability
studies model to the medieval period arguing that the Middle Ages would have perceived
‘impairment’ as opposed to ‘disability.’64
Richard did not have a ‘disability’ in its modern
sense but his skeleton almost certainly reveals some form of physical ‘impairment.’65
The discovery of Richard III’s skeleton potentially raises more questions than
answers. What can be definitely ascertained is that the curvature would not have created the
debilitating hunch-back ascribed by Shakespeare.66
Yet the real significance of the discovery
is its absence among the contemporary accounts. It could be possible that Richard was able to
literally “clothe [his] naked villainy” as stated in Shakespeare and hide his mild deformity
from view.67
However, this explanation does not answer for the silence following his defeat
at Bosworth, especially if we are to believe the accounts of Jean de Molinet, the Great
Chronicle of London and Polydore Vergil that he was ‘displayed to the people… without any
clothing,’ the opportune moment to discredit him. 68
Richard III provides the prime example
of the ‘monster-making’ effect of history coined by Jeffrey Cohen.69
Despite its
contemporary obscurity, historical argument regarding Richard III’s character has rarely been
61
http://www.richardiii.net/2_4_0_riii_appearance.php#intro 62
http://www.le.ac.uk/richardiii/science/psychology.html 63
More (2005), p. 7; Ellis (1968), p. 227. 64
Metzler (2006), p. 5. 65
Oliver (1990). 66
http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-england-leicestershire-21282241 67
Hipshon (2011), p. 169. 68
Bennett (1985), p. 161; Thomas & Thornley (1983), pp. 237-238; Ellis (1968), pp. 223-236; Dockray &
Hammond (2013), p. 3. 69
Cohen (1996), p. 9.
98
without a reference, albeit if only in passing, to his physicality. Whilst history may have
shifted in the later twentieth century to a less subjective approach, the discovery of the
skeleton was enough to show that in the eyes of the popular imagination it had not come very
far. A curvature of the spine, even if only in the first aftershock moment, remained
inextricably bound to the character of a man who was ‘determined to prove a villain.’70
Gemma Almond, [email protected]
Written for Blood and Roses: England 1475-1500 (HIH-3258)
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The editorial team
The editorial team of History and Classics students proofreads, edits, and formats Gorffennol. The
team currently comprises of the following students:
Silke Davison (first year Ancient History)
Jess Fallon (third year Classics)
Emma Garland (MA Modern History)
William Murphy (MA Ancient History and Classical Culture)
Jed Rual (third year Egyptology and Classical Civilisation)
Patrick Tweed (third year History)
Leah Wateridge (second year Classical Civilisation)
Mollie Warboys (second year Ancient History)
Julian Wojtowicz (History graduate).
The student editorial team are coordinated by Dr Evelien Bracke. For more information on us, see
http://gorffennol.swansea.ac.uk/?page_id=26.
Publish your assignment
Gorffennol accepts assignments on any topics, from any year, and from any section of the
Department of History and Classics. The only condition is that you received a first class mark on
your assignment. We will ask the module coordinator for permission to publish your assignment
as well. We will not publish assignments for the same piece of assessments twice (not in the first
three years) as we want to publish articles on the majority of our Department’s modules on offer,
so please check whether something has already been published on your assignment.
To submit a piece of assessment for publication, please send it in Word format to Evelien Bracke
([email protected]), including your name, student numbers, module title and code for
which you wrote the assessment, and the mark you received.
ISSUE 1