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Authors: Peter Demetz
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The intransigent Catholics had refused to sign any document that extended equal privileges to all Christian confessions, and when Matthias, the new king of Bohemia, moved the imperial and royal court back to Vienna after Rudolf’s death, the Prague Catholics, firmly supported by the Spanish party in Vienna and the new Prague archbishop, Johannes
Lohelius, began to increase pressure on the Protestants. Inevitably, they provoked a radical group among the Bohemian Estates to think of violent solutions, all other means failing. It was almost a civil war by attrition. Protestants were deprived of traditional offices, the self-rule of the Prague towns was diminished by decree, and tempers ran especially high when two newly built Protestant churches, erected on land belonging to a Benedictine monastery and the archbishop, were razed. The Catholics thought the Protestants were wrong to build their chapels on ecclesiastical ground, while the Protestants, in turn, assumed that all church lands belonged, ultimately, to the king (a difficult question never elucidated by earlier documents). The non-Catholic Estates immediately convened a meeting at the Carolinum to address their grievances to the king, yet a group of radicals, among them Václav Budova, of the Czech Brethren, and the impetuous Count Matthias Thum, met at the town house of Jan Smi
ický of Smi
ice in the Minor Town to plan the murder of the royal administrator at Hrad
any Castle. When the members of the Estates learned of the king’s uncompromising response to the Bohemian grievances, they decided to march to the castle to confront the royal administrators whom they thought responsible for the condescending tone of the king’s answer. It was just the occasion for which the radical conspirators had waited.
Lohelius, began to increase pressure on the Protestants. Inevitably, they provoked a radical group among the Bohemian Estates to think of violent solutions, all other means failing. It was almost a civil war by attrition. Protestants were deprived of traditional offices, the self-rule of the Prague towns was diminished by decree, and tempers ran especially high when two newly built Protestant churches, erected on land belonging to a Benedictine monastery and the archbishop, were razed. The Catholics thought the Protestants were wrong to build their chapels on ecclesiastical ground, while the Protestants, in turn, assumed that all church lands belonged, ultimately, to the king (a difficult question never elucidated by earlier documents). The non-Catholic Estates immediately convened a meeting at the Carolinum to address their grievances to the king, yet a group of radicals, among them Václav Budova, of the Czech Brethren, and the impetuous Count Matthias Thum, met at the town house of Jan Smi
ický of Smiice in the Minor Town to plan the murder of the royal administrator at Hradany Castle. When the members of the Estates learned of the king’s uncompromising response to the Bohemian grievances, they decided to march to the castle to confront the royal administrators whom they thought responsible for the condescending tone of the king’s answer. It was just the occasion for which the radical conspirators had waited.The towns were restive when, on the morning of May 23, 1618, the members of the Estates went to the castle and, exactly as the radical group had planned, seized the staircase and the offices of the royal administrators and their staff. Six of the officials, sensing something in the air, had left for Vienna on sudden business, and the angry Protestant representatives confronted Adam of Sternberg, D
pold of Lobkovic, Vilém Slavata of Chlum, and Jaroslav of Martinic, who tried to explain that they were not personally responsible for the king’s answer. (True, the document had been mainly composed by Melchior Cardinal Khlesl, the
éminence grise
of Matthias’s court.) The radicals did not want to listen to these protestations, but at least they had the good sense to spare two of the moderate royal officials, who were shoved into an adjacent chamber and let go. That left Martinic and Slavata, who had been among the most active of the intransigent Catholics for twenty years. An exchange of views, if there ever was one, had long ceased; Count Thurn, the military man, demanded (probably in German) action not speeches, and many hands seized Slavata and Martinic and threw them out of the window. Slavata, calling for the presence of his father confessor, clung to the window until somebody hit him on the hand with a dagger hilt and he fell out too; when the conspirators noticed that Johannes Fabricius, a secretary, quietly wanted to leave the
room, they seized him for good measure and tossed him out also. A few random pistol shots were fired after them, but fortunately all three survived the fall; the Protestants claimed that this was because they fell on a dunghill, while the Catholics argued that the Virgin Mary had miraculously spread out her celestial mantle to break their fall. Fabricius hobbled away and escaped; he was later ennobled by the emperor and awarded the title of “von Hohenfall” (of High Fall). Slavata, who badly hurt his head, made his way to the house of the imperial chancellor and, personally protected by the chancellor’s courageous wife, Polyxena of Lobkovic, stayed there until his wound had healed. When the news about the defenestration reached the towns, people (much aware of the Hussite precedents) went wild, ransacking and setting fire to churches and monasteries once again; Franciscan monks were killed; and, as usual, the mob invaded the Jewish Town to rob and pillage. People felt that something important had happened, and they were not wrong.
pold of Lobkovic, Vilém Slavata of Chlum, and Jaroslav of Martinic, who tried to explain that they were not personally responsible for the king’s answer. (True, the document had been mainly composed by Melchior Cardinal Khlesl, theéminence grise
of Matthias’s court.) The radicals did not want to listen to these protestations, but at least they had the good sense to spare two of the moderate royal officials, who were shoved into an adjacent chamber and let go. That left Martinic and Slavata, who had been among the most active of the intransigent Catholics for twenty years. An exchange of views, if there ever was one, had long ceased; Count Thurn, the military man, demanded (probably in German) action not speeches, and many hands seized Slavata and Martinic and threw them out of the window. Slavata, calling for the presence of his father confessor, clung to the window until somebody hit him on the hand with a dagger hilt and he fell out too; when the conspirators noticed that Johannes Fabricius, a secretary, quietly wanted to leave the
room, they seized him for good measure and tossed him out also. A few random pistol shots were fired after them, but fortunately all three survived the fall; the Protestants claimed that this was because they fell on a dunghill, while the Catholics argued that the Virgin Mary had miraculously spread out her celestial mantle to break their fall. Fabricius hobbled away and escaped; he was later ennobled by the emperor and awarded the title of “von Hohenfall” (of High Fall). Slavata, who badly hurt his head, made his way to the house of the imperial chancellor and, personally protected by the chancellor’s courageous wife, Polyxena of Lobkovic, stayed there until his wound had healed. When the news about the defenestration reached the towns, people (much aware of the Hussite precedents) went wild, ransacking and setting fire to churches and monasteries once again; Franciscan monks were killed; and, as usual, the mob invaded the Jewish Town to rob and pillage. People felt that something important had happened, and they were not wrong.
The Estates elected thirty directors, ten each for barons, knights, and towns, and, though these were headed by radicals, the majority was moderate and believed that the new situation should be handled by old-fashioned negotiations (after all, in the summer of 1617 the Estates had accepted Archduke Ferdinand as king of Bohemia without much resistance). In Vienna, Emperor Matthias himself, hesitant as ever, wanted to give negotiations a try, while the Spanish party and Ferdinand wanted to crush any Protestant opposition without mercy. At the same time, both Prague and Vienna began to mobilize international support and consolidate the first army corps clashing in southern Bohemia; Count Thurn operated near Vienna but had to withdraw again.
When Matthias died in 1619, he was succeeded on the imperial throne by Ferdinand, and Catholics and Protestants prepared for an international conflict: the Austrian Hapsburgs sought the support of Spain, Bavaria, Saxony, Poland, and Tuscany, while the Prague Estates, who rightly believed they could not go it alone, discussed financial and military help from Holland, England, Venice, and the Italian Piedmont; though their inexperienced diplomats were astonishingly skillful, they also had many illusions, and few people wanted to fight, or die, for Prague In the summer of 1619 the Bohemian Estates (joined by the Protestant Estates of Lower and Upper Austria) constituted a confederation of all the enemies of Hapsburg in the crown lands, expelled the Jesuits from Prague “for all time,” and confiscated Catholic property to pay for the war. Ferdinand was formally dethroned, and the Estates offered the elected crown of the lands to Friedrich, Calvinist prince-elector of the Palatinate, a young and
prominent German Protestant ruler married to Elizabeth, daughter of King James I of England; it was clear that the choice was dictated by the hope for international support.
prominent German Protestant ruler married to Elizabeth, daughter of King James I of England; it was clear that the choice was dictated by the hope for international support.
Friedrich and Elizabeth would have made an exemplary and decorative royal couple at the best of times, but not at the beginning of a war that was to devastate Europe for thirty years. He was twenty-three years old when he accepted “the divine call,” as he declared it, to legitimize the revolt of the Bohemian nobles. Well educated by French Calvinists, slim, elegant, serious, and totally green in war or diplomacy, Friedrich lacked energy and judgment; the best one could expect of him, his French educator once remarked, was that he would duly follow honest advice. His wife, Elizabeth (among whose earlier suitors had been the French dauphin and the Swedish crown prince Gustavus Adolphus), did not lack high intelligence and wit—Ferdinard would “make a lousy emperor,” she said—but, constantly pregnant, she was too well bred not to accept happily whatever her husband resolved to do; since they were essentially spoiled children who liked to entertain, to ride, and to hunt, they were at the mercy of events. In late September 1619, they left Friedrich’s residence in Heidelberg with a train of 153 wagons, hundreds of servants, and a thousand soldiers, and were welcomed at the Bohemian border in Latin; they entered jubilant Prague on October 21, 1619, to be crowned king and queen at St. Vitus Cathedral in festive and separate ceremonies.
While the armies of the Catholic “League” and the Protestant “Union,” mostly made up of mercenaries, began to organize on a large scale, Friedrich and Elizabeth played the royal couple with dedication; they were welcomed by everybody at first, but they were also different and it showed; when they asked the Prague burghers for a personal loan to pay for the army, they were brusquely refused. Friedrich spent his time inspecting his (mostly unpaid) troops and dealing with ambassadors; Elizabeth, celebrated in famous poems by John Donne and Sir Henry Wotton, tried to be nice and yet irritated the Bohemians with her expensive dresses, her outlandish hairdo, and her plunging décolletage. (Her court chaplain, Scultetus, in the meantime, almost caused a popular revolt because he tried to transform St. Vitus Cathedral into a Calvinist chapel.) King and queen conversed in French, did not try to learn the languages of the land, and when in early November 1620 the Catholics were preparing to enter Prague, they left in such an undignified hurry that the queen absentmindedly (her biographers hope) left her youngest baby untended at the castle; and it had to be handed over to her by Baron Christopher Dohna, in a bundle, through the windows of the departing coach.
They were without a home and a country; after a long pilgrimage via Küstrin and Berlin, they settled in Holland, where Friedrich continued to call himself king of Bohemia (he died in 1632); Elizabeth returned to England only a year before her demise. “A debonair but plain woman,” Samuel Pepys noted when he caught a glimpse of her in London.
They were without a home and a country; after a long pilgrimage via Küstrin and Berlin, they settled in Holland, where Friedrich continued to call himself king of Bohemia (he died in 1632); Elizabeth returned to England only a year before her demise. “A debonair but plain woman,” Samuel Pepys noted when he caught a glimpse of her in London.
Protestants of the Union and Catholic armies of the League engaged in bloody confrontations in the provinces in the course of the year and circumspectly marched on the Prague region, where they inevitably clashed in a fierce short battle—the saddest day in the Czech tradition (to be compared only with that other melancholy day when, after the Munich conference of 1938, President Eduard Beneš decided not to engage the German armies, and ordered Czechoslovakia’s mobilized soldiers, willing to fight, to go home). On November 8, 1620, the tactical advantage was on the side of the Protestants, with about 21,000 men, who occupied the flat top of a low hill called the White Mountain (now easily reached by tram number 22). The Catholics, about 28,000 strong, had the numerical advantage, but they were below the hill and had to fight upward. Still, the Protestants had arrived on the White Mountain only after long marches, were exhausted by lack of sleep, and failed to prepare entrenchments for their artillery pieces as they should have done. The Union armies, comprising Czechs, Moravians, Austrians, Germans, and Hungarians, were arranged in the “Dutch” manner, considered by military doctrine more flexible: three columns of three lines of mixed infantry and cavalry companies (the king’s guard taking positions in the garden of the Villa Hv
zda). The Catholics of the League, an equally international group of Bavarians, Spanish, Walloons, Germans, and French (among them the future philosopher René Descartes), preferred the “Spanish” way, thought to be more stable: four square infantry formations in the middle of their ranks, supported by infantry and cavalry on the side, a strong lateral concentration of Lothringians and Germans facing the right wing of the Protestants, commanded by brave Joachim Schlick.
zda). The Catholics of the League, an equally international group of Bavarians, Spanish, Walloons, Germans, and French (among them the future philosopher René Descartes), preferred the “Spanish” way, thought to be more stable: four square infantry formations in the middle of their ranks, supported by infantry and cavalry on the side, a strong lateral concentration of Lothringians and Germans facing the right wing of the Protestants, commanded by brave Joachim Schlick.
BOOK: Prague in Black and Gold: Scenes from the Life of a European City
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