Germanization, as a matter of fact, was pursued in Bohemia by every
Hapsburg, though the rulers of that house have not planned it as
systematically as Maria Theresa or her son, Josef II. Centralism, to
be successful and powerful, required the levelling of the differences
of speech and of race. Every Hapsburg ruler had been educated to the
belief that he was rendering a supreme service to his subjects by
forcing them “to unlearn the barbaric language of their sires, which
isolated them from the rest of the world.” “He who knows only Bohemian
and Latin,” declared Councilor Gebler, in 1765, “is bound to make a
poor scholar, and it were better for him to stick to the plow and to
the trade; there are too many Latin scholars as it is.” More and more
the conviction gained ground that a language like the Bohemian, spoken
but by a few millions of people, was valueless, and that it would be a
folly for the government to aid in its restoration.
Austrian statesmen were determined to impose German at one time even on
the unsuspecting Galicians, though in Galicia there were no Germans at
all, only Poles and Russians. Discoursing upon the worth or the lack of
value of languages of small nations, Denis says: “These arguments may
be true, but unfortunately they could be applied to every language in
the world.”
In 1774 a detailed plan for the Germanization of schools in the empire
was submitted to Maria Theresa. This plan provided for German schools
and none others. By “mother” language was meant the German. Bohemian
was permitted in the primary or lowest grades of the school. No pupil
could enter a gymnasium (secondary school) who had not had a previous
training in German. Fortunately for the non-Germans of that period,
progress was less rapid than had been generally expected. Schoolmasters
were scarce and pupils, not understanding the language of the teachers,
advanced but slowly. As a result of all this, the queen, though
unwilling, was compelled to make concessions here and there and to
proceed less aggressively.
A noted writer has truthfully said that in the eighteenth century
Bohemians were outcasts in their own country. A lad who wanted to learn
a trade had to attend a German school for apprentices, and only pupils
knowing German were entitled to receive stipends. In the secondary
schools in Bohemia the vernacular was treated as a “foreign” language.
A professor was required to qualify in Latin and Greek, yet no one
questioned whether or not he knew the tongue of the natives. Pupils
were educated in German to be able to perform the work of janissaries
on the people of their own race. Slowly but steadily Bohemian was
likewise forced out of the courts. Laws were promulgated in the German
language. The Bohemian began to lose ground in the highest courts of
justice; gradually it was forced out from the inferior courts. After
1749 law documents in Bohemian became rarer. When, in 1788, Count
Cavriani moved that only certain notices be published in that language,
the motion was passed without opposition. From that time on German took
its place as the official language in the kingdom.
Can we wonder then that, pressed as it was on four sides--by the
church, the state, the school, and the dominant classes of the
population--the tongue of Hus and Comenius lost ground almost
altogether? And who saved it from utter extinction? It was the lowly
peasant who continued giving it shelter under his thatched roof, long
after it had been expelled from the proud châteaux of the nobility and
disowned by the middle classes. The peasant preserved the language
for the literary men who rescued from oblivion this precious gift for
future generations. “It is admitted by all,” said Palacký, “that the
resuscitation of the nation was accomplished wholly by our writers.
These men saved the language; they carried the banner which they
wished the nation to follow. Literature was the fountain spring of our
national life, and the literati placed themselves at the forefront of
the revivalist movement.”
The diet of the kingdom recommended, in 1790, that Bohemian should
be introduced at least in certain secondary schools, preferably in
Prague, but the Austrian world of officialdom was opposed even to
this concession. “No one threatens the life of the Bohemian tongue,”
protested these officials. “The government cannot antagonize the
feeling of the most influential and wealthiest classes who use German,
if not exclusively, at least overwhelmingly. Moreover, to encourage
Bohemian would be to lose sight of the idea of the unification of the
empire. The state must not deprive the Bohemians of the blessing and
of the opportunity that emanate from the knowledge of German. Useful
though Bohemian may be, its study must not be at the expense of German.”
Two important events, both of which occurred toward the end of the
eighteenth century, helped to awaken the soul of the prostrate nation.
One was the determination of Emperor Josef II. to make the empire a
German state, as has already been pointed out. But a greater incentive
than Josef’s coercive measures were the inspiring ideals of the first
French Revolution which found their way even to far-off Bohemia. The
motto of the French revolutionists, “Liberty, equality, fraternity,”
could not fail to give hope to the handful of Bohemian intellectuals.[8]
However, as late as 1848, the year of revolutionary changes in Austria,
the Bohemian language was still a Cinderella in its own land. In the
streets of Prague it was rarely spoken by the people of any social
distinction. To engage in Bohemian conversation with strangers was
a risky undertaking, unless one was prepared to be rebuked in the
sternest manner. German predominated, except in stores that were
patronized by apprentices and peddlers. Posters solely in Bohemian
were not allowed by the police. The text had to be translated, and
the German part of it printed above the Bohemian. Nowhere but in the
households of the commonest classes was the despised tongue sheltered.
Families belonging to the world of officialdom and to the wealthier
bourgeoisie, though often imperfectly familiar with it, clung to
German. Strict etiquette barred Bohemian from the salons. The only
entrance that was open to it led through the halls of the servants.
So completely were the people denationalized that foreigners visiting
the resorts at Carlsbad and Marienbad expressed their astonishment
on hearing the peasants talk in an unknown tongue. They had learned
to look upon Bohemia as a part of Germany and on the inhabitants as
Germans. Particularly the Russians and the Poles were surprised to meet
kinsmen in Bohemia whose language sounded familiar to their ears.
“A few of us,” writes Jacob Malý, one of the staunch patriots of
that time, “met each Thursday at the Black Horse (a first-class
hotel in Prague) and gave orders to the waiters in Bohemian, who, of
course, understood us well. This we did with the intention of giving
encouragement to others; but seeing the futility of our efforts in this
direction, we gave up the propaganda in disgust.”
In 1852, the then chief of police of Prague confidently predicted
that in fifty years there would be no Bohemians in Prague. That even
Austrian Chiefs of Police could make a mistake, appears from the fact
that Greater Prague to-day numbers nearly 600,000 inhabitants, of whom
only about 17,000 are Germans. When, in 1844, Archduke Stephen came to
Prague and the citizens arranged a torch procession in his honor, the
police were scandalized to hear, mingling with the customary “Vivat,”
shouts in Bohemian, “Sláva!”
Authors and newspaper writers were objects of unbounded curiosity.
Malý, already quoted, relates the following: “Walking in the streets
of Prague, I often noticed people pointing at me and saying: ‘Das ist
auch einer von den Vlastenzen’ (Here goes another of those patriots),
or ‘Das ist ein gewaltiger Czeche’ (There is a thorough Čech for
you). During my stay in southern Bohemia in 1838, the innkeeper of a
tavern which I frequented evenings had surely no reason to regret my
patronage, for people would come primarily to have a peep at me.”
In the biography of Palacký[9] we read an account of a memorable
meeting of patriots held in 1825 in the Sternberg Palace in Prague.
Palacký being invited to dinner on that particular day, as he often had
been, remained in the company of the Counts Sternberg until midnight.
A violent dispute that arose between the guests and the hosts would
not allow of their separation. Among other questions discussed was the
prospective publication of a scientific magazine in both languages,
Bohemian and German. Abbé Dobrovský, the “father of Slavic philology,”
and Count Kaspar were of the opinion that it was too late to think
seriously of the resuscitation of the Bohemian nation, and that all
attempts in that direction must end in failure. Palacký, then a
youthful enthusiast, disagreed in this with his elder companions and
bitterly reproached Dobrovský, that he, a literary light among his
people, had not written a single book in the mother tongue. “Were we
all to do the same, then indeed our nation would perish for lack of
intellectual nourishment. As for me,” fervently argued Palacký, “were I
but a gypsy by birth, and the last of that race, I would still deem it
my duty to try to perpetuate an honorable mention of it in the annals
of mankind.” Count Sternberg, though he knew the language well, never
used it in conversation with people of education. He availed himself
of it only when talking with his servants.
In 1811 Dobrovský wrote to the noted Slovene scholar, Kopitar, that
“the cause of the nation is desperate, unless God helps.” In his
discourse, “Geschichte der Deutschen und ihrer Sprache in Böhmen,”
dated 1790, Pelcl expressed himself as follows: “The time is
approaching when the Bohemian language will be in the same situation
at home as the Slavonic language is to-day in Miess, Brandenburg, and
Silesia, where German is everywhere prevalent and where nothing remains
of the Slavic but the names of cities, villages, and rivers.”
It stands to reason that the language, returning to its own after a
disuse of almost two hundred years and dug from the grave of oblivion,
needed much burnishing, purifying, and modernizing. Terminology of
arts and sciences, that flourished while the language lay dormant,
had to be created. Dictionaries, grammars, and histories had to be
compiled. Above all, the dross of alien forms had to be removed and,
while the old Bohemian of Hus, Comenius, and Blahoslav constituted
an inexhaustible store of material, it was necessary to borrow from
kindred Slavic tongues and to coin many modern terms.
That the older writers composed some of their works in German seems
paradoxical (German in these instances was used to defeat German),
yet it was natural, considering the low state of Bohemian culture and
the corresponding literary excellence in neighboring Germany. Thus,
John Kollár, the apostle of literary Pan-Slavism, wrote his main work
in German. Josef Dobrovský, already mentioned, composed all his works
in German. Josef Šafařík’s monumental volume on “Slavic Antiquities”
was also written in German; even the “Father of his country,” Francis
Palacký, wrote his “History of the Bohemian Nation”[10] in the tongue
of Schiller and Goethe. When, in 1831, a number of writers gathered in
a well-known coffee-house in Prague, Čelakovský, one of them, remarked,
half jokingly and half seriously, that Bohemian letters would perish
should the ceiling of the room where they were chatting fall and kill
those present.
The literary men and the “vlastenci” (patriots) were looked upon by
many people with good-natured tolerance. Enemies of the cause regarded
them with ill-concealed suspicion, not infrequently with contempt,
while the government, distrusting everything that was new, suspected
them of dangerous intrigues against the safety of the state. It must
be borne in mind that there was no political freedom in Austria then;
matters of public concern were not allowed to be discussed, much less
criticised, except among intimates.
The work of resuscitating a dying race was a gigantic task, and but
for the perseverance of the first apostles, the most promising branch
of the Slavic linden tree would have withered. It was necessary to
build theatres, to found learned societies, to establish museums and
libraries, to collect and edit rare books and manuscripts scattered in
foreign countries, whither they had been carried by soldiers during
the Thirty Years’ War. The Austrian Government, instead of assisting
in this work which had for its object the uplifting of a down-trodden
people from ignorance, superstition, and bigotry, hindered it at every
step. As an example of self-sacrificing patriotism, the case of a law
student by the name of Řehoř should be mentioned. This man took a vow
that he would distribute as many Bohemian books as were said to have
been burnt by the Jesuit Koniáš during the anti-reformation, that
is, 60,000 volumes. Řehoř died some time in the late fifties of the
nineteenth century, and he is said to have accomplished the greater
part of his self-imposed task. When Jungmann, one of the greatest of
the revivalists, died in 1847, the patriots had an opportunity to
review their growing ranks and they were astonished how the national
movement had spread. “When we were returning home from the funeral,”
noted J. V. Frič in his memoirs, “I walked arm in arm with my father;
we both felt proud like victors who were marching to further decisive
battles. When father in the evening sat down for a chat with the
family, he exclaimed, breathing freely as if a stone had rolled off his
chest, ‘Children, I think we shall win; there are too many of us; they
can no longer trample us down.’”